Lucas isn't entirely sure just how long he spends crouching there, waiting for tears that won't even come. Sans's voice emerges like something crossing a wide chasm from a long ways off, between him and the rest of the numb world around, breaking the ringing silence in his ears.
It's a bit surprising, numbly. Lucas had been fairly sure that everyone had gone away already. ...But, no, maybe it's not so surprising after all. Frisk had counted Sans as one of their dear friends early on, the very first conversation they'd had.
There's still a very slight delay, between Sans's question and an actual reaction on Lucas's part; he stirs slowly, like someone half-asleep, and turns his head until he can glimpse the familiar skeleton from the corner of his eye. Unfolding from the crouch is a daunting idea of impossible effort; Lucas doesn't.
"...Hey." It's soft, in a voice that's too small. And it still takes another moment, before the question actually sinks in, following Sans's gesture to the flowers at the grave. "Oh. They're--they're, sunflowers."
Truly, words are terribly hard at the moment. Lucas has the vague feeling this isn't a one-sided sentiment, at least, but there's still another too-long second of leaden silence between them. Lucas focuses his attention on the flowers in question, eyes somewhat glassy. "...They were Mom's favorite kind of flowers."
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Date: 2016-02-20 05:23 am (UTC)It's a bit surprising, numbly. Lucas had been fairly sure that everyone had gone away already. ...But, no, maybe it's not so surprising after all. Frisk had counted Sans as one of their dear friends early on, the very first conversation they'd had.
There's still a very slight delay, between Sans's question and an actual reaction on Lucas's part; he stirs slowly, like someone half-asleep, and turns his head until he can glimpse the familiar skeleton from the corner of his eye. Unfolding from the crouch is a daunting idea of impossible effort; Lucas doesn't.
"...Hey." It's soft, in a voice that's too small. And it still takes another moment, before the question actually sinks in, following Sans's gesture to the flowers at the grave. "Oh. They're--they're, sunflowers."
Truly, words are terribly hard at the moment. Lucas has the vague feeling this isn't a one-sided sentiment, at least, but there's still another too-long second of leaden silence between them. Lucas focuses his attention on the flowers in question, eyes somewhat glassy. "...They were Mom's favorite kind of flowers."