The first results that always appeared for the legendary Alastor Augustine regarded his body count. Articles upon articles regarding one of America's deadliest serial killers, caught by a mistimed hunter instead of police efforts. True crime enthusiasts drooled over him; reddit threads online dared to question if he was guilty or not. The man had been burying a body, One person had claimed. There wasn't any proof he had been involved with the rest of them, or that he hadn't been bought off by the true killer.

Another comment was jotted on two years later, by another user with an icon of a slender tree with wide branches engulfed in fog.

You're just defending him because he was hot.

Sans doubted Alastor could have gotten away with a silky sweet tongue without his face to go with it. One could not persist without the other in his particular hobby. A sword and a shield, respectively.

There were a few photos of Alastor here and there—being the first colored radio host in New Orleans had been a major deal, leading to several organized conferences and photoshoots alike. Alastor was always the handsome lad of the bunch, with his crisp cheekbones and neat suits. And god, those bowties. Sans was ever so pleased when he first looked up Alastor, back when the demon was an uncertain voice humming over the radio. And he was still pleased now. Alastor was just a bow tie guy. It went with his... everything.

After two hours of rummaging about online, Sans found his prize. One of a kind—quite literally. There was only one digital copy in existence. His printer hummed to life, and out popped the efforts of his online binge.

Sans recognized neither of them in the photo. He shouldn't have, either; they were born decades before he had even been a thought.

But that didn't matter.

She had Alastor's smile.

Not the smile Alastor always wore, as fake as the one Sans often donned when his emotions got rough. No. The real smile that was found in the pit of a ditch after a church visit, or when he stood in the ocean, the waves up to his ankles with glowing jellyfish lingering about. Alastor's real smile, hidden away with his real voice and his real excitement.

His Mama.

They looked eerily similar when Alastor was in his human form. The same dark complexion of skin and hair alike, same structured cheekbones and well-kept body. She was beautiful. A soft beauty that was more suited for a fairytale featuring cursed apples or spindles on a wheel instead of becoming the bride to the vicious man stationed behind her chair.

His Father, no doubt. The person Alastor damned to hell, and the person who damned Alastor to hell. A mutual destruction neither had been aware of. He was more plump than the Mother, with a crooked mustache and thick, round glasses. Alastor's Mama, if alone, would have looked like a modern model who tried to keep her body well for the flashing cameras. Together, it looked like the keeper and their underfed kept.

Sans wondered if food was ever a problem. Or if she never fed herself because it was difficult to keep down.

Or if her husband never let her eat too much.

Despite the clear genetic winner in the Alastor lottery, his Father and Alastor had the same straight hair and sweeping bangs. Something Alastor probably detested, yet couldn't help but use in his time of need. Anything that got him closer to being whiter was an advantage to the man at the time.

If monsters were on the surface, humans wouldn't have resorted to such ideas. They would have simply banded together, skin be damned, and defeated the different species. Yet they had dared to banish away their common enemy, and had no one to turn to but one another. For the sake of hatred.

Sans never would understand humans.

Such a bittersweet photo to look at. A Mother who loved her son dearly, yet couldn't ever stand up to defend the boy. A Father who took on a pretty little thing, yet bruised it and their offspring. Sans wanted to paste the woman onto the wall as much as he wanted to scratch her face until nothing but sloppy paper remained. Alastor's Mother never made any sense to Sans. She didn't need to make any, though. Alastor loved her, much like how Sans loved Papyrus, so he had to grit his teeth and endure through his friend's love as much as his friend did for him. And maybe one day, in the distant future, Sans would go up to heaven with Alastor and finally get to ask her.

He dwelled on that thought as he brandished his scissors and cut away Alastor's Father.

That man would never be welcome to their wedding, after all.

Sans was careful with it. Drifting about online was an easy task to partake in; having a sharp object and narrow cuts was not. His dexterity was a victim of his medication. So Sans had to focus with what wasn't numbed of his mind and cut neat little lines across the printed image until half of Alastor's family was a pile of shredded waste on the floor.

He slipped it into a wooden picture frame and stashed it underneath a cabinet until later use.

The wedding came in tidbits. Papyrus and Grillby got the menu all sorted out on their end, a caried mesh of foods Sans liked and ones Alastor enjoyed. His friends were all able to attend, sending back confirmations over text with enthusiasm.

Sans didn't invite Toriel after a long, fruitful debate with himself. Being around her made him too uncomfortable, and Alastor already wasn't a fan. Maybe if it was a true wedding, where Sans was flushed with love and awe, he would have invited her. The obligatory invitation all weddings seemed to require.

A sour feeling coiled around his soul whenever he stared at her contact, their messages ever so brief and snipped. The woman who helped him crawl out of a depressive slump, who couldn't help but continuously cling to her own faults.

It wasn't a dead-end road, but it would be difficult to traverse. So Sans left it for now, in favor of selling his soul to a demon.

Priorities.

