Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

-Ink-

I don't deserve anything.

His hand froze, pencil flicked clean across the page to finish the line. A sudden flush in calm, dipped sharp into melancholy blue. What was that?

I don't deserve anything.

The drawing scoffed in dismissal, uncompleted, its hands knit without animation, while its reference click-clacked away with sharp needles. The Anti-Void went on with one less sound as his hand hovered still. Deserve, he hadn't been taking care of the Multiverse properly, wasn't it wrong that he spent time with its dreadful poison? Contently silent with legs crossed and the form of a blanket slowly inching over his legs, headphones snug against his skull and candy wrappers scattered like broken worlds.

Ink stopped swinging in the neon hammock, cleverly made, and dragged his feet. Wasn't it betrayal to think he could spare themself any down time, any at all, when everyone needed their help at that moment?

But Error was right here, nothing was being stolen from him, nothing at all.

They let the sketchbook sink into their lap, and leaned back with a quiet note of contempt. But in the process, he'd lost lives. He didn't deserve to be satisfied when people had been erased when he could have done something.

Taking care of everything, every pinprick in their fingers, every wave with an arrival, seeing it grow, flourish, and wilt as the script deemed it so. Everything. Words of comfort, 'I'll make it better.' times of guilt, sometimes he wished Error never existed.

Stress.

Everything.

I have to take care of everything.

I don't deserve to relax, do I?

Yellow eyelights blinked to him, but said nothing. Ink felt a strange twist in his gut, and they stuck the pencil in their scarf. He should feel more guilty. Magenta was chosen and slipped through parted teeth. Guilty, its his fault. They're a terrible person, selfish and cruel, he sits with ease on bloodsoaked sheets. They never try hard enough, they let things go, they let Error live.

People were in pain, unscripted pain, because of him.

People were forgotten.

I don't deserve anything.

The drawing was imperfect, he was never good to begin with, things were wrong with it, it'll never match up with its counterpart's spark. They wanted so badly to feel taken care of, did he really think that hiding away in neon strings was going to help him? Cold and heartless, Error could care less, Error didn't care about them, he'd said nothing.

How horrible the aftertaste, its sickening the way they craved more but so hesitantly clipped the vial back in place.

"Sorry." They muttered to nothing.

"Are you ₛ₋₋seriously apologizing to it?" Ink looked up, and crackling like a small fire, Error looked back. "It's not like it has feelings."

"I like to think they do." Ink said.

Error shook his head and returned to his work, "How far fᵢₙᵢₛₕ₋₋finished is it?"

They looked down again, deep magenta swarming their eyelights and reflecting dimly on the paper, "I've barely started." And probably wont touch again, sorry.

Silence intruded like an unwanted guest, should have been kicked out by now, it steals from the kitchen of conversation. Wow Ink, you could have prolonged that couldn't you? It only takes a bit of backbone to get Error to talk. You just didn't care enough, did you?

He felt a sinking feeling in his chest, and looked at the paper with scorn. He wasn't worthy of the pen if this was the kind of trash he produced.

"How's your thing going?" He asked for a chance in pace.

Error held up the blanket proudly, an intricate pattern shot across it like an explosion, orange-yellows and eye catching purples, he couldn't tell what it was supposed to be, but it was beautiful nonetheless. They took a sip of Orange, and inhaled big with a grin. The Magenta lingered close by.

"Wow! Yeah, I like that."

His companion rolled his eyes, "You like everything."

Everything equally. Its like you don't like anything at all. You lie to him. Ink suppressed a frown. "Can I feel it?"

"It's not ᵈ--done yet." Ink moved up anyways, his sketchbook landing spine-bent on the nowhere-floor as he approached at a rapid pace. Creators, if they wanted to avoid guilt, they would, and promised to take Yellow once they were settled. Error's shoulders jut up, and he clutched the creation close to his chest, scrunching up his face in disapproval. "It's not done yet!"

They plopped down next to him, to which the other cringed like a stray dog, grumbling and turning his body away. Ink hung his head, amused.

Glasses shoved up his nasal canal, Error resumed the angry clak-clak-clik of his process, repeating the phrase, "It's not done yet." once more.

"Man, doesn't it feel the same once its finished?"

"I can't risk you ruining it beforeₕₐₙ--H̸̤̞͙̲̱͉̔́Ā̵̗͉͈̓̊͂̀̒͘͘͝N̶̹̲̜̫̠̼̐̉̔̈́̄͂͆͠D̵̨̨͍̊." He stressed.

"What's up? Getting anxious?"

Error growled, and ground his teeth together, "I'm always anxious with *you* around." and he said it so assuredly, Ink almost believed him. They chose Yellow, and swallowed a quarter of it. An electrifying buzz frazzled his fingertips. He shook them out, hopefully with the last remains of unpleasantness, which warranted another judgey hiss.

"What's it even supposed to be?"

"I don't know." Error moved the thread in the protection of his jacket, "It's just meant to look pretty."

"Accomplished that." Ink smiled. No reply, clak-clak-clak...

...

Their feet started to kick against each other restlessly.

Kick.

Clak-clak.

Kick.

Clak-clak- Stop. He grumbled and backtracked a mistake. His eyes brightly highlighting his cheeks in red, Ink wondered if he had that color on hand, in paint marker no less, he imagined pressing its fine point across the drawn Error in his sketchbook, vibrant and loud to act as an exaggeration, illustrating the glow over his friend's sharp features. Then it hit him.

"I have an idea."

"I hate those."

"I should do your makeup." Error paused, his brow knitting together, then glared at him from behind the rim of his glasses. "It'll be fun! I promise I won't accidentally poke your eye out."

"Why do you want to do my ₘₐₖₑ--makeup?"

"I have an idea."

"No."

Ink made a face, "Why not?" and Error shrugged stiffly. After a moment and nothing was said, they determine and start going through their pencil case.

"Stop. No." He said firmly again.

"Go. Yes. I'm bored."

"You're gunna ᵈ--draw a ᵈ--dick on my face or something."

"I would never!" Lies, he would, but he had a goal in mind. Hm, red for sure, he wanted to draw attention to Error's eyes, maybe pink, oh definitely yellow. He'd look like a pretty prince. Hah! They giggled at the thought of Error, perhaps trapped in some lonesome tower and moping. Colors selected, they zipped up and threw their case to the side and turned their body towards him, biting on the lid of the red marker in thought. A canvas awaited him, a very disagreeing one.

"You're not ₜ--ₜₒᵤcₕ--touching me." His eyebrows flared up in assuredness, Ink merely shook his head and squinted. "This isn't a good idea."

"It's a great idea, you're just nervous I'll mess up and make you ugly."

"Yeah, and I know it for a fact."

He sat for a moment longer, then upcapped the marker and leaned in. Error cringed away only slightly, eyeing as Ink's hand hovered over his face as they planned out the handstroke, clenching his jaw once the point made contact. Ink traced over the fading glow across his cheekbone on one side, filled it out, and tried to switch hands to complete the other before his canvas moved away from him.

"C'mon--"

"Eugh, I hate the way it feels." He complained, the marker's ink made a clear bloody stain, thank Them, they'd worried Error's complexion was too dark at first.

"Is it ticklish?"

"I ᵍ--guess?"

Ink scooted closer and turned his face back to him, "Here, lemme just clean it up and I'll leave you alone."

A few brushstrokes later, and Error was grumbling.

"There! Now you look edgy."

"Man, thanks."

"I think I did you a favor though," He leaned back to observe his work, thinking if Error was compliant, he could've added yellow over his eyebrows, maybe pretty designs, what would he do with pink though? He hummed. Error gripped his needles and started clakking away again, closing and opening his eyes and twisting his face to get used to the feel, he was quick to push his glasses back up with the end of a needle as they tried to slip off.

He thought he did good, but the more things he could have done.

More things you could have done, Magenta echoed with distaste.

Alas, he laid back in the beanbag, having most of it to himself, Error was sitting half his ass off the edge in his previous attempts to flee.

Suddenly, Error snapped open a portal to someone's bathroom, and looked at himself through the mirror.

"Huh. Edgy." He commented.

"But good right? I was thinking I could have added fun designs or something, have you seen sugerskulls?"

"Its nowhere near Dia De Los ₘ--Muertos, though."

"Yeah, but you're a skeleton, I think you get a free pass." Their friend shrugged, and tilted his head to look at it at different angles. "Or maybe like, a cosplay of your Undernovela."

Ink managed to get a snicker out of him, "Who am I supposed to be?"

"I dunno, a side character. Although you'd make a kick-ass antagonist."

Error was smiling, then his eyes lit up and the portal changed to his Favorite Thing Ink had just reminded him of. Unexplained subtitles sparked and the midst of a dramatic scene played, they'd entered just at the climax of some type of argument. Error hummed in interest, inching more to the center of the beanbag and lifting his legs back up so he could rest wrists on knees, blanket forgotten.

Oh! Someone was slapped! Error giggled and called them an idiot.

A line a drama, secrets were being revealed, the two watched on.

Turns out the characters were lovers?

And... were arguing over a miscommunication?

Sometimes Ink thought Error had weird taste in AUs, what kind of silence-loving maniac would love something as tense and everything as Undernovela? They refrained from making comments at the tropes and predictable reactions as his friend gasped and snickered at the drama.

Weird taste, what was so vastly more important that Undernovela got to thrive under Error's critical glare, compared to the dozens upon dozens of destroyed AUs?

They must've zoned out, because the next moment he couldn't tell what was happening, "The plot thickens." Error whispered, nudging them back to reality. Ink let out a breathless laugh at his enthusiasm.

...

After things chilled out, Error shut the portal and began ranting about the events, resuming his knitting.

"They ₛₕ--should have sat down and agreed that they have dᵢff--differing opinions, instead of blowing up at each other."

"A bit on the nose," Ink commented, "Didn't you tell me their whole arc was about becoming lovers despite their opinions? Having them agree so suddenly would be cheap."

"It would baby the audience, you're right, I'm just sick of them fighting all the ᵈ--damn time."

"We should have gone in, been a real fourth-wall break."

Error snorted, "That'd be so stupid."

"Ugh," Ink flipped the yellow marker in his hand, "By the way, I've been eyeing you--"

"Yeah, its annoying and creepy."

"--And can I finish what I started?" They asked for the fifth time.

He rolled his eyes and scoffed, "Are you going to keep bothering ₘ₋me about it?"

"You bet!"

Error groaned, and threw his head back to stare at the 'sky', limbs losing animation in agitation, "God, fine." He sat back up and turned so he could rest his arm on the back of the beanbag, setting his project to the side.

Ink clapped in victory, and stuck the cap between his teeth to pull the marker free, twirling it in his fingers he leaned close. Hum, a moment of thought, and they took off his glasses to start coloring. Hell yeah, Error! For once you're doing something cool! They internally teased.

As he was working, adding interesting highlights shaped to compliment his friend's features, he couldn't help but think it was uncanny to see such a powerful man allow himself to be played around with, like the unfortunate doll of a aspiring child makeup artist. Except, Ink hoped at least, he was far more experienced.

Powerful man might be an overstatement, he was plenty weak in Ink's opinion.

Not that he thought it was a bad thing, it made Error more loveable.

Like that one moody cat in your household.

Loveable.

Who could love a murderer? Was Ink just as bad?

He was looking great so far, Ink took a moment to sip Orange so he could properly praise himself, and Pink just for that dot of compassion, since he didn't want his thoughts derailing the good mood. Error stole this chance to open up the same portal as last time, thoroughly looking at Ink's craftmanship.

"Looks like someone vomited on my face." He grumbled. "I'm gunna be made ᶠ--fun of."

"Not if you look pretty, you won't." Ink cupped his face and focused again.

"Pretty," Error scoffed, tensing at the touch, glitches fizzled around "sure, whatever you say."

Adding flares of pink around his mouth and under his nose, it was finally starting to come together. He had found a way to make sure the blue lines crossing his face still effected the look, to show off that natural Error design of course, and made them match the vibrant theme by overlaying red like crossed inputs of 3D glasses. Most of the action was around his eyes, the part they really wanted to emphasize, with the red and yellow showing them off and drawing attention, trying to mimic the feeling of intensity.

He looked dramatic, he'd look great with a pink fluffy scarf draped around his neck. Or maybe a noose.

"Done!"

"Thank God, I need to check the damage." He glanced at the mirror again, "Hah! I look like a racecar."

"Huh??" Ink stored the markers in his scarf.

"I'm ᵣᵤb--rubbing this off as soon as possible." He promised.

"Can I at least get a photo first?" Ink said, taking out his phone. Service never worked across dimensions, but he'd share it with Blue and Dream once he saw them again.

"Hell no!" Error flipped his jacket over his head, which only warranted uncontrollable cackling on the artist's end.

"What? You don't think I did a good job?"

"No!" He exclaimed, still looking at his reflection.

"Aww," Ink faked a pout, "and I tried soo hard."

"Be quiet for once." He snapped, resting his chin on his knees.

"You're welcome." They grinned.

"Mhm." Despite his ungrateful behavior, Ink found him see-through. Yeah, he'd look prettier with a pink scarf, nothing else. They felt guilt once more, but for a different reason.

"I'm actually kind of proud of it." Ink stated, watching as Error angled his body away from him and took up his project again, which was nearly finished. "I like the way I found to bring it all together, I worried the pink would be too jarring, but I think it does wonders."

clak-clak-clak

"How far is it from done?" They asked.

Error held it up for him, "Impatient brat," he grumbled, "five more minutes."

"You have a weird way of complimenting people."

"I wasn't cₒₘ--complimenting you."

"Well, not just then you weren't. But the makeup."

"I would never compliment you, why should I?"

"Somewhere deep down, I think you're saying the opposite." Compassion did wonders.

Their friend ground his teeth together, not seeing an end to the argument if he said anything more, and continued work on his blanket. Ink hummed in the small victory.

...

"Here." The thread was cut free, and the blanket was thrown over Ink's head, jarring them out of their train of thought. "Since you're so naggy." The felt was soft, and was crossed with thick yarn that kept the heat in, they pinched it between their fingers and checked the design over.

"Nice," They kicked it over their legs, it wasn't very big, definitely not big enough for two people, "wasn't that hard was it?"

"Stop bothering me, you got wₕ--what you wanted twice now."

Ink snuggled down, see? He'd proven himself wrong about Error, as done countless times already. "Continue?" He suggested.

"Sure." The portal was snapped open, and Error fished candy bars from his (many) pockets. Another wrapper was added to the mess accumulating at his feet, taking an angry crunch and folding an arm over his chest.

Grumpy Error, he just doesn't think, Ink reasoned. Although it still bothered him how 'sweet' he could be to them, and not to the countless others. Was there something broken about him? What had Ink not tried to convince him of his ideology...

They sighed, everything, he'd tried everything, that's just the way Error was, stubborn as a mule, he probably wouldn't ever change.

Didn't mean he's hopeless though.

Their friend's mood plateaued out as the AU went about its day, dramatically told, the tension would rise and rise and so would the wrapping paper, creating a small tumbling mountain that would be hastily cleaned up afterwards. Error had his feet curled up and body tilted towards Ink, the glasses had found their way onto the floor and even though he kept squinting and shielding his eyes every few moments, he never asked for them back.

Another handful was brought out, and Error absent mindedly tossed a few to Ink. They would have teased him about it if Error didn't look so distracted.

Ink unwrapped the gift, and tossed the excess back at him, given a scowl in return, it was thrown with the rest. With a goofy grin Ink bit into the chocolate, and refocused on their free entertainment. He was surprised Error hadn't once touched his face, normally he'd rub his temples or facepalm whenever a character did something absurd or irrational, but now he simply tugged at his sleeves or cracked his knuckles.

And those two lovers from earlier? Nowhere to be seen except in the passing remarks of others. Their fate was to be determined.

Yup, Ink probably won't be around to see the ending of that subplot, but he'll definitely hear about it in one of Error's long infodump sessions. He looked forward to it, its more interesting taking it solely from his perspective. Another thing Ink convinced himself with; Error's passionate rants. They didn't happen as often as Ink's about Creators-know-what, but could entertain for hours whenever they did occur. Usually in those rare moments of a good mood, stuffed up on chocolate and tooth-rotting soda, it would always start out with the stuttering phrase, "So, I was watching Undernovela recently..."

Then the next few hours would be filled with endless critiquing, or a blind adoration.

It was adorable every single time. The most redeemable quality about him.

Not that its the only redeemable thing, though, Ink had a whole list he often forgot about.

Ahh the list, he probably wrote it down somewhere in the hidden folds in his scarf, who knows how Error would react if he saw it, the downside to its secrecy was that it was regularly faded from their train of thought, thus leading to the doubt and guilt as seen today. They're sure they've written down every good or amusing trait about his friend already, because every time he thinks he discovered something new, the same wording he had planned to use stared back at him.

Curious, Ink stole a moment while Error was surely distracted, and checked the number of listed items.

42.

Ink would agree with the multiverse about that. But only 42? He would have thought it would be in the nineties.

They adjusted their scarf to hide it, and go for another chocolate in Error's lap, their hand was slapped away and Error shot a glare in their direction, "Don't be fucking greedy."

"You're so silly. Gimme one." Ink giggled.

"No, I'm thinking ahead."

"Thinking ahead?"

"You without a ₛᵤg--sugar rush is hell enough." Error unwrapped the one Ink had been going for as some sort of punishment.

"Yeah yeah, you just don't wanna share, doofus."

"I'm still in the right. Sharing ain't ᶜ--caring." Crunch!

Ink rolled his eyes, chasing it with a smile. The show continued. Attention caught. They watched on like two entranced toddlers. Every single chocolate steal from then on was vastly unsuccessful.

The plot thickens, Ink pressed the blanket to his mouth to muffle a gasp.

A showdown occurred, they shouted encouragement, and went silent when a character tilted their head at the voices.

!!!

There's no way Ink was zoning out now.

...

How long had it been? Most of the characters have fallen asleep, there was a strange halt in action, was nobody really out committing crimes or preforming stunts? The portal flickered as the magic weakened and faltered, then finally zapped out. Ink laid back and stared at the blank white where it once was.

"Phhf," They exhaled, "I wasn't expecting that fight scene from earlier, right?" They turned to Error, who had unknowingly passed out. No wonder the portal had been struggling. Ink took the opportunity to ease the unfinished bar from his staticky fingers and eat it himself. Chocolate tastes even sweeter when its double stolen.

Chew chew, they really turned the day around, didn't they? Starting off glum and guilty, Magenta had been eradicated from his forefront palette, replaced with Yellow and Pink that hummed and filled his mind with warmer thoughts. All thanks to the unlikely. They pulled their knees to their chest, and mimicked Error's position so that he could properly look at him while they boldly and slowly ate.

He still looked angry when he slept, although the cold threatening expression died down to simple default irritation with no real weight behind it. Like a mask someone would wear on Halloween to convince others just how scary they were. The reds and yellows painted across his face didn't suit him while he dreamed. Ink thought, calming blues with cyan would do.

They wondered what he dreamt about, world domination? Endless junk food?

Whatever it was, the tension in his face faded away after a while. Props to you Glitchy, being the only one who's never told them what goes on inside their skull.

Ink tucked the blanket around him once he started to snore, and bored, crept off to retrieve his sketchbook. Straightening out its bent pages, he flipped to his last drawing and crouched down with a pencil to finish it. If Error felt safe enough to fall asleep around them, it made them feel bad about previously wishing he were dead.

Error would stop if he felt like he was in the wrong, and it would be tedious to try and change his mind too early, if he ever did. They shouldn't linger on it.

Besides, when Ink looked back at him for reference, he couldn't bring himself to truly hate him for it. Sure, he made mistakes, destroyed things he shouldn't, irrationally so, but that didn't mean Ink would stop trying to spend time with him. They chewed on the eraser, distracted for the time being.

-Error-

What a horrible dream. He woke with a longwinded grumble, and brought a hand up to rub his eyes, the scrunched up pissed-off look returning. He'd dreamed something horrid was happening, the worst fear of all coming in his subconscious to terrorize him. He tried not to dwell on it.

He remembered he wasn't supposed to touch his face when the back of his hand came back colorful. He ran his teeth together and sat up, snug blanket clinging to his shoulders and tangling up his legs. The compression soothed him, he wrapped the edges around more tightly and gave himself a moment to come to.

Ink was nowhere to be seen, good riddance, but they'd mistakenly left a few of their pencils behind. Error would pick them up later, along with the mini-mess at his feet. Things would always dive into chaos whenever they're around, making more work and cleaning duties for him after they left. He had to be picky about what kind of wreck his rat's nest of a home looked like, otherwise he'd be tripping on more than just strings.

He rubbed the felt of his handiwork, encountering a mistake, and threw it off to stand up and stretch. His spine cracked in a satisfying manner.

You:

Hey stpid, you left things here

The text, unsurprisingly, didn't go through. This was just another way to pretend to talk to them when they weren't there.

You:

Ill start trthrowing them away if it happens again

Was that a misspell? He squinted and scanned around for his glasses, which proved to be useless. He briefly wondered how long he was out, it would have been nice to wake up to Ink annoyingly dragging his pencils across the paper, he never meant to fall asleep. He started shuffling around and gently tapping any mis coloration that could be his glasses.

Damn you, he hissed, if you stole them again. He recalled the few dozen times they were snatched off his face and ran four universes away only to be thrown into some random's window. He clearly remembered his friend's endless giggling when he tried to beat the shit outta them.

Ink was terrible. Nightmare fuel, if you will. His constant nagging and interest plagued him like a thick fog, "What's that?" "What's this?" "Can I touch that?" They used to grab things without permission, and still did, thankfully now they occasionally remembered to apologize, like a *normal* person. Sometimes their annoyance paid off, like when Error caught Ink wearing the (many) sweaters and outfits he had gifted him.

Error countered himself, the only reason they had so many was because whatever project failed or didn't turn out the way he'd hoped, he'd just give it to them, knowing they'd love it anyways. He'd only deliberately made one for them once, when he complained about how cold some of his beloved AUs were.

He'd moved around to Ink's sling hammock he built, no sign of the glasses. With a huff he turned back to circle the beanbag. They had to be around here somewhere, if they weren't, one angry glitch was going to be marching up to the closest abomination.

Ink would be the perfect friend if he didn't do shit like this, misplace his things or steal them entirely. But the thought brought guilt at the idea of a 'perfect' Ink. Error would admit that life would be boring if they were exactly the way he thought he should be, what was annoying made him interesting.

Everything else was wrong, everything else needed to be changed, Ink wasn't the problem. Why did he even think of it in the first place?

He picked up the pencils while he thought about it, and stuffed them in one of his lower pockets, disgruntled. This glasses escapade was starting to irritate him. Where was Ink now, off lollygagging in some bland copy? Seeing those other friends of theirs? Imagine if Error managed to drive them away. It would probably be for the better. Probably complaining about how horrible Error was to them.

Well, that's their fault if they think that, its not his problem. Although the possibility of Ink ever leaving was low, the idea popped up like the thought of food, or the memory of something disturbing.

He should gift them the blanket, now that he thought about it. He stole a glance at its recently finished design, it looked better than his previous attempts at something as complex as it, maybe--

Crunch!

...

Error looked down, and lifted his foot.

Glass dropped off the bottom of his flip-flop, and the bent frame of his glasses glared back. A swarm of condescending voices scowled at him.

Error inhaled.

And screamed bloody murder.

[442 hours and 3 minutes later, as determined by Dream's schedule]

"Really? I can keep it?" Ink's eyes flared bright yellow as he held the carefully folded blanket.

"You don't have to be dramatic. If ʸ--you don't want it just ᵍ--give it back."

Ink slapped his friend's hand away as it reached to take it away, "Get your dirty hands off my new blanket." Error frowned, maybe he should have just dropped it off, this entire interaction was killing him, he couldn't stand their reaction. It had taken him two weeks to get over the incident and a few extra days to conjure up the willpower to gift this to begin with. Now it felt like all his expectations were crumbling.

He had wanted Ink to accept it without their usual fanfare, it wasn't that big of a deal, yet they acted like Error had just given them tickets to their favorite band. It made the glitches prickle around his eyes and buzz in his ears, hot with irritation.

"I feel like I should give you something in return."

"That's stupid, c'mon. You're bₗₒw--blowing this outta proportion." He rolled his eyes, "I've given you things before."

"Yeah, I know." The Doodlesphere hummed, Ink patted the blanket, "How about a drawing?"

"No."

"New yarn?"

"No." To Them, just let him leave!

"Candy?"

Error shook his hands out in frustration, "Oh my ᵍ--God, Ink! Just take it! Stop being like this!" His friend giggled and nodded, unfolding it and sliding it over his shoulders. Annoying jackass.

"So that's all you came for?" No, but now he wanted to go die in a hole. He glared at them, returned with a smile, "Aw, alright. See ya later?" They got no answer as Error quickly escaped through a portal back into the Anti-Void, wishing he could've punched him in the face.

//He's such a drama queen.

//I can think of ten different ways he could have handled that better.

He knocked on his skull as it zapped close behind him. Silence swallowed him up, and a neon string brushed past his shoulder. He plopped back down on his beanbag, and took out his supplies to destress. He wished he hadn't have had to deal with that, again; he should have just left it there when Ink was out and about.

Unbearably annoying, it made his body heat up with rage.

//What an excuse.

He pricked himself with the needle, and let out a low growl as he set it back on track. If there was a way to make everyone be quiet for the time being, he'd love to hear it, maybe turn on music or have someone talk over it. Maybe he should have dragged Ink along with him, just to listen to him ramble.

He had entertained the idea of sticking around for a second longer to see if Ink invited him to any freaky escapade. Clak-clak-clak, like the last time they took him out, they'd gone to a candy based AU -forgot the name- and stuffed up on sweet foods. Ink might've puked it all up. Entertaining if not utterly disgusting.

His knit/sewing became smoother as he relived the memory, the face of his next victim formulating in his hands. Ink had commented that he, "Looked like a kid at an amusement park." To which Error immediately replaced his oblivious grin with an upset scowl. They'd chosen a location far enough away that nobody would come across them on their outing, tall candy cane trees and cotton candy bushes, Error removed his jacket and scarf so they wouldn't get overly sticky by the end of it.

The taste of the sweets as it dissolved and rotted his teeth, the descriptive enthusiasm on color and blending, "I wish I brought my paints." Ink said, eyeing the edible baby pink hues in his hand, "I can think of the perfect way I could mix them."

Error couldn't answer, too busy gobbling down chocolates like he'd die tomorrow.

Speaking of, he'd meant to thank them somehow. It happened months ago, and surely Ink's goldfish brain would have forgotten it by now, so suddenly bringing it up in passing under the tone of 'appreciation' would be out of place and useless. Besides, they would bother him about it for weeks.

