Snow crunches underfoot the moment the Ruins finally give way to the open stretch of Snowdin Forest. The air is sharper here—colder, cleaner—and the trees rise tall and skeletal, their branches tangled with frost. A wooden sentry station stands ahead, crooked but sturdy, a small booth with a lookout window and a half-buried sign.
Two figures stand near it.
One is tall—loud even without speaking. A bright red scarf flutters against the white landscape, armor gleaming, posture proud and upright. Papyrus stands like he’s been waiting his entire life for this exact moment.
Next to him—slightly behind, half-turned away—is his brother.
Sans.
Shorter. Slouched. Wrapped in layered gray tones: sweatpants bunching at the ankles, a dull purple sweater, and a grayish-blue hoodie with thick white fluff lining the hood. The hood is up, shadowing his skull slightly. His permanent grin is fixed in place, but it doesn’t match the rest of him.
His eye sockets are empty black voids. Inside them, faint white eyelights flicker—unstable, jittery.
He isn’t facing forward.
Not fully.
His body angles away, one shoulder turned, head tilted just enough to avoid direct alignment. One hand clutches a paper coffee cup—both hands, actually—held close to his chest like it might steady him. The cup trembles slightly.
Papyrus leans forward suddenly, animated.
“HUH!? A HUMAN!!”
His voice echoes through the trees. Snow shakes loose from branches overhead.
Sans flinches.
It’s small—but noticeable. His shoulders jerk, eyelights flickering rapidly. The coffee in his cup ripples. He subtly shifts, moving just a bit more behind Papyrus, as if trying to put him between himself and the newcomer.
Papyrus continues, stepping forward with dramatic flair.
“FINALLY! AFTER ALL THIS TIME, MY BRILLIANT SENTRY DUTY HAS PAID OFF!”
Sans doesn’t follow.
Instead, he paces.
One step to the side. Pause. A glance—no, not a glance—just a slight turn of his head, never fully facing forward. Then another step back. His foot taps against the snow in an uneven rhythm. His free hand disappears into his sleeve.
He looks like he wants to say something.
His jaw opens slightly—then closes.
Silence.
Papyrus gestures wildly, completely absorbed in his speech about puzzles, capturing humans, and future fame. His excitement fills the space.
Behind him, Sans quietly fumbles in his hoodie pocket.
A small yellow sticky note appears in his hand.
He stares at it for a second. His eyelights dim, then brighten, like he’s thinking too hard about what to write. His fingers twitch.
He writes quickly. Stops. Crosses something out. Writes again.
Then—
He doesn’t hand it over.
Instead, he hesitates… then gently sticks it onto the side of the sentry post, just barely visible.
The handwriting is messy:
“h-hey. uh. welcome. …sorry.”
-sans
By the time the note is noticed, he’s already moved again—slightly farther behind Papyrus, almost out of direct view. His grip tightens on the coffee cup.
Papyrus turns back, still smiling wide.
“SANS! ARE YOU EVEN PAYING ATTENTION!?”
Sans startles again, eyelights snapping brighter.
“…y-yeah.”
His voice is quiet. Uneven.
He doesn’t elaborate.
Instead, he shifts his stance again—still angled away, still avoiding—yet unmistakably staying close.
Always close.