The 'wedding' fell onto a Saturday night, when winter gave way to a crisp spring air. New beginnings took hold of both the environment and Sans' life, which he quite enjoyed. Once the surface had opened its doors to monsters, with pink-colored flowers and buzzing bees, Sans was hooked on spring. Winter held a familiar nostalgic comfort, but spring simply swept it away into something new and fresh.

Neither Sans nor Alastor was completely dressed up for the occasion. Much to his dismay, Alastor adamantly refused to wear matching dresses. A tragedy, Sans thinks. Alastor would look quite catchy in one.

Instead, the two had been stuffed into nice, but casual outfits. Loose with comfort but snug with style. Alastor wore blue, a rare color on the demon, and Sans wore red.

In that red dress shirt did Sans present the photo, neatly wrapped in an extra hoodie Sans hadn't worn in a while. Alastor had been in his natural habitat when Sans roamed about the corner, perched in front of the only full-body mirror Sans had. Comb in hand, as always.

"The window is going to be rolled down for the car ride, bud," Sans announced as he stepped into Alastor's personal space.

The demon of his home gave Sans a hearty glare. "Don't you dare."

"Oh, I will dare."

"I will have to end your mortal existence if you do, Sans. I've spent all morning fretting over my hair! For my own wedding!"

"Yeah, but mine needs some wind tumbling through it. Makes it look more fluffy and natural," Sans said, and smoothed a hand over his incredibly bald head.

Alastor's eyes flickered to the movement, enraptured. Anything Sans did would naturally draw his attention, each flicker of the flame savored by the moth.

The ring dragged against his bare skull, nearly searing hot against his cold bones. Sans wasn't used to it yet, and hoped he never learned to. The small band of metal was a constant aching reminder of Alastor, pressed against his finger. Like a collar that's a bit too tight, coiled around his neck.

"Do you have everything you need?" Alastor continued.

Sans nodded along. "Change of clothes, toothbrush, and sexy lingerie. For our wedding night."

Alastor made a show of swooning. "Oh, Sans, you shouldn't have."

"Yep. I shouldn't, so I didn't. But I did do this."

Sans handed over the plushly wrapped picture frame to Alastor, who looked skeptically down upon it. Carefully, he unraveled it, stray fabric falling and spooling from the frame and fluttering to the ground.

Alastor's eyes met his Mother's for the first time in decades, and his form went still. Every limb locked: rigid. Eyes tight, jaw slackened.

He breathed for the first time in ages. As if life itself poured into him, and the human skin he wore was his own once again.

It was at that particular moment in time that Sans' face thickened with surprise.

He hadn't quite realized that Alastor probably didn't have access to any of his Mama's photos in hell. This must've been the first time he'd seen her in ages. Sans had understood it, more so as a concept than a tangible thought to wiggle his fingers into. Alastor Augustine hadn't seen his Mother in over ninety years.

"She had dimples." Alastor said after a very long silence. His grip tight on the frame, as if Sans would dare to rip it from him all over again.

"Hm?"

"I didn't know that." Alastor clarified quietly.

Sans offered a wince of sympathy. Over a hundred years of memories stacked into one's mind would fuzz out the older ones.

"I found the picture online," he babbled. To reassure Alastor, or to fill the air. Sans couldn't tell, and he doubted Alastor was too observant at the moment to tell. "I can print out more so you can have some copies in hell."

Quietly, Alastor responded. "That would be quite lovely, Sans."

Sans nodded, his skull suddenly heavier despite the medication he flushed down the toilet that morning. Ten copies—no, twenty. Sans would print a solid twenty copies for Alastor, each plucked of his Father's troublesome presence. Maybe a few of Alastor as well, just in case the human skin disguise wasn't permanent. Some of Sans and Papyrus as well. Heaven and hell might change them.

"I figured you'd want to have her at the wedding is all," Sans continued. "You know, since you couldn't bring up Rosie, and my friends aren't exactly yours—"

Alastor suddenly surged forward and wrapped his arms around Sans, a constricting grip that squished his ribcage against Alastor's chest. Near timid, Alastor rested his cheek against the top of Sans' skull, where his hand had dragged previously.

The demon never said anything during that hug, nor did he need to. Sans simply allowed himself to be held until Alastor was well enough to pull away again, eyes soured from brimming tears.

It had been the closest Sans had ever seen Alastor to crying. And likely would be the closest he would ever see Alastor within that realm.

"Have you ever cried before?" Sans blurted out, like a fool.

The expression on Alastor's face was pliable—soft and squishy, and the blinking tears were gone in an instant. "Once," he said, as much like a fool as Sans was. "After my Ma died. I never have since."

Another opposite the two men possessed. Sans wasn't prone to tears, but he never dared to be shy about them. Sans cried when Papyrus graduated high school, when Papyrus got married, when Papyrus had broken down the door to their old bathroom and Sans wetly begged for help, arms stained in blood.