The thought ended with the image of Ink bracing himself against an overgrown candy cane and spewing his guts out.

"What? Can't hold your candy as well as your liquor?" But neither of them drink, so the comparison was irrelevant.

They were just full of noteworthy things, in Error's opinion, he could write an entire book on just how bothersome they were. Annoying, idiotic, how about he tried using a different adjective? He racked his brain for an example, but still could only turn up with the same ones he'd overused time and time again. Tricking him into believing there was just one way to describe Ink.

He wished his glasses were fixed by now, he couldn't tell if he was making frequent mistakes in his work. He should ask them how it looks before going out to stuff it, wouldn't that be funny! Ink, unknowingly greenlighting Error's next act of destruction! They'd joke about it afterwards. Just one more excuse to call them an idiot and see them laugh breathlessly at their own foolish mistake.

Sliding his headphones on, he chuckled to himself throughout the hours.

...

Speaking of.

He was almost finished with the doll, the silence and sound of his own muffled breathing helping him focus, when he decided to recall. He had had hours to chill out, and felt better after that awful interaction with Ink.

"I feel like I should give you something." Maybe he should have accepted the offer, knowing what useful things they've given him. For example; the headphones, which kept him safe from intruding noises, unwanted sharp calls, meltdown-worthy everything. Thanks to Ink, he'd been able to avoid uncountable reboots and shutdowns.

Especially in fights, although its probably a disadvantage to not hear anything, its better than being overwhelmed, getting knocked out, and waking up to a very pissed off Nightmare. The high-pitched whistle of bones as they soar through the air and merge up from beneath his feet. The shouts of help and chaotic laugher of manic victory. The horrible crunch of someone's broken leg.

Of course they still took part in frequent turf wars, they'd become just a fact of life, Error was lucky to have such an understanding opponent. It was a miracle at all that they managed to maintain a friendship outside of work.

"You know, this gives ₘ--me an upper hand, right?" Error had said.

"Can't wait. Do you know how boring it is when you dip out in the middle of it?"

Fucking idiot!

Ink ended up getting his ass whooped in their next stand off. He cackled and ran circles around them as they writhed in the pain of a fierce hit to the midsection, Error was still proud of how calculated that magic attack was. Ink gave him a lazy thumbs up, and the Destroyer forgot about his original goal entirely just to gloat. One very lucky AU kept living that day.

The headphones were snug, fit well, and cancelled out the right amount of sound. He could choose whether or not he wanted to listen to someone, and for once could accomplish to ignore when he didn't. He'd previously thought of stealing a pair, but never got around to it. Yet again Ink fulfilled a need Error couldn't remember telling him about. Now if only there was a way to cancel out physical touch... like a giant bubble, then his existence would truly be perfect.

[42 hours later, as determined by Dream's schedule]

Ink was arriving soon. He had to make sure everything was tidy. How did he know he was coming? Felt it in his gut, something told him on routine whenever his friend planned to appear, and it worked without fail. Just like how Ink gets the jitters whenever he senses Error somewhere in the multiverse, the same could be said here.

Trash was shooed out through a portal to be another person's problem. Knots of webbing were quickly untangled and set straight. Dolls and their trapped victims were strung up higher, to avoid discomfort. The sling was double checked, no weak points detected. And then he went over everything again.

He had to be missing something. He couldn't name what. Something hissed in the back of his head like a snake hidden in a basket.

Chill out, its probably nothing. He sat on the floor and waited, looking around for anything out of place. Any trash he missed, a tripping hazard, did he leave his already damaged glasses laying around somewhere? He checked his pockets, and pulled out a candy bar. Throwing the wrapper through a portal onto some unfortunate's head. Crunch!

What would Ink chatter about today?

Something weird, like the one time he hyperfixated on frog life cycles and eating habits, as if that information would ever be useful. He'd filled up a good portion of one of his sketchbooks with detailed drawings of poison dart frogs ("So colorful!") and had been hellbent on making sure his physics and anatomy for catching flies was near perfect. To the point of frustration.

"I like the yellow and blues, with the black? Its so eye-catching." They said while using watercolor to paint one of their finished and inked drawings.

Hopefully they would bring something new to the table as they always did, something idiotic like the phases of the moon or something. Snow wasn't that fascinating unless they deemed it so. Absolutely ridiculous.

Error finished his candy, and pulled out his toothbrush and paste to get the ickiness out of his mouth. No, he hadn't been forgetting to preform basic hygiene, that's silly talk. But he was wildly insecure about it at the worst of times. He spit out the same portal, someone was having a very bad hair day.

He cleaned it off and stuck it back somewhere in his jacket to be remembered later. Waiting.

...

What was taking that stupid punk-ass so long? This was fucking irritating! He was supposed to be here moments after he suspected him to be, that's how it worked. What were they doing that was oh-so more important? Gossiping with their equally annoying friends?

Actually, he shouldn't insult Blue, the only decent one.

Dream could die in a hole. His existence was irrelevant. Spineless twink.

What did Ink even say about him?

//Wow, he's so nosy.

//Clingy. I thought he was better than this.

He's not any of those things. He just thought it was his right to know!

//That's a fat ego you have there.

He hit his forehead a few times with the heel of his palm, grumbling. What if Ink was hurt? What if he tried to come here and get help? Should he go out and look for him? No. If Ink was hurt, he could walk it off, revive, whatever. He could deal with it themself.

But the thought still left a bad taste in his mouth, a pit in his stomach at the thought of anyone else mercilessly besting them to a pulp. Error could do it because he knew when to quit, Error could do it because he didn't really mean it. Everyone else would do it out of pure rage.

What if he was in danger?

What if he didn't come back after this?

Error tried to shoo the thoughts away, pitiful they were, one snuck through before he could catch it: What would happen if Ink vanished for good? The thought had him silent, what would he do?

(What a loser.)

Glitches ran up his spine like hackles on a dog, and he choked down the worry. Ink was fine, getting distracted with something utterly mind-numbing again. Dumb bitch was wasting his free time.

If they weren't here soon, after all the work he put into making his rat's nest presentable, it would be wasted. He was going to crack the dude's neck. Just on cue a familiar sound struck his ears, and he turned around to discover the aforementioned.

"Where the hell were ʸ--you?" He snapped.

"Look!" Ink skipped up, cupping something in their hands, "What I found!" They said, voice laced thick with drama, like a man on a stage about to reveal compelling plot knowledge. He kneeled down, a mischievous look on their face that screamed, 'I've eaten something I probably shouldn't have.' And opened up their hand to reveal a slug, grey and speckled, slime clinging to his fingers. Error watched in horror as Ink giggled and slipped it into his mouth with an exaggerated slurp.

He quickly snatched Ink's wrists like a caretaker stopping their unruly toddler. The giggling did not cease, it was too late, the slug was 'safely' held behind their teeth, eyes sparking into sun-shaped yellow circles.

"No! He needs to join his friend!" He talked around it, batting him away with his slime-soaked hands.

"You've ₐₗᵣₑₐd₋₋ₐₗᵣₑₐd₋₋" Error lagged, cringing away from the horrible sensation. He slapped them upside the head, "Are you stupid?!" Ink put their hands out to deter from interfering, and dramatically swallowed. Error shivered with distaste. Nasty.

"Yes," he proudly proclaimed, adorable laughter dying down.

Error shook his head with a look of disbelief. "That's what you were dₒᵢₙ--doing?"

"What? Were you worried?"

"I don't like waiting. And I wasn't worried, if anything I was the complete opposite." He kicked their hands away, "Go find a sink." They obliged, standing and snapping open a portal to a bathroom. "Fucking disgusting." He muttered as the tap was turned on, Ink pumped the soap three times and leaned back to squint at him through the portal with a shit-eating grin while his hands rubbed together.

"It went down smooth."

"I don't--" He dragged the headphones over his skull as the unwanted sensation of a slimy, writhing creature imagined itself down his throat, "Shut up!" After Ink was finished, he came and sat beside him, splaying his little legs out and rocking them back and forth.

"What do you wanna do today?" They hummed, voice pleasantly muffled. Error shrugged, huffing in feigned agitation. They saw this as the cue to bounce around ideas, "We could visit Outertale, maybe find a place with a cat-- have you seen a cat?"

"Of course I have, who do you take me for, an idiot?"

Ink shrugged, "You remind me of a cat. All moody 'n stuff." They chased it with a warm smile, Error wanted to curse under his breath, "Have you thought about getting a pet?"

"What are we doing today, ᵢ--Ink?"

"Oh, right." They bit their finger, "I could do your makeup again. We could go hang out with Blue, I heard he's making tacos soonish. Remember the time we tried climbing that huge tree in Oceantale?"

"It wasn't that big, you're just tiny." He snickered.

"I--" They growled, "I'm getting there."

"How old are you? Somewhere in ʸ--your thousands? You are not growing again." He received a middle finger.

"Okay, how about a mock-battle?"

"Because you're as salty as the sea?"

"Because I'm sure I have the perfect tactic to defeat you." Ink said.

"Save it for a real fight." Error didn't feel like it anyways.

There's a pause, and then, "We're you really worried when I didn't show up on time?"

"How about ₕₒₜ--hot chocolate?" He suggested, standing up. Ink's eyes lit like fireworks and they jumped up with him. Within moments they decided on the perfect location, an AU with arguably the best warm drinks, and tricked open a portal.

Ink offered "Ladies first?" And was swiftly kicked through.

An alteration where the only difference was that instead of Nice Cream being sold, Hot Choccy was. Headache inducing at its uselessness so bad that he wanted to eat his brains out, an abomination of an idea, whoever spawned this AU into existence should be slaughtered. Slaughtered after he was done with his cup.

But see how stupid these abominations were? How pointless? Cluttering up the multiverse like dust in a dryer, if he didn't clean it out it would catch fire and burn everything down. Everything would be ruined, who would want to risk the safety of the most important and genuinely good AUs for the sake of trash like this?

There's 'laughter' in 'slaughter', and he'll be laughing with joy when all of them are snuffed out like cockroaches.

Once they made sure no other passerby's were near, Ink took out his chore money from Blue and went off to get their orders. Error waited behind a tree. They were somewhere at the beginning of a pacifist timeline, just before the human exited the ruins, they had plenty time until they had to move. Ink came back with a dumbfounded expression, holding two steaming cups.

"...So absurd," He muttered to himself, handing Error his, "like huh?"

"Huh?"

"This cost me 42g." Ink said, blowing to cool theirs down.

Error blinked, then mimicked his friend's face of confusion, "What the fᵤ--fuck?"

"That's what I said!" They rolled their eyes in unison. "This shouldn't be more than 15g..." Ink sipped, and then quickly withdrew from its heat. Error went to sip his, but was stopped as his friend's hand held up, remembering something. They pulled a sugar packet and a spoon from his scarf and handed it to him. He thanked them silently.

He popped the lid off threw it to the side and poured the packet in, Ink scowled at the careless littering but said nothing. He stirred slowly, the steam rising from it warming his cheeks from the unwelcome cold. "So, the slug. What great idea was that about?"

"I honestly just wanted to freak you out." They replied, "Did you see your face?"

"Uh, no. How cₒᵤ--could I?" He spooned some of his drink, and carefully brought it to his mouth.

"I wish I caught it on camera. You looked like--" A loss of words, "You looked silly."

"Not as silly or stupid as eating one of those disgusting creatures. How'd you even do it?"

"Tried not to think about it. Which is why I'm glad you suggested this." He blew the steam away and tried to sip again with the same success as last time.

"Idiot." Slurrp. Mmh, it tasted exactly the way he wanted it to. A little heaven in his teeth, warming his throat and stomach, a perfect blend of mouth watering chocolate and sweet sugar, melted together in a burning cup that made his fingers tingle. He felt a bit of pride being able to handle it better than Ink, running hot sure had its perks. But it might also be due to the fact he preferred to drink his with a spoon instead of directly.

Thanks to Ink for somehow remembering to bring the spoon, what would he do without him.

Error stopped on the way to his next sip, then reanimated. There's lots of things he could do without Ink, they weren't the only being in the multiverse with the ability to bring spoons. For instance, he could always steal a spoon, he didn't need Ink at all. It was nice having someone fulfill those things for him, but he could do it all himself if he wanted to.

How did they even manage to remember? Did they care that much? Why? What's the end goal?

Forgetful piece of shit, he probably did it on accident.

"You know you could get sick from something like that, right?" He went to bully.

"Oh yeah, worth it."

"I'm not showing up to your funeral."

"Probably for the best, the punch will actually be my liquified remains. Gotta make sure my friends remember me, right?"

Error was a mix of sniffling-laughter and disturbed, he gave them a funny look. "I'm really glad you can't die. That reality sounds downright horrifying."

"Aww, you'd miss me?"

"The punch'll give everyone food poisoning." Ink switched out his hot chocolate for a quick taste of Orange, and in turn looked rather proud of that remark. What a freaky thing to be proud of. You weirdo.

"Quick question: What would you do if I did die one day? Without the whole regeneration thing."

"Oh ₘ--my God, dumb question."

"Yeah I know, you'd cry." They teased to get a real answer out of him, of course it worked, he wouldn't be Error without his tendency to fall for that sort of trap.

"Wrong! I'd revel in your disappearance. Wreak ₕₐᵥ--havoc! Finally be able to f₋₋fᵤ₋₋" He lagged, and gave himself a moment for his mouth to catch up with his brain, "Fulfill my goal. Without you in the way."

Ink smiled, amused, "Load of horse shit."

"Oh what, can't face the fact that someone won't be sad?"

"Weren't you worried about me earlier?"

"Worried I'll catch a ₛₗ--slug virus? Yeah."

"Well, here's a secret," Ink leaned in, "but I'd be sad if you were gone."

"What a mistake. You know its unhealthy to cry over spilled milk."

"Anyways. I got my answer."

"Admitting defeat?"

"You'd definitely cry at my funeral. Sob like a big baby."

"Shut the ₕₑ--hell up. I give you a real answer and you won't even ₜ--take it!"

Ink raised his brows, and noisily slurped half his drink down. What, did he want Error to care about him? Admit it out loud? 'Oh Ink, I--I just love and care about you sooo much! I've just been too awkward to say it...' Blech, sissy nonsense. He'd rather choke on his own dick and tear out his spine. He doesn't even have a dick 90% (100%) of the time, but he'll get one just to prove a point.

Suddenly, they stopped, and dropped down on the ground, spilling the rest of their drink in the process. "Wh-" Error stepped back as they spread out like a starfish, and started making a spur-of-the-moment snow angel. The snow enveloped him and snuck between his clothes, in the folds of his scarf and up his sleeves. Error did not envy the uncomfortable wet when it melted later.

"Wₕ--what are you doing?" He drank his hot chocolate with a judging glare. Ink snickered in response, and hung his feet up in the air, which clittered and clacked together as he forced a shiver.

"I felt like it. You do one!"

"You just wasted 21g for that."

Ink molded a lazy snowball, and tossed it directly up, it landed on their face with a splat. Imagine the cackling laughter that pursued on both ends that persisted until their sides hurt. Ink held his mouth with one hand, and his midsection with the other, wiping away the snow and struggling through the painful giggles, his legs bent in at the knees.

Error kicked more over their head, then scurried away as they scrambled up. Running proved to be difficult while keeping a near-full cup from spilling. Ink scooped up a handful and started up on another snowball, Error had just barely reached the next tree before a cascade of exploded snow shot over his head, broken against the charcoal black bark. He stifled a yelp, and used his temporary cover to chug as much as he could before tucking the cup down in a snow-holder. It ran down his chin and scalded his throat, he cleaned himself off lightning fast to start making a snowball of his own.

Grabbing a semi-together clump roughly the size of his head, he ran out armed. Ink had already came up on his hiding spot, and made a sort of duck noise as he reared back and turned tail. Error laughed manically and chased him down, shouting empty threats as his much more agile friend evaded him. He chucked the projectile, it shot into Ink's back and toppled them over.

He cheered and leapt over them, not bothering to look back as he ran for cover again. Soon after his arm got hit, then his lower spine, he quickly ducked behind the long branches of an evergreen. He brushed the snow off his jacket and dove back into it, kicking a snow poff as he went and scattering it everywhere in a flurry of snowflakes.

And then Ink was there! Colliding in a heavy thump of incomprehensible glitches and a sharp cry of surprise. Error tripped over the little man, and faceplanted. Whereas they got off without much trouble. Oh the joys of being small and having gravity on your side. He cursed at them and rolled onto his elbows. The blurry movement of Ink creating another snowball warned him to lay back down, unlucky, he was hit in the face instead.

Ohh, that did it.

He didn't bother to unblind himself, and surged up like a bull screaming, "I'm gₒᵢₙ--going to r̴̡͔̔̏i̵͙̻̖̘̻̦͛̏̏͠p̵͙̱̻̀̒̏̚͜ͅ off your leg and shove it so ᶠ--far up your ass it comes ₒᵤₜ₋₋ₒᵤₜ your GODDAMN nose!" But he didn't really mean it, he was just having fun.

"HAH. HA--" Ink bolted.

This was thoroughly enjoyable. He pelted them with snow, an awkward mix of bending down to scoop up weaponry and running at max speed. His hands were growing into unfeeling and the chill crept through his clothes like a sneaky playmate, the lasting warmth of the hot chocolate propelling him forward. He liked the way Ink ran, like a dancer born with two left feet, constantly tripping and catching himself but having the skill to keep pace, he looked ridiculous! Barreling through like they were about to stumble and eat shit at any given moment made his soul feel full.

Imperfect Ink accidentally caught their shoulder on a branch when trying to make a sharp turn, and threw themself off spiraling to the ground. He landed hard on his side and his legs flew up over his head. They tumbled, snorting up snow. Error came to a gradual halt beside them, and shook the needle-leaves above to send a fresh shower on top of them.

More snow than friend, they pulled themselves to their feet, "Time out, time out. Hold on." He panted, leaning against the tree.

"Learn your lesson?"

The giggles they replied with were lighthearted, and made his adrenaline melt away, "No, but hold on. My chest is about to explode." One of the cursed habits of breathing, skeletons didn't need to and did it out of spite anyways, the downside was they forgot to stop when it actually mattered. Ending up with situations like this.

Ink cupped his mouth with a telltale expression, and Error grimaced with a step back.

Yeah, hanging out with Ink wasn't that bad, most of their spent time was used up on silly activities like this, or silently doing their own things in the Anti-Void. Error got food and company out of it, so he didn't have much to complain about.

Hey, about the term 'hanging out.' Did it originate from a bunch of teens at a public execution making bad jokes? Error snickered at his own reasoning. It surely felt like being hanged whenever his friend got into their random spur-of-the-moment hug attacks.

Despite the numerous things he disliked about him, Error would hate for these hangout sessions to end. They ate up the time he didn't know what to do with. And at least they weren't as tiresome as Nightmare or anyone else he knew.

Jeez, what was he thinking? He didn't even like Ink. Annoying thorn in his side.

//Didn't he verge on a panic attack earlier?

//You know him, he doesn't like admitting when he's weak.

//And he's weak all the time. Hah!

He's not-- He's not-- And he was having a good time! Why now?

//Because its embarrassing to watch you repeat the same things over and over like a broken record.

//Really, its quite exhausting.

//And pathetic.

//So pathetic.

"Alright, I'm good." They shook themselves out and looked up at him with those fascinating eyes, "Error?"

Wait.

No.

Not Ink.

Oh hell no.

Wait a m--

𝕊𝕠𝕣𝕣𝕪! 𝕀𝕥 𝕤𝕖𝕖𝕞𝕤 𝔼𝕣𝕣𝕠𝕣.𝕖𝕩𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕚𝕥 𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕... ℙ𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕓𝕪 𝕨𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝕨𝕖 𝕗𝕚𝕘𝕦𝕣𝕖 𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕓𝕝𝕖𝕞.

affectionStatus = 5 //out of 5

if (affectionStatus = 5) {
show_message("
}
else if(affectionStatus = 1) {
show_message("You're disgusting. I hate you with a fiery passion.");
}
else {
show_message("Yeah? I zoned out for a split second.");
}

𝔹𝕦𝕘 𝕝𝕠𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟 𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕖 𝟜. ℝ𝕖𝕤𝕠𝕝𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕟𝕠𝕨...

ℝ𝕖𝕓𝕠𝕠𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘... %𝟘

-Ink-

...How'd he do that?

A little bar appeared over Error's head, and gradually filled up in short, segmented bursts every now and then.

What a silly man.

Ink rocked back and forth on his heels, enjoying the cold stab of sensation in his feet, as he waited for his friend to come to.

...

It took a while, but finally his eyelights rolled down, filled with glitches and nicks. His sour expression thickening once his gaze met Ink's, a swarm of staticky red-blue-and black rising like an oncoming wave.

His voice was low, and was no longer laced with playful tease, "You... Little... ̶͍̟̀̈́͂̌̈́͐̈͘͝ͅS̷͇̯̯̱̔̈́̈̄̀̔́̈́h̵͓͖̪̙̲͖̣̑͋́͌̽̏͗͜͜͠ͅí̴̢̬̩͆t̶̸͇͇̯̘̀̔̈̊͐͋͆͒̌͂̉̚͠."

"I tend to be. Uh, what I do?"

Error's fingers curled in on themselves to the point of cracking and then flexed back out, formed a fist, and dug into his palm with rickety, shaky movements. "I'm ᵍ--uNna 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶."

Maybe its best they left, that look he had was setting them on edge. Ink stepped back, a pair of enraged glitch-filled eyes tracking every bone in his body. They poured Red over their toes as a passive sign of defeat, and dropped down into the liquid. That new tactic they mentioned earlier would work better when the threat of a serious fight wasn't cresting the horizon.

The cause nagged his curiosity, but his reason spoke louder. He rematerialized in his Doodlesphere, the snowy coffee-tinted landscape of the AU vanishing, and probably never to be seen again.

Chapter Text

[A few days later, as determined by Dream's schedule.]

They chewed on their nail, checking messages on their phone. They'd opened up the Reception Portal (RCP), which could magically provide service for inter-dimensional beings. It acted like a bullet board, you'd leave a text, to which your receiver could connect to the RCP and see it when they got the chance.

Ink helped make it, naturally, some creator felt the need to and bothered him about the ins and outs of it. The interior of the dimension was a daunting endless white, with a singular radio tower. Everyone's shared funny little radio tower, even the Bad Guys had phones to use it. Video streaming still didn't work since it wasn't connected to any platform that used its frequency, not to mention the hassle it would be to get one, but texting and calls worked just fine.

Due to its mannerism, most just preferred to see each other in person. But he liked the silly messages Dream would leave him.

Drem !! Besite:

Hello Ink! Telling you to use that technique to wrap your scarf properly around your neck that I taught you. Tripping isn't good for your face. Please remember to keep your turtle fed, I gave you enough food to last you a month. Text me when you run out

Oh yeah, his snapping turtle... Whoops. I'm sure he's fine.

Drem !! Besite:

Don't hit anyone too hard again.

Ominous, he forgot what the context for that was.

Drem !! Besite:

Stay safe

That was recent, Ink texted back

You:

Sure thing! About what?

And got a reply soon after. They glanced fondly at the portal, somewhere in that vast emptiness, his friend was there. Not close by per say, they could be miles at distance, but the thought brought him comfort.

Drem !! Besite:

Oh no. Do you *have* something to stay safe from?

You:

I don't think so. I thought you already had something in mind???

Drem !! Besite:

I was just sending you good thoughts. Wyd?

You:

Rereading texts and about to go feed that turtle. You?

What was his pet's name again?

Drem !! Besite:

Spending time in a park. Its beautiful here, look;

They linked several photos of ponds, sunlight through the trees, and a goofy one of themself. Ink sent a goofy photo right back.

You:

Catch a slug for me. Kind of hungry.

Drem !! Besite:

... Nahh.

You:

:(

Ink sent a disapproving look to Broomie, who was laying beside him. They shared the look (Ink could tell).

You:

What you doing now?

Drem !! Besite:

Still walking :) Are you bored?

You:

Yeahh. Suggestions?

Drem !! Besite:

You could draw, visit Blue (he's been asking about you), come join me on my walk, visit another friend. Have you eaten lately? I went to a café earlier and saw a PB+J milksahke, thought you might like it

You:

Yeah I did, what I ate didn't have anything to write about though :( (actually it was a very good combo of chicken and peanut butter). Not sure I want anything sweet-related for another year.

Drem !! Besite:

Still?? Its been months since your playdate with him (please that sounds like a drunk man's eating confession)

You:

(And my metaphorical abs never looked so fine afterwards!)

Drem !! Besite:

Personally I wish you didn't hang out with him at all :( He makes me anxious

You:

Sorry not sorry. If it makes you feel better, he's a completely different person when nobody else is around.

Drem !! Besite:

Aw sweet.

Dream sent a photo detailing a stork preening itself at the edge of a lake, long neck curved mid-motion and straightening out a flight feather. Grass tickled at its feet, and its chest was pumped out proudly. Ink took a long moment to stare at it in awe, before it clicking in his brain and rushing to retrieve his sketchbook. It had to be somewhere in this house, filled to the brim with random objects and animals.

The guest room was full of his loves, his pets. Rats, turtles, birds, he learned the hard way cats and dogs were too difficult to keep, but parakeets made just as much company, and rodents gave just as good snuggles. It was well lit with holes knocked through for ventilation, which were barred up with nets. Murals of varying biomes and animals coated the walls, to keep the inhabitants of the room feeling at home.

It's their favorite room in the whole house.

While he checked the room, he fed them all, luckily his favorite, Napoleon DaVinci The Third, was still alive. Survived by eating its friend he had given it.

Ehh, that's okay. He cleaned up any remains and gave the poor, traumatized turtle its lettuce.

Everyone else was fine though. The mini aviary, a large mesh wire that separated half the room, was the first place he searched, cockatiels and budgies eyed him curiously.

Drem !! Besite:

Just saw a tree fall :( poor guy

He made sure to close the pet room on his way out.

You:

Rest In Peace big man.

Nowhere on random nightstand in the hallway, he took a quick peek at his room. Empty. With a single mattress shoved in the corner, no sheets, no blankets. They didn't linger on it.

You:

Do you remember where I put my sketchbook?

Drem !! Besite:

Check your scarf

The latest installment only read, 'get a kazoo.' He frowned.

You:

Nope. :(

Oh, there it was. Hidden under the carpet.

You:

:D Yipee.

Drem !! Besite:

Found it?

He immediately sat down and summoned a pencil from an obscure location somewhere in his clothes and added a very dramatic squiggle to the most recent page. Then he forgot what he wanted to draw in the first place, so he ended up getting his phone out again.

You:

Anyways, when's the next sleepover?

