Dust. Of course. If Papyrus were the type to need oxygen, his breath would have caught in his throat. He looks down at his hands, at the telltale particles still clinging to his gloves, and brushes them against each other.

He didn't want to let himself think about it. Thinking about it was as bad as admitting as he was sad, and if he dragged down the mood, Rosethorn probably wouldn't want to hang out with him anymore. He was finally starting to make friends, he didn't want to go back to how things used to be.

"W-well... that is true, we are. But I'm sure he'll turn up, and when he does, I'll have his things ready!"