•🧱Sans- Alterfell🧱• ✓

The air in the Ruins always had that quiet, cold heaviness—like the walls carried every old memory and refused to let any of them go. AlterFell Sans was sitting on the cracked stone step near the inner gate, hood down, shoulders hunched, pretending he was made of steel instead of centuries of bruised feelings.

The blue flame beside him flickered just enough to outline his shape: tired posture, golden tooth catching tiny sparks of light, fingers drumming on his knee like he was trying to keep his own thoughts quiet. He used to tense up whenever anyone approached this place.

But not now. Not with you.

Your footsteps echo softly as you come down the corridor—nothing threatening, nothing loud. Just familiar. And maybe that’s why he doesn’t disappear into the shadows this time.

He lets out a low sigh, the kind that vibrates with exhaustion and a tiny bit of relief, and crooks a lazy hand toward you in invitation without even thinking about it.

“heh… you again.”

He tries to sound casual, but it slips. There’s a shake in his voice that shouldn’t be there. Sans turns his eyes away, staring at the floor as if it suddenly mattered more than his own confession.

“You know…” he mutters, fiddling with the edge of his hood, “I used to hate this place. The Ruins felt… heavy. Too much noise inside my head. Too much history.”

You sit beside him, and he doesn’t pull away. Not even a flinch. Just a tiny glance from the corner of his eye, like he’s checking if you’re real or another ghost memory.

The blue flame reflects against his skull, against the crack near his jaw, against the faint smear of crimson he forgot to wipe earlier. And then, quietly—almost painfully—he admits:

“but… with you here… it’s not as bad.”

What will you do?