Drem !! Besite:

I'll ask Blue when I see him! Keep the RCP open for a few days

You:

:thumbsup:

Let's make popcorn and watch a thriller.

Drem !! Besite:

He's gunna haaate that lmao

He turned a few pages to gain some inspiration, and stopped on the drawing of Error he'd done a month ago. He took a photo, and sent it.

Drem !! Besite:

Oh wow, I like the way you drew his expression

You:

The easiest part, since it never changes. :D

Drem !! Besite:

What do you guys even do?

You:

Usually just chill. We went and got hot choccy earlier. LOtta fun!

Drem !! Besite:

Is that why you came home crying?

They didn't answer that, and scrolled up on the conversation, spotting the stork again he picked up his art and started sketching its general outline. The process was very trust based, loosely determining where the anatomy would go, and editing as he went. He never used a list of steps he forced himself to follow whenever drawing, unless he really needed it, he'd just give himself a gentle line or circle to guide his working brain.

Sometimes it ended in disaster, other times he ended up with a stunning page full of intricacies and secrets.

As he redrew the photo, he took to adding little easter eggs all around to make it stand different from its reference. A fish bouncing on the shore in vain, a chick poking its head out of the tall grass, harder shading, maybe it was dusk in this drawing.

Drem !! Besite:

Ink?

He should use the colors of the sunset, maybe in gouache.

You:

Yeah?

Drem !! Besite:

Is something wrong?

You:

Nahnah, I got distracted.

Drem !! Besite:

Oh, about what?

They sent the uncompleted picture of the scene, quite proud of it so far.

Drem !! Besite:

Oohhhh

You:

:D

...

He tore up the house a second time looking for his gouache acrylics. Once he sat down again with brushes and a cup of water, another text bzzed.

Drem !! Besite:

If anything's wrong with you and him, you would tell me?

You:

Well duh, who else would I tell. I just picked the wrong vial!

Drem !! Besite:

Cool, cool.

You:

Thanks for the concern though. He's not tough to beat if you're worried about me getting injured. ;D

Drem !! Besite:

No I definitely don't doubt that lmao! I worry y'know? It would suck for you to get bad thoughts about something

Ink shut the portal closed. Just for now. He needed to focus on his work.

[hours later, as determined by... ... well you get it.]

Damn. What a refreshing 'nap'!

Sort of, his lower back protested with a dull ache when he squirmed. He tried stretching to get the nicks out of it, and heard a disturbing pop that radiated throughout his bones. Ouuhh.

The hum of The Doodlesphere must have been tasty to hear, he had zoned out entertained purely by the music. He didn't need to sleep and really couldn't do it properly even if he tried, but on occasion everything around him was too distracting and interesting to think about that when he stopped to indulge in it, he might as well be related to a corpse. After he was done painting he'd nailed it up on his display wall, red and yellow, with black creeping through the scene. His own twist on the photo contemplated with dry paint across from him on the couch. His feet bent over the armrest and hands either wedged between the cushions or dropped off to the floor.

He stared up at the ceiling, barren ceiling.

It looked unnatural compared to the rest of the house. They wanted to put streamers up, or find a latter and paint it. The house was the only place where the void didn't swallow up whatever he put down, the concentrated magic he used to spawn in managed to keep everything inside intact and safe. Decorating it had become one of his most persistent activities.

They closed their eyes, feeling strangely unnerved. What else had he been doing before? He backtracked, recalling peaceful humming, laying on the floor with Napoleon on his chest, watching saved videos on his phone, staring at Error's contact and biting his finger, considering to text Dream.

Did he put Napoleon back? Ink took a quick lookaround, and didn't see a turtle anywhere.

Hopefully he did. But if he didn't he looked forward to the frantic search. He expelled a bout of air, bored and he hadn't even stopped mad-daydreaming for more than a few brief moments, and tried to pull up something to think about while he inched towards gaining the motivation to move.

Tree frogs, pretty little beasts-- he should admire the work he did for them in his sketchbook! Just one more time, he'd done such an amazing job with the linework and colors. And on the topic of slimy uglies, the memory of a slick mucus covered slug redid itself in his train of thought. He started giggling. Error's face truly had been *priceless*, such a pure expression of terror and disgust. He should have been recording so he could rewatch it as much as he wanted. If there was a way to put a camera in his eyes and have everything on tape, that way and the end of the day he could review what he's done.

Dream would be impressed, they'd call it innovative! And the hours of free entertainment, he'd never have to go to a theatre-based AU ever again.

Oh, spitballing right now, he recounted his favorites. And subconsciously held his hands up to count. Dancetale had the music, the vibe, he enjoyed bouncing around on rooftops or surprising background characters with funky dance tricks or stunts. Ohhs of approval, applause, 'A dance off!' one would declare. The vibration in the air, he loved sitting on the speakers, so many bodies moving at once and having fun, together or otherwise. He forgot to stay hidden frequently in that AU, but it was all just so distracting and exciting! And background characters didn't impact the script that much.

Its a fun easter egg for a major character to hear whispers about, 'that crazy skeleton' occasionally! It added suspense, a mystery that would never be solved!

He kicked his feet and giggled.

Oceantale was always beautiful, watching the waves roll in and out and the sound of the parrots and coconuts dropping out of the trees. It wasn't completely silent, yet was the best place to destress if anything got too overwhelming. A constant shhh....shhhh...shhhh.... that lulled him. With a bonus of the wildlife that could be drawn, sketched, painted, and admired. He loved birds for their colors and varying personalities, rioting parrots to serene owls. Feathers that effortlessly sheathed over one another, the hardest to master, but once he got the general shape down, the rest flowed much smoother.

Lovely colorations and designs, vibrant and captivating. The way a bird moved and danced around on its perch, sang and preened its fellows. Birds were precious.

The nice, soothing rhythm of the ocean served as pleasant background noise, compared to the hype of Dancetale, the ambiance was a complete opposite. He loved how different they could be while still being equally enjoyable. Maybe he should head over to Oceantale right now, he was in the mood for birdwatching, and the sunsets always sparked inspiration. They checked their scarf for anything that they were missing.

'Get a kazoo' Very important. He could do that afterwards. What he needed the kazoo for was a mystery. Maybe he originally wrote it down for a trick or prank, startling someone out of their wits over the sharp and jarring sound surely was alluring, it must've been Error who set off the thought. Goofy man. How was he anyways? Ink checked their phone and flicked open the RCP to find no messages.

Well, he didn't have to have any plans for today.

You:

Yoo!

You!

Hey!

:)

What doin'?

He didn't expect an answer, but Error had to open up the RCP eventually.

Johnson's Second Arm:

what

Nevermind.

You:

What doin'?

Johnson's Second Arm:

Mpthing.

You:

Can I come over?

Johnson's Second Arm:

why.

no im busy

You:

Please, I'm bored :(

Johnson's Second Arm:

not my problm

You:

Don't even have to go out or anything. I can just chill in the corner.

Johnson's Second Arm:

dont you have other pwoplr to sned time with

damnit misspells

You:

Already planned something with Dream and Blue, but its not for a while. I wanna hang out with you.

Johnson's Second Arm is typing...

No answer.

Oh c'mon. Asshole. Ink deadpan stared, and gnawed the corner of his phone.

You:

I think I left something in there.

A pencil or something.

So I need that back unless you want to try looking for it.

Maybe he'd go birdwatch today after all.

...

They knew they'd talked to friends only recently, but they still felt alone. And these turtle eggs weren't good company. Waiting for them to hatch, even though the date of when that was supposed to happen (if it was near at all) was lost to memory. Small little ovals of blueish white humming in anticipation. The sun had gone down, and left a tint to the beach like taking a dry brush across a model. Sketchbook filled with flora and fauna, silly frogs, a dead sea wolf pup they'd found, birds of paradise, and now hidden eggs.

Filling out the drawing with the illusion of dashes and curves to illustrate sand. Tiny circles carefully shaded in their bowl cradle, brothers and sisters! Or brothers and brothers, the island was quite cold. And he wasn't going to lie, he'd committed a crime and brushed away some of the protective layer of dusty tan to view them. Hoping that didn't effect the babies though. It shouldn't, otherwise that's some very sensitive creature design.

He loved the tiny details in AUs, finding little easter eggs the Creators left behind, small changes to every plant, creature, and color. Like the art style altered the further and further you went, the more terrifying or sweet the animals got. In one AU, the dogs were round, fat, and loved, in others they were sharp, angular, and desperate. He couldn't place whether it looked more 'realistic' or not, if there was such a thing as 'realism' to the Creators. What were they pulling reference from? Each other? Did they see something he didn't?

Maybe he'd ask, just in case he'd get an answer. Aloof and eternal, they only asked Ink for a second opinion, a praise, a suggestion, but never spoke to him. Even if he complimented their work, stared in awe of their worlds, they never seemed surprised at his answer, and acted like they knew what he was going to say all along. Even when he tried to be shocking without being flat out rude, they were unphased by everything. It makes sense though, they made everything, so they must know everything.

He thought back to the dead pup, the Creators didn't have morals, not really. Some AUs were more delicate than others, like Underswap, and then others like himself. That pup was just a small, unnoticed detail, something they put in for fun, what else did they consider fun?

Pain, drama, lessons, ideas that made no sense, ideas that outgrew their own universe, ideas that had their own ideas. It was brilliantly daunting to even consider all the possibilities. A vast and expansive mass that stretched on like the drawling, draining thoughts of contemplation. They live to live forever and won't see the end, even if an end is deliberately planned out and executed. Feeling like a starling in a tornado, thrashed around and taken up in something beyond its sense of control and reality.

Its not the best idea to get existential, it only led to hours and hours of eaten time. While he may figure out something, anything, the chances were he'd simply cry until he called Dream. So, what could he distract himself with?

A conversation.

He sat back on his ass, and flipped Broomie into his lap. Leaning back on his hands giving the familiar a goofy look to chase away bad thoughts. "So, what's your opinion?"

Did you know that inanimate objects have a Schrodinger's cat effect? Ink eyed for a response, (Well, I think the sky's gray.)

"Gray?" He looked up, the sky did look more shallow than others, perhaps a storm was upon them?

(Yeah! Have you seen the sun recently?)

"Now that you mention it, no. It's kind of dull."

(And a little boring.)

"Could use some color."

(Ooh, Like green!)

"You're brilliant!" He envisioned a sage green sky and smiled up at the thought. A green sky, blue skies were going out of style, he should paint something like that. A bleed of green oozing across once steel blue, the clouds more striking against it, the sunsets more interesting.

(What else could we change?)

"What about red? Red trees."

(And yellow, more so, blinding yellow instead of tan yellow.)

"I like your thinking. Red, yellow, green... those don't really fit though, but it could make for some interesting contrast. The sky could be cool colors and the ground warm." He thought about it, "Heh, it would kind of look like a broken phone screen."

Broomie questioned, and Ink pulled out his cell to demonstrate. (Ahh, I see.) Speaking of phones, Ink caught glance at his last text conversation and rolled his eyes. Then tucked it back in the holds of the bandolier.

"What now?"

The sea looked enticing, but one knew better than to swim alone, even if its real threat was lost to them, Ink still preferred anything other than the chilling clasp of sudden, feeble weakness. Being dragged out against their will, panic rising, their feet slipping and raking the sand underneath their feet and getting nowhere. The waves pushing past over their head like the calm hand of a misguided mother. Frantically looking around across the tide, trying to find a break in the waves where it was more docile. Trying to edge sideways through the salty gray as the current swept him up, delicate mother wrapping her child in a blanket. They were growing too weak, their legs weren't cooperating, or maybe the current was too wide and too determined.

Further and further out, until the certainty that nothing could be done washed into their mouth and dried their throat in rough, horrible, wet coughing. And they'd thought, maybe it was better this way, maybe this is what they deserved. The embrace of the waves, rocking their body back and forth and blinding them raw.

(Maybe uh, we could climb a tree?)

Ink snapped out of it, and blinked back to his companion, "Oh, oh yeah!"

Kicking them both up in a flip to get on his feet, and catching Broomie in the middle mostly to show off to himself. Skipping off to the treeline. Sketchbook and eggs forgotten. He climbed a tree here once before, maybe he could find an equally big one! Bigger than the one he and Error discovered that time, that way when he sends a photo of himself swinging from high branches there won't be any, 'It just seems tall because you're short.' bullshit. He giggled villainously, a tad still salty about those words, clearing underbrush and mysterious tangles of flora in bounding leaps.

That tree was somewhere near the centre of the island, it had been fiercely marked with a deep cut slashed across the trunk like a bloody wound. He could find a larger tree around there and gloat about it! Clamber all the way to the bare twigs of the top and snap a photo, giggle when Error sent a simple '>:(' and proceed to tell a gruesome joke about them falling to their death. The fabricated possibility trudged them through the jungle.

He wished the silly man would have let him come over today, "I wonder what he's up to." Ink mused out loud.

-Error-

That's too loud.

//He's throwing a tantrum.

//Oh, uncommon much? Third time in the past twenty minutes.

//He might start crying.

//Its ironic that he still can, despite who he tries to be.

//Such a weak man pretending to be someone powerful.

//Such a weak man thinking he reigns control.

He tried to frantically press his headphones to his skull, they weren't doing their job today. The voices blared like police sirens.

//And he runs away from his problems again, like a frightened child.

//I thought we've been over this. You can handle a bit of sound, you're just sensitive.

//Ah, too sensitive. Who gave you those anyways?

Someone laughed, the crisp and loud voice of a woman, //Don't get me started on them!

//You let your guard down too often, and look where you washed up. Now you're too cowardly to back out now.

//You really think anyone would care to know you?

//You really think it's a good idea?

//If you would only listen for once, but you're as deaf as a newborn.

He whined, and crackled his knuckles against his head like an egg to the side of a pan.

-Ink-

Whatever the Destroyer was doing, Ink hoped it was fun!

The tree neared sight, round trunk and unhealthy chipped bark that still persisted turbulent tropical storms. A deep cut slashed across near the bottom, ugly traces of black ink stained the edges and darkest parts. He looked up to regain the sheer mass of the ancient, standing on sprawling and gnarled roots like a wee bird perched on a stand, toes curling to get a grip as he balanced on the balls of his feet. The circumference of the trunk spanned wide and sturdy, a single run around didn't feel short at all. Branches that blocked out the sun and cast a lovely shade of green on the ground, leaves rustling in a light breeze from the west.

Dream would have loved a spot like this, maybe would have started tearing up at the sight, and nestle down in a comfortable nook between the roots for a few hours. Ink squinted up-up more, and determined a goal. He didn't see any other massive trees like this one on his way here, so his next option was to go even higher than last time. A lone high stick of a perch way near the top, eons further than the meager twenty feet off the ground he'd gotten to last time.

A few Spix's Macaws were huddled at the goal-branch, blue feathers rustling in the wind. Another excuse to start climbing and see those little guys. They weren't added in most AUs he ventured in, it was upsetting. They were beautiful creatures, the Creators had a blind spot for them.

Ink leapt up and projected himself in the air in a fluid movement, whipping out Broomie at the perfect moment and using it to launch up the trunk. Taking advantage of that energy he ran up the side of it, digging in sharp, uncovered nails into the bark like a black bear. Angling his body so he didn't end up loosing grip and falling off, he made it to the first branch and jumped to catch it, swinging around like a child up to a solid standing position.

Up 'n up, he ran along the length and hopped from location to location. Using the lack of space to further apply his rapid movement, every branch a jump pad, looking ahead and never down les' he get dizzy. Like a cat he wormed his way up and through the leaves, prancing with his arms out for balance and then scrambling up another level, leaping again and missing it by a bone-splinter's length, catching himself with another tree limb and carrying on. He twisted and maneuvered and chaotically flung himself to his destination as liquid as water. Swinging his legs up and hooking them higher, then swinging again and hoisting himself up so he could claw his way between two brotherly tight arms, and sitting in the crook where they grew from for a breather.

He was clumsy, and he had nearly crumbled down a few times, but when he really put his mind to something he could lift boulders. And he has! He distinctly remembered the time he dislodged an entire stone from the mountainside at one of The Bad Guys' bloody attacks, sending them spewling in a direction with their little figurative rat tails tucked behind them. Dream had cried dismay, but that's a usual thing anyways. Ink had given himself a righteous high-five.

(Almost there!)

Ink looked up to check the distance, "Yup!"

Somewhere 3/4ths the way up, Error would have started throwing things at him, branches that would get caught up nowhere near where he was and tumble back down. After minutes of frustration he'd start using regular attacks, launching sharp bones and listening for the thhhunk! when they hit. Every time one would strike near Ink they'd yelp out and laugh, and use the projectile as a means to elevate higher.

"Still haven't hit me!" Ink said, kicking at one of the attacks until it snapped off.

"I'm not trying to!" his companion far below screamed, voice varying in octaves.

"Then what, target practice?"

And the fun game would continue. He did it often, not just when tree-climbing. If Ink was drawing further away from him than normal, soda cans and tightly wound balls of thread would assault him every five minutes. If he moved or was moving, the more frequent things were thrown. Ink didn't understand what the purpose for the game was, but he enjoyed it anyways.

Mysterious, maybe he was watching for Ink's reflexes, keeping his guard up. That's considerate of him to make sure his sworn enemy is ready. Or Error did it to make sure Ink wasn't drawing a weapon or threat. Error could be using it as a fear tactic, a very bad one. Or maybe it was just boring old target practice. The best part; he didn't seem to care if he managed to hit him. Once he'd flicked a chip directly into Ink's eye, and erupted into a fit of laughter, punching the table with glee as Blue rushed to his aid.

Blind as a bat, probably felt self-conscious and compensated for it.

Don't fuck up now, it was just in reach! Most of the macaws had flown off by now, but one stubborn old man growled needlessly at the encroaching monster clawing it's way up like a spider. The terrifying spider reached his destination, and hauled himself and his unmistakable broom up onto that golden branch, painted by the illusion of satisfaction. It was narrow, and he crossed his ankles near the base a little too easily. The wind buffered and stalled his adjustments, the Spix's Macaw blared loudly at the intrusion while its family settled at a safer distance.

Whoa.

Just look at that view.

Navy blue blended thoroughly along lapis lazuli with a wide brush, left with split ends to leave behind trails of cold gray wisps of cloud, looking like the colors were inverted from the way the lack of direct light hit them. An eerie, near ending limbo of color and security as the thumbnail of a crescent made her silent appearance. Too dark to make out fine details, too bright to squint or stumble. A fuzzy shading in your eyes, like every color panel was a default black and white. Ink had had a theory, that everything in the world was in black and white, and that color itself was a complete illusion, even gray. The treetops humbly toned a gentle midnight black as if to make it so the beauty of the scene was politely executed, not overwhelmed by their presence.

Did you know that there are only ninety-nine hues of blue? One short of a hundred. How must it feel to be one short of a complete round number? Error would have loved that statement, scrunch up his face and go;

"Well, rip your teeth out. I dᵤₙ--dunno, take something off yourself and find out."

"Hum," Ink would muse, "not a bad idea. I always say its good to revise what you already know!"

Then he'd be called ridiculous, and they'd tease before coming up with ninety-nine different, unique names.

"ᴳ--Gerald."

"Amy."

"Uh, Oliver?"

Maybe just regular names.

Names were hard, they didn't make sense. Why have one title chosen for you that you're expected to bear for the rest of your untold existence? Why have a name at all? Ink had been fairly lazy about theirs, but it meant something to them and them alone. That should be the point of names, something that means something to you, something entirely, wholly you. Doesn't matter what it sounds like to others, or to society, family, friends, maybe your name should be the thing you connect with yourself. Hell, have several names! Have all the names! All different fragments of your being split by how people perceive who you are and give it a title. Nicknames were just as important.

And being forced to pick from a boring, sloughing list of names was crippling. For once, they'd like to meet someone called (several bird calls, one yelp, rapid fire throat noises, and one eagle cry.)

Even without knowing, most AUs he met, Jumpers, Protectors and Destroyers, so on so forth, most of them picked out a name similar to how Ink deemed names should be. Subconsciously! They found it silly. When the mind thinks its broken free, it runs itself down the same track already thousands have walked upon.

Creativity is a simple circle, after all.

To mimic their thinking, they drew a circle where the sun was last seen. Someone (wonder who) would have complained about the bloodsuckers, even though he doesn't have what they want. Ink deadpanned the empty space beside him.

(You're getting quite philosophical tonight.)

"It's fun! Everyone should do it."

(Agreed! No shame here bro.)

"It gets your mind running, gives it exercise. Leave a mind fat with content and you'll go nowhere."

The macaw threatened with argumentized points.

"I wonder if animals think about this kind of stuff. Obviously not in the way that we can, but if they have their own version of deep-thinking."

(Maybe.)

"Heh, cats."

(Cats are smart.)

"And silly. Silly boys."

(I love it when their eyes get all gl..gl...) Ink forgot a word, and had to pause before resuming to voice his friend's thoughts, (all big!)

"Oh, they do that to take in more light. Or when they're angry, I can't remember which."

(I wish we had a cat.)

Ink sat in silent agreement, before his eyes lit up unlike the starry-less sky above him, suffocated underneath the bordering hurricane, "But we do!"

(Oh right! Forgot about him.)

"Hah, do that a lot." he shrugged, pulling out his phone and zipping open the RCP. Old Man Macaw shrieked and peeled away. No new messages. He took a shitty photo of the scenery instead and sent it to Dream.

(I know he likes his alone time, but I'm bored.)

"Should I text him?"

The question lingered. And alongside a new one bubbled up to the surface as he frowned at the profile picture. He'd been thinking about him all day, on and off, bored out of his wits, and he noticed that even the prospect of spending time with him felt... lacking. One short of a hundred. What did that mean? 'Missing something.' was he mourning a previous sense of uncertainty? Not knowing if this rageful creature of a man was friend-material? Did he miss that?

But, he liked the way they worked now. He didn't feel sorrowful from feelings he had over a decade ago. Two decades? How long had they been friends?

(Check your vials!)

He ran his fingers across each one, then again like a piano, trying to get a vibe for which one he needed. On the way he reviewed what he already knew about Error.

Endlessly interesting. Expressive. He'd say goal-oriented, even though it worked against him. Kind of sad. Colorful. Fun, without a doubt he'd want to spend most of his free time with him. He hated it when he seemed distressed or anxious, it plucked a raw cord behind Ink's ever-changing eyes. A horrible, resonating sound of kinship. Error was alone. Ink didn't want him to feel alone. Nobody deserves to feel so left behind and shunned. ... Even if they earned it. He just needed a bit of love, told that he's not entirely out in the empty. Neither of them are.

Ink felt alone too. Despite having friends, really good friends, it didn't come naturally to talk about that aching, disturbing trench of dread in the pits of their mind. Now that they could see it, and hell-- recognize it in another person? Another living, breathing-out-of-spite thing? Is there a word big enough?

So what did they need?

Almost ninety-nine. Almost. Just barely. Almost satisfied. Almost there. Almost... They tapped each vial twice rhythmically, and their nail paused on Pink. Full of liquid compassion and affection.

And sat there for a moment.

-Error-

The soft, calming and constant hum of the Void. The Doodlesphere. Filled to the brim with hanging paintings, sketches, inked drawings and composition that made your head reel. Cluttered and full of life, so many working parts. Sometimes the pictures moved, characters running across from page to page in the endless 'why nots' of this realm. Quiet, but never still. Ink always noted how deathly empty the Anti-Void was, how nothing ever made noise, nothing spoke but themselves. Sound seemed to carry for miles and miles. An echo that never echoed, and could be heard from everywhere.

Color no matter where he looked, soft and pastel, never more harsh than the watercolors that depicted it. Even for the Fell alterations, their dangerous blacks and bloody reds were all but threatening.

//Crybaby.

//Overreacting.

Scared.

Downright terrified. He almost didn't want to look into it anymore. He didn't know where to go. He felt trapped.

//Sensitive.

//Weak.

What's gunna happen to him?

//Something awful.

He'd left the headphones in the Anti-Void, and he didn't come to find someone. Paper on strings. Stars in the midst of a black hole.

Chapter Text

All these worlds, all these beloved, cherished, nurtured worlds that Ink adored.

"Do you love anything, Destroyer?" Nightmare once asked, oily voice knife-smooth against a numb and paralyzed patient.

"No." he never lied about that. He never felt like he was lying. He didn't love anything. He didn't like the way he knit, he didn't like the sloppy way he went about, he didn't like any of it. Yet every time he glanced in a mirror he'd praise and call himself handsome. What a perfect reflection of the only reasonable one in all of reality. Doing everyone a favor. Keeping things clean. Being smart in the killings, not mindless. It all had a very specific reason to exist, he had a very specific reason to exist.

He didn't love anything. And it bothered him to no end.

Was he unlovable? Doomed for eternity to talk to himself?

Oh but what use were friends anyways, all they did was slow a working monster down from his true goal.

That's right, he didn't need to be loved. He needed to be feared. Get things done, not lollygag and indulge a cruel end like some people did. Things need to be cut off, a trapped leg or useless eye, there's absolutely no excuse. When a tree is healing from a nasty lightning strike, you saw the limbs that aren't going to make it. You put the dog down. You mourn a miscarriage. Most things don't work out. Most AUs deserve to burn. Clutter, dust everywhere in this big old house, was he the only one who saw it?

He's a cleaner. That's his point. That's it. There's nothing to love even if someone tried.

And he should be perfectly okay with that.

The tempting pages swayed with innocence. To be picked off and eaten. Crunch, crunch, crunch...

...Was there a way to turn back time? If he avoided some thoughts, stayed silent about some revelations, maybe he wouldn't be here. Maybe he'd be drifting off to the sound of humming and crayon scribbling. You shouldn't mess with normality, if its perfect then why change it? Change stressed him out, made no sense, was wild, unpredictable and vile. It took what he even somewhat enjoyed and twisted it into dreadful, terrifying concepts and ideas. Something as peaceful as a pencil warped into a deadly weapon. Why ruin perfection?

He breathed heavy, dead set on a goal, crushing tangled knots that trailed behind him, bunching from his eyes in flowing streams of falling water. Damp, not just some silly metaphor. He needed to fix this fever, he only recently realized how scalding the temperature was. How long had be been boiling? Months? Years? Decades? Had he fallen for a trap he couldn't see? Was he in danger?

//What's he going to do about it?

Why ruin perfection. A shaken, angry and shattered exhale left him, refilled with rage. A painful meltdown that occurred earlier stabbed him to act. He glared at flittering painted pictures, direct heart and mind of the enemy he cried desperate to lash out against.

This had to be done. One sharp needle prick before things knit smoothly again. He just needed to show that he was still in control, and forever will be.

Prove it then.

Prove it to yourself.