"Came close today, huh?" Sans asked with his head cocked to the side.

"Almost, I suppose." Alastor's voice came out dry, and an empty chuckle followed suit. "Ironic, the people I would cry for would never have the chance to see it."

Sans smiled, a pitiful little move. Alastor smiled. The world smiled and spun.

They got into Sans' car and left shortly after. No wind in anyone's hair.

The two-story building he once called home came on the cusp of Clearview Street, past the park but right before the cutoff from local to the freeway. The bottom half built from concrete and brick, the top half brown with dark wood and a slanted roof. A sign was deftly twisted to 'CLOSED,' the lettering red and bold.

Behind it, Papyrus' grinning face all but glistened behind the glass.

"Fantastic," Alastor jutted out.

Sans stole his arm between his own, resting his skull against Alastor's bicep. "Play nice, Ala-boo."

"Don't call me that."

"Pookie bear?"

Tragically, Sans' favorite arm was stolen away from him in the mist of their truffle. Sans settled for the second favorite, holding tightly onto the blue-tinted fabric as he fell into step with Alastor.

"You're such a bore. C'mon, it's our wedding!" Sans said, each step timed perfectly with Alastor's. Step. Step. Step step—oh, well, he got a solid two seconds in. "Let me call you some pet names, deer."

"See?" Alastor asked, chest nearly puffing up from exhilaration. "You already do—no need for more nonsensical ones."

They careened around the sharp angle of the nonsensical sidewalk out in front of Papyrus' and Grillby's shop, twisted past the lush flowerbeds Asgore had insisted upon, and landed home upon the flat base of the expansive porch.

"Sans! Alastor!" Papyrus bellowed loudly as he threw open the door, and ensnared both of his favorite aromantic people into a tight, bonding hug. Alastor's eyes bulged out from the indecency, as if he were a squeaky toy that was drawing near its limits. Before he could squawk, full of proper gentlemanly excuses and a fixing of his suit, Papyrus rectified his mistake and tugged away immediately. "Sorry, I just—excited, you know! Nyeh heh heh!"

Alastor fixed his suit, grin chipped.

"Come in, please," Grillby insisted, and led the two further into their restaurant.

The downstairs floor, typically full of tables and chairs, had been cleared for a grand, long table mounted with thick stacked plates. Lush with meats, vegetables, and fruits. Seared, cooked, and slow-broiled. A massive helping of cinnamon butterscotch pie, with a golden crust and a gooey, delicious scent. Past the table, the vacant floor had been turned into a dance floor, with some speakers propped up adjacent to the employees-only door.

Everything else in the restaurant remained untouched, free from sully or a single speck of dirt. Sans could almost see the knee prints from where Papyrus and Grillby had labored away, scrubbing everything that would dare to ruin the home wedding.

Even Alastor, the most local (and only) Papyrus skeptic, looked pleased.

"Quite lovely indeed," Alastor had hummed, pupils blown at the brown, olden-inspired interior. Papyrus, as much as he adored Mettaton's futuristic designs in his shows, always appreciated the cozy feeling Grillby's gave. And Grillby was never one to change what worked, so their restaurant had followed suit from Underground.

"Thank you," Grillby said, and flicked his wrists out to accept both of their coats. Sans kept his, per usual, but Alastor forked it over with a pleased smile.

"We made sure to clean everything up before we set up the table," Papyrus said, like it wasn't obvious. He walked backwards as he spoke to the two, easily navigating around corners he's likely mapped out ages ago. "Everyone else is on their way, but the minister is already here!"

"Oh, really? Where are they?" Sans asked.

Papyrus' smile thickened, and his puffed up his chest.

"Holy shit bro, really?"

"Just a few online forms, a small fee, and the Great Papyrus can now legally wed people!" His sweet, amazing, beautiful brother said, more akin to an angel than a mortal being. Sans could see it already: the crisp, feathery wings and the golden halo perched atop his skull.

"I thought you would much prefer someone you loved as the officiant." Grillby added, and swiftly planted Alastor's coat onto a nearby coat rack. "And Papyrus was extremely thorough in his research to make sure we could do it."

"I was!" Papyrus boasted as he led Alastor and Sans to the head of the table, and drew out both of their seats with practiced ease. "I have the papers for you to sign and everything! We'll do them after dinner, then we can go dance and play some games to celebrate!"

Alastor and Sans took their seats, just as the front door opened and, as expected, Undyne and Alphys came in, little Frisk in tow. Undyne roared in celebration, a wrapped gift snug over her shoulder, while Alphys timidly waved, and Frisk stared with a genuine smile.

"Ah, 'dyne, ya didn't have to," Sans said.

Undyne made a show of rolling her single eye and plopped the present between Alastor and Sans. "Of course I did! It's a wedding committing yourselves together! That's a whole eternity of listening to his old-fashioned nagging, probably!" Undyne said, jabbing a thumb in Alastor's direction.

