thisavrou_log | there's no way this won't be great

Who: Sans + Toriel + Ivan + Frisk
When: April 14th/morning of the 15th
Where: Gardens, bars, and rooms
What: The goat asks out the skeleton. The skeleton gets drunk. The hunk teaches the skeleton how to be a player. The kid learns what a hangover is. Fun for everyone.
Warnings: Drunkenness? Hurt goat feelings? Ivan?

gardens; closed to toriel

There are a few similarities between the gardens here and the Waterfall marshes. Despite every logical impulse, it is easy to pretend for a little while that the sky stretching above isn't a cavern ceiling or ship's hull. With just a hair of concentrated effort, those trappings of reality melt away into something wholly imagined. The glitter of crystals turn to stars, and the shine of light off metal becomes the sun.

It's peaceful. With the feeling of grass poking up between the gaps in his bones, Sans can't remember when he fell asleep and isn't keen on waking just yet. Even the warmth feels like the genuine article, soaking into his bones like a heat lamp. As reality drips in clearer, bit by bit, Sans notices that warmth is located to his back specifically. Another few seconds remind him that the grip around his rib isn't, in fact, a furry blanket -- rather, it's a furry arm, pressed in close and in a position he definitely didn't remember falling asleep in.

So much for staying asleep.

"Whoa, uh." He leans up and away, rubbing at his eye socket and feeling like the world's littlest spoon. "Hey, T." Nudge nudge. "Wake up, Tori. Think we conked out."

bar; closed to ivan

Well. That went well.

Toriel was many things, and kind might top the list. Maybe if she were to get angry at him, or ask for an explanation, or even react beyond quiet understanding, Sans would feel less low right now. He would be so content to coast along as best friends, full satisfied by that arrangement. Companionship without complications or strings. Sans' favorite kind.

She was just so understanding. Ironic, considering Sans understood only about 10% of his own reaction. Even more ironic, the person he wishes he could talk to about this, the person he's sure would have all the answers he needs, is Toriel herself.

Welp. Sans would just have to resort to his second best friend: ketchup. Maybe Miles would be back tonight. Sans wasn't hopeful -- he might not have ears, but he kept them to the walls all the same, and word was Miles had some further recouping to do -- but today was a day of surprises.

Of course, Sans was wrong about everything except for the surprise part.

"'Sup, Ivan." He nods, sliding up onto a stool. "Usual, please. Extra vinegary, if you have it."

nomo deck; closed to frisk

If Sans didn't know any better, he would be sure there were hamsters skittering around in his skull. Hamsters with tiny hammers tied to their tiny feet, pounding with each frantic footfall.

Hamster hammers. There's a pun in there somewhere, but it's a testament to how prominent the ache in his head is that Sans can't think of one for the life of him.

He had a reason for setting his alarm this morning, but pulling the covers over his skull takes precedent. Whatever or whoever it is can wait. Sans has the hangover of the century coming on and he's not about to miss a moment of this groundbreaking personal event.

Ow.

there's no way this won't be great

3/?