/* He's so, so pathetic. * / someone laughed.

He stalked through and crumpled one of the pages in a fist, tearing it off its suspension with shaky fingers. It depicted a calming, tranquil world, full of love, life, and stability. The waxy gentle crayons that had been used to color it in lined baby blue caverns and light pink inhabitants. People caring for one another, without the real threat of death and danger hanging in the air. If there was a problem, you'd tell someone. Ask family or friend. They'll help you!

It was only a portal, but he stuffed it in his mouth anyways, chewing the toxic crayoned paper like gum. Soddened and wet in his teeth, the AU would be lost forever. Not destroyed, but in such a deep, impossible to reach place in reality that even Ink themself couldn't rediscover it again unless it was handed to them. Good. Riddance. Such a tooth-rotting AU had no place here anyways. He spat the disgusting ball of its remains and moved on. The original universe was already about compassion and feelings, that glob on the floor was just an overexaggeration that wasn't worth playing with.

A whole AU dedicated to shitty group therapy sessions. That never solved anything, sissy nonsense that featherbrains listened to.

Another one, hanging above in reach. He smiled wide, and stood on his tippy-toes to bite the corner and tear it down. He ripped it up like a dog, trying to pull it from his own stuck teeth and rending it to smithereens. Small pieces of bent and tattered fluttered to the floor. His hands gained energy, and they teetered like frantic bird wings in a rush of euphoria. Oh how liberating. He did that, look how a single thought in his mind could effect the world around him, look how it did something, look how it shown itself in slobbered and torn fragments. More.

Looking up to scan the rest, frightful berries in the eyes of a rejuvenated bear, they took on a light of reddish hue and vulnerability.

He breathed in-in-in and let himself laugh with glee, a rising orchestra of glitching and audio distortion, switching octaves that replayed over itself in waves. Letting out that twisted ecstatic glee, the anticipation of destruction that he craved like a helpless heroin addict. He had control of it, nobody was allowed to steal it away from him. It was the one thing that was truly his to own. The sound of himself carried much more noticeably than what he was used to, and even bounced back to him, where otherwise in his Anti-Void it would vacuum sound right as soon as it left. Unfamiliarity forced him to shut up. There was a pause, before he flared open his jacket and started rummaging through it. Turning out pockets that emptied dust and crumbs, wrapping paper, needles, and a Capri Sun. He stopped to enjoy the drink in a few quick squeezes. And soon found the doll he'd been working on a few days ago. A small, anxious looking Frisk. Their neutral face framed under a dark cloak that ended at the knees, laced with intricate sharp patterns. Underneath, a tan shirt and pair of black cargo shorts.

Maddenedtale. What a dumb, uncreative name. Taking a core theme and slapping it as the title was by far the laziest thing Error thought could be done. And it happened so frequently in the multiverse that he figured they must be doing it on purpose to annoy him. How MADDENing, snicker snicker. If they could name something like that, they probably had considered, "Pissed-offtale" or "Mildlyupsettale." He slunk through The Doodlesphere, for that palette of blacks and tans, with the common highlights of red and dusty silver. He recalled Ink talking about it once.

"I met the Sans there. His family, they uh..." he cringed at his mangled leg, tapping the end of the brush to a charcoal bloody knee, "Ran me over and called me names. I figure very respectfully." they nodded sarcasm.

They surely seemed like a lively bunch. Running over people they hadn't even bothered to say 'hello' to. It had made Error's teeth get better acquainted with each other by grinding and tapping, looking at the horrible twist in Ink's ankle, snapped fibula with ugly cracks splintered heel to hip. Nobody should be able to harm them like that.

"Oh, and it was hotter than hell there too!"

Error ran his fingers across the pages, waiting for one to singe him in a trail of smoke. Hotter than hell. A vast desert under a dead yellow sky, tainted by the blistering, blinding, and boiling blare of the sun. Full of cruel people who committed cruel acts. Ink had limped for weeks. And yet, the scatterbrain still claimed to like it. He willingly went back to something that hurt him over and over again like an abused dog. The idiocy, he should learn to recognize when something isn't worth his time or energy. He should learn when to leave people to their suffering. Crippling, lonely desires that overshadowed basic needs and drove them mad.

Maddenedtale, he met with the painting, something harmful that in his opinion, made one grave mistake in it's short lifespan. Running people over only mattered when his morality lined up just right. The Destroyer, the Justice per se, cut open the portal and fell in to it. He sprawled out on the sand, face up to a sky roughly the same color, with the variation of smothered red clouds. There was a silence, and the warp in space excused itself in a flurry of shrinking glitches and errors. A thorough wind grabbed at his clothes and forced him to his feet.

Big. Error hated the claustrophobic cramped interiors of most underground AUs, here under an open sky, the ability to run and run 'til his legs gave out was more than tempting. Not much of a desert, but a rolling dead savanna with pockets of dunes and sandstorms. Outertale was bigger, obviously, and therefore better than this dehydrating hellscape. Grains caught in his shirt, and he twisted to shake them out.

A warning, the revving of engines. He looked behind to encounter a raging monster truck (fashionably named after its drivers) blasting at him at full speed. Nothing to wrap his strings around, he frantically jumped out of the way. The chorus of cruel laughter that followed came from an open window, a lizard-type leaning out and biting its lengthy tongue at the intruder. Tied to the hitch some character on a sandsail surfed behind, gripping the pole with one hand and a spear decorated with feathers in the other. Error chalked up his smile, and tapped toes on the ground to wedge the measly plastic flip-flop strap between them.

It spun on its heel in a sharp turn back, tilting over and digging up dust into the air. More characters emerged from the skylight, cheering and barking. Guns pointed out and fired around their target, who replied with messy, throaty laughs that he forced past the back of his tongues for an oddly growlish sound, similar to a motor. He lassoed his strings, and cracked them out to latch 'round the side mirrors like the horns to a bull, and heaved the truck to the side. Extra string materialized and wrapped around his legs, fastening him to the ground as he planted his feet and directed the vehicle around in circles. A blinding cloud of tan erupted into the air after the absurdly large tires, bullets shot up all around the Destroyer, bouncing off the sand and hitting him in the shins, not even a dent in HP was made.

His laughter built up to manic, a rough voiced cackling as the characters scurried over their own truck and shouted to each other. The one caught up on the sail was jerked into the round-a-bout, and didn't last a second before getting crushed under the main vehicle. The broken body of a bird-type crumpled in the path, ran over again and again at the wrath of Error's self-soothing, with a drive of revenge.

//I guess he's good at it, at least.

A spear was thrown, and was swiftly redirected without much effort with Error's very own.

//What's he thinking about?

//He thinks he's impressive.

"I ₐ₋₋ₐ--am impr̷̯̲̦̳̹̰̱͎̪̲̀̈́̊̏e̸̢̡̯͕̘͓̩̪̰͉͂̀̽͋͠s̵̖̆̄̑́͐̃̒̕s̶̫̺̼̤̳̯͆͒̈--ₛₛ--ive!" he shouted, to the further disturbance of his opponent, "Watch."

And with a heavy heave, he tangled his arms thick and pulled to the side, it tipped and went down with a horrible scraping sound. Someone inside screamed, the lizard-type at the window had their arm squished and torn in a bloody mess that smeared the door. He let out a mad cry of effort as the truck was dragged across the landscape and sent flying over a dune. He ran to the crest to admire as it tumbled down, crunched along the edges with the hood popped open and bent. People threw themselves out the windows, a spew of blood dousing them as they went. Everyone else was rattled like an egg before hitting the bottom in a pool of broken glass and twisted metal.

And finally, the sick monsters who ran over strangers for fun, when surely they already know that stranger's pain belongs to someone else, dusted and cried as their spontaneous ambush was effectively shot back at them.

Someone could paint a picture about it, he looked between a square made with his pointers and thumbs to visualize as he'd seen his companion do. To mimic without goal. A canvas propped up on an easel, Error would watch from above, leaning his head back and upside down from a nest of web as an artist did what they did best. The clikkity-clak-cl-clikkity of a brush against the sides of a plastic cup, sure to tap the rim twice before selecting a new color. Stalling, putting their hand on their hip and chewing a nail, tilting their head, and then looking at the canvas from further away. Circling back, taking another glace at the reference photo, throwing their phone a distance, and once again taking up Paint to Picture.

He'd watch until he got kinks in his neck, then opted to roll over on his stomach. It was brilliant, no scene or character, no star or pooling black nothing greater than the stunning... vividness of their work. No it wasn't perfect, by what standard Error would use on everything else, but in the special list formulated just for them, the phrase "Perfectly imperfect." loved to repeat itself. So calming, the atmosphere of a content and happy individual. Nothing to fear and nothing to fight, just a simple painting brought from the depths of their wild ideas.

/* Ooh. * / a voice hummed, the voice of a child tattling on their fellow peer. The sound everyone knew as, 'you've done/said something taboo.'

And just like that tight fists formed again, nails dug into the palm. The blurry image at the bottom of the dune meant nothing anyways.

A character crawled back up like a bat out of hell, brandishing their gun and aiming it for the assailant's head. Error barely missed the movement and ducked as a flying tube of metal and fire burned past him. And in response threw a flurry of bone attacks to get a better sense on where the character was. Couldn't be sure where exactly which messy dot it was, had to be sure by hitting it with something. The fuzzy colorful blob knelt down in pain as solidified crimson magic impaled their leg. He giggled, and shot at the center of that blob. In a few short breaths a rush of energy filled him. A crumbling, dusting figure stooped and toppled over.

With a sigh of satisfaction, the Destroyer turned towards the baobabs, following Ink's semi-detailed words about the AU. "The Ruins --Frisk goes there first as usual-- are right at the base of Mt Ebott. Big mountain, it's a lot more sharp-edged and clay-red."

Claws of one hideous beast of a mountain scraped the sky. Bloody in color, striking against the yellows and blacks of its homeland.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Error rambled in his head. So stupid. Giving directions and explanations for all his beloved AUs to a murderer. A mad critic. One to boo the movie of the year even if it made them smile. Why did he bother to see him at all? Why bother? Did he have something else in mind? Did he want to hurt him? Get into his head and drive him to suicide? Kill him off?

//But he knew this would happen right?

//You give him way too much credit.

That's a lie. Error had known of the risks for years now, he just never assumed he could have let himself slip up. Everything was perfect, perfectly perfect, why did everything he tried to have get violently ripped out of his hands and discovered to be terrifying? Something that was his, that he thought was undoubtedly his. And now its anything but. He'd let himself believe that there was someone out there who could tolerate him.

The way he smiled at him, and brought him gifts. Like the headphones, the spoon, pressing paint onto his face and making him look like one festive sugarskull.

The way he spoke about his interests, and left out not a single detail, metaphor, simile, or alliteration. Dropping in at random and droning on for hours about anything, the slightest mishap in the AU they were exploring, Blue burning dinner and setting smoke alarms off. And to Error's surprise, the Nothing. The crippling, lonely Nothing that they both experienced. Ink would materialize, sit down with his Cyan and Blue, and in haunting words described something that previously Error thought he was completely unique for.

Mastery in words, color, comfort... like the world depended on him to know everything. Ink said once, "I am the Protector, after all." and it was wrong, Ink should be like one of the dolls, a special one that always stayed in his pocket, never to face deterioration or cosmic stress.

The time they were angry at him. Error didn't think he had made a mistake in his wonderful plan, the end of all ends, it's as much a part of him as Ink's nature was to them.

The time they cried because of him. He had tried to reason with them, they were being stupid and irrational in the moment.

The time they called him pathetic.

The time they beat him into the ground.

The time he ripped them limb from limb in defense, and maybe rage.

They were the absolute enemy.

And he was their enemy.

And Error was in danger. So. Much. Danger.

A frightened and shaken man broke into a series of sporadic teleports closer to his destination.

...

He'd feel better once he got that disgusting, horrible feeling out of his system. Frisk happily and unknowingly swung their little feet over the edge of a toppled pillar.

Children were awful. They screamed and cried and whined and demanded everything. Error's unstable march approached silently, save for the dreadful slap of his flip-flops.

[That Dream From Earlier, Like The First Chapter Or Something]

Error's dreams loved to take turns halfway through. Suddenly the little theatre man in his brain changed it's opinion about what was being shown, and hastily switched out the tapes to something more horrible.

When you're asleep, you can't remember where you were before. For a while his dream was calming, irrelevant, and a little abstract in that shady area between REM and deep sleep. Then there was a lack of sound, the ambiance of a happy daydreamer picking up their things and leaving.

His mind stopped, whirred, and worried. There was silence. What was it supposed to make up now that the calming thing had vanished? It shifted through its memories, and found some things to smile at. This one's good, that one's about having fun, there that one-- seemed a little uninteresting but reflected daily life, which is what a dream is best at, the only dreams you remember are the rare exciting ones. Sitting alone watching an incoherent show, it recalled, painting on a coat of 'new' to it as it always did, the show was quieted to politely make room for the constant Nothing.

It dragged, no time to create a plotline, the show became rather boring, the words mumbled and whispered and the colors saturated and merged. Boring. Error felt a bit hungry.

He checked the inside of his pockets, and somehow found them all empty. He grew curious, and looked again. His needles were missing, his candies and pocketed drinks were missing, the dust was missing, and his 2DS was missing. Error's expression flattened out into something not so irritated and not really disappointed, and his second instinct was to glance over at his minifridge. Sure, it was easier to keep snacks in his inventory, but a cold soda had a pleasant spark to it, and frozen chocolate tasted better than anything he kept on hand, after it warmed up a little. He stood, it felt like an accomplishment, and took a weirdly lengthy trek over across.

Just keep walking, you'll get there eventually, reason worked to add logic to a world that had none. He looked at his feet, they were indeed moving, he looked at the minifridge, it seemed like it could be getting closer. Walking on invisible clouds step by step as if he were half-floating. Once he reached it, in some sort of mysterious timeskip, he pulled the little door open with his foot and squinted down inside. Four candy bars on the left, two soda cans on the right. He selected two of the four, and knocked them together to hear them click, and get some of the ice off. Then he stood up and shut the door with his heel as he turned.

Peeling back the wrapper eagerly, and bit into the frozen chocolate. He let it soften up and melt in his mouth, and hummed in content. Then chewed, swallowed, and went for another bite.

"Aren't you gunna share?" someone asked.

"Nah. Don't be greedy." he answered. Crunch!

"Oh. Alright silly. I was hoping for a different answer."

Error didn't comment immediately, and instead took time to enjoy for a few moments. When he felt that the conversation still was waiting for him, he swallowed again, "That's too bad I guess, sometimes you don't ₐₗw₋₋always get what you want."

He headed back to his beanbag, eating along the way. They followed behind like a parasite, too close they could snap at his ankles if they wanted.

"I think we should watch Undernovela today." they said.

"Great idea!" Error snapped his fingers, and quickened the pace. Sitting down at the cold beanbag, he crossed his legs up and a glitchy window to the AU flickered in. They settled down somewhere behind his head, perched like a grim raven. Things were fuzzy around the edges as the AU went about its usual, exciting day. Less exciting day, he couldn't make out head from tail about what was going on. The chocolate lost its flavor, or maybe it didn't have any to begin with. But it was just a quirk of the current reality, Error didn't mind it entirely, it still had the same effect of what he remembered, it still made him giggle, glee, and remain entertained.

"Hah. Look at that." they pointed one long arm at the screen, looming over their clawtips hooked the air above, then curled away again.

"Yeah. Uh, which part?"

The creature sighed a deteriorating sigh that held no accent, going quiet.

Error finished his first bar of candy, then hesitated before deciding to open the other one later, he thought, what if he was asked to share again? There was no real problem to it, sometimes he wanted things to himself, sometimes he didn't, but he hated the question, it felt more like an accusation. A judge on his character, a written off note by the creature that he couldn't control or combat. It led him to grow more object aggression in attempts to drive off any thought at all that he could share, so that way he could stop thinking about it, and they'd learn not to ask it.

He could hear their amplified breathing, and tried to refocus onto the screen of nonsense, it droned without having any eyes that had the intent to view it.

In the silence Error thought, maybe they should have gone somewhere else, the visitor loved experiencing, looking, wondering and pacing, Error didn't mind it, killing two birds with one stone, remembering new places to take down, watching a friend finesse and shake their hands in tune with their words. The option felt distant now, and he didn't want to look up and ask in case the answer wasn't what he expected.

Someone ran the back of their gentle fingers down the side of his face, coal marked claws caressing to his jaw, shockingly cold.

"You aren't talking." they observed.

"No, I'm not." Error confirmed, on instinct jutting a shoulder up to remove the hand, glitches chased up after the retreating talons.

"Why not?"

"I'm trying to w₋₋wₐₜcₕ₋₋watch the screen."

"And not me?"

"You're not happy with it?" then Error scoffed, "ᴼ⁻⁻Okay, deal for a while."

"Kind of selfish."

"You think I don't ₐₗ₋₋already know that?"

"Kind of selfish..."

"You think I don't already..." Error trailed off, runny black paint dripped onto his forehead, and drew down the bridge of his nose, then over his cheek, he decided to ignore and scrub it away. They zone out like that sometimes, or talk too fast and end up drooling, they probably forget to swallow. Nothing really wrong with that, just a bit gross. He pulled the back of his scarf over his head to compromise. Disgusting...

"...I'm bored." they spoke in the silence, the screen, although playing colors, refused to make noise, perhaps too intimidated by the Nothing. "And then you'll say:"

"That's not my problem."

"And then I'll say:" and the creature waited.

Error grew irritated, "If you wanted to be a dick today, why cₒᵤₗ₋₋couldn't you ᵍ⁻⁻ᵍ⁻⁻go somewhere else?"

Hands pressed on his shoulders, he shut his eyes tight to escape the shattering pain that must not exist to anyone else but him. Someone leaned over the glitches and [errors], "Why can't you go somewhere else Error? You're being a real dick."

There was a choke in his throat, "I allow you to be here, asshole. This is ₘ₋₋ₘ₋₋₋my home, ₘ₋₋my place!" he countered quite weakly, he could have done better.

"I pity you." they leaned away, the hands lost their grip, but didn't leave. Then they started humming, they've always been a musical being, if Error were brave enough he'd admit to liking it. This tune sounded like any other song they might warble, but it felt distorted, there was something off about the pitch.

"You should be grateful I even let you near me." the doomed glitch chose his fate clearly in the tone of his voice, "A rat like you, a liar," he squirmed under their touch, not in the good way, "you're nothing but a useless ʷ⁻⁻walking corpse and I hope you realize that. You're not even good at your job! Sitting here with ₘ₋₋ₘ₋₋me, what's your real goal?"

"And you're the crybaby monster with no heart to anything. Not 'a'. The. Crybaby. That everyone hates, schemes against, and backstabs eventually. Nobody has ever loved you, look at your home, look at your dolls and your webs, and look at your face in the mirror and tell yourself how handsome you are." their hands suddenly snapped to grip Error's neck, "What a pretty face. It never belonged to you."

Skeletons breathe air out of spite, just as a joke they keep running. The animated remains of vaguely human-looking beasts have an infinite source of giggles and gags. But like every other living being, as they are, a lack of a head is as suffocating as heaving lungs. The creature's claws dug hard under his jawbone, fingers that forced his head to look up. Dribbles of inked spit leaked onto his face, ran past the creature's chin from one gaping, swallowing smile, all traces of the lucky monster Error loved to see gone and twisted into what they really were.

Everything was so less colorful, the lineart had turned to a frantic artist's shaken scrawling. "You are pathetic. Hopeless. I always thought you were just a means to an end, and this face will be mounted on my wall for me to gawk at." Error hissed best he could and sank his own nails into their wrists, but they stood firm and planted their feet on his shoulders. Grabbing at the creature's arms, screaming and kicking.

"GET Ơ̵͔̜̻̱̼̜̯̅̈́͑̽͊̌͒̕͠F̵̡̜͕̣͙̐̌̑͠F̸̻̦͇̍̌͝ OF ME-- THIS ᴵˢᴺ'ᵀ⁻⁻ᴵˢᴺ'ᵀ⁻⁻ISN'T LIKE ʸ⁻⁻YO̵͇̺͈̼̞͗͐̐͋̋̏̃͘U̵̟̝͋̆!"

"What isn't like me, Error?"

They pulled at his head, drawing blue blood and marveling down at the sight with a devilish look of pleasure. Like this is all they have ever wanted, they've been waiting for this moment since the very beginning. His vertebrae being separated messily from the rest of his body, each individual spine popping from it's brother and flickering with struggling magic. Gaze consumed entirely by the coal black sockets that bore into his soul, the edges of his vision registered nothing else but incoherent panic. Panic. Error tore his fingers down their arms, marked them up with awful cat-like leavings. He screamed, he tried to thrash, the creature made use of their leg strength to push him apart.

He gurgled up blood, mouth quivering he begged to be released, he made promises that would never sway the demon latched onto him, he apologized, he started to cry.

"Ṕ̷̢͓͈̳̥̱̞̓́̌̓͜͝L̴̤̫͕͚͍̦͕̺̤̂̇̚̕͝ͅË̶̞̜̬̰͍̥͎́̄̊̿̓͘͝A̶͖͎̗͙̖̳͕̝̟͑S̷̢̧̛̟͔̳͍̟͙̗͇̅͐͗̓̍̇̒̈́Ė̷͉̓̒̇͑͌̏̚̚!̴̰͊͆̋͝͝͝ I'M ˢᴼᴿ⁻⁻SORRY, I ₜₕₒᵤGₕₜ₋₋ ᵢ ₜₕₒᵤGₕₜ₋₋I THOUGHT-- PLEA̵͖͉͎͉͓̭̬͎̩͌̈͋́͂͝S̷͇̝̘̟̮͈͓̆̅͐̓̿Ę̵̡̢̛̭̙͔͐̆͊̑̕͜͠ LET ME GO!"

"Let me go~ Let me go~" they sung. "The scorpion said to the coyote, 'take me across the river please, I won't hurt you.'" tantalizingly slow, there was a horrible wet pop.

The screen flickered out, whatever show they were watching was no longer being viewed. The room drained of it's love, and the demon sat victorious. As was right. As was supposed to happen. As was predicted.

Chapter Text

-Ink-

As previously mentioned, Ink got mad jitters whenever Error was disrupting an AU.

But there's a different feeling for when one is actually destroyed.

If he had nerves, they'd be on fire, if he had skin, it would be peeling back from his fingertips from how hard they stabled himself on the branch, back pressed to the slimming trunk. Cross-eyed and convulsing. Whining but not pleading. The sound of his own teeth jackhammering into each other smothered out the nighttime lullaby of the island. Shaking so hard the vertebrae linking his shoulders and skull felt wire thin and with the durability of ripped paper, and at some points he feared he'd somehow broken away from themself.

But they didn't have the pleasure of losing their head at this time, maybe later.

After it was done with, Ink went limp against his branch. And if you're wondering, no he didn't pant, he didn't have the strength to joke around like that. Their whole body craved to implode in on itself, to escape out the space in their chest that they didn't have. Their claws were snug in the bark, in the palm was the decision they'd been pondering. Good thing they didn't drop it.

Ink waited a moment to smile at the gloomy sky. Sitting up they wiped the lost spit from their mouth.

The vial made a gentle pink lighting, he snuck it back in its place and swung upside down on the branch to stretch. He left out one great sigh, at the very moment he could have thought something up to deal with recent establishments, the Creators decided to throw another curveball. He let go, and fell through the branches. First hitting his face directly on one below, then cracking his spine across, tangled and slipped through two, fell through a thin one and took it with to the next, fatter branch that threw him off to the side.

This might be considered the perfect chance to try out that new technique he'd been cooking up. Error always loved variety in his fights. Techniques that caused chaotic laughter as bone attacks whistled all around him, Ink's failure to keep up spurred gleeful cries of victory echoing all around. Ink never got the chance to get a good look at his sparring partner, always tucked away up near the ceiling, swinging from place to place, on the move. A pair of red eyes in the shadows, then gone in a flash as string creeped around his ankles like little snakes and ripped him away.

He loved his fights with Error.

But not right now. Now was not a pleasant time to engage in the formality, so clever Ink dug up a plan on the spot. Neutralize the enemy, talk him down (if he could manage), and distract him. That's what he usually did when Error was feeling determined. Point him in another direction, show him a neat bug or photo, and maybe they'll buy enough time to take him back to the Anti-Void. If it were any other day Ink would have been ecstatic, but another fight meant another month without Error, and Ink needed the two of them to have a chat.

Scratched and tumbling down, he tried to catch himself as the excitement bubbled at his new plan, which he was confident would work, grabbing a branch as it flew by and tossing himself into open air. He pinwheel spun and slid Broomie out just as he lost momentum and fell back to earth head first. A swift motion, a swipe and a stroke of ink stained the air. Into it he dived and came out of the portal half-blind.

The sky antagonized him, burning black spots into his vision. Ink rolled out across the dry grass of the savanna, hands to his face. Pricklies and rocks greeted him, rolling, rolling, he hit his knee with a sharp yelp, and finally came to a stop. Sat up, body aching from all the rapid fire bodily harm he so easily condemned himself to, and rubbed his eyes to clear them. On cue he recounted all the AUs he knew that dealt with weather like this.

Most of them were desert and island based, with his eyes still closed he patted the ground around him. There were roughly a dozen he visited frequently... what AU would have such scorching sand... and.... tire tracks.

Just like that he snapped open, and took in a heavy visual dose of furious red and mellow yellow. The indent in the ground beside him, large tracks that would be blown away in the next sandstorm, warmed his fingertips. He forced a smile that was more pained from memory rather than any future events that were likely to unfold. A lot like Underfell in flavor, you ran or got run over.

His feet already craved a dip in ice cold water, but he got to them anyways and surveyed around himself. Mt Ebott imposed, and the wide expanse of everything else stretched on to the horizon. Somewhere to the East he'd find the Bazaar, a festive place filled with merchants and conversation. Characters in silky pants and lesser tops to escape the heat, the quarrels over product payment and irrelevant beliefs, children playing in the oasis only to be scolded out by reasonable adults, orphaned teenagers loitering nearby with their vehicles and weapons.

Further East was fabled Waterfall, Ink hadn't been there yet, but it was theorized to be lush and prosperous. Down South was Scorchlands, and up North the Plains. Technically, the Plains were all around, but people had dubbed the endless stretch of dry land above to be precise.

Enough brainrot, he brushed his legs off and started for Mt Ebott. Most AUs were still near the beginning of the timeline, and this one shouldn't worry, he would have it back to normal in no time at all, and he'll have the conversation he and Error so desperately need!