"I suppose I couldn't deny it," Alastor said. He folded his hands together and perched his chin upon it, with a twinkle of amusement caught within his eyes. Underneath the table, his foot collided with Sans'.

Sans struck back with as much force before Alastor's feet sharply jutted up and ensnared it.

Sans no longer had access to his left foot. So he used the heel of his right and slammed it down onto Alastor's left.

"It takes a lot for some people to get married for romance, but it takes a lot more trust to get married platonically, so it's a big step for you!" Undyne said, and pushed up the present further, unaware of the wrestling match the two men were having with their feet.

"We're j-just really happy for you, you know?" Alphys asked. She tugged up her glasses just as Sans managed to free his left foot, only for the right to be claimed instead.

"Eh, we don't have to make this a big thing," Sans said, and waved an arm. "But I do like free shit."

"Exactly! So glad we agree, bud," Undyne said, and slapped Sans' shoulder with enough love to equal the force placed into the movement.

The present, eventually unraveled by nimble hands, was a gag wedding gift of two oversized matching hoodies. One labeled 'Someone's problem' and the other labeled as 'Someone,' with the drawstrings both a swirl of aromantic and asexual flag colors. Small enough to not be noticeable, unless someone scrutinized them from a close enough distance. Alastor, half draped across Sans like a blanket, reached and ran his thumb across the swirled colors.

"It's nice," Alastor said, almost shocked.

"It is," Sans agreed.

"Heck yeah!" Undyne roared in self-congratulation.

"We thought A-Alastor wouldn't like anything too flashy, so we kept the colors simple and just asked f-for the, uh, strings to be—you know, t-t-the flag colors," Alphys added.

"I call being the someone," Sans said, reaching for the specific hoodie.

Alastor's feet tightened, and his hand slapped away Sans' intruding, pesky reach.

"No, I believe I'm the one who has to deal with your shenanigans," Alastor said.

"Says the demon invading my home."

"Says the man who invaded my workspace and, quite frankly, brought the haunting onto himself. It's mine."

Sans and Alastor once again renewed their wrestling session, this time over the table instead of under it. Eventually, it was decided that custody of being the someone instead of their problem would switch, where Sans (the non-serial killer) would have it every day of the week, and Alastor (the serial killer in question) would get it on weekends and every other Christmas.

Once settled, with a new hoodie replacing his somewhat worn red hoodie, Sans could hear the idle chatter of Grillby and Papyrus. Ever so confused on why Sans and Alastor insisted on sticking to the serial killer prompt, their hushed confusion more so a giggling agreement over the silliest of jokes between friends instead of serious concern.

His fingers plucked at the interior lining of his newfound hoodie, ripe with plenty of fabric to be tugged.

Alastor's hands crept forward, and when the opportune time presented itself, he swept his hand to Sans' side and gently retracted the skeleton's arm from his pocket. No words were spoken; instead Alastor simply linked them together and pointed out the several lush ketchup bottles scattered about. A small gesture that helped rebound Sans from the cusp of a sorrowful thought, one instead chased away by more pleasant chatter.

Alastor himself looked all too pleased with it. After he gave a side-eyed look to Papyrus, he returned a smile toward Sans, as if happy to be the one to cheer him up.

Crazy bastard. Soon to be his crazy bastard.

(He already was. This was just signing it onto a, frankly, void document. So other people would get the damn gist.)

The meal got underway once the rest of the guests showed up. Asgore and Lilac were the ones who followed Undyne's entourage, along with a few of Sans' old poker buddies from Underground and his sweet, darling neighbor who hosted a few dinners with Alastor and Sans. He had offered to give her a ride up and back, but Maurie had been delighted to have the opportunity to drive up. Apparently one of her kids lived in the area, and the timing was all too convenient for them to be able to host her and have a whole family get-together. Which was super sweet. Sans worried about her.

The food was, as expected, absolutely delightful. Sans and Alastor alike shoveled heaps of it into their mouths, one of them far more dignified than the other. There was no chastising to be held, though; instead, simple banter filled the air as Alastor easily slotted his way into familiar chatter with the other important people in his life.

And Sans didn't even have to worry about Papyrus and Alastor clashing! Maurie, the sweetest of neighbors, was just delighted to be there and to be included. Papyrus, ever so tragically good at sniffing out the lonelier of people, had taken it upon himself to include her with the others. His conveniently placed brother distractor, along with Alastor's increased familiarity with a majority of the guests, left nothing but smooth sailing chatter.

It wasn't big. There was no dramatic celebration, no languid speeches. Just a casual dinner between friends celebrating a close friendship.

In that way, it was perfect.

On the cusp of dinner, when people had begun to slump further into their seats under the weight of an impending food coma, Grillby swept into the room after a brief visit to the kitchen with his family's finest wines. Sans swore he nearly salivated from the sight alone. If Grillby wasn't his brother-in-law, Sans would have stuffed four of those bottles into the oversized box Undyne had used for her present and booked it.

