There is still a clean crack dividing the center of his skull from the top of his nose hole, looking rather unpleasant as it had been halted right int he middle of reforming his face into a muzzle. He puts a hand over his face as if to conceal it, along with the tears, because Papyrus is a awake and yet he can't stop crying.

His clothing is torn to shreds and burned, draped over his shoulder more than he's wearing it. He should run, part of him says. He should get out of here, before Papyrus sees anymore - before he realizes, before he knows.

But he doesn't. Even as his shoulders shake, he stays there, pulling back his hand from Papyrus's shoulder when his brother moves, like he doesn't know what to do now. Like the actions are too unfamiliar to him to make any sense. Slowly, uncertainly, he moves his hand to reach for Papyrus again, and then slumps forward to embrace his brother's chest.

It could have been over. It was so close to being over.

But it's not.