He knew the drill by heart. There'd be the short search, then screams of help, and they'd face off. Error would start lecturing, before he'd do it to get Ink off his back, but now it's like the guy was just ranting about what he hated. Picking apart the AU on a fundamental level, the plotline, the character designs, the themes, the name, and cringing at it. Ink would argue the good points about it, the color schemes, the details, the effort, the passion, in hopes to at least make his opponent think twice. Through everything there was still a small part of Ink that believed a change of mind was possible. The minutes of tense conversation, onlookers running for the hills. Everyone has the ability to reconsider, to turn back and contemplate. But as always, the burning grit in Error's expression prevailed any words that were thrown at it, and they'd break out into battle.

It could be spurred by anything, a slight change in attitude, or a prolonged pause. Once it had been Ink simply coughing into his elbow that triggered Error to lunge at him. Straight lines became squiggles whenever they sparred, suddenly that slushie Error had shared earlier was completely forgotten, and in its place was their respective argument. That unedited fury, remorse only for a missed attack, the insanity of it all. At face value it seemed horrific, but to them it was like playing fighter games. Putting everything into the controller, cursing out every time they lost a life with eyes glued to the TV screen. After each round and a winner was proclaimed, they'd get up and take a break, maybe meander and eat a quick snack, chat until the loser thirsted for gold and the other craved gloating privileges.

Of course, for the sake of the characters' lives at stake, Ink made sure to keep them in mind too. Not lose. Losing meant pain. Losing meant the wrath of his conscience. What a deep Cyanic-Magenta he would taste.

Sometimes he forgot to balance the colors out just right, if he had too much of Purple, a drop too little of Cyan, he began the decent to loathing his companion worse than the white empty space he inhabited. Error knew no restraint, when given the chance to accomplish what he needed he wasted no time concerning himself with the thoughts of others. No bullshit. He managed to dismember Ink's legs once, and ran around with them like a child with glowsticks.

He reached the Ruins within a few quick liquidizing teleports. String already walled up most of the intervals between rotting buildings and mossy stone outposts, but the dust between Ink's toes couldn't be recognized as recent or hundreds of years old. The residents here must be putting up a fight, just from his personal experience with them. Error barely had a hard time defeating even the strongest boss in any given AU. Maybe the reason he came, other than goal-oriented slaughtering, was to have decent entertainment from the battle system. Last time Ink saw him he was near-foaming at the mouth and furious, was he blowing off steam?

He could have just called them and said, "I wanna beat the shit outta you."

Traversing through, he noticed that the networking looked rather rushed and sloppy. The usual thick barricades he webbed up to keep victims in a maze of confusion could be slipped through as easily as sliding under a fence, cut, or even avoided altogether. Some segments were missing entirely. That wasn't like him at all. Error practiced fine perfection in whatever he did, studying the stitchwork in his dolls and if he found it unsatisfactory, he'd backtrack and do it all over again no matter how much time it would take. Ink caught him on multiple occasions rehearsing his speeches like someone about to go on stage, taking notes on himself, correcting pronunciation and finding ways to add the glitching and stuttering of his voice into the script itself, "It'll make it more interesting." he mumbled to himself.

Ink had the same problem. Especially whenever it came to something social or talent based, which he continued to fail at. It felt like no matter how hard he tried, gave it his all, the things he spoke about and the phrases he used were misunderstood, cringed at, or reacted with disturbance. Oh Ink, don't say things like that! Show some compassion.

But he did show compassion, he showed it all the time to the people that need it, was he heartless through and through like some people said? That can't be true, he did care about things to the extent that he's able to, and that's not so different from everyone else at all.

He didn't feel like a demon, did some people view him as one?

The Ruins looked more like a spider's web after a storm than anything Error would consciously construct.

And then a crumble of string, rock, and towers balanced between each other came into view, a vastly more secure nest of everything in the surrounding area. He could relate it to some types of caterpillars that spun silk to wind leaves together for a cozy night's rest, except the only rest someone would get in there was the kind that had you knocked out cold on the ground. He skipped up and took a peek inside through one of the loose points in twine. The monster of the hour, Hell himself, pacing circles around two entrapped beings, knotted and suspended in the air. A pot with the top plastered tightly over to prevent anything from spilling out, and a small child who looked more concerned than frightened-- or maybe that's just how their face was built.

So he hadn't started killing yet, they had some time to chat. He widened the opening, tearing it free and digging a path in rather than using the surely boobytrapped main entrance. Crawling through, Error's attention snapped to him and he watched in mild acceptance as their current enemy fell out and rolled on the deteriorated cobblestone pathway. He jumped back up to his feet and gave a friendly little wave.

Error immediately tensed, and faced them parallel. For this rare moment he chose not to say anything, but his jaw clenched and worried against itself, visibly quivering.

"Hey hey hey! How's it going?" Ink hopped from one foot to another, then whipped out his Yellow vial for a quick dose, just for the sake of a convincing and friendly introduction.

The glitch's chin stuttered, and he swallowed hard and took a great deep breath, collecting himself to reach up and pull string from his eyes. "What's up. Demon." such a friendsome nickname, Ink found it absolutely loving on most days.

"Oh to Them, a lot, I want to tell you all about it sometime! You'll find it hilarious. I would have talked to you about it sooner, but I haven't gotten the chance to see you face-to-face for some time, what's that about? Are you scheming?" and he pulled a teasing expression. When Error refused to respond and stood there blankly, he pushed further, "Is it some massive plot to destroy The Doodlesphere? I remember the last time you tried that, best year of my life honestly, you fled like a squirrel!"

"Best year of ʸ⁻⁻ʸ⁻⁻your life. Because I ʷ⁻⁻ʷ⁻⁻was ₕ₋₋ₕᵤᵣₜ₋₋hurting. And you were ʷ⁻⁻ʷ⁻⁻winning." Error countered with strained words.

"No, because it was fun. Afterwards --decades later of course-- even you admitted some of it was enjoyable!"

"No, ᴵ⁻⁻ᴵ⁻⁻" and he whined, shaking his head and shutting up. A wave of glitches ran over him and made him shiver.

Ink tapped his toes, the bones clikk-clikk-clikked on the old stone road, "Anyways, besides that, I've been missing you, and I found this amazing little trail in an AU." he actually did, and he wrote it down just in case he could suggest it later. The later was now, "So beautiful. Birchwood trees, lovely shadows, my favorite part was this little grey fence peeking behind some tree trunks. We should totally go look at it sometime."

Error stood still, buzzing.

"...Deer too, I reckon there's a carcass of one somewhere there."

"That's disgusting." he snarled.

"But you're always so fascinated by nasty stuff like that! I distinctly remember the time you were popping the limbs off of that lady's body, you looked happy in that moment, right?"

"I don't like ᵈ⁻⁻dead things because they are fascinating, I like dead things ᵇ⁻⁻because they are DÊ̴̡͕͚̟̞͓̬̘̮̮͠A̵̡̩̩̰͌́̉̇̐͒̈́͝D. And ₜₕ₋₋that's how it SHOȔ̵̡̝͔̖͉̲͈̒̀͐̾͊̚͝L̶͕̂͑̀̈́̃̓͋̈́̓ͅͅD̶̛̟̻̹̖͛̓̊̿̕ be. Like how 𝙔̶̩̎̽̑𝙊̷̧̛̥͙͖̰̟̗̟̥͑𝙐̸͙͎̇̎̋͒̆̓̿̑͂͘͜ should be! 𝘿̷̢̇́̃̍̈́̂͑̕͝𝙊̷̧̱͈̗͔̮̱̣̈́̎̄̇̉𝙉̵̢̡̢͕͔̼̲̬͙͚̏́̃'̷̼̞̝̮̮͊̉̔͂̇𝙏̴͖̘͉̲͉̇̐̊̆̓̐͆̀̆͠ ̵͉̓𝘼̶̛̝͙͕̩̜̙͋̈𝘾̸̮̲̰̝͒̅̀𝙏̶̧́̊̈̓̈́̌̚͝͝ ̷̢͇͕͙̣͚̜͉͒͊𝙇̸̨̫͚̻͙̣̗͒𝙄̶̬̘̱͈̥͙̺̱̜̣̓͒͋̑̀̒̑𝙆̷̛̙̜̮̻̗̜͎͆̈́̀̽̿͠͝𝙀̵̡̳̱̼͕̥̣̒̃͗̄̋͐͜͜ͅ ̷̺̈́͝𝙔̵̼͐͂𝙊̵̤̭̫͉͛̾̍̉͒͘𝙐̶̛̰͖̼̕ ̵̛̞̗̣͍͙̫̭̹̦̈̎͜𝙆̷̠̾̐͐͗̏̋͆͌͠𝙉̵̛͎̱͍̩̤̼̣̓̑͆͌͛̽͐͝𝙊̴̘̝̼̝̠̙͚̚𝙒̷͙̮̩̻́͒̈̆̚ ̶̛͇̓͊̂͗̃̓̉͆͠𝙈̵̨̰͎̯̫̼̹͎̮̋̆̈̏̚𝙀̴̢̝̬͉̐." his voice dripped with distrust, more than what Ink had grown accustomed to, consuming the sound of Ink's thoughts, the deafening white noise drowned it all out in the single moment where Error shrieked the loudest.

The glitches washed over Error's arms. He let out an octave swinging war-cry and threw up two erupting tremors of bone attacks, bursting from the ground in rapid succession, the twin lines were quick to curve around in his direction in a type of oval-circle between he and his opponent. Ink's reaction time buffered for a second, and he only just managed to leap up and escape the impalement he wound have faced from both sides. The neon red bones crossed, and he struck his feet out to catch himself on the slim sides of them. Another one shot up between them to stab him in the gut, he dove off and rolled, jabbing Broomie into the cobblestone and flipping up and over to balance on the end in a wobbled, quite messy standing tree pose, then dropped down so he held one hand on the handle and the other outstretched.

Error was impatient, and didn't wait for Ink's turn, instead he rubbed his eyes and glared at him through the mess of static, and summoned one of his Gasters. It shot before Ink could fully melt down, and a singing trail of smoke whispered up from a shallow gash in his shoulder when he rematerialized behind Error. They patted the flickers of flames down, gritting their teeth with a stuttering Yellow, asking to be more of a worried color, although he forgot the combination for it. The sleeve was crisped, the bone was burnt, and of course, hurt.

Another Gaster Blaster dropped in front of him, and opened it's mandibles wide. Ink splat into a puddle and zipped away between the cracks in the road. The shot blew a hole in the webbed cocoon.

As puddle-Ink ran by, the glitch hurried to stomp and kick the liquid as it passed. It splashed his flip-flops wet, but uncharacteristically, Error didn't seem to care, or even if he was bothered he refused to let it distract him. Now his feet were painted black.

They jumped up back to their feet, balancing on Broomie again, and put their hands out, "Okay! I didn't know you didn't like dead things, my bad! There was a miscommunication."

"Be Q̸̢̛͙̤͚̱̥̊U̸̖̥̺̰͉̼̽́̈̄͠͠͝Î̴̡̛͕̽̆̒̑Ẹ̶̛͙̦͈̼͈̠̱̊͜T̷̩͇̫͐̃͛͛̉̿͝͠. Be Q̸̢̛͙̤͚̱̥̊U̸̖̥̺̰͉̼̽́̈̄͠͠͝Î̴̡̛͕̽̆̒̑Ẹ̶̛͙̦͈̼͈̠̱̊͜T̷̩͇̫͐̃͛͛̉̿͝͠. I'm so sick of you!" Error's voice distorted, he ripped at the strings prematurely pouring from his sockets and flung them at his enemy. They whistled in the air.

There were three on their left and two on their right, Ink looked up at the webbed canopy above and spotted a dangling rope, several were free from the structure and were pointlessly scattered around, the ends of them curled and moving like the wispy tendrils of a jellyfish. It wasn't far, a few five or seven meters he could easily clear, but the jump was a risky one if he didn't execute it properly. He bent his knees and sprang for it, snatching it by the end and twisting his spine up to throw his legs to tangle his ankles with it further up. Looking down, the strings attacked poor defenseless Broomie, and writhed in a mess, winding around the object's handle and then violently firing it in a direction like a boomerang.

Broomie wacked into the wall for the eelish web to swallow it up.

Ink detangled himself and dropped down, spinning in the air and landing in a roll, which he turned into a superman pose. "Okay, Error hear me out--" A string shot by and caught them across the face, cutting them off. They fell sideways, a thin black line fresh over his cheek and nose.

"I don't want to hear you out! All you'll do is L̵̰͖͗͗͋̈̓Į̸̨̯̦̜͉̣͉͒E̷̖̥̜͆̈̑̑̉͘͝͠ͅ to me!"

Ink tapped three of his fingers to the wound, and brushed it to his tongue to taste. Now he really craved to be worried. They looked up at Error with a cheerful tune, "No? Haha! I never try to lie to you. Have I lied to you recently?"

"You lie. All the goddamn time." Error's voice cracked. "What else are you? A Liar. I can't ᵗʳ⁻⁻trust ₐₙy₋₋anything you say because ʸ⁻⁻you're just going to T̷̼͙͖͎̔̽R̴͕̗̥̱̗̮͇͆̈́̓͋͜I̸̡̫̩̯̫͎̝̤̐̄̾̒̕͜C̸͈̺̬̝͔̹̹̫͇͑̽̊͒̎̅́̐̀͝ͅK̷̡̼̠̤̱̺͖̓̓ me! YOU'RE EVEN L̸̛͚̳̟̭͕̱̑͆̒̄̒̒͋͋̓Ỹ̷̭̹̗̤̼̬͙̽ͅỊ̴́N̶͔̭͘G̵̢̛̛̖͕̠̞̊̉̈́̓͑̇̅̕--LYING TO ME RIGHT NOW. 'Have I lied to you ʳ⁻⁻recently' what a STUPID question."

Yellow, a sick and citrusy lemon in his mouth, urged to move up his throat for reconsideration.

The glitch raised his arms for another attack, and above a rainfall of bones fell arrow-straight. Ink bit their tongue to keep any spit-up at bay for the time being, scurrying in an awful hurry like a rat caught in a kitchen. A bone sliced through the air and thunked beside him, a lucky miss, he switched his direction and headed for the hole he'd come through from before, it still sagged in the wall, blazing sunshine behind it. If they could get him outside maybe they'd have better blocking advantages, compared to all the blue in this locked in town's square.

With every leap he felt elated, with every dodge and scamper he felt gleeful, and he knew from the taste of pain in the air that it was not the proper thing to feel. But he really couldn't help himself from giggling in a betrayal of his thoughts whenever he successfully evaded a close call. In a weird way, it reminded him of the snowball fight, except they were in the heart of a dehydrating desert this time rather than the warm welcoming steam from cups of hot chocolate.

What had changed? A close moment between friends had dramatically switched that day, had Ink done something wrong again?

They really, really hoped they could fix it. Whatever it was.

Bolted through the opening and came out dazed from the brightness, but speed didn't falter. Dashing up a Roman-esc pillar, leaping off the tip and bouncing off it's neighbor to hopscotch along, a madman burst from the cocoon and pulled himself to pursue. Not used to running, strings hooked the tops of buildings and he swung to skate his flip-flops on smooth, wind worn sidewalks until momentum sent him back into the air. His ability to keep a close chase was impressive-- considering how he wasn't the type to look like he could lift the bulk of his own weight.

"Can we talk about this?" Ink yelled, launching off to catch themself on a windowsill and scrambling inside the roofless ruin. His voice echoed, what a nice detail. There was another exit, a caved in wall, diagonal to the left from where he came, and out of that he bounced, instinctively reaching for Broomie to paint a slide he could skid on his heels down, but instead his hands came back empty and he fell three stories face-first onto sandy concrete with a 'plat!'.

Error swooped to the ruin in and stopped at the ledge. Not even chuckling at Ink's failure. He flicked his wrists to attach strings to somewhat stable bricks and threw himself on after, arms above his head. Ink brushed the dust off his face and rolled onto his back to avoid being the opponent's landing pad.

"Error!" he tried again, covering their imaginary vitals with their forearms, "Can we talk?"

"Ǹ̸̨̧̬͖̦͕̈́̆̾͆́́͊͌̚Ò̴̡̝͇̖̇!" he summoned bones in hands to strike at the Protector's weak attempt at a shield, whacking hard at their hands and elbows to get them to keel.

"Are you angry with me?"

"Y̵̧̳̬̙̼̫͓͍͕̞̾͛̅̋Ḛ̴̡̬̳͎̺̭͊͌̄̆̌͆̋̔̈́͜S̶̢̲̳̟̻͍̙̎̈́̉͐̄̀̎͝!"

"What did I do‽"

He swung back and dived a bone straight through Ink's stomach. They screamed. Lifeless char blood overflowed across his white shirt, and his friend looked ecstatic and relieved. He tore the weapon out, Ink's jaws snapped open and shut to gasp, and his eyes darted around. There was an alley a short burst of pace away.

"Ę̵̯̥̏̂͠V̴͕̱̎̈́̆̽̇͛̓Ě̷̘̜̬̀̐̿̓̊̚͠R̷̢̢̧͚̜̟͖͕̫̯̅̂̀̎̕̕Y̸̢̡̢͍̳̜̜̆͆̃̑̑̚͜Ţ̵̡̱̰̗̥͓̘̏̎̀̈Ḥ̶̡͉̤̭̜̪̜̝̓̓̈́͒̆̾̀͘I̸̞̝̮͂͊̑̑N̶̼͙͍͖̯̲̗͚͌̿͗̓Ġ̸̡̛̭̭̂̄̉̉̌̓̓͝. YOU DID EVERY⁻⁻ⱽ⁻⁻ᴿʸ⁻⁻THING TO ME." Error pulled back again, "!UOY OT ᎮͶIHTYЯƎVƎ Oᗡ ⅃⅃'I ᗡͶA"

"Say that again?" Ink got a hold of himself, giving eye contact and pressing their elbows into the ground to sit up.

"I'm going to 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡 you. Over. ᴬⁿᵈ Over. ᴬⁿᵈ Over ᵃᵍᵃⁱⁿ." he repeated in quieter waves, the same voice talking over itself. (ᵒᵛᵉʳ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵒᵛᵉʳ⁻⁻ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ᵒᵛᵉʳ⁻⁻ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵒᵛᵉʳ ᵃⁿᵈ⁻⁻)

They braced when Error's hands came back down, pinning them at their breastbone. His weight crushed into the crimson weapons and his knees met the pavement, his teeth were clenched so tight they creaked like an old house's door hinge.

"Hey dude--" they wiggled, "--we can talk this out y'know. I don't really want to die more than once this year, it wears on a person!" he chuckled to lighten up the situation.

"You're no person."

The burning fear in Error's lights scorched into Ink's own, and his riled stomach wrenched a horrible sensation. Yellow was too insistent now, it wanted out, it could find no happiness in those confident words, not even something to tease from. Ink saw an opportunity for escape, choked up the toxic color, apologized for his lack of options, and projectile vomited into Error's face.

Instantaneously, the glitch jumped up screaming bloody murder, clawing at his sockets and scrambling backwards. He tripped and landed hard on his spine, kicking his feet and tossing himself from side to side. Salt on a slug.

Ink pulled at the bone attacks and cried out when they ripped free. He threw them aside and shot into the alley, where Error's mangled voice echoed worse.

Pressing into the wall he breathed, a habit to soothe. With a draining palette he lacked the ability to properly assess the sound, at the moment it was just simple screaming. There wasn't a thing disturbing about it. That had to change.

They checked their vials, every single one intact, and selected Pink so they could try and understand what was happening, Magenta to process 'You're no person' -because he thought that was right-, and Green to have the curiosity to keep pushing. He drank them in order. And in a snap the screams suddenly threw him, torn with agony and awful rage, Error's voice was always awkward to listen to, now the sound was harrowing, the beautiful rises and octave falls contorted into an overlapping shriek that rang their quivering wine glass body to the tune of a wretched opera performance. He bit his tongue and paused before moving to choke Magenta and Green down.

He panted, eyes watering up, and clicked them all back where they belonged.

It's true, Ink wasn't a person. The bleeding holes in their body proved how hollow and empty they were, blatantly broadcasted to those around them like the sickly-sweet smell of rotting bodies. Pink made the words hurt worse than they actually should, because Error was a friend, Error was supposed to be the one who knew and understood them, right? He was their best friend. He didn't mind Ink's inherent echoed noise, mimicking what they thought was how a mind should sound. The friend that could understand what kind of existence this fictional world gave to them, knowing that they might be the only aware beings here. Not even that, the pointless conversations they shared, Ink really thought they had something unique compared to everyone else, something uncharted in any character dynamic that made their bond feel special to him. To Error, he felt more than a poseable doll, in a way, he felt real.

The cries died down, Ink heard a animalistic hiss.

Error wasn't feeling like himself. They reminded. So the words didn't count.

-Error-

Wiping the last of the ink from his eyes. Error still only saw red.

His fingers shook when he flicked the liquid off. Trembling. Awful so. Each pulse from his soul sending powerful quivers. Even his legs felt it.

Hunched over, his lower spine throbbed from the fall, drool dripped down in front of his toes.

And the alleyway waited.

The alleyway,

Ink waited.

Ink waited.

In all their lies, their fake words, their manipulation.

Everything,

Ink had ever,

Said.

Error remembered their crumbling words, their faraway lights, the words they described when they spoke the things Error recognized himself in. He'd knelt down in front of them, he looked at them with written puzzle, and then he had smiled in caution, in relief.

But Ink,

Did not love him.

The way Error thought they did.

He trembled into action, dragging his feet over the road to where his eyes locked on to. Each step was the only sound on the street. The alley inched closer.

Error met with the corner, still staring dead ahead, a twitchy cloud of buzz and fuzz building over his head, obscuring the shape of his skull in it's black and white static.

Ink was pressed up tight to the wall, not dare joking around.

...

The bone attacks lying on the pavement evaporated so their owner could collect their magic.

...

A slight breeze brushed the rooftops, a dusty and forgotten flag flew on by. The insignia worn out.

...

"Ink." Error clicked.

The Protector nodded, "That's me."

...

...

...

It bubbled to the surface, it boiled and burned, Error's tongues retreated to the back of his mouth and he summoned a bone in left hand to swing past into the alley-- aiming. Ink maneuvered and ducked just as the sheer determination of the Destoryer's arm hilted the attack all the way up to his fist, firmly embedded.

A moment passed. Nobody moved.

"....I understand you're a little pissed off right now." Ink whispered, "...And I just wanna say none of this affects my viewpoint on you, okay?"

Ink always lied.

"...You... never cared about me." replied a huskier whisper.

One could hear Ink swallow, and to a neurotic mind that meant confirmation of fears.

...

Error abandoned the attack and summoned another, kneeling down to strike again. Ink grabbed hold of the lodge and swiftly lifted his legs up. The second dove just as deeply as the first.

The liar rat's feet were shaking, suspended in the air.

"I do care about you, Error." a crack in their voice, "Can you--" sniffle, "Can you please tell me what I did wrong?"

...

...

//Is he really that scared?

The voice barely spoke above the gentle breeze that caressed the crumbled ruins, and it hung in Error's head.

Scared.

An embarrassingly weak trait to have.

Why would Error be scared of anything.

His lights trapped onto the vials. Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Cyan, Magenta, Pink, Purple, and Black. All ten were the source that kept their mouth running and lying. The Destroyer grinned up at them quite full of regret already, a twisted look of guilt and the beginnings of preparational grief. Ink's jaw quivered and his brow tightened, they very subtly shook their head.

"Pal. You're the closest thing I have to a real friend." Pink and Magenta spoke for them, he could see it in their eyes.

"...You don't know me. Ink." Error lowered his voice, "and you never did."

He lunged up to snap at the bandolier with his teeth, snagging a portion of it that was ripped off when Ink used his face as a push-off out of the alley. They scrambled in the air, landing disgracefully wrong on their ankle. Error shook his head from the pain of contact, a little blinded from the dirt Ink left, he clawed his way towards the hazy figure with rottweiler quality. Ink held his heel and shin and snapped it back into place, then fled down the street, their claws frantic on the road, making little nicks in the old pavement.

The ankle wasn't connected properly, uneven it threw off his speed and kept rolling itself, causing him to stumble and trip every few five bounds. Error caught up quick and snatched the duo tails of Ink's scarf with his strings, the ground swept from under them and they landed on their back with a nasty crack. He yelped, and twisted over, revealing that nothing had been broken, to tug at the other end. The fabric tightened over his neck vertebrae.

"C'mon! You don't really mean any of this!"

Error climbed his hands up the length of the string to pull Ink closer, their heels dragged stubbornly with a grinding marble on marble type sound. Long melting dribbles of blue magic left the unstable construct knotting around the scarf, spreading off on their own and splatting on his feet, bleeding out from between where he had them gripped in his fingers like he was squishing slime. Ink held their ground, black ick solidifying their feet in place.

Rather than hold eye contact as an intimidation method, Error kept his eyes where his goal was. The Orange vial's pocket was dangling from the rip threading between it and Red.

He was too tunnel-visioned to let go when the world started tipping into the ground, and flushed with an ugly toxic paint you could taste in your toes. Ink's portals always felt claustrophobic. Like being suddenly blinded and submerged in ice cold water. The pool spread from Ink's grounded shoes and warped around to sink Error's legs into it, they both went under, and the paint lapped itself back up as if it had never existed. The new world weaved itself together, stitching sand in his flip-flops and waves in his skull.

Ink had managed to escape, one tight pull had snapped the strings and allowed him to dash away into the island mess of ferns and trees. Their feet kicked up dust as they went.

Error had reformed on his hands and knees, the pathetic blue string limp on the ground, the sand clung to it's weird tactile wet.

He hadn't really realized he was breathing so heavily, his chest had been screaming at him for ages it seemed. Inhaling a wheeze that ran by in several distasteful zipper-sounding cords that plucked his voice twice at once, short, barely appropriate exhale, making an attempt to suck in the code around him for support. The ocean in high tide, just in single digits away from the break of the forest, rolled back. His feet rested in the damp sand it had smoothed over moments before.

Wind shoved at his back, edging his coat up his spine in one unwelcoming gust, carrying spare droplets.

The sky was the same color as the water. He collected himself on his feet and started jogging after where Ink had lost himself to. Taking a brief look at the ocean to see it swell, the crest of the wave chaotic in the wind, mighty and imposing like a mountain, dragging the small slides of water back out to add to it's height, he didn't stay to watch it crash.

It was too high, and struck a sharp note in the whine of his throat.

He scrambled into the green and leapt over a log. Spotting the white of Ink's shirt off ahead he made a break towards it, not able to swing around as easily, he made do with what stamina he had, which in anxiety and determination, proved to be plenty. The night darkened the corners, and he saw Ink trip and vanish underneath the fauna. Error made use of a few shortcuts, which glitched the trees around him and took a few poor plants with.