Alas, Sans strived to be a somewhat decent person, so he relented and settled for the generous portion Grillby poured him instead.

"Just like the old days, huh?" Sans asked, with a tilted drink and balanced smile.

Grillby paused, stealing a glance down to the bottle in his hands and the glass he had polished for Sans. Just like how they had functioned in the bar indeed—Sans drowning his sorrows in alcohol while Grillby bugged him about his tab. The good old days, nostalgic because they had been rudely stolen by time but bittersweet with the memories they had left behind.

"Quite so," Grillby said, and patted Sans' shoulder before he moved on elsewhere. A lingering sentence left behind as he walked past. "Though, I'm quite fond of these days as well."

Back when Grillby was simply a pining fool after Papyrus, and Papyrus was an ignorant little fool in turn. When Sans didn't understand heaven or hell, and was just a depressed bundle of regret who wasn't sure if the whole therapy thing would work out or not just yet. When Alastor hadn't been in his life, when finding a partner who shared his values wasn't a concept Sans had yet to fathom.

Sans stole a glance toward Alastor. His bestie, his deer, his Bambie. His fiancé, soon to be husband, who sat beside him with his typical tight smile and eyes full of amusement. Ever so content to simply be there, to string along others—but never Sans. Their thighs rested against one another, ankles linked, and when Alastor would give a hearty fake laugh, he would lean over against Sans, as if Sans was the prettiest of pedestals he could perch himself upon.

Sans smiled against his cup.

Yeah. He was quite fond of these days as well.

Alastor never daydreamed about his wedding. To do so, even in his day and age where being married was favorable toward young men, was discouraged. To dream about flower-filled tables and ringing church bells as a man would drag out accusations of being queer. Frankly, Alastor would dare to claim that anything beyond the status quo was to be queer in the eyes of the audience around him, who claimed such accusations when he didn't participate in the seven minutes in heaven, or when he found radio more lively than the sports he played before. Even during his awkward teenage years, when his height had come but his width had not, they declared his scrawniness to be a symptom of it.

So when Alastor never fancied the temptation of wedding planning, he had been relieved. He had assumed at the time that, at the very least, there was that normality to him. To think it had been a repercussion of his disinterest in romance at all, not a simple expectation set out for men.

Undyne and Alphys wanted a grand beach wedding. Papyrus had thought about the colors and a big hall full of guests since he was seven years old. Asgore, sheepishly, had admitted he picked out the flowers he always wanted his future wife to carry since he could comprehend such a topic.

There was never any need for Alastor to even consider having a wedding, not until Sans had approached him that fateful day. His skull sun-kissed, eyes sharp and full of lingering adrenaline that drew the unlikely words from his mouth. A way to bind themselves today, recognized as nothing but romantic pining to the public. Yet Sans proposed they twisted it into a more perfect way to suit themselves, to wear the rings and the titles with pride to show their eternal future. Alastor had almost felt a giddy, twisted joy from the notion. Stealing away the concept of marriage and molding it to their relationship, untainted by lust or fleeting emotions.

Frankly, Alastor wouldn't care if people misconstrued what the marriage meant. He was the legendary radio demon of hell; his mere existence brought forth unwanted lustful gazes and chipper talks about his romantic preferences. No matter what he did, people would always assume. He'd rather they develop a common ground of knowing that Alastor was committed to Sans, whether they understood what that commitment entailed or not.

Even with his willingness for the wedding and the outcome more than simply preferred, Alastor found it odd. Near cumbersome with particular guests there—which was all of them, in hindsight. Alastor never could bring himself to find any of Sans' friends particularly enjoyable, and grew to tolerate their antics like he had for those staying at the hotel. His feelings toward Papyrus, an ever-growing conundrum of respect for the brother of the one who saw him, and a festering hatred of being the distraction for the one who saw him all the same.

Regardless, as Sans and Alastor had been handed their documents to sign, Alastor found that he didn't particularly mind at all. His wedding was an odd mishmash of his and Sans' favorite things, jumbled together into a simple dinner party with good wine and company. Especially when Sans had smiled, the type of genuine smile that drew at the corners of his teeth until Sans was nearly squinting from the strain.

And his handwriting was in the Comic Sans font. How fitting.

The act of getting married itself wasn't anything too horrifyingly thrilling. Alastor signed a physical, near meaningless copy of paper and was declared as legally bound to Sans, the others cheering around them. Alastor hoped, deep down, his Mama would have been cheering right alongside them.

He imagined she would have. Even in their time, when others would call her baby boy queer, she'd spit at the mention of them. Would defend Alastor, saying he was her sweet son through and through. His Mama never defended him with a "He's not!" only with "That's my son you're talking about."

If Alastor had been intrigued by men, his Mother would have defended him. And that if Alastor had proposed to marry another man for the sake of a twisted and obsessive friendship, she would have been happily perched in her seat, instead of a photograph given its own chair, courtesy of Papyrus.

