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Golly. Perhaps we'd have been wiser to make something from a boxed mix.

[They remark, airily, getting themselves into a rhythm of cracking eggs and discarding the shells in a steadily-growing pile. They're hardly getting any shell fragments in the mixing bowl at all!]

Oh! And butter. Is butter a wet or a dry ingredient?

[Butter. Cups of butter. Doesn't matter, doesn't matter. It's not a pie. It's fine.]

...Let's call it wet. I'll add the butter, since I'm already doing the milk. Oh - and speaking of... are we going to make our own frosting, or are we going to pull some ready-made cans out? Because if we're using cans, I'd like to suggest the rainbow sprinkle kind.

Wet, I think. 'Cause you melt it.

[They were thinking of making their own, but the thought of using rainbow sprinkle cans is too much to resist. Frisk dusts the flower and assorted powders off the tips of their fingers with a decisive firmness, then abandons the effort when they realize they're just getting flour and stuff all in the air. It tickles their nose when they breathe it in, inadvertently, so they instead wipe their hands on their shirt, staining it with wide white smears.

(Like dust.)

They head on over to the pantry area and start going through it eagerly.]

We could try making rainbow sprinkle frosting, but I think this might be better.

[They're making a mess enough as it is!]

Much better.

[Because they're baking in a very silly manner, ha ha! Not following a recipe at all! That's it. That's the sole reason. And anyway, rainbow sprinkles are fun and whimsical.

(He loved rainbows. He probably would have tried to put frosting on a pie if he could. He would have only made something silly and cute and harmless if Chara hadn't been there with him, surely.)

They duck their head, search through the drawers, pluck out two spoons. Smile brightly.]

Of course, we'll still have to taste test it, won't we? If we're already being bad, then we might as well eat it right out of the tub!

[See? Fun. This is still fun, and it's going to stay fun. This is just a little speed bump to force yourself over.]

[Late night sugar highs are - they're harmless, right? Like something two stupid kids would do. Not necessarily - siblings, not necessarily family, or partners, just two kids! They don't have to worry about things maybe turning out wrong.

Frisk extricates several cans of the stuff - Wonderland can provide more than just rainbow sprinkles, it turns out, but a whole plethora of sugary flavors, in case your frosting needs to be extra-special, they imagine. Chocolate. Vanilla. Strawberry. Snickerdoodle.]

Pistachio? [Frisk wrinkles their nose.] Who would want pistachio-flavored frosting?

If it makes good ice cream, then I guess it must make good icing?

[Wouldn't know; haven't tried. They slide one of the spoons down the counter, over to Frisk. Flash them a bright smile as they start just... dumping some milk into their egg heap.]

Eat a spoonful of it. I dare you to. Someone's got to ascertain if it's gross or not, right?

[Sticking their tongue out of one side of their mouth in concentration, Frisk pops the lid off the greenish can and whisks a spoonful of the stuff right up. It looks...strange. Green and freckled with specks of browner green, but it smells like frosting, all sugary and...confection...ary.

(Don't imagine leaves.)

They stick the whole thing in their mouth in one go. Their expression screws up thoughtfully as they swallow it down.]

Hmm. That's...not what I expected.

[It's a little bit disgusting, but not entirely, so that's a surprise!]

"Not what I expected" in a good way, or a bad way?

[Frisk can have fun with that. Chara's going straight for the rainbow sprinkle tub and just... shovelling a spoonful right into their horrible goblin face. A massive gob of pure unadulterated sugar goop. They're doing it, and nothing can stop them.]

Think it'd go with chocolate cake? I'd hate to ruin our doubtlessly-flawless rolls with the wrong icing!

Give it a try, decide for yourself.

[Frisk offers the canister of the stuff with a perfectly innocent smile. It's not totally horrible, and anyway, Chara might make a hilarious face.]

[They know Frisk - and how much Frisk has picked up from them - well enough to not trust that smile for a second. But it's just frosting, right? So they make a very proper show of running their spoon under the sink a bit, making sure it's Clean and Sanitary and that their disgusting corn-syrup-glop snorfling is all very well-mannered and proper.

And then they take a spoonful. And then they eat it. And then their face scrunches up like they'd just tried to eat a sponge soaked in dish soap. They're not a fan of pistachio ice cream, so why did they expect to like it as frosting? It's just weird and artificial and chemically and BAD.]

Ew. It sucks.

[Frisk's smirk broadens in unmistakable amusement.]

* Indescribable.

[Which immediately gives way to a peal of wicked laughter. Or, more semantically accurately: wicked snorting. Snorting and chortling in equal measure. Snortling.

They're doing lots of it.]

I cannot believe you would convince me to try this. Truly, our friendship is pistachiover.

[Bad jokes make Frisk laugh. Make them snortle. Let them keep snortling, keep having fun. Chara's just going to very carefully unwrap an entire stick of butter and dump it in the bowl.

...Two sticks of butter. Because doing it twice makes it feel extra-sure. More secure. Double-checked.

...

Three sticks of butter.]

I'm sticking to confetti. Never again will I stray from the one true path.

