"Nah, I'd call him human," drones the skeleton, half turning to scoop at the sand, heaping it together until he's got a roughly Sans-appropriate pillow to recline back against, which he promptly does. "It's only your kind that thinks monster's an insult," concludes Sans, shifting down, getting comfortable.

Stretching out leaves half a bony leg out in the sun. He nudges off one dustmop slipper to flex his toes -- phalanges, whatever -- against the crystalline grit. Ok, yeah, he could definitely nap here.

"We've been livin' underground for ages, buddy." So... he doesn't have to buy it. "Gonna go out on a limb and say you and your bro don't get along."