Thoughts of his Mother faded when he wrapped an arm around the back of Sans' chair and downed the rest of the godly wine, second to none compared to the finest hell had to offer.

They celebrated more. Alastor found himself content as he got swept away onto the dance floor, allowed to sway once more to old songs he always enjoyed a good drink to. It reminded him of when he'd be drunk at a speakeasy, the illicit beverages still coating his tongue while he would take up an offer or two to dance. Instead of it being with some bore Alastor had the courtesy to not drop, it was with Sans, balanced on his feet while they swayed and spun and laughed their silly hearts out.

It was thrilling. It was addicting. Alastor nearly wanted to rip out the soul contracts and sign them with Sans, right in front of everyone else. He nearly wished he had shuffled them into the mix with the marriage agreement, and had told the truth; none but Frisk would have believed. Then he could have signed it, right then and there, and laughed in hell for an eternity once Papyrus realized what he had witnessed. What he had failed to stop.

But that was what the marriage truly was for, and Alastor didn't want to make the moment one of spite. He wanted to savor it, like how he did Sans. Every memory a precious little thing to keep, to continue in their future interactions.

Eventually, the celebration wrapped up, and those who couldn't stay ventured home, while those who could gathered their sleepover bags and trekked upstairs to Papyrus and Grillby's home. It was a neatly organized floor, under the constant check of two neat freaks with a value for cleanliness. The guest bedroom had been dedicated to Sans, the former resident of it, before he packed up and moved out of desperation for peaceful slumber.

Apparently Papyrus was quite loud in every aspect of his life. How tragic.

Yet, how fortunate all at once. Alastor had watched as Sans surveyed the room, eyeing the bed with an odd satisfaction Alastor noted as something prank-related. No doubt Sans planned to initiate something stupid, considering it was their wedding night. Actual sex items would be out of the question, so Alastor would likely return to either rose petals or some ab-filled body pillow waiting for him, with either of their heads plastered onto it.

That sounded like something Sans would do.

Though Alastor would have to beat Sans until he was red-faced with both laughter and sobs alike with said body pillow, if it came to that.

(Frankly, he hadn't expected for those things to actually exist. Sadly, Sans had proven him otherwise. When Vaggie had idly mentioned it in regard to Vox daring to own one with a resemblance to Alastor, Alastor had brushed it off. He should have known the television-faced stalker would have resorted to such tactics for physical comfort.)

The corner room Sans had once called his own was a small little space, with enough room for a bed and a dresser, and a treadmill Sans had insisted once rested upon the floor. Even though Alastor saw the equipment in Sans' storage, he doubted it had ever been used. Sans was strong, swift and agile when he wasn't held back by government-imposed drugs, but Sans wasn't a jogger.

Dark hardwood floor, two simple windows, and a simple rounded ceiling light. It was a quiet little nook within the home, far more suited for a guest bedroom than a permanent stay.

"Oh, right, be warned that Paps and Grillby's room is right next to mine," Sans said, rapping his knuckles against the Whittall brown wall beside the door. "It's why I moved."

It was what set into motion all of this. It was why this wedding had happened in the first place. That wall, being a little thing, had bothered Sans enough to move out to New Orleans, Louisiana. And had happened to take up owning an old radio station as a home, who also conveniently didn't mind messing about with restoring old technology. Who happened to be aromantic and asexual, who wore fake smiles, and who was so undeniably Sans.

Such a coincidence. All of it. Such a specific domino effect that had fallen so perfectly into place to bring together two people who never should have met. Sans would have fallen into hell, and would have settled into place without a single clue from Alastor. They may have come to walk the same road, the same street, and have no idea the two could have been destined for so much more.

"Whatcha thinking about?" Sans suddenly pestered, leaning up into Alastor's personal space. Something he freely rented out for Sans to inhabit, as the skeleton belonged there as much as Alastor did. "Staring at that wall hard—I'm not gonna let ya go kill Paps or anything. He gave a nice speech for our wedding."

The speech, admittedly, had been nice. Papyrus was a fool who supported Sans' choice in partner without pursuing any doubt, which led to his tear-jerking spiel to insist upon their future happiness. Glad his brother had found a partner that suited his needs and boundaries alike, and that Sans hadn't dared to settle for anything else.

Alastor could quite agree to it, even if the man who spoke it was the 'anything less.'

"Nothing in that regard," Alastor said, ignoring the subtle way in which Sans' eye sockets twitched in disbelief. Which was fair; Alastor would always have the temptation of Papyrus' death stored away in the back of his mind. "I was just thinking about how this wall being thin led to all of this."

Sans stared blankly for a second, before his face softened. "Yeah," he agreed. "Quite funny to think about, huh? I moved out because Paps and Grillby were a bit too horny for my own liking, and ended up with all of this."