Blue sweat beaded down his face, and he threw his arms out to catch himself on two thin brother saplings.

The ferns were quiet, but the dirt had been shifted, and the fresh earthy scent couldn't mask the smell of sharpie markers.

He halted his breathing, and gathered up enough magic for an attack. It sparkled at his fingertips as his hands left the saplings and hung like the claws of a raptor at his sides.

The ferns were quiet.

In the dim Error's eyelights highlighted the dew on the leaves, casting small shadows on the ones beneath them. Ink would comment on the shadow rendering in such a bubbly-sweet tone, as of current, his voice should bubble with charcoal blood instead.

He jut up his hands, and from the ground a floor healthy crimson red spiked from the undergrowth, impaling leaves. Error jumped to tear away the plant to see his damage, with green crushed in his palm he found nothing. Hissing and glancing around feverishly, trying to spot any black ick maybe strewn over one of his attacks, or off trailing into the forest. Still smelling sharpie, he tried looking up, but the trees only loomed. His gaze fell on the ferns beside the ones he had just desecrated.

A glare worth shivering under scanned its surface. And he could hear the disembodied giggling of Them.

Error snarled and erupted up a fresh round of an attack, spiking through and hitting something solid-- a sharp yelp was peeled from Ink as a bone skinned across his shoulder blades, he shot up and used one of the shooting attacks as an elevator to project himself into the treetops, however they were unlucky. Their foot slipped and grated down the sharp side, cutting it clean open by the arch and leaving a sticky trail of their namesake painted along it's narrow side. The blunder sent them flailing to the ground, they rolled over on their back, escape not a smart option to try.

"Okay! I'll admit I haven't been amazing, I know I'm not ideal, but I'm trying my best!"

"Your ʇsǝq?" he spat, the sticky saliva strung around the abandoned and torn leaves by his feet, "You're trying to K̸̺̫̗̹̭͕͚̼̫̀ͅI̶̩̬͖̹̭̳̞͕̤̞̎̔̃̈́̇̔̚͝Ļ̴̪̤̯̹̟̗̮͔̫̾L̴̡̦͉̘͖̩̼̽ ̷͕̹̣̺͔̠̥͙̞͌M̴̱̼̱̱̩̔̓͛́̄̓͋̓̑E̸͓̦̦̗͎͕̅̿̾̈́͘͠ͅͅ! How is that considered your ʇsǝq?"

They curled their hands around their foot, covering the wound, and blood spurt out from between his fingers. "What did I do?" he asked it so genuine, voice hushed more like he was asking himself, and dirt smudged on his eyebrow. Pleading, begging with eyes that didn't want to lie. Error's gut caved in on itself, and the rage engrained on his face let up for a break to make for the guilt, the horror.

That expression refused to reform into anger, so in desperation he screamed, "I'M ∩̴̡̼̜̒͂̿̇͌̂̌̚O̷̡̎͋⅄̸̗̓̍ ℲO ⋊ƆIS AₛₖING THA̵̢̛̬̱̭͖̗͈̔͌͌͐̍ɐɐɐÄ̷̢̦͖̞̻́͆̍̓̉̈́͐̉̚͝A̵̡͇̠̹̯̲̪̦̳̘̍T." and yanked a bone from the ground and held it above his head with both hands, "I'M D̵̛͍͎̾͊͊͂͒̀͊̅̋ONĖ̴̛̥̫̰͇̲̜̲̭ ̴̩̰̪̫̤̱̻̾̌͜͠BEING ̴͉̻̳̀͠͠S̶̨̟̘̯̩͚̰͌͛͠C̷͉̖̓̓̾̇͌̚AR̸̨̤͔̼̼͂E̸̯͔̘̓̀͛͐̏͐̌̈͘D̸͍͚͓̘̎̉̋̏̔͘̕. I'M DONE FₑₐᵣᵢₙG Ỷ̴̧̥̬̙̱̖̼͙̿̽̅̍͜͠ₒᵤ. TODAY IS THE YAᗡ TꙄA⅃ YOU WILL EVER HAVE CONT̵̢͓͈͉̭̱͛͂̔͗̀̐̉͌̌Ŗ̶̧̹͉͔̮̀͂̿̅́̕Ǫ̸̬͎̗̳̟̯̘́͑̅L̶̗̹̫̬͎̮̈́̋͗͘ OVER ME!"

He threw himself down, gripping the attack hard enough to strain his fingers. Wild, hurt, wanting a release in any fashion, any kind of break from his brain, but the strain of his actions peeled his skull apart like an orange. Down came it, aiming for Ink's teeth, jam it right up the throat and pierce the vertebrae, skewer the tongue and choke the flow of paint, drive it into the soil with a wet thump. And at last he'd finally have his time alone. No thoughts. No troubles. No fear. For the month of peace he would have, spent being what he did best, thinking thoughts he's familiarized himself with, treading mental tracks that his feet have left a clear path in.

Freedom.

The attack hit the soil, as predicted.

The rain droplets dappled his back, and the wind ruffled the treetops with a screaming whistle. Ink's arms were up in defense over his neck, shaking bad with his head turned off to the side and eyes shut tight. The weapon was wedged less than a hair's width from his skull, and along it's length a heavy, periodic shiver shook down it like a radio signal.

What was wrong with him. His phalanges clicked against each other and he blinked a few disorderly blinks to look through the gradual blur in his sockets, sticky with string that clung to the edges in a gum-like, disgusting way.

He pulled back, quite weak, and held the weapon up again, Ink did not look. When it was stabbed a second time, in the same exact position, the Protector peeked his eye open, curious.

//Chat, I'll bet my mother's urn I could have killed twice as many Inks as Error right now.

//Oh totally.

Error's skull involuntarily twitched to the side, cracking vertebrae. He took his hand away to wipe at his face, the string attached onto his sleeve and peeled away with it's withdrawal. He gripped back at the crimson magic, willing the same determination from before to pulse through his bones for a simple thirty seconds. Let it be over, he pulled back a third time, staring down at his best friend, who met his gaze with something that wasn't what he assumed before. It wasn't Green, but a messy, milky sort of Magenta, outlined with a light gentle Pink, liquid and unshapely in the backdrop of the soulless black where it resembled bloody-red eyes that you'd see on something fleshy, shot and broken iris, glassy with affliction. One more time, out of confusion he hit not the target.

He couldn't try it a fourth, his two hands let go and the magic dissolved.

A coward, he crab scuttled backwards until he hit a tree, and reached back to dig his claws into the bark. Ink's face scared him, but he couldn't pinpoint what kind of fear it was.

The rain had been in a scattered sprinkle, but the infrequency of it's amount told of a greater waterfall just beginning to open up above them.

What was wrong? He shouldn't be hesitating here, this is what he wanted, this is what he had been driving for, and yet he stuttered. Ink's ugly black ick strewn all over the jungle floor, chopped open like a cantaloupe and oozing everywhere. That's what he wanted, that's what he wanted! A moment of peace, silence, himself, he wanted himself again, he wanted to feel like how he used to without all this brain fluff and static tormenting his way of thinking. He wanted to go back to a time where looking at something vaguely artistic wouldn't send him grinning and stimming, he wanted to go back to when misery dominated his existence like how it should be, not tainted and poisoned by the light giddiness of something truly satisfying, not simple and sustainable as it had been.

And in a way he had succeeded, he was feeling miserable. Look at what he had done to poor Ink, who maybe this time, didn't deserve the level of punishment that was given to him. An easy slap on the wrist or screaming match would have been fine, there wasn't anything Ink hated more than being called a fake. This battle here was overdone. Too much. It missed the mark on what a proper telling off was fit for the situation.

Because they did deserve retaliation. They made him like this. All stuttery and fluttered. Light chest, light thoughts. It was cruel to do this to any monster. What torture Ink had cursed.

//Oh, you narcissist. "You made me do this!" blah blah blah.

And have They even paying attention?

//"It's his fault", "I did it to punish him". Wake up and see yourself in the mirror. Ink was never in the wrong. It's all on you.

It's not true. They don't know what They're talking about. If anyone made him do this it's Them. They've been bothering him since the beginning, stashing nightmares in his dreams and edging him on. They've done nothing but make it worse, maybe if They'd go away, tape Their mouths shut, he could have thought things through and reasoned that this wasn't the right way to tell Ink off. He could have done it verbally.

//Blaming everyone else but yourself. What a fantastic way to go about this.

He shook his head out, yelling in a bit of frustration and letting go of the tree to allow his hands to shake like leaves, wanting to grab and rattle those horrible Creators, why had They been so awful lately? He missed the one that used to cry out anime lingo whenever he and Ink shared eye contact.

Speaking of, Ink had sat up by now, and was watching him with a pinch to their eyebrows, hands hung tight on the fabric at their elbows and a hunch curved their spine over. Ink never appeared to display any sense of real fear, they only cried, wailed, and pretended to flinch against the impending rips and tears of their corpse of a body. It was all an act. But the expression they wore in that moment was more real than anything they had dared show in front of him before. Something patient and low, not the same as the curious stares he'd give from time to time, but in the same vein. The tinge of difference was the eerie look of fault he had mixed in, as if the last half hour was weighted firmly on his shoulders and no one else's, even though he didn't throw a single hit.

Ink didn't throw a single hit. Fat raindrops splattered on Error's face and he recoiled, thumping his back into the tree and covering his head with his hands, and in that sizzling shock he spit, "Why do you 𝕝𝕠𝕠𝕜 like that?"

"Huh?" their eyes perked up by a millimeter.

"Why do you ˡ⁻⁻look like that?"

"Like what?"

"So 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘺." the shoulders of his coat were beginning to let in the wet.

"Guilty," Ink looked down to contemplate, a dangle of drool hanging from his teeth in Magenta, "I thought I did something wrong."

"Well, you did."

"So, what did I do wrong?" they looked back up, solemn.

Such a stewed question, too long cooked. "You... grrrA̸̢̧͎̫̩͔͈͇̠̅͋͑̂̎͂̋́̉ͅH̵̘̯̙̥̿́̾͊̂͠͝G̶͔͇̲̲̳͈̠͊́̑͒̂͗̅͝ͅ--A̸̢̧͎̫̩͔͈͇̠̅͋͑̂̎͂̋́̉ͅH̵̘̯̙̥̿́̾͊̂͠͝G̶͔͇̲̲̳͈̠͊́̑͒̂͗̅͝ͅ--rrr--hₕₕₙ..." he reset his shoulders, which were in a light glitch-out, the trees were lifesavers but lacked still, "Your first mistake was ever thinking you were my friend. I was-- ₕ₋₋ₕ₋₋happy without you. ᵢ₋₋I knew what I was and what I was meant to do, ₐ₋₋ₐₙd₋₋and then you're here, and you're here all ₜₕ₋₋the time and I--" he choked, not realizing he built up a sob, "You look at me like a little bitch, with your bitch-lazy-eyes, and I hate you for that--I ₕₐₜₑ₋₋ₕₐₜₑ₋₋ₕₐₜₑ--𝙃̵̢͕̫̪̦̞̝̯̝͈͆̾̐͛̊̄͐́͌̔𝘼̵̺̹͔͖̱̃͛̓̉̀̑͗͗̅͘𝙏̵̯̳̥̪̈́̏͒͂̊̋̋͠ͅ𝙀̷̖̠̫̆̂́͐̃́̃̽͐̕ you and I wish you'd Ḑ̷͎̯̣͒̽͑̀͐̍I̷͇͌͝E̶̢̥̖͑̓̓̂̌̌." Then he whined, "But you're so 𝘽𝙊𝙍𝙄𝙉𝙂 when you're dead!"

"It is awfully uneventful being dead. You just do nothing. Nothing to do, and you're not really thinking about it."

It began raining harder, more fat droplets, thick with displeasure, nailed themselves through his damp clothes and hammered through the bone like hacking a wood driver through a log. He whimpered and pressed up against the tree as it all came down at once. Sting sting sting sting like miniscule wasps. Soon the storm kicked up and a white sheet of downpour battered the island. Ink was up on his foot, found balance and held his hands up to the sky, the liquid moved around his fingertips and tried to spread out into a shape, standing as straight as can be.

One stretch too much, the wet, torn leaves left by the Destroyer's panic caught on the deep cut in his foot and he crunched down, which tipped his balance and he slipped, striping blood across the ground and getting dirt in the wound. They huffed in overwhelm, and turned to Error who had slipped down to sit and curl into a pathetic ball, like a child he wailed, tearing his nails down his face. Ink got up, keeping the weight off that leg, and tried again. This time he managed to resummon Broomie, sculpting it to reality.

"Can you teleport?" he yelled over the noise.

"I'm not getting in your wet f₋₋fᵤ₋₋fucking wormhole!"

"Are you serious‽" Ink's voice was shrill, more worried than the anger he was supposed to have in those words, "Where else are you supposed to go?"

"ₙ₋₋ₙ₋₋ₙ₋₋nowhere! I don't wₐ₋₋wₐ₋₋want to be ₐₙy₋₋anywhere! ₍ₐₙywₕₑᵣₑ!₎" he cried, glitches crowding over his vision, feisty for space. Snot stringed from his nose, linking itself along his chin, and again down to his knees.

This was all too stressful. He wanted his beanbag. He wanted his Sans dollie. He wanted anything but this. Not knowing how to comprehend this guilt he bore shamefully in his streaming teary-eyed face, why he had it, or how to reverse it. Oh, he really did hate himself. He wished he could turn back time.

𝕊𝕠𝕣𝕣𝕪! 𝕀𝕥 𝕤𝕖𝕖𝕞𝕤 𝔼𝕣𝕣𝕠𝕣.𝕖𝕩𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕚𝕥 𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕... ℙ𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕓𝕪 𝕨𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝕨𝕖 𝕗𝕚𝕘𝕦𝕣𝕖 𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕓𝕝𝕖𝕞.

Chapter Text

ℝ𝕦𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕖𝕣𝕣𝕠𝕣 𝕕𝕖𝕥𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕕. ℝ𝕖𝕤𝕠𝕝𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕟𝕠𝕨...

When Error came to, he was in his beanbag with a blanket tucking him in snug, it's explosive pattern was familiar, and he recognized it as the one he'd awkwardly gifted to Ink.

His Sans doll was wedged in his hands, secure at his chest.

And Ink sat at a polite distance, playing with a fidget toy, a spinner he twacked and hopped from finger to finger. Their eyes followed the toy, locked on a distant, fuzzy Green, in twin shapes of spinning spirals. Hop, the toy was on the pointer of their right hand, it spun and their eyelights dosed speed in bursts along with it, in where they would gain more solid, pristine shape, but only for a common moment, then they’d recede to die back down to a lazy, hazy turn. Hop, the toy was on the middle, a mere blur. Hop– the toy slipped on the sharp edge of his claw, and clattered to the ground.

They went to pick it up, looking to Error with an absentminded expression. Once it registered Error was awake, their eye perked up with light, losing their fluff edges and twisting into a triangle and a clever four-leaf clover. "Oh!" they breathed, "you're back!"

[Five Minutes Later (condensed in a simple way the average Jane would understand, because time does not exist in the Anti-Void)]

"GET OUT OF HERE," Error raged, chucking chocolate bars at Ink's head, who covered himself with an irritating sort of anticipated grin. "MOVE. GO. LEAVE."

"Hold on!" a bar hit his wrist, "Don't freak out!"

"COME BACK LATER. ERROR IS NOT ₐᵥₐ--AVALIABLE."

"Ten seconds! Wait ten seconds! I--" Error found himself one of those small, artificial plastic syrup barrels of 'juice', nobody remembers what they're called, he flung it right into one of the bleeding holes in Ink's chest where it smacked against the sapped cloth and made Ink yelp, a hand went to guard it as the barrel bounce-to-rolled away.

Immediate guilt, Error shrieked and curled in on himself, in hiding. His bones rattled against each other as the unwanted consideration of Ink's pain raked his newly bred brain, fresh from the recurvings of a reboot, oh his innards ached. He muttered incomprehensibly, words on repeat that frequented a hissing type of letter, tickling his tongues and greeting his teeth.

"Just leave, just leave, just leave," his bones feigned the feel of hunger, weak and weary, his clothes were damp still.

"Nope, you're too interesting to leave behind!" He joked.

"...Just leave, just leave, just leave..."

He hurt Ink. He hurt Ink. Which to him shouldn't be as crippling as it was in current. He hurt Ink shiploads of times, blended their skull with the pavement, turned them to clear reflections of the afflicter: black and blue, bleeding liquid pavement from their nose. It wasn't fair. Ink shouldn't be here, they should be off telling Dream and Blue what's become of their supposed 'best friend', they should be getting healed up, comforted, not here. Oh anywhere but here. It wasn't right. He didn't feel too good, he wanted to sleep, he wanted to forget, he wanted to spend the next millennia alone.

He wanted to die.

No not yet. No no no. Ink just needed to leave. Little disrupter of peace, of structure. Once Ink was gone it would only be a little bit longer, Ink just needed to be gone. Ink needed to leave. And then things would go back to normal.

Just leave.

Ink stayed quiet with a listening look to their lights. Error was vaguely aware of his thoughts being public, but still couldn't decipher why they were being observed in a stride of patience. They mustn't be vocal enough, he didn't feel as if his mouth was moving, just the hum of his own mind. Those eyes unwound him apart. Whether it was relevant Ink understood him, they were still staring. Staring soulless, creature of objectivity and callous fun and games. Curling round his shuddering pulsemaker like the un-benign (culturally defined!) claws of a striped killer. Prey beneath the trappings of someone clever.

But he couldn't do anything about it. About being observed.

"You chatter a lot," they commented, "I'm sorry, haha. You know, I was kind of worried you'd start attacking me again! This is quite the subversion," he giggled, eyes squinting in a lovely way, an affectionate way, before returning to a focused, laughless default. It's not funny, Ink.

"I think it's kind of cute when you go on little rampages like that," but there was something off about the tone, like a lie, "I.. adore the narrative... something," he looked weirdly cloudy about it.

"I called you cute, Error. Aren't you going to curse at me?"

("...I'm bored. And then you'll say:")

Error shivered. And said nothing.

"Okay, yeah that's sound. I wouldn't wanna yell either if I were shaking like you."

It’s a trap… It has to be. Nobody loved him. There is nothing, not in the wide expanse of Nothing itself, that hints at the possibility of being cared for. Drippy words leaking care and cautiousness, it cannot be true because things like that are a thing he is not allowed to own. Who in their right mind would tolerate nearly getting killed, or as dead as Ink could get. Who would survive that horrible sort of thing, and then willingly crawl back to the culprit? Unless they had other intentions.

But that's okay. He supposed. The result might not have to be postponed, Ink would do it for him, and wouldn't that be practical. Breaking his neck off for destroying all that they guarded, he could see it whenever his eyes closed. He fucked up. And he was going to pay the price. There was no 'their normal', there was only Ink.

"Remember when you gave me that doll of Dream? I know you've both despised each other for ages, at first I thought you'd gone ahead and stuffed the poor kid. And turns out it was just fluff inside. I still have that somewhere. Maybe in a drawer," he hummed, then after a beat rustled in his scarf, rummaged again, then groaned, "Augh! I forgot my sketchbook on the beach. To Them, it's probably getting soaked!" they pressed the heels of their palms onto their closed and frustrated sockets, "It's ruined at this point. What a waste, I was halfway finished with it too! Why am I like this, why am I like this."

Ugly talk. Bizarrely it pricked him, reminding him of nervous words and tentative, quiet admissions. Error lifted his head up and exhaled sharp through his nose, but when Ink dropped their arms to pay attention, the glitch had hidden away in his sleeve. Ink's eyelights held a glint of Magenta he had noticed earlier, during the fight.

"It's fine. I'll get another one. It's just so utterly disappointing, you know?"

Error understood disappointment.

They gave a long, drawn-out sigh, dropping their hands to their lap, sitting Seiza.

"I really need to get these colors out of my system, they're boring. We're past the point I needed them at," He let that moment drag, eyes trailing down to his bandolier, giving a light hum at the sight of it, he looked up at Error, pointed at Yellow, “Do you mind?"

Error made a face, and shook his head. Feel whatever you want, Squid.

Ink hung out his wide tongue and soaked it in Yellow, it dribbled off the round sides, and he lapped it back into his mouth, running the ecto along his teeth and chewing the liquid. Swallow. Hummed again. And tucked the vial back where it belonged.

A good, soft smile reformed his expression, the golden contentness.

They could feel whatever they wanted. One can't obstruct a force of nature, it just made obeying it all the more horrific.

"Well! That's that I suppose. I'll leave you to it."

He grabbed Broomie and gave the item a fond grin, then painted the floor. Ink held his foot and went to press it into the ick, but hesitated. He looked up at Error.

"Blue's having a sleepover soon. I'll let you know when."

He dipped his toes in, and the rest of him fell forwards, melting in real time and slapping against the floor, splattering bits of ink. Then the puddle collapsed inward, imploding on itself until there was no more.

Error lifted his head up, and stared at where Ink was. Upwards, he saw his hanging dolls, his in-progress masterpieces, the web. What he was before, what he could have been.

He leaned back, hands loosely hanging onto his knees.

And waited for a 'when.'

-Dream-

They were speechless.

"So, yep! Cool right?! I invited him to the sleepover I hope you're okay with that. Blue will be happy to see him again, I can't remember the last time we all hung out in the same place. It's gunna be fun! I'm bringing my watercolors-- oh! that reminds me! I totally need a new sketchbook! You see the last one I was working on got left behind in Oceantale, it's drenched, out of commission, in a forced retirement. Do you wanna come with me to snatch a new one? You look a little shellshocked, are you okay?"

"Uhm," Dream's voice wavered with uncertainty, eyeing the dried black blood stains on Ink's shirt, "so, when you said..... 'he's not tough to beat'.... I would've thought that would leave you uh.... less wounded."

"Huh? I didn't beat him," Ink dipped a small brush it in the medium-sized droplet of paint he'd squeezed out on the rock he sat upon. Dream had been enjoying their time by the lake in this tranquil AU, then Ink had emerged out of the water like a shark and tackled them to the ground, immediately pouring with the horrifying news. "He beat himself."

The pair were sitting on a rock outcropping that hung a quaint half foot from the water's surface, down a barely noticeable slope was the bank Ink had accumulated from. The rock-- a light grey and was covered in lichen-- had three considerate benches they could sit upon. The lake's surface sparkled.

"I'm confused."

Ink applied the brush to one of the holes in his abdomen, warping and blending the wound closed. "It wasn't really a fight. He just had to get some anger out of his system before he told me what was wrong. But in the end he managed it, and it's all figured out now."

"Ink," Dream pinched the bridge of their nose, and sucked in a breath through the nose, "typically, when someone decides to take their anger out on someone," they gathered their next words carefully, and dropped their hand to hold Ink's gaze, they wanted to be as gentle as possible with this. Ink's eyelights held no knowledge of the things that were about to come out of his friend's mouth, those curious, happy eyelights were not prepared. Nobody was ever prepared to hear these words at any point in their lives, Dream wanted to be considerate, but they couldn't bear the anxiety any longer.

"It means they're not.... uhm. Ink I know you care a great deal about Error, and on the rare occasion I find him interesting too, so I understand. You've been through a lot, and you may think he's the best option for you... but," Ink's expression was blank, "Brother, I don't think Error's very healthy for you. I think you should distance yourself from him."

There was a long pause.

Dream frowned, sympathetic, and when Ink continued not to say or express they lifted their arms up for a hug, "I know--"

"WUAHAH!! What?" He burst out, smiling big like the sun and eyes creasing up in amusement, "You think Error's not healthy for me? I'm not healthy for HIM!" he stomped his foot on the ground in glee, "Oh you kidder! Lemme tell ya, the amount of times I've ruined this monster's life is uncalculated. I can't even remember the last era I was moderately decent to him, except for this one. This one is new. Oh to Them, Dream!" and then he was filled with unchecked excitement, and Pink blossomed, overtaking Yellow, "I didn't even get to tell him about the new discovery I made! I'll tell him at the sleepover."

"What discovery?" Dream had a pit in their stomach.

"That I love this color!" He said, as if it explained everything, he pointed to his eyelights, "I love it! I've decided to start taking it more often around him, something about the color and his presence make my bones feel all wiggly, like I swallowed a sack of puppies."

Dream held a finger up in protest, "Wh-- Which color?"

"Pink. I think it's the right thing to do. The thing I've been missing."

The word came out crippled, "Pink?" After what Error did to Ink? Beating him senseless and threatening to find a way to permanently kill him?

"Are you okay?" Ink raised a brow.

"Am-- am I okay? Are YOU okay‽"

"You don't seem to be very happy for me," he crossed his arms in a nonchalant manner, pulling a face and shaking his head, "Damn, and the movies made it look easy."

"Pardon me, Ink, but Error could have done some serious damage, and you're feeling these things for him. I'm incredibly worried. Do you even know why he was attacking you in the first place?"

"Sure I do."

"Then what, Ink, how could this possibly be okay?" Dream's voice had raised, and in the silence that followed they felt guilty for it. Ink the enigma, coming back up in unexpected ways, with unexpected choices, it wasn't right to yell at him. They stared at each other, and Dream covered their mouth and looked away, "Sorry," they murmured.

"It's alright," Ink reached over to pat them on the shoulder. He maintained eye contact, "I get that you don't understand. But I know how he works, inherently," Ink lowered his voice, "He doesn't have the guts to get rid of me," and then he winked, like it was some secret he was letting Dream in on.

"I'm going to puke," Dream stood up and treaded an anxious circle, "Just give me a minute to process."

Ink gave the OK handsign.

They immediately started talking again, "I don't feel comfortable with him at the sleepover."

Ink was alarmed, "What? I promise he'll behave, he won't cause you any problems."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded, "He's worn out, he's gunna want to eat and sit in the corner the whole time."

"I--" Dream huffed, examining their friend's eyes. There was no pinch of distress, but why would there be? Ink chose what he felt. They sat back down, "Do you need help patching up?"

He nodded, and pointed a thumb to his back.

Dream moved behind him, and saw the gash running across his shoulder blades. They grimaced, and settled down to set their legs on either side of him, they tugged his white shirt down to make sure it was covering everything, and then lifted up the small brown jacket over his head, it rested at his wrists. There the wound was a little easier to gain access to. Unlike Ink's drawn version of healing, Dream had to touch the wound directly, clothes prevented their work. But still, it must've been uncomfortable for Ink to be exposed. They wiggled their hand under the tear in the shirt, and pressed their palm to it, his back tensed.

"It's deep," Dream commented solemnly, their hand began to emit a faint glow.

"You should see my foot, that's deeper."

"Hm."

