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Sans is slumped on the sofa, fixed grin reflecting the light of the muted TV. Its too quiet, in a way he isn't used to. In a way he's becoming used to.
In a way he's starting to like.
San's glaces at the clock, eye lights flickering over the hands. 8:39.
Back in Snowdin Papyrus would be logging off his computer, putting an end to the foot stomping and screeching that would echo down the stairs. Then he would march to the kitchen, and pots and pans would clatter in preparation for tomorrow's cooking lesson, just in case Undyne burnt through hers and Papyrus had to fetch a spare. By 8:45 Papyrus would be next to him on the sofa, turning the TV up so that MTT could warble louder.
Reset, same noises, reset.
Sans turns his attention to the window, and looks out at the summer sky. Sun streaks across emerald grass.
He looks back at the clock and it's 8:45. Still no noise.
If San's could grin more, he would.
This quiet is different to the hollow silence of the underground on bad days. Its comfortable, and its pure.
Papyrus is absent because he is out having fun with Frisk. Sans is home because he's waiting for Toriel to come over.
It's quiet because they are free, and the same noises aren't screeching in San's ear holes.
He feels like a song that has been playing on loop for a century has finally been switched off. He doesn't think he will ever be able to explain how relieving this new quiet is.
Its almost as good as the new sounds. The new song that has taken the old one's place.
The skeleton stretches, short limbs and long fingers reaching forward. He grunts, and his voice sounds lighter. He yawns, and it is shorter than usual.
Every noise is new. Even the old noises are new.
The doorbell chimes, soft and electronic, and sans swings open a door that doesn't creak with no snow to rust the hinges.
Toriel laughs when she sees the clown nose he's taped on. He honks it. The comical noise crosses over with her obscene laughter, and its beautiful.
They chat, and they joke, and they bake. They fill the house with their own soundtrack.
Sans can't figure out why he ever gave up on this. Why freedom had lost is appeal.
The surface is a fresh song, a new beat, laughter with a friend.
Every day is new, and he couldn't be happier.