[Of course it just makes Frisk laugh. They were just starting to recover from their fit of giggles, but that horrible pun sets them off all over again, powdery hands clamped over their mouth as they try to keep from being - too loud. Wouldn't want anyone to wake up and see what a mess these two kids have made of the kitchen!

Frisk stops long enough to manage:]

Pistachio ones, chocolate ones - they walk not the middle road!

[And their valiantly-maintained straight face dissolves all over again.]

[Chara, of course, is too sophisticated to laugh at their own jokes, so they just settle for smiling faintly at the round of chuckles they've coaxed out of their partner. But then Frisk looks over and says that, and there are floury handprints on their face where they'd pressed their hands over their mouth, and Chara just snorts. But, like, in a sophisticated way.]

* You notice a tub of icing hidden behind the pillar.

[They roll their eyes playfully as they get to work mixing, mashing all that butter up into oblivion. ...Feels good. Harmless, relieving exertion of force.]

You usually didn't need help like that on puzzles, especially not the Ruins ones. I never did understand how we had so much trouble with switches that were just... out in plain sight.

[Yes, truly the most sophisticated of snorts happening right over here. Frisk scrunches their nose up thoughtfully as they shut the can of pistachio icing with a firm snap.]

I dunno, [they say, thoughtfully.] It just felt like...I dunno, it didn't feel obvious at all. I guess now it does but...it really didn't back then, did it?

[They wonder if their head is going to start to hurt, the way it did during the conversation with Zacharie's Mirror. They'd hope not. That hadn't been very much fun for everyone.]

[They cant their head to one side, trying to recall. They remember seeing the color of each switch, plain as day. Knowing it like it was obvious. But they also... remember going out of their way to state the color of each switch. Remember giving the hint, like they knew Frisk needed help seeing that the switch was behind a pillar (even if it was actually kind of to the side of a pillar, wasn't it?)

Why would they know that? Why was the hint where the switch was, and not something about the order?]

...It was kind of weird that there were those "if you can read this" signs up, to begin with. That wasn't a puzzle that made a lot of sense.

[Just like the room with a bunch of little cracked-floor compartments, with only one hiding a switch needed to proceed. How were you supposed to know what was underneath the floor?]

Er, the wet ingredients are all mixed. You ready with the dry ones?

[It really doesn't make a lot of sense, the more they think about it. But they're also not much in the mood to get their head to start hurting the more they think about it, so they choose...not to. Instead drag their bowl of dry ingredients closer and display it proudly.

Easier than thinking about switches and pillars and things.]

All ready!

Alright. Hold it steady, and keep stirring. I'm adding the wet.

[They say, as they attempt to heave this big bowl of liquids and butter and just... dump it on in there.

They might be wiry for their age (or possible lack thereof), but it's a heavy bowl. What ensues is basically an egg-milk-vanilla-butter tsunami.]

[Frisk does their best to keep stirring. STIR HARDER!!! shrieks a remembered specter of Undyne at their shoulder, and their features shrivel up into a glower of determination as they keep stirring, as best as they can, even as the wet gloop of the batter slops over the edges of the bowl, splashes their sleeves and their arms, speckling their face and probably getting in their hair.

It's no matter, though. The stirring continues. They are Determined to keep stirring, gosh darn it.]

It's getting harder. [They're even panting a little with the effort it takes to mix the solids in with the liquids, but they're putting every scrap of muscle they can into the action.]

[Maybe there's too much flour after all? They debate whether to try and dump in more milk or something, or if it's entirely possible to make a reasonably tasty cake out of a dough instead of a batter.

It's probably fine! It'll smooth out once it's a little more mixed, right?]

You're not gonna let a cake outmuscle you, are you? Stick it to that baked good! Charge it with assault and battery! Stop petting the enemy!!

[Okay, it's not as motivational as when Undyne does it, but Chara's not supposed to be admitting anything Undyne does is motivational, anyway. She's a hero, Chara's a villain.]

Or I guess if you're tired, you can let the stronger half handle it. These sick pythons aren't just for show.

[Frisk keeps stirring. They might not have much muscle to their wiry little frame, but they've got enough determination to make this cake perfect, gosh darn it! Or if not perfect at least...fun. Fun to make and fun to watch should it fail spectacularly.

Their tongue sticks out the side of their mouth with the effort, because they're going to see this through, they've already sworn that oath to themself.]

I can do it! I'm stirring with all my passion!

[STIR HARDER!!!

HARDER!!!!!!!

HARD - oh.

The wooden spoon they're using snaps, having mired itself very thoroughly in the batter that is rapidly becoming more gluelike in nature.]

...oh.

Oh.

[Chara stares, bewildered, at the chunk of spoon stub still cemented into the... can it still be called batter at this point?]

Um. Well! Seems like it's all mixed! Better get this poured out into a pan!

[Before it sets and has to be pried out of the bowl with a crowbar.]

Is it though?

[Frisk plucks at the stub of the spoon that's now firmly mired in the batter that's definitely more approaching "cement" on the viscous, rapidly-setting end of the spectrum. Extricating it from the batter is turning out to be a much more complicated endeavor than they realize.]