The wound unfolded bone outwards, doubling the area, the marrow twining fingers with its faraway neighbor and tightening to seal it close like a zipper. When that was finished, Dream swiftly returned their hand to lap and Ink put his jacket back on, he looked over his shoulder to give them a smile, it was laced with that strange hollowness he on a occasionally had underlying his expression. They never could figure out what it meant.

"Thanks, pal. I've got the rest handled myself."

He crossed his foot over the knee of the other, and held it to get a look at the black, glistening slit that closed whenever he curled his toes, and stretched in a horrible widening cat's pupil when he reached. He dipped his brush in the paint, and gently traced the edges. The paint didn't seem to make a difference, black on black being barely noticeable, but as his brush mingled with the felt of his stockings Dream could see the brown mix and bleed over. He painted over the abyss-like opening, connecting the two sides and filling in the remains. Two or three precautionary strokes and it was like it never existed.

Ink went on to paint the second hole in his chest.

Dream had their knees up, perching next to him, elbows on legs, hands propping head. They worried at their teeth as he worked, wanting to say things that would take the conversation nowhere, and keeping their tongue.

It wasn't right. The way Ink functioned. It was almost unfair. They knew there was a low chance of convincing Ink to abandon Error, this wasn't the first time they'd questioned his bond, but it wasn't fair to lovely Ink to have to put up with such mistreatment. Maniac or not, if Error was going to be that close to their adoptive brother, that creature had to make it up to Ink.

That slimy, unnerving, unjust creature.

They couldn't simply approach him and ask for him to apologize. From Dream's experience with Error, the monster did not take kindly to being told what to do. They very specifically recalled what should've been a small, insignificant correction. They'd alerted him that ignoring Blue's troubles wasn't very respectful behavior toward what he claimed to be a friend, and Error had started vehemently telling them off for 'not staying in their own lane.' and that he 'did listen.' Dream knew that was a blatant lie, nothing about Error's mindspace ever radiated true empathy, it was impossible to imagine him being as sweet at Ink reported.

Even now, Dream could practically taste the emotions running through Error's selfish skull at recent events. Offended someone would even be upset with his actions, huffing and puffing and rising his hackles at the slightest nudge towards accountability. And lovely Ink standing there taking it all for no solid reason they could understand.

Their body felt cold, the positivity dampened. They took a deep breath, it wasn't worth getting angry over, Error wasn't even here.

"Done!" Ink announced, holding his brush in the air ceremoniously.

Dream offered a smile, and complimentary applause, "Hooray!" The charcoal bloodstains were delt with, wounds were drawn up-- except for the cut along his cheekbone. Dream pointed, "Oh, you missed one."

"I did?" Ink touched his face, "I did!" and scooped up the last glubb of paint on the rock, smoothing over the cut firmly at first, then swishing the brush fast at the end.

"Now, you're all healed," Dream said.

"You can 'hooray' again."

"Hooray!"

Ink's wide, toothy grin shown itself in all its endearing glory. Crooked teeth, wrong in all the right ways. That's what was most compelling about Ink: how wrong he could be. The monster was an afront to nature, spitting in the eye of Mother herself and dancing giddily through a life that he didn't fit in with. He spoke wrong, acted wrong, thought wrong, and despite all the flaws that cast him aside from the rest of mosnterkind, it's what made him a marvel.

He knew things they didn't after all, and being the first creature to encounter after stumbling fluidity from a cold state of soul, some bonds didn't need to be perfect to be longlasting.
Dream knew flaws like nooone else did.

They sat in a tinge of awkward quiet. Words on Dream's tongue gathered in cold spit, Ink looked none wiser of it and was content sliding his brush back and eyeing the paint smear on the rock with a telltale mischievous twitch of a grin. Maybe he did know that Dream had something else to say, but Dream wouldn't know. They could never know.

"You look like you have an idea," Dream commented.

"Okay, you're gunna find this disgusting, but I don't really care," Ink knelt off the seat and in front of it, knee-level for Dream, and lolled his tongue. In a very slow, animalistic fashion, he dragged his Pink tongue over the paint smudge, leaving a dark band of wet in his wake. Lapping up his tongue hit his nose bridge before slurping back into his mouth. The paint was gone, he hummed in satisfaction. "Mmh, earthy and metallic," He noted.

"I'd figure. Rocks always taste that good."

Ink shot a more or less surprised look at them, "I guess they do, huh? Never took you as the type to crunch rocks."

"Hah! You are so mistaken! I was one to lick every stone I came across as a child. I still sometimes do.. out of curiosity."

"Which ones are your favorite?"

Dream thought about it, they recalled a distant memory. After a rainshower, in springtime, the river was overflowed and spilled past the bank, rushing mad. Late at night, they went down and found a pebble that sat out of reach of the fierce water, and placed it on their tongue. "The wet ones," they nodded decisively, "feldspar," they knew it from a book, but never read it themself.

"Good taste, bet you could've enjoyed some cheese to really enhance the flavor," he teased, "If you're anything like your sibling--hah! Wait, oh now I'm curious-- you're old enough to drink, right?"

They were a little stunned over the casual mention of their sibling, and fumbled on their words, "Uh-- uh yes. Or wait no. Or-- ah, depends who you ask."

"Doesn't really matter anyways, I know Blue would be furious with you though. As mad as that guy can get at least. Which reminds me, did you say Error could or couldn't come to the sleepover?"

"Oh, uhm," They glanced around, wondering what the most beneficial answer would be. Obviously the correct answer was 'couldn't', but that wouldn't make Ink any more receptable to Dream's concerns, and in fact would make it more difficult to get through to him, since Ink would spend more time goading Dream into reversing their answer than listening. They supposed if they said 'could' now, they would have a chance to point out all of Error's flaws at the sleepover, and pry an incriminating apology from the glitch's teeth, that would be something to sway Ink-- even just a little bit, right?

So they nodded, "Uh-huh, yeah. He can come."

Ink bounced up and howled so loud it echoed over the lake, pumping his fists in the air, "FUCK YES! Thanks Dream, you're a lifesaver!"

"lifesaver?" Dream stood too.

"Mhm! Oh this is great, do you wanna head to Blue's house now? Error really loved those funky chocolate balls filled with caramel that Blue bought at the shop, I wanna get those again."

"I haven't even asked Blue if he's ready for a sleepover with everyone."

He said "Okay," as if it were a minor detail, and grabbed Broomie to paint open a portal, "I'll pick up a Bluebox DVD, I heard some monsters talking about this movie called 'Ghostpool and Alpharine' that came out in some swap AUs around this part of the timeline."

"Wait--" why did he have to talk so fast?

He hopped into his abyss.

The paint swallowed after him, sinking into the ground without a trace.

Dream stood straight, and shut their eyes.

They really, really wanted to curse.

Upon creating a whole new problem for themself: Ink's unbridled excitement, they didn't know how they'd manage to keep his attention now.

...

Calling the castle town crowded would be an understatement. Dream's skull was an airport for every single fleeting feeling everyone within the 30 square ft radius of the Bluebox's residence, and while a crowded room was hardly a challenge to handle and enjoy, a whole moving mass of monsters and critters of every goal, mood, and agency under Mother's giving branches drummed a steady beat behind their dimming eyelights. But they kept that strong face, a smile for each passerby that met their gaze.

Ink fiddled at the back of the machine, he'd dragged it out so he could squeeze in while Dream covered for him. Radiating an aura to attract attention to the charming wordsmith whose lights burst at the sight of babies in strollers and occupied the parents with millions upon millions of questions until they forgot why they peeked around the corner of a convenience store to begin with. It felt like their childhood with Moonlight, stealing meats and preserves for their picnic in the meadow. The pang was swallowed, because it was just as much a joy to experience with Ink.

Even though the overload of foreign emotions was draining them faster than they'd like.

They gasped, finessing over a lady dragon's attire before her sharp eyes could catch the thief. "Oh goodness!" they exclaimed, "isn't that just the most gorgeous dress I've ever seen. Where did you get it?"

The lady's mood hitched on pride, and the armored fans descending from the back of her jawline spread in flattered grace. "Oh-- 'Napstation's Essential Outfits for Everyday Living, Ludicrous Prices Guaranteed!'"

"Ma'am it's making my eyes water, I've wanted a dress like it so many a-time I've ran out of digits to count with," and that was truth, "I don't know many sewing terms, but the lined patterns all along the bottom half is what really caught my eye."

"It's incredible isn't it? My husband bought it for me after I mentioned it once, he's a sweetheart."

"I hadn't even known Napstation produced a clothes line as well as their music."

"I could never have a job like theirs. I'm happy with my accounting work."

"Accounting?" Dream urged, their eyelights ached to steal a glance at Ink, but they knew better.

"Oh, dull work really. But when you're good at something you'd better capitalize on it..."

The lady droned on a bit about the meager fondness she held for her job, and then after some pamper and praise, fluffed her armored fans and went on her way, after a push in the right direction: how much she wanted to see her dear husband, they could taste her anticipation. It's always pleasant to see a happy couple in the Multiverse, or to hear one side of it. Sometimes all a separated pair would do was complain about one another, it dragged on Dream's moodlet interacting with such monsters. Not to say they were bad folk! Never ever, negative emotions in general were hard to handle, monsters were naturally kind and thoughtful creatures, negativity didn't suit them. When it did click into their souls it was simply difficult to withstand.

Traffic lagged in noticing the thievery at the Bluebox, and after a time where they felt safe enough to take a step back, they crept into the shadows. They groaned, rubbing the point between their eyebrows. Their headache throbbed.

"How's progress, Ink?" they looked behind the machine.

A hand poked out, Ink's thumb's up. "I got it!"

"Ah, hooray."

Ink wriggled out from the wires and out of the popped backing, he held a DVD case, 'Ghostpool and Alpharine', with the dynamic duo being the only two on the cover. The Protector handed it to Dream --who took to reading the description blurb-- and began screwing the backing on the machine, using his claws as screwdrivers. Then he stood and put hands on hips.

"Alright, we're ready to go now."

"Ah--" Dream handed the DVD back to him, "hold on for a minute, I still need to text him."

Their arm retreated into their sleeve like a snail's eyes would retract into their head, and into their shell. They finagled their phone from their slim fitting tights, and held the head of the device at the collar of their shawl, their out-and-about arm held the phone steady while they typed.

You:

Head's up! Ink has decided to throw a sleepover at our house. I'm sorry for not warning you soon enough, he didn't give me a chance to postpone.

They intently watched until Blue's indicator showed he was responding. He was always good about that, a warm smile reflected on the screen.

Blueberry:

OKAY!! I WILL GET THE SLEEPING BAGS OUT!!!!!!!

Smile widened, appreciative.

The phone was tucked away, and their arm slipped back through their sleeve. "Alright, we can go now."

Ink didn't hesitate skipping further down the alley, Dream jogging on after him. The alleys were the only method of travel Dream liked when with Ink, because someone could recognize them out in the street. They'd told Ink it was because of the tastings that prickled their tongue. Weaving through forgotten trail to dimly lit outskirt. The monsters they did come across wore sad clothing, dirtied and old. Monsters hung in small groups of two to three, and ones who singled themselves out sat against the wall, or wandered aimlessly. It was salty, and stung on the way down. Dream shared their light as they ran on by, leaving a trail of hope along with the outlines of soot their footprints made.

He found shortcuts in the frame of the world that cut clean the possibility of taking the elevator. Travelling with Ink in his wormholes was acidically convoluted. Travelling in threes was always a joy, in the sense that the combination of cashews and chocolate candy made the crunch more of a treat, the jointed feeling Dream got from it was connection that they slept to experience. But with Ink's elusive existence alone, it felt like lonely submersion. The lack of anything pressed on the forefront of their being, and with nothing to attach to, the entity's strength whittled in a strange, sapping manner. The pair made it all the way to the resort before they had to slow their pace. Delicate, orderly pants expelling from their tight teeth, they took a moment to stand straight and regain themself. Ink waited, examining the wall to find something temporary to do.

There was nothing on that wall, it was grimy and unpleasant, not as flourished as the entrance to the resort. When their breath was caught they stepped close and noticed a patch of moss growing up from the ground, a deep green hardly discernable from the shadows that forever soaked the corner.

"Awh," they brushed it with their fingertips, "what a little survivor."

Ink hummed, and they smiled at each other.

"It's good to see you," Dream said.

"You too," Ink blinked to a pair of golden stars.

The entity headed forwards, the short, stout cavern bowling in to a pair of blue velvet stanchions twinning at either side of the tunnel that led into Hotland.

...

Making it to Blueberry's house, Dream gave the door a rhythmic knock, one that followed the tune of a human band Blueberry deeply enjoyed. It was some of the only kind of music he listened to, with tracks singing about their lover, or his favorite which was a lyrically compelling lament on if the singer had enough money to do whatever she wanted. It had a strong beat that Blueberry said sounded like marching. He would play it on his MP3 while working out first thing in the morning, and the tunes he sung when making breakfast had playfully marched into Dream's skull and continued to parade around, making the knock almost second nature.

Always on time, Blueberry opened the door without a second to count down to. His eyelights rotated in spinning top stars and he squealed at the pair's arrival.

"EEE! DREAM, INK, SO GLAD YOU ARE HERE!" he lunged down to curl Ink up in a swift sweep of his arm, and then caught Dream's taller figure by the waist so he could hoist them both up and squeeze them tightly to his chest. Music to Dream's non-existent ears, their soul swelled brightly and their joints and cheeks vibrantly shone with their magic. They wrapped their arms around his neck, a budding shriek of glee whistling in their throat, but not yet strong enough to make it past their teeth. They and Ink were carried inside, and set down on the floor, Blueberry reached behind himself to shut the door, but his eyes were focused on his friends.

The announcement was given that "I SET THE SLEEPING BAGS UP!" and he pointed to the middle of the room. There were only ever two rooms for a Sans and Papyrus in the AUs, --some exceptions-- so when Ink was over, the three of them would sleep there in front of the couch, feet facing the stairs. It made for terrific bonding moments, especially when they'd bring a flashlight and have fun with shadow puppets. Blueberry was the best at them, and would always knock Ink's attempt at a flying squirrel right out of the park! Not to say Ink was bad at it, in fact he had more practise with the penguin puppet out of anyone. And he had other skills too. Like being able to throw his voice, which Dream had always thought was maddeningly impressive.

They remembered when Ink had played that trick on Stretch. The fellow teen had come downstairs late one night to rummage the kitchen for a midnight snack. He ruminated a skunk's scent and had spent some dedication to eating an entire family-sized chip bag before time could remind him to move his feet and bring it back to his room. Dream and Ink were whispering to each other about Stretch's deadeyed stare, and Ink had come up with the idea of having a little fun with the situation. Dream wasn't that opposed to it... although in hindsight.... could it have been considered mean?

Whenever Stretch wobbled around to see where the moving voice was coming from, the pair hid underneath their blankets and pretended to be asleep.

Maybe it was mean. Being mean was wrong. The memory didn't seem so nice anymore.

"Get one for Error too, he wants to come," Ink said with concerning excitement.

"ERROR IS COMING? OH THAT IS FANTASTIC NEWS, I HAVE NOT SEEN ALL OF MY BEST FRIENDS IN THE SAME ROOM IN AGES!" with stunning speed, Blueberry bolted to some obscure section of the house to retrieve the extra sleeping bag, as if Error would appreciate the generosity, or even bother sleeping in it. Blueberry returned and hastily unrolled a plain, dark green bag, flopping it closest to the TV, and further from the other three's, he got on his knees to roll out all the kinks.

"Oh! What should we do first: watch a movie or play games?" Ink bounced on the balls of his feet.

"WHEN IS ERROR GETTING HERE?"

"He wants to come by when the movie starts."

"MOVIE! MOVIE FIRST," Blueberry then sprinted to the kitchen. He threw open the singular giant cupboard under the sink and rummaged the clutter. Sharp, sugary and just as excited as Ink.

"Again. Why does he want to come?" Dream turned to Ink, a hand coming to partially hover over their mouth.

"Because I want him to?" Ink sassed, "and what Blue said; I haven't seen all my friends in the same room in a while."

In a more hushed tone, "I know you said he 'doesn't have the guts' to get rid of you, but I'm serious. What if he doesn't love you the way you do?" Dream bit their tongue with their molars.

Ink remained silent, Green stirring his once Pink eyelights.

"YES!"

The pair were startled out of the talk, Blueberry jut his fist up, triumphantly gripping at a thick bag of hot chocolate powder. "STILL HAVE IT!"

He left it on the table and dove back into the frenzy, then emerging with six bags of microwaveable popcorn much more quick.

"DREAM!" he commanded, a mighty gloved finger pointing directly at them, "PREPARE THE MICROWAVE."

"Aye, sir," Dream saluted weakly, giving Ink a last glance and moving to their assigned post. A bag was tossed at them, and they popped open the little machine and situated the popcorn. A brief check at the set time on the paper back, and they correctly punched in the minutes. The buzz of the radioactive device backdropped the next boot camp order that was ordered.

"INK!" he pointed, "MAN THE KETTLE AND MUGS."

"Yes, sir!" Ink jogged to the stove, leapt onto the counter and used his toes to crank the knob of the left-hand burner. Four mugs were set on the opposite counter, the kettle was already where it needed to be.

-Ink-

When the snacks were ready and the floor had been fortified with pillows and blankets, Ink stepped out. The snow was pleasurably nippy, and molded to his feet structure the longer he stood, little compressed points of snow poked between his toes. He couldn't resist trampling on the fresh, unmarked, deeper areas. But he hadn't forgotten his reason for coming out there. He hopscotched through foot-high clumps that went up to his thighs, and dug himself down to his ankles. Kneeling in his hole, he pressed his hands to the ground. Gathering paint in his palms, he smeared it, clearing away the snow and opening a portal. He held the edges and stuck his head through.

Error's upside-down face abruptly came into view. Centimeters apart.

"Hey!" Ink greeted.

As per usual, Error flinched back, throwing his arms over his face and letting out a strangled noise of instinctual reflex.

"Time for the sleepover! If you still wanna come. We've got the movie set up."

The glitch hissed, red eyes shivering initial anxiety, then wallowing down scrunched up. He didn't respond, but broke off to look at his sleeve.

Ink waited patiently, then spoke again, "Stop by whenever," and pulled his head out of the Anti-Void.

They yanked the portal closed, and brushed snow over it had been. Give it a few moments, maybe he would come. If he didn't they'd see him again sometime, maybe in a month. But Ink wasn't inclined to let Error isolate himself for that long again, they haven't gotten a real interaction since before everything happened, it made their mind itch to think of another whole while in between hanging out again. And they made sure to attune the atmosphere to something he would like: a movie, in a dark room, with snacks and hot chocolate, and one of his favorite monsters to interact with.

The formula was correct, but it still mattered on whether or not Error could manage it.

Ink peaked over their snow nest, the dim windows illuminated shapes of his friends that would briefly pass over the TV glow. The distinct lean figure of Dream stood in front, blurry hands on hips.

'What if he doesn't love you the way you do?'

A troubling question that slid the sewing needle into Pink's plump bubble. He unsheathed Magenta and dripped a spare spice. Error tried to kill Ink today, because he was scared of something they were. If Ink told him what they've been needing to say, would that 'new' idea scare Error once more? What if what terrified him in the first place came back to gnash its teeth?

As they tucked the color back where it belonged, Ink's hand lingered on his vials. Liar, liar. The memory rasped. Inherently fake. You're no person.

His soullessness was what scared Error. And that's not something he's capable of ridding.

Therefore, if they told him the new revelation, the fact that it stems from Pink could upset him again. Ink could envision the outcome: a disgusted expression, a shy dismissal, and an awkward exit. Perhaps this was something not shared amongst friends, a deeply invasive desire to cultivate in their system. The thought of it had Pink sizzle their tongue dejectedly, not a color willing to be hidden or washed out. Nothing like Yellow or Cyan; Pink was stubborn. And maybe that's what had the idea of bottling it back in its little glass container restricting and shadowed.

A fizzle in the air, a crackling portal stretched out in front of the house, and Error stepped out.

A soft-downy bird of Candyland paradise from Ink's belly leapt into their throat, and they swiftly jut their hands out to roll themself out of the nest. Somersaulting to a squat.

Error had his scarf wrapped snug above his chin, and was using the neck of his hoodless coat to shield his head, the collar hanging about his crown while his unsleeved arms kept at his sides. There was a faint sheen of metal-- the pair of headphones he'd been missing, now protectively hugging his skull.

As quick as a flash of canine teeth, Error's stance squared out, and there was a defiant tone about his appearance.

If he was truly uncomfortable, Ink didn't see it. They stood to their tip-toes and smirked at him. "Well, well, well. Long time no see, pal!"

Error huffed a plume, and turned to Blue's porch. Ink slipped up past him to open the door in advance.

"Took you ages! I made you a cup of hot choccy, go sit down and I'll bring it to you," they let him go through first. Error made a beeline for the far end of the couch, slipping his arms back into his sleeves and coming out of his protective collar, which was eager to rest on his shoulders again.

"HEY!" Blue's eyes spun stars, legs crossed, back straight, on the opposing end where Error had chosen. The bowl of popcorn was steady in his lap.

The cup was on the counter, the temperature had died down to a soothing warmth. Ink balanced it over to his friend, who received it with both hands. Dream returned with their own cup and nested on the floor by Blue's feet, legs spread out as they tugged at a blanket, eyeing Error.

"SO HAPPY YOU ARE HERE, NOW WE CAN FINALLY GET THINGS STARTED!" Blue flipped the remote and donned it proudly like a sword, the plastic reflected unreal light in a terrific cosmic brilliance. He aimed it at the TV, which was cycling through the bored screensaver. A click of a button and it snapped to life, playing some complimentary DVD ads.

Ink snatched a pillow from the floor and held it behind his back, they hopped next to Error and turned to fall backwards. The pillow cushioned against the couch and aided them extra padding. They adjusted it so they could sit on it instead.

Error's knees turned away from them.

In response, they thought it best to scoot over.

The movie commenced with exposition, catching fans of the previous films up to speed. He couldn't remember if he'd seen them, it most certainly was with his friends if it was with anyone, he doubt someone else in the multiverse could replicate the sheer amount of fun! Blue supremely was written to have conversations with the screen, and already was giving well-meaning feedback to the snarky, unchallenged wit of the main character ("GOSSIP GHOUL? PAPYRUS AND I WATCHED THE FIRST EPISODE ONCE.") He was particularly affixed to the action-- which was close to the only reason why he sat halfway through in the films Dream and Ink chose ("I WONDER IF I COULD USE MY ATTACKS IN THE SAME WAY... EXCEPT I WILL NOT BE KILLING PEOPLE!")

The guard-in-training's flawless posture went as far as to lean forward in captivated interest, soaking in the choreography. Ink must have at some point told him that most shots weren't real, reason being that when they thought to tell him Blue's enthusiasm and vocal awe interrupted words before they had the chance to gestate. Therefore the lack of true agency to be said surely meant they'd been said previously.

Dream's sideways glares and awkward silence loosened and rolled over in adherence to Blue's charming conversationalist qualities, and they began chattering and humming along with him, talking over the less important bits. Dream was quick to hush everyone when something of emotional value was uttered by the characters.

And thus reached a point in the movie where there was a stretch of emotionally-driven dialogue; Dream viciously shushed with a hand outstretched, eyes trained on the blue light.

Ink looked over to check on Error, as he'd made a routine of in the past half hour. The empty cup was set on the floor, the scarf was being used as a makeshift pillow, eyelights lazily stared at the floor just below the TV stand. Error's place at these parties weren't as tense, he usually had fun hording the snacks and conversing with Blue. There were no snacks near him, for such a notorious appetite the Destroyer hadn't chosen to lay waste to the popcorn and healthy stomach pleasers that had been arranged. The imprint in the couch and Error's frame hadn't known what it was like without one another since he first sat down. Curled over his knees. His color dimmed like that of a lone paintbrush that rolled onto the floor and was subsequently forgotten and abandoned. Devoid of its energetic hues, fine hairs splayed anxiously.

Would he have enjoyed his time better away from everyone? Back in his Anti-Void? Had the Protector been better off leaving him alone instead of dragging him to a party he didn't want to be at?

Maybe Error was only following along because he was aimless. While his aggression had tampered down in recent years, Ink still expected to be launched to the other side of the Multiverse at any given point. The way he now easily came to whatever command or whim in states like this gave a strange power trip Ink wasn't sure he was used to witnessing yet.

Error's expression was too dull to truly be his. Ink leaned and reached to snatch a handful of popcorn and held it out in front of him. With a sigh, Error unwrapped his arm from under his scarf and pressed two behind his teeth. He didn't bother taking any more.

Chewing the rest, Magenta tugged at the back of his tongue, straining so it was hard to swallow. He could send him home. He'd be happier among his dolls and nothingness. Ink knew now that Error couldn't want anything more than to be left alone.

It was more than a quarter of the way through with the film, and on que Blue stood from his seat and chattered on about Papyrus not doing what he'd been told.

"I TOLD HIM TO TAKE THE TRASH OUT OF HIS ROOM AND HE REFUSES! I DO NOT SEE ANY NEW TRASH BAGS OUTSIDE EXCEPT FOR THE ONES I PUT THERE!" He huffed a smile, hands on hips.

"I don't think he's home yet either," Dream added, "I saw..." a slight twitch in Ink's direction, automatically ensured, "I saw him this morning when I was coming to pick up some things I left."

"I WORRY. DO YOU THINK HE IS AT MUFFET'S AGAIN?"

"I'm sure he's alright, nothing bad ever happens in UnderSwap."

Blue gave Dream a certain look, and in response Dream masked the lowering of their head with a shrug.

"I AM GOING TO CALL HIM," Blue announced, summoning his phone from his pocket and tapping at it with diction. Hand returning to hip, back straight and elbow at the correct angle to hold a cell, despite it being on speaker. His face scrunched in a cute, childlike manner of suspicious anticipation. The call was picked up after the fourth ring.

"hullo?"

"PAPYRUS," Blue began, "IT IS--" he checked the clock on his phone, "--HALF PAST NINE. ARE YOU OKAY?"

"yes."

"ARE YOU--" Blue eyed company, "--BEING GOOD?"

"yes."

"OH WONDERFUL!" He beamed, a halo effect sparking in his angelically pleased eyelights, "TELL YOUR FRIENDS I SAID HI! I HAVE SNACKS IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO COME OVER."

"uh, no we're okay. thank you bro."

"OKAY! THINKING OF YOU, WE'RE WATCHING GHOSTPOOL AND ALPHARINE."

"cool."

"I WILL SEE YOU SOON!" it was a statement rather than a request, and Blue hung up.

Ink snickered, "Maybe I should start treating you like that, wouldn't that be fun?" he said to Error.

