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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?!]

[Frisk retracts their hands the second Chara flinches back. No touching. Not right now. They suck in a quick, tight breath, backing away. There's nothing - they don't know what there is to really do when things get to be like this. Sometimes it all just comes roiling out, and all you can do is sit and wait for it to pass.

Throw it out.

It sounds like an unbearable effort for Chara to get their voice to work, just to say that much, just to pull everything together for long enough.

Frisk reacts immediately, without hesitation.

Scoop up the bowl in both hands, carry it to the trash. Drop the whole thing inside with a satisfying clunk. They don't care if they're throwing out the bowl too - Wonderland will compensate, and replace it all later. And then they cast down the broken pieces of the spoon, any extra ingredients scattered around, just for good measure.

The white powder scattered over their shirt and hair still feels too much like the strange, staticky cling of dust. There's nothing to do about it right now. So Frisk pulls up a chair and sits opposite Chara, speaking quietly.]

It's okay. It's okay, Chara. It's gone. It's all gone. It's never coming back.

[They don't look up. Just try to lock onto the sound of a heavy bowl thudding into the trash. The clatter of splinters being erased from the room. The scrape of a chair. Frisk's voice. Their breathing feels louder than all of them, feels like it's drowning everything out, feels like they can't hear themselves think, like they must be driving Frisk up the wall with the racket they're making. Ha ha, why are they putting Frisk through this? Taking away their fun, forcing them to play the comforting butt-patter again!

This is stupid. This is such a stupid thing to get worked up over. What kind of stupid person decides to act like this over nothing at all? They squeeze their eyes shut, clamp their hands over their head, like they can just... just crush all this horribleness. Close themselves up so tightly none of this humiliating, manipulative, downright unstable distress can possibly leak out.

Talking's too hard. Cannot fight, cannot think, can't move your body. They just stay put, trembling and rigid and frozen, for - they don't know how long. It feels like years, but it could be minutes, seconds, hours? Just... stay put, curled up, not existing, insisting to themself that it's gone, Frisk said so, it's gone, it won't hurt anyone, nobody is going to get sick, until their breathing starts to regain some regularity.]

[All they know how to do is wait it out. It'll pass. They know it will. They wish they could offer something useful - a hug, a hand to cling to, anything, but they know better than to reach out and try. That might simply spook them further, might end up doing more damage than healing.

They're not sure what else to do, though. Sitting on a chair with their knees drawn up, trying not to stare and make sure Chara isn't about to bury their fingers into their arms as if that might shred the skin from the bones in a single shearing motion. They consider each possibility for what to do next and discard it in turn, until they settle upon something...ha, something harmless. Maybe.]

Hey. Chara.

[And they try to smile, faintly - not hopefully. They don't have to smile back. They just have to keep them here for now.]

What do you call bees that make milk?

[The more this irrational stupid oversensitive terror ebbs away, the more humiliation creeps in to take its place. Why are they like this? Why are they like this? No wonder you have no friends, kid, if this is how you act when they try to have fun with you!]

Freaks of nature?

[The answer is muffled. They curl in on themselves, knees to chest, forehead pressed against their kneecaps. Willing the inexplicable dampness out of their eyes before it can form itself into tears, because what is there to even cry about? They never cry. They have no reason to cry. It's just a cake. Who even cares? Stop being so weird! Don't make this more uncomfortable than it already is!]

No.

[Freaks of nature, ha ha, like us. But they don't say it. Instead they shrivel up, hands scrunching into the fabric of their shorts in preparation for this stupid, stupid punchline.]

[They can't keep the smile from their voice, though when they deliver it, leaning forward hopefully as they whisper it out like it's a bad word:]

Boo-bees.

[It's such a stupid joke. It's so stupid it's hilarious, and they giggle faintly, even if it's bad form to laugh at your own jokes. They almost add something like, don't tell Toriel, but that'd be...that'd probably make things worse.]

[Honestly, the secretive conspiratorial delivery is somehow funnier than the punchline itself.

They bite their lip, because they're a little afraid of what might happen if they start laughing again. Like maybe it'll rev them back up, and they'll turn back into a mean-spirited horrible giggling idiot.

It coaxes a snort out of them nonetheless.]

That's awful.

[They shift a little, scrub their sleeve over their eyes just in case, but they don't really need to. Their eyes are dry. They're in control.]

Do we still have the frosting? We can just eat that, maybe.

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cw flashback, panic attack

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cw continues whoooo

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1/2

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