Ace in a Hole (Undertale x Hazbin Hotel)

Chapter 9

The next time Alastor visited, the sun was firmly planted amidst the clouds in the middle of the blue-riddled sky. Sans was cast down onto the measly shagged carpet of his living room, engulfed by waves of craft materials scattered about the floor. While he was a deft little thing born of dexterity, his fingers were useless when it came to carefully threading the splintered end of a pink, frayed string through the meager hole of a jeweled plastic.

It was kind of pathetic. If he was in a competition with children, the six-year-olds would smoke him.

Despite that, Sans found himself quite warm over the whole process. Satisfied. Content. He threw on another one of those jazz songs Alastor always bugged him to listen to. Tucked up all comfortable in an oversized hoodie, his heavy lunch leaving him sleepy.

Sans shouldn't have been that happy or content after meeting Alastor, yet he found himself the happiest he had been in ages. Sans was high in the clouds, with only cheap pink string to keep him tethered to earth. How stupid of him.

A demon intruded into his house and attacked him, and Sans was so happy it wasn't even funny. Perhaps it was the eventual void of loneliness that peered back at Sans enough to trick him into some new relationship. But the lure had been something new, invigorating. Sans had never quite met someone like Alastor before, who riled Sans up in ways that lit life back into him. A flame fed with the driest of firewood.

It was reassuring to know that Alastor was just as invested as Sans is. That Sans wasn't alone in the crazy, unusual need for someone that he never had before. Just thinking about the next arrival led to a smile he couldn't tamp down, his fingers antsy with the next bead.

Therapy that morning went near exquisitely. Minus his therapist's neat covering over Sans' insistence that Alastor was really a demon, they had dissected the entire rooftop scuffle. Over why Alastor felt so different to Sans. Until finally, Sans had come to the soft, contemplative realization that Alastor was the exact combination of right and wrong that made Sans crave him. A startlingly new flavor, ripe and fresh and torn away from the woes Sans had faced Underground.

And someone who struggled with the same issues Sans did, not too pitiful either. Just right. A twisted dance to an audience of none but themselves.

And that, his therapist had pointed out, could be comforting to certain people. Sans included. One would rather stick with the evils they knew rather than the unknown. She then pointed out how all of this was just a thought experiment and how there were many unconscious things going on that Sans might not be able to articulate just yet. But, she made sure to add, to cherish what he's gotten so far. Sans was making so much progress lately, and she's proud of him. He was too. Even if the rope he grasped was rotten, at least he was grasping it.

Alastor arrived in a quick show of red on the other side of the living room. Wrapped up in the exact same outfit as yesterday, Alastor balanced a single coffee mug with the words 'oh deer' printed across the side. Built just as prim and proper as he was yesterday, about to be sullied by the tender wrapping of a cheap friendship bracelet.

And by the way Alastor's eyes narrowed at the behemoth of an arts and crafts project; Sans was set for his brilliant decision.

"Woah, nice mug," Sans said.

"Good! I wanted to show it to you, since no one in the hotel seems to appreciate good humor," Alastor said. He set the cup onto a nearby table, clearly intending to steal more of Sans' drinks later, and stared at the mess surrounding the skeleton. "I see you've been busy."

"I have," Sans replied curtly. Confidently. He gestured broadly to the vomit-inducing amount of pink around him. "Went to therapy to talk shit behind your back—"