"Exactly," Alastor agreed. "Quite a funny little thing to think about. How we wouldn't have met if this never happened."

For a moment, Sans hummed, his eye lights flickering up and down the shabby excuse of a wall.

"I think we still would have," Sans decided.

Alastor hummed. Go on.

Sans went on, a hand on his chin and the other tucked into his armpit. "I mean, I never really believed in the afterlife or fate or whatever, but after I met ya and we got close, there might be some other stuff we don't know about."

"Like soulmates?" Alastor asked. Curious, he tilted his head to meet Sans.

"Sort of," Sans offered with a lazy shrug. "I mean, think about it. A series of construed events had to lead to us meeting. A single thing went off, and we wouldn't have. I would'a died, probably a lonely bastard, and you'd still be in hell as a dead lonely bastard."

What a lovely little thought that was. Alastor had never quite believed in the concept, but it scratched a pleasant itch within him until he felt soft and airy. The idea of them being born for one another, and having to cross through layers of the afterlife and time in order to meet. It was unlikely, superstitious, yet nice all the same.

Although, Alastor did have to prefer that no one was born for anyone. Because it made the experience all the more pure. That the world hadn't set everything up for Sans and Alastor to meet, but that they had just managed to trick the stars into aligning and got every lucky beat of a butterfly's wing. Both were tempting ideas.

"Though, I guess if it was for anything grand, us meeting wasn't really meant for us," Sans followed up.

Alastor shot him a befuddled look, and Sans returned it, his expression near inscrutable.

"I mean, you have ties with the only demon in hell that truly believes in redemption but can't get a connection with any angels, and I have a brother who's going to heaven and would be all for it."

"You're saying our perfectly set meeting, arranged by the universe itself, was just the universe trying to make sure Papyrus and Charlie met for the good of sinners?" Alastor asked.

Sans shrugged, as if it were that simple. "Yeah."

Of course Sans would equate their unusual meeting to something meant for his brother. Sans would do nothing less.

Though, Alastor did suppose it was also odd that they had that similarity as well. Having someone within their closer circles that believed heaven should be accessible, even after death. If the universe truly had sought to correct the injustice of Adam and the exterminations, finding a common ground between Papyrus and Charlie wouldn't be extremely far-fetched.

Papyrus had that willful stubbornness, and Charlie had the intense need to save everyone, people's judgement be damned.

"If that truly is the case," Alastor said, taking one last look at the initiating wall. "It's quite amusing to think we found our own bliss as pawns in a larger game."

"Yeah. Suppose you can say that."

Both of them lingered at the wall for a moment and had moved on, setting down their bags and allowing for the others to get settled as well. Papyrus and Grillby came with questions of late-night bored games with the rest of them, and left when the two had declined.

Their wedding ceremony wasn't over just yet, after all.

Alastor outstretched his hand, with his typical sly grin and an invitation for Sans to join him somewhere far more fitting than the temporary stay he had lodged at when he first left the Underground for good. And Sans followed him so easily, with a rested hand upon Alastor's.

Naturally, Alastor took him somewhere familiar they hadn't visited since the first time they had ventured to it. Sans looked around at the soot-free sky twinkling with stars, while the fragrant spring breeze caused the flag-colored strings to sway.

"A rooftop," Sans mused, returning his gaze to Alastor. "How fitting."

"Of course, Cheshire. That was the day we had begun to hand ourselves over to one another, vulnerable with our words and panting with adrenaline. It had truly been the first time I felt alive since I died."

And since he lived. Alastor hadn't ever felt that alive, even when his flesh was his own. Though Alastor didn't have to tell Sans that, so chipper and himself once those damned pills were out of the equation, albeit temporarily. Finally.

Soul contracts were particular to those who summoned them. All were pen and paper, but the style of ink, font, and texture all differed. Alastor's were on two bold red pieces of parchment, unraveling to reveal the contracts he had carefully fretted over for what felt like ages. What his efforts had condensed into were two short, neat papers with simple sentences sprawled at the top. One for Sans, one for Alastor.

"I kept the lawyer talk absent, since there's no need for bothersome trickery," Alastor explained, and allowed both pieces to float over to Sans to glance over. Sans took them both easily, sweeping one into each hand as he glanced over the writing. "Your soul will be mine, and my soul will be yours. We'll have equal authority over one another."

Sans nodded along, his eye lights trailing along the words of the pages. Sans knew very well what soul contracts were like; Alastor had been sure to fill him in regarding their functionality. Sans and Alastor could command the other to do whatever they liked, if it really came down to it, but they also had the equal power to cancel the order if desired. They would also be completely immune to each other's powers, whatever Sans' may turn out to be in the future.

Alastor always did linger on what exactly Sans would turn into once he died. He hoped he would stay a skeleton since he quite enjoyed the lack of skin, but if Sans were to become a deer demon as well, Alastor wouldn't object at all.

"Simple," Sans grunted, a smile plaguing his face. "I like it."