Error watched him, but did not make any hint to suggest he heard what he said.

A moment of being observed and the timeframe to respond passed, Ink stuck his tongue out to end the interaction.

The movie was ignored, Blue clicked his tongue at the rest of the humble home, while wandering he interrupted line of sight to the TV. Error leaned to the side and and emitted a low growl, underlined with static. He went unheard. Blue brushed desperate, isolated fragments of dust from underneath the pointed feet of the TV and examined his fingers. He trotted over to the sink and washed it from his gloves, then on his way back spotted the sock on the floor, with several sticky notes climbing overtop it.

"SEE?" he gestured, "I SWEAR I HAVE ASKED HIM A DOZEN TIMES BY NOW TO PICK HIS THINGS UP," he shook his head and rolled his eyes.

"Do you want me to put it in his laundry bin?" Dream offered.

"NO THANK YOU, I WANT HIM TO DO IT HIMSELF. EVENTUALLY."

He gave he sock a certain look, then pulled a duster from his.... somewhere and started dusting off the rest of the TV stand. Satisfied, the duster simply ceased to exist. But Ink had blinked, so he couldn't be sure. Then Blue grabbed Dream's arm.

"AH! I FORGOT; I SAW ONE OF HIS ACTION FIGURES ON THE FLOOR YESTERDAY!" and trotted off with them. Up the stairs, two at a time, Dream had a smile on their face.

Blue respectfully kicked open the door and flicked on the lights. From Ink's point of view he couldn't see exactly what went on, not eager to leave Error's side he craned his neck to listen. He noticed the faint unbalance of his bandolier. Orange was still hanging by a few threads. He cringed and briefly berated himself on possibly loosing paints after all the wriggling around the AU he'd been doing since that tear. He looked to Error's jacket, reached to flip the inside pockets outwards-- but then caught his own hand and pushed it to his tiny paintbrushes instead.

Ink scribbled the vague straight shape of a needle and thread, the scratchy, convulsing images broadened, and then fell from their stationary midair womb and into reality, dropping into his lap. Getting the thin sliver of string through the littler hole was difficult, his hands were determined to be anything but completely still.

"DR. SUPREME! DO NOT FRET. I WILL SET YOU UP RIGHT WITH YOUR FRIENDS!"

"Dear Mother, you'd think with a floor this spotless he'd have more time to clean the rest of the house."

"I KNOW RIGHT?"

The pair wandered back to ground floor, Blue set Dream on cleaning up the vague popcorn mess that had been made near the couch. Afterwards they enjoyed the rest of the food in the kitchen, yammering about Alphys's training and Dream's adventures as a script-ruiner.

"I mean," Dream gave one of their strange glances over at Ink, "it's as easy as it can be."

Ink squinted in good humor, then grinned. Working on stitching, it wasn't nearly as easy as the Destroyer made it out to be, his rendition looked ugly. But at least it was going to be functional? He pulled the final thread and cut it with a claw, plucking it like a weak guitar string, a shred of it continued to hang from the finished product. Orange wasn't at risk of a terrible drop anymore, but the craftmanship was horrifically uneven, some stitches were more taught than others. The needle and thread melted into his palm and he brushed his hands off on his pants.

The film hadn't been turned down, actions scenes boomed, but voices yelled over them. Lights had been flicked on, the glare made some parts of the TV unwatchable. The plot of it was fascinating, he adored the dog character with every inch of his body. If it were a plushie he'd steal it instantly, and maybe give it to Error, he might like a gift like that. They slipped the bandolier back over their shoulder.

"Oh! oh-oh-oh wait," Ink held their hands out and raised a dramatic eyebrow to his best friend, "how's your doll project going? I know you've started a new one. You hit Maddenedtale so I'm certain you're working on one."

Error winced, and licked over his teeth before speaking in a low voice, "Yeah, going gᵣ⁻⁻great."

Marveled at the daring choice to answer, Ink pushed, "Can I see it?"

His nose scrunched up like he'd been asked the most impossibly disgusting question of the evening, "No, it's not fᵢₙ⁻⁻finished."

The Protector giggled, starshine dusted the edges of their eyelights, "Does it look like shit?"

He stuttered, "Yes! It does actually! Go away," he buried his face in the scarf.

This pulled a full laugh from Ink's throat, joyous was seeing him get pissy. Did that mean he was having a little more fun since he got here?

What? Magenta snarled. What kind of backwards logic was that? Anger doesn't equate to happiness, Ink. He bit their own tongue and inhaled sharp. "I hate sitting," he announced, standing up on the cushion and shaking out his limbs. "It has its perks, it was comfortable for the time being. Now I wanna move."

"When are you not ₘ₋₋ₘ₋₋moving," Error stated in an unbuttered tone.

"Well, five seconds ago I wasn't."

"You're always moving."

Interesting thought.

"Move with me?" Ink asked, jumping to click his feet into place, spread so he could tuck a hand behind his back and lean forward to extend another. Error hesitated, Ink realized their mistake and tucked that hand away too.

The Destroyer met their lights, there was a shift in them from earlier. They weren't as dull, the red shone brighter, or perhaps that was a detail just now implemented. Something warm, something Ink then realized they'd deeply missed since the last civil time they saw each other. He unfurled from his cocoon, "Sure," and placed both feet on the ground to stand. Ink's chest drowned in Pink, like a full stomach in their lungs. They expected to care more, but not like this.

Ink hopped off the couch and they stood side-by-side. Error tied his scarf around his neck and crossed his arms, awaiting some great idea, a reason to forget about his content inactivity. Ink looked around to fill that requirement, his scan snapped to the banister on the second floor, and he got an idea.

He pointed, "I can climb that faster than you."

"No you can't," Error smirked.

In perfect sync, hands pulled blue string, knees bent and spines tensed. Ink sprung from the floor and caught the head of the TV with toes that curled around and clawed for grip. Error's graspers wound around the railing and he yanked himself into motion. The TV was launched from its stand as Ink pushed off and turned so his head and shoulders fit through the gaps in the bars, arms reaching. Error grabbed the rail and his legs swung over.

In half a millisecond Ink was a splinter's-width from touchdown with his hands--

A jolt in his momentum, a sudden stop.

Error's feet thumped down instead. "I won!" he screeched.

Ink was stuck between the bars.

"What is going on‽" Dream politely shouted.

"Shit," Ink's feet were in the air like a dead chicken, he began trying to wrench his hips sideways. The Destroyer was snickering mercilessly.

"My M-- What!" Dream must have discovered the TV.

"IS IT BROKEN?" Blue said.

Wrench to the right, come on come on. The bars were tight to his bones, then finally he twisted them to where they popped out of their prison. He ungracefully crawled through and looked below.

"You're ˢ⁻⁻ˢ⁻⁻such a dᵤₘ₋₋dumbass," Error had upgraded to a witch-like cackle, "you really ₜₕ₋₋thought that would work?"

"OH THANK GOD," Blue was wiping off the face of the TV, and dramatically wiped non-existent sweat off his brow. It's determined flat face still produced the scenes, light and sound from the film, determined beastial conglomerate of clever 1's and 0's. "PAPYRUS WOULD HAVE BEEN SO SAD IF IT BROKE."

The two got their hands under it and heaved it further up, Dream had to crouch to accommodate Blue's smaller stature. They locked eyes, and counted-- one, two, three-- and lifted. The legs of the flatscreen bumped the stand, and they aimed to slide it back on until upright. They steadied it, Blue looked over it with a sigh of relief and a cheerful smile, Dream shot disappointed eyes up at the duo on the second floor.

"There was no point in that, Error," they scolded, sharp yellow eyelights.

"Huh?" Error's cruel grin was relentless, too hooked on Ink's mistake, "You're blaming me? That wasn't me. That was Ink," he pointed, hissing a giggle like a cat.

Dream frowned, "Don't shift responsibility. You have to be respectful towards Blue's things, aren't you his friend?" under their breath they muttered.

The host gave a thumbs up and tugged at Dream's arm.

"ALL IS FORGIVEN."

"All's forgiven," the golden entity echoed. Blue nodded and headed back into the kitchen, announcing more food on its way, and declared Dream as the assistant. Dream's feet stayed in place, and they looked up at the two with markedly thoughtful eyes, "Seriously Ink, don't let him break any... stuff."

It was such a painfully obvious parallel Ink wondered why they would risk saying it aloud so blatantly, and was half-tempted to uncap a splatter of Red to communicate how bold a move it was. But it wasn't worth it, they were being oddly more confrontational, but that didn't mean there had to ensue an argument. Besides, Error would have enough Red for the both of them just on first instinct, he wasn't entirely keen on any yelling, this was supposed to be fun for Error. However when he checked back on his glitchy friend, there was a pulled, nigh terrified wince on his face, and his hands without clear intention clenched and grasped near his cheeks.

Error huffed and yanked down his brow to form something more stereotypically angry, then met Ink's lights, where immediately those brows pushed together in poorly hidden pain. "...What a ᵈ⁻⁻ᵈ⁻⁻dick, can't ˢᵗ₋₋stay out of their own bᵤˢ⁻⁻bᵤˢʸ⁻⁻business."

Lacklustre, no true conviction.

"Yeah well, you know Dream. They kind of hate you too!" a genuine laugh, "I don't know what's gotten them so riled, I told them something earlier so I guess they're still screwy about it."

"Told them what?" quiet, a mumble, he hid it with a quick interest in his flip-flops which he tested against the floor. It carried hints of accusation, and brought focus on the dampness Error still held in his throat.

This wasn't the ideal framing he wanted to confess to, it was quite counterproductive. Nothing like the movies. If he had known way beforehand, he'd like to start it off with a playdate, maybe break the revelation under candy cane trees or OuterTale skies. Places where Error would feel most comfortable, more receptible. Because maybe the news would come as a nasty shock, maybe he would hate them for it. So therefore he must be as content as possible as to not make him panic. Like he did earlier. Which was also because of Ink.

Ink scared him, just for being Ink. Magenta made a strike, lashing its lean body through the open basket and latching onto that thought as prey. Dream was probably right about it not being shared, Error didn't care.

"Ah," Ink scrunched his face, "well, pfft. Things. Thingie-things. Dream hates you, you know. It's not that big of a deal. I mean it's kind of funny that Dream could hate anyone, despite being a fairy of ultimate positivity they still have the means to despise you! Hah!"

Error's gaze was elsewhere, and stalled as if he heard something, "Uh, sure. Well I ʰ⁻⁻hate them too," another lacklustre response.

"Bet it's not as much as you hate me!" a too-loud laugh, then snarled into his Error imitation, " 'I hatey-hate-hate-HATE you and I wish you'd DIE!' " more giggles.

Error tensed and closed in on himself, losing his color, "Oh you're ₜₕ₋₋ₜₕ₋₋that ᵍ⁻⁻gᵤₕ₋₋ ᵤₕ₋₋ᵤₕ gullible?" he spat, the words were stubborn.

"You can't lie, Error, you're so bad at it it's a joke in of itself."

"I lie just fine! But ʸ⁻⁻you're a fucking moron if ʸ⁻⁻you think I ₘ₋₋ₘ₋₋ₘᵤₕ₋₋ₘₑₐ₋₋" static swallowed the word up, shattered a hundred times over, he stomped his foot, "Don't be a FUCKING idiot!"

Ink was a fucking idiot, there were so many things wrong with them that they couldn't see how their best friend didn't honestly enjoy their presence as much as they enjoyed his. It was all their fault all the stress and pointless fighting had blown up in both they and his faces like a pot bursting white froth over the edges. If they weren't such a bad friend-- if they weren't Ink of all things, of all the different, isolated, soulless things in the Multiverse.

To get the pronunciation past their tongue, Ink licked at Red's surface and choked the drop down with haste. "It's okay, Error! I understand the feeling! I must be awful to have around, why didn't you finish me off then and there? Purely speaking on efficiency; missing four times in a row is one colossal fuck-up if you're aiming for your one-and-only sworn enemy in the whole damn Multiverse. Knock me out, take my vials. What's so hard about that?"

"Did you want to die?" Error shook his head with the vigor of a teenage girl, "if I ₖₙ₋₋knew you--" he cut himself off and stomped his foot again, and through shut eyes he yelled, "I don't ʷ⁻⁻want you dead! I told you; you're ᵇ⁻⁻ᵇ⁻⁻boring when you're ᵈ⁻⁻dead!"

"You could have said something sooner, like ages and ages ago," Ink crossed his arms tight, a funny mixture of Magenta and Red was beginning to prick its quills at the base of his nasal canal, "I thought things were going great on your end. I thought you were having fun."

Unexpectedly, Error didn't have something to say on the first beat. He glared at them, shoulders shaking, glitches trembling, all lively color drained from his shape. A harsh whisper, "You're a bitch for this," he said. But afterwards he huffed out something of a half-choke, and added, "I am having fun."

That irked him, if he was having so much fun he didn't look like it now.

He wasn't smiling because of Ink, Ink's fault again. Making things worse.

It was frustrating-- he wanted to be Red because of all the pointless kindness, the toleration, because then Error's failure would be vastly more cruel to think about. If he really hated them that bad, was hesitating more salt on the wound? Just to prove that even at the heights of soul-felt feelings, Error didn't care enough to passionately cross them off the seeing, thinking realm?

Lacklustre lights.

Ink scowled down at his feet, and caught Error drawing his claws into his sleeves, pressing the fabric taught, hasty like a blown pen. Neither of them spoke, another millisecond passed and he realized the house was speechless too. He noted the TV light resting silent on the carpet flooring, and the remote missing from the couch. They were disturbing everybody, how selfish.

They swallowed thick spit, hard to push down a throat choked with the spikes of a pull-collar, and uncapped Blue to calm their mood.

"Yeah, it is fun," sharp metal digging into his neck. "Sorry. Anyways," the vowels tapered off in a strain.

"I think ʸ⁻⁻you took too much," Error mumbled, "ᵈ⁻⁻ᵈ⁻⁻do you-- did you mean to--?"

Ink shrugged. He watched to see if the TV would play. His shouting had been corked, although the fizzled taste drummed its fingers underneath Blue. If only there was a different way for the static light to catch on the carpet, he'd stand there forever. All alone in the dimly lit hall, where the light from the overhead seemed to avoid sinking its form in to, leaving the corners and edges beside the bedroom doors a neglected, sleepy grey.

Gloomy colors were wetted and struck with sharp Red. Frustration. If he was so dispensable, even to his best friend, it didn't matter what the glitch really thought, in the end it still proved Ink wasn't acceptable. Too much of a freak. Too unwanted. Too empty.

"Uhm," Error wrung his hands together, stretching the fingers backwards in turn to make perfect right angles, then pressed them into a fist and cracked those who hadn't popped. Crushing his thumbs between all four digits he bent down to a squat, "ᴰ⁻⁻do you want the blanket back? I can ᵍ⁻⁻give it back."

"What blanket?"

"The blanket I gave to you," he exhaled through the nose, "the one you ₛ₋₋said had a cool pattern."

"Oh, well, it wasn't meant for me anyways."

"I'm trying to be nice, stain," but he didn't grit his teeth like he normally would. "You're ₛᵤₚₚ₋₋supposed to be happy about it."

Ink stuck their tongue out at him, down the middle was painted a sunset's mahogany. They didn't need charity.

It was matched with a set of tongues, all dull blue. Then rolled back past the yellowed teeth they shared home with. Error's lights dipped down, and then his eyes shut tight. "ᴵ'ᵐ⁻⁻ ᴵ'ᵐ expecting you to ᵖᵤₕ₋₋pick it up. And I'm ᵍ⁻⁻gunna make you one ₜₕᵃₜ₋₋ ₜₕᵃₜ₋₋" they squinted a tad back open in momentary thought, "that matches your ugly face," he smirked and giggled. "You don't even look like a normal monster when you cry."

Ink checked their cheeks-- they were crying? The hand came away dry.

"Hah! You trust everything I say, don't ʸ⁻⁻you?"

His smirk stretched far, and his sockets squeezed to the point where surely he was seeing stars, and unexpectedly-- he reached his arms out. They began to shake ever-so casually, jittering joints and clawed fingertips locked in half animation to curl in on themselves. Preparing for a shock only a smack to the face could realistically garner. But he was still smiling, as if a bloody nose would cure the careful drybrushing of anticipation coating him.

Unusual behavior, and they didn't move. Stuck without a vocal thought. Only a confused spinning of liliac. As if suddenly the pull-collar broke the skin underneath scruffy neck fur, there came a screeching and unbearable ache.

Error cracked an eye open, looking his companion up and down, loosing hold on that grin and twitching eyebrows up.

They could have sworn something in their chest might have burst like a water balloon. They quickly made the connection in their slow, pasta-strainer skull and fell into his hug. Mouth covered by the fabric of Error's scarf, one-hundred colors of navy, aquamarine, and bohemian blues spilled past their teeth in strange cries.

Error's trembling arms were tight, creating more contact than what was the bare minimum, Ink could feel the glitches anxiously poking at their foreign body, biting at Ink's shoulders, tiny frantic hands nipping at them as a threat, an intrusion. Could feel the fear-stricken way his fingers curved like twisted twigs, paced to snap, and the way he paused a running joke with a still ribcage, halted and nervous.

But, by and by. The glitches grew less wary. Those twisted fingers loosened up, and gripped Ink's clothing in full, he let in and out gentle, timed and programmed breaths. Squared off in sets of two. Two seconds in, two seconds out.

All there was were Ink's own arms gripping onto the jacket, too short to reach all the way across, and the bridge of Error's nose pressed into Ink's neck.

It felt good. It felt good to have those hands holding them secure when they thought they were hated. They didn't feel hated. Their little form trembled and hiccupped, and maybe they liked to believe that with every childish quiver of their overdosed chin, Error's grip grew a fraction more possessive. It couldn't have been only one color, a deep, warm sensation at their sternum. The color's playful Pink nature repeating a mantra, 'everything is good, everything is fine, everything is right.'

The vibrancy died down, loosing concentration, and Ink pulled their wet face away.

Error gave a tremendously awkward half-moon smile, "This is weird."

"Oh, definitely," they wiped Blue tears from their eye, the act curved their gaze off up to the side.

They separated.

Error let his legs slip from under him into a proper sit, and Ink crouched down and folded their arms over their knees.

Error yanked his scarf off and scowled at it, "Disgusting," and pinched it between his thumb and pointer. "Are you done ᴮ⁻⁻being ridiculous?"

Ink nodded, "Yup. All done. Can we go back to normal?"

"Yes please," he sighed in upmost relief, shoulders falling, eyes drooping and that grin returning in a rather loopy fashion, "yes please."

"Oh to Them," Ink huffed a laugh, "please you say?"

He whipped his scarf out, raising an eyebrow, "What?"

"Oh pretty please?" they bat their lashes, if they had any, "pretty please with a cherry on top? With hot fudge and sprinkles and gummy worms and--"

"Shut up--"

"--white chocolate pretzels (those are the best) and lollipops and slugs and--"

"Slugs?? Nevermind, fuck ʸ⁻⁻you, Ink," he turned on his butt and clamored away towards the stairs, tying his scarf back around his neck. Ink continued to list off various edible and inedible objects throughout existence, crawling on all fours and biting their tongue like a the proud brat they were.

"--Watch your step on the way down, who knows, I might vomit-- ouh puke ice cream! With bits of rat fur and--"

"Shut UP!" Error rushed to ground floor.

"--sunday-- or sundae? sundeeee... ice cream with bananas, oh and peanut butter," Ink skipped on behind, chest a flurry of a good color. Only one.

Error faced him with a condescending lean forward and stuck his hands on his hips, "And bits of Ink's skull ᵐ--mashed into a ᶠ⁻⁻fine ᶠ⁻⁻fᵘ⁻⁻fucking pudding. Blood and guts! A single eyeball sticking out at ₜₕ₋₋the top," he tugged at the blue streaks for effect, peeling the bottom half of his socket wide to emphasize the red and yellow.

"I don't have eyeballs," Ink rolled his lights up into his head and gave a wide, toothy snarl. Edges of his mouth near brushing past the twin empty, gaping holes in his skull. A row of crooked, sharp teeth, the canines poking the black inky nothingness like a blank, ripped page to deep ocean waters. Error might've pulled back.

He might've, but he scoffed and readjusted his smile, "You should. I need to pluck them out of your head!"

Ink's face returned to normal, "Good luck with that," he giggled.

From the kitchen, Blue walked out with his hands behind his back. He held a worried tilt of his brow as he came to stand beside the pair.

Ink interjected before the host could get a word out, "Sorry for all the noise! Haha. It's all figured out. Are we doing games now?"

"AH," Blue nodded, "YES, IN A BIT! I WANTED TO MAKE SURE EVERYTHING WAS OKAY. I'M GLAD TO HEAR YOU BOTH JOKING AGAIN, IT WAS A TAD WORRYING," he hummed a smile.

"Worrying?" Error barked a laugh, "We're fine! Of course we're fine. ᵢₜ'ₛ₋₋ ᵢₜ'ₛ ⁿ⁻⁻none of your business," he sneered, then quickly slithered away towards the scent of new snacks.

Blue lightheartedly reprimanded himself, mouthing words to some internal dialogue and then looked on after Error with a loving, yet disappointed gaze. Disappointed, but not upset. He'd made this same face countless times, in countless different scenarios. Although a now recognizable expression, it was unclear why Blue would feel it to begin with. He then turned to Ink, "AND YOU ARE OKAY TOO?"

"Mhm! Why?" the Protector cocked his head. All was said and done, nothing more was disrupting the peace. Why would Ink not be okay? Something caught his eye--a flash of light bouncing of a metal object, Error had picked up the kettle--he skipped off, leaving Blue.

...

The rest of the night was as follows: Error made more hot chocolate, and Dream assisted in what little ways they could-- such as retrieving the powder and the mug by the couch. They set up card games, including Egyptian Ratscrew, which Dream and Ink were viciously neck-and-neck with. Error grew bored, and the activities moved on.

Blue let the dog in, the communal dog, and Ink had stepped outside.

It was snowing. Tiny, well-sketched snowflakes falling to the white ground. Footprints were softened. The world was being redone, in the mirror of itself, reapplying the makeup that had run down its face. Lights across the village were going dark.

The dog settled on the pile of blankets and sleeping bags, its fluffy tail swaying as it playfully buried its nose under its paws. Dream knelt down to ruffle the fur between its ears. Blue came out with his pajamas on and stretched. Error fiddled with a red 2DS on his own secluded sleeping spot.

And then the room was dark too. The clock on the microwave read 23:45. Ink's eyes glowed as the singular, sole thing. The dog was curled up in a petite ball in the crook of Dream's knees, the covers were up to their chin. Everyone had commented on the cold nightly temperature, something about the heater being broken, because on any other night, Dream would've slept like a starfish. The air around their form seemed to vibrate, if Ink hovered his hand over the wavy air, he could feel nothing. An awkward mirage, a dreaming manifestation, unreachable. Blue slept with his back to them, and whenever that strange vibration increased, Blue snored a bit louder. He snored like a cat. Somewhat quiet. Somewhat snug.

Error was knotted up tight. A mound of blankets and extra pillows. A massive quilt made up the topmost layer, beneath were softer, thinner blankets that peeked out from underneath. Pillows lined up near his head and feet like a barrier. The felt of a snaggy-type blanket caught the light from his eyes. There was no indication of Error himself, he was swallowed up.

If he could.

Reach out and touch.

Very reachable.

He poked the side of this tiny hill, incredibly well padded. When there was no response he poked again, firmer.

"I'm bored. Are you awake?"

There was a shifting, a hand slid out and felt around, then gave a thumbs up and scurried away.

"Oh good," Ink whispered. He clamored up on top of the hill and sat. He was still in full clothing, there wasn't any point in taking them off. "Do you ever get the thing where the darkness makes your vision all fuzzy? And sometimes you see shapes and faces on the walls? Not full ones of course, but the bare references to one. I've been watching the fuzzies for a while now."

Ink crossed his legs and held onto his toes. Sleepovers were fun, the hours where everyone slept were the most boring, but he enjoyed the thinking time. Pondering was more meaningful with other bodies nearby, especially this one.

"I've been listening to Blue snore," a muffled glitchy voice, "I ᴰ⁻⁻don't understand how Dream is managing. it's thundering. And ₜₕ₋₋the microwave is buzzing."

"You hear the electricity in the walls too?"

"Yes, it's annoying."

"It's awesome. I wanna pull it out and give it a closer look."

"You'll shock yourself," Error said.

"With my inherent skill of wiring? Naturally."

The hill chuckled, and mumbled an insult that didn't make it past the padding. Could he breathe? Not that it was a problem, heaving lungs don't echo the same mirthless struggle as optionally motionless ribs, but it was a comforting action regardless. An act of fellowship, at least, that's how Ink saw it. There's no point to breathe if others can't feel you do so.

"Did you finish it?" they asked.

"I don't know," he murmured, "I ₚ₋₋put it away, haven't worked on it. I fucked up several rows back, I might as well ⱼᵤ₋₋just rip it up."

"Good luck, that's gunna be difficult since it's all knotted together."

"Knotted together?" incredulous, "Fucking rude. I don't 'knot it together', my dolls look ʷ⁻⁻way fucking better than anything you could come up with."

"Touch-y-y-y!" Ink giggled, "what, are you married to one? Have to defend its image?" Then he remembered, "Oh! What happened to your Fell doll? Does he still not talk to you?"

Error shifted, presumably onto his side, Ink's arms spread out as he rode the wave-- afterwards they scooted their butt towards the centre, which they could guess was above his hips. "Nah, it's a stubborn bitch. You can't get him to compromise anything," the taste of a grin.

"Clearly, not as awesome as the real Fell," Ink rolled his lights and smirked humorously, "I saw him the other day, he's so goofy! I found one that had an altered design, ohh Error you should have seen it, he had doggy-doggone paw pad gloves," he stretched his fingers out in front of him, they could span far, his pinkie and thumb could hold a ruler flat and steady between each other. Piano fingers, or odd-skulled; there was little difference and the result was the same, "It was amazing. I'm seeing a lot of Creators lean into that more often," he looked back to the faceful wall, spotting snouts and teeth and pointed ears.

"It's so weird," he hissed, "It doesn't ᵉ⁻⁻even fit Fell's character. Not ᵗʰ⁻⁻that I'm worried about its damned integrity. But if They could be the slightest less bit tacky."

"Maybe I should put you on a leash. Keep you on a tight schedule. Then I could keep an eye on you," he placed his stretched hands on the padding, pushing down, there was only softness. No bone.

"I'll bite."

"What kind of dog would you be? I really like uh...." there were so many breeds.

"Pitbulls are cool," Error shifted again, onto his stomach or back, "but all dogs drool. I hate ