Papyrus can see it in his brother's face, before he even talks. Polite refusal, but still refusal. And that pitying way of trying to talk him around... It's as awful as he'd thought it would be.

He drops his arms to his side, slouching. A picture of disappointment. And casually tucks his hands behind his back, behind his cape.

"But I was on my own," he says, softly. Explaining with words, or maybe confessing away the last of his own hesitations. One last shot, while he prepares to fight his brother. For real. For the... first, only time.

A bone forms in his hand behind his cape, held carefully vertically. Deeply red, sharper than usual, and filled with pain. Dust from it - even broken off by colliding with a skeleton - should conjure memories of injuries, of breaking things in anger, of grief and loss. Maybe even strong enough memories to be lived through. It's not as gentle as he'd hoped to be, but... they don't get what they want.

"Completely on my own. Nobody came to push me around, or talk me to a different view, or anything. It was all me, and nothing else. Remembering my life." He's facing Sans, but his eyesockets fix a little away on memories. "All the things you got, and I didn't, and... unable to hide from it. The way I usually do."