Do we want splinter-flavor in there?

[Splinter-flavor. Of course there's - it doesn't just snap off cleanly. There's bits of wood in there. Sharp little thorns that will tear up your inside.

It's not safe to eat.

It's contaminated.

It's poisoned.

Why didn't they think of that? It's obvious it's no good, why didn't they think? They were gonna bake it up and serve it and anyone who trusted the enough to eat it would... ha ha, they would...

Their throat feels like it's clamped shut.

He's sick, he's going to die, they'll have murdered him after everything he did for a human, for one of the creatures who killed his friends and drove him Underground. Asriel's crying and Mom is furious and they know what happens when you make a parent angry. All they can think is finally, it's finally happened, this was all too perfect to last and of course you ruined it all, they're a land mine and they've stepped on themself and set themself off and their throat is so, so tight that every breath feels like nails scraping against their esophagus, like a drowning body trying to claw its way out of quicksand. They're staring at the floor in New Home, at the grayish hardwood in the hall, and the air smells like sickness and Pine-sol and why are they fixating on something as stupid as that at a time like this? Asriel would never have done anything this bad on his own, it's because of them, it was their doing, he's sick and he's going to die.

There's a horrible rigidity seizing them, and they have to duck their head because their eyes burn and it's awful and humiliating and their smile is a tense awful thing. Don't breathe so loud. You're breathing too loud. Don't do anything weird, don't make it weird, don't be so dramatic. Always thirsty for attention, always overreacting. It's a perfectly innocent remark about a perfectly innocent mistake and none of this is a big deal so just be normal, why can't you be normal about this? Nobody's sick, nobody's going to eat it, it's not a pie, this is supposed to be fun!! Why can't you let this be fun?

Chara starts to giggle.

You put in butter this time. You double-checked. You did it three times over, repeated it so you were really sure. It's not a pie. You tried this time. (It happened anyway. It wasn't enough.)

They keep laughing, maybe a little too hard. Maybe it isn't as funny as they're making it out to be. Big, raw-throated laughs, heaving ones, the kind that are turning into airless little hiccuping spasms and that's not normal, that's creepy, stop doing that. Stop it. Put the brakes on - on all of yourself. Stop!

They - they were asked a question. Answer. Stop laughing and answer. Stop making this about yourself, stop sucking all the fun out of the room.]

No!

[It comes out weird, strained, only yanked out of them through a supreme effort, because their stupid selfish attention-starved body doesn't know how to breathe anymore, keeps sabotaging itself, tries to insist on locking up and laughing and straining for air and talking at the same time and none of it seems to be working, nothing's working.]

No, we - don't want that!

[Something's wrong.

They know something's wrong because even if there's been that thin veneer of caution veiling everything the both of them have done, the delicate stepping around of pointed subjects (buttercups instead of butter, dust instead of flour, dirt instead of chocolate), something's just catapulted this from innocent to not-so-innocent. It's stark in the way Chara tenses up, their whole body locking into place, shaking, shaking, shaking, laughing in that loud and pained and juddering fashion that hurts, it's like claws dragged across their ears.

Frisk puts the bowl down. It clicks quietly on the countertop. Frisk pushes the broken half of the spoon away. It rasps as it scrapes over the flat surface.

There's not a modicum of control to the way the words burst from Chara's throat, and Frisk knows panic. They know panic because they've seen it, they've seen it dozens of times before, felt it during their very worst days.]

We don't have to.

[They keep their voice pitched low, the words soft, as they turn to face them. Offer their hands, palms upward and open, if Chara needs them.]

It's okay.

It's just butter and flour.

[They should have known. They should know better. Why are they like this? It's just butter and flour! There are hands in the periphery of their vision, extended hands, but they jerk away from them. Don't touch. Don't touch. Clumsily stagger back, away from the counter, somehow lurch toward a table, a chair. Sit. Collapse into it. Want to hit the floor, want to curl up under the table, head between knees and huddled and hiding and small, but that's weird. That's creepy. Can't stay standing, throat's not working, they're breathing too too loud.

They try holding their breath. If you can't do it right, you don't get to do it at all, so better smarten up! Just get rid of it entirely if it's going to be too loud, too lurching, too wheezy. Doesn't work. Starved body defies them, erupts into some kind of horrible too-loud gasp. Sounds like a dying animal. Sounds like they're dying. Are they dying?

Why are they so dramatic? Why are they thinking that, why are they acting like this? Don't be so extra, Chara. Don't be the reason we can't have nice things. What kind of histrionic spoiled brat goes all to pieces because a stupid half-assed midnight cake doesn't go perfectly? Oh, wah-wah, poor Chara! Your first world little life is so hard, huh? Losing your damn mind over cake! Cake! Making Frisk shower you in pitying little its-okays because you didn't get your way!]

Throw - it - out.

[It's a herculean task to spit those three syllables out. They want to make it sound bored, like they've just decided this isn't interesting anymore. They want to tack on a joke. They want to be normal, for the love of God, just be normal! Why can't they just shut themselves up?!]

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cw flashback, panic attack

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cw continues whoooo