Papyrus' hand clenches on the bone, hard enough his fingers dig into the dusty construct. The accusation stings, because there's truth in it that he never admitted before. Something Sans should never have realized, much less called him on it.

It's exactly the kind of horrible thing that Papyrus learned, in relentless detail, about himself in the void.

And it would be easy. Simple. Focused, in the way the Void wants. His brother is right here. Forcing him into hallucinations, then a sleep too deep to wake from, and then finish it... mingling the different kinds of dust together...

"I don't want that! Not... being alive when you're not, or killing you. That's horrible." Papyrus shudders, because it's vivid and true and yet, and yet. There's something clingy in him, still.

"I thought, if anybody would understand, you would? That you might... come with me? And, if not, then..."

Then. His hand tightens a little more, the bone crumbling in his hand, no longer subtle and controlled. He's too busy confessing to gather it back.