"Yeah. I know," Sans says quietly. He was referring to the last flurry of words. He was hyper-focused on his own personal epiphanies in the moment, but they weren't lost on him. "That too."

... He should probably start being specific.

"I'm sorry about that too, I mean."

The first 'sorry' probably covered it. Sans figures it's worth saying anyway. He tries picking at more chisp. Sorry, dude. He's looking at you anyway. It's not like he wasn't a mess himself.

"Hey. Come on," He says with attempted lightness. "If you want this stuff out of your hair, you gotta hold still. Unless you want me to shake it out of ya, which I can guarantee skeleton hands aren't great for."

Hair gets stuck in bone. Bone gets stuck in hair. Its awkward. Thats why he wore gloves when he ruffled Frisk's hair. Give him another time and place, and he'd do it to Mettaton too for a laugh.

His words are so faint and tired, he can hear his own burnout. Geez.

It wasn't because he didn't want to say it, or that he didn't mean it. He just didn't realize how exhausting all their fighting was until he finally fessed up. It was an enormous weight off his shoulder, but he was still sore from carrying it so long.

Man. Remind him to do this less often.