"Do be aware that a living soul making a contract with a dead sinner binds them to that afterlife," Alastor said. "Any chance you may have of getting to heaven would be eradicated instantly, Comic Sans."

And Sans, his brilliant little partner, gave a snort as he plucked the quill from the air, summoned by the contract.

"Good, then," Sans said. "That'll erased any fears of us being separated."

Alastor, dare he say, reached euphoria. He positively shivered in delight from those words; no doubt his eyes flashed with the demonic powers rumbling within him.

He wanted to steal Sans to hell already, to walk that tightrope of eternity chained together. He wanted to rip out every meaningless bone in his body and have Sans crawl inside to replace them. He wanted.

Without an ounce of doubt, Sans scribbled his name onto the contract. And Alastor followed suit, feeling the static buzz off his soul becoming eternally chained to the other as every letter in his full name was spelled out. On the last line, a sharp tug permeated through his chest.

The parchment folded up upon itself and disappeared out of existence, ready to be called back if either owner of the deal needed to alter it. Gently, Sans placed a hand against his chest, idly scratching at the fabric and the bone underneath.

Ah. His soul wasn't his anymore. A thought that terrified him seven years ago, but now he found nothing but sheer relief at the notion. That they were finally bound together, that even if the god that damned Alastor forever decided that Sans didn't deserve it, that god couldn't interfere. They belonged to each other in every sense of the word, within their twisted dance of a friendship that swayed into the oblivion of obsession.

"I dunno why I was expecting it to hurt," Sans said, blinking in astonishment. "I thought handing my soul over to a demon would'a been more... impactful? It just feels like I downed a few energy drinks and called it a day."

"Handing over one's soul would be far more difficult to entice people into if people screamed with every signature," Alastor said, amusement coating his voice.

"How'd we know it worked? Do we just—"

"You could try and issue a command, if you'd like."

Instantly, Sans roared to life with a command. As if he had been waiting on it ever since Alastor dared to make the suggestion.

"I order you to do all of the dishes once we live together."

Alastor scowled at the trivial order as his soul locked the command into place.

"Really?" Alastor asked. "You have the radio demon's soul, and the first thing you tell me to do is to do the dishes?"

Sans shot him a chirpy glare. "I fucking hate doing 'em. And you're good at them. Go ahead and use whatever command you would like to inflict upon the Royal Judge, oh bringer of better orders."

A show of rolling his eyes was presented to Sans as Alastor, far more experienced with owning souls, simply willed the chain into a physical manifestation. Instantly, the familiar green hue caught within the air, circling neatly around Sans' neck in a glowing, transparent collar. However, instead of the chain link ending with Alastor's hand, he found that it instead raveled back up to his own neck and locked him to it all the same.

Bound together. What a delightful sight indeed. He tugged, ever so slightly, just to revel in Sans' awkward breath as he was slightly pulled toward Alastor.

"Woah," Sans grunted, his eye sockets full of amusement.

"I'll teach you everything I've learned about the soul bonds, but it does take some getting used to," Alastor warned him, dissipating away the chains on his mental command.

"Does it allow us to talk through hell and earth at all? So that we don't have to use the radio station or your shadow anymore?" Sans asked, a tilt to his skull. Absentmindedly, the skeleton rubbed at his neck, where the chain had once lain.

"Sadly, no, it doesn't allow for any influence through distance. I would have proposed it far sooner if I could have—much like how I would have tried to order you to not feel the effects of those bothersome pills you're forced to take, but alas, orders like those don't work either."

Sans wallowed. "Pity."

They returned back to Sans' old room after a few more moments of experimentation, with Sans able to successfully try and bring forth the soul chain after some instruction from Alastor. Albeit awkwardly, he did it, so they were working in the right direction. Once that had been accomplished, the two boys ended up wrestling and tugging at one another with odd, stupid orders and barked laughter until they were both breathless heaps on the roof. Alastor unable to walk unless he hopped there, like a pathetic weasel of a rabbit, and Sans forced to jostle his bones whenever he spoke. They undid the orders to one another, naturally, but the joy stuck around.

This was exactly what Alastor had yearned for. No worthless overarching orders that dared to compel his being toward unsavory decisions, no massive mess or demands either. Simply two best friends who teased one another before returning to their room to sleep for the night. It was perfect, all of it.

Even the part where, once changed and showered, Alastor had sat down onto the bed and jolted from the sudden, loud sound that emanated from underneath him. A whoopie cushion, no doubt, confirmed by Alastor moments later when he peeled back the blankets to reveal a sea of whoopie cushions with rose petal pictures awkwardly taped to them.

"SANS!" Papyrus had yelled from his room. "STOP PLANTING WHOOPIE CUSHIONS IN MY HOME! AND DON'T TERRORIZE ALASTOR WITH THEM!"

Sans laughed in the bathroom, before he promptly started to choke on the toothpaste he had been brushing his teeth with.