"Itchy-mats, huh?" What a name. But hey, who's he to judge? "Never really thought about where I'd rather kick it, always figured it'd take me by surprise, or something."

Which is Sans's way of answering that other question. While he waits for Ichimatsu to put two and two together, Sans takes personal stock of, uh, himself. The dull headache he recalls having for a long while is gone, and there's something else, something a little more recent. His bones don't itch the way he remembers they did, in both a diffuse and, uh, kinda painful way, in those moments before the world around him began to fragment and dim.

Scrutinizing the sky, the sea, the strand of sand gleaming under the sun in this protected cove, Sans can see no sign of those ailments. The soul's a mysterious thing, even for monsters who spent some resources studying them. Maybe it invents one last beautiful moment for itself, like a consolation prize, once it's all over.

Hell if he knows. But he ain't gonna go questioning a pleasant surprise, either.

Maybe he isn't inclined to wait for him to get the clue, maybe it's time he explained the joke, even: "Anyway, I'm just as alive as you are," for a guy who was convinced this is one last dream as he, uh, dies. "Just a different species. But don't sweat it, pal -- most of your kind mix that up."