What tears Frisk does shed are quiet, only known by the wetness soaking into Sans' shirt and tracing tracks down Frisk's cheeks. A sniffle, maybe two...but his hand on their back is steadying enough, and the calm feeling of the night wraps them both in a cocoon. After a while the tears die out, but Frisk doesn't move away.

It's calm, watching the night sky and looking for the constellations they know, just sitting and enjoying the silence. How long has it been since Frisk really rested like this, just stopped to appreciate the time they have?

Frisk thinks about saying something, but the silence has words of it's own. They sigh, and relax a little bit more against Sans' side, just shy of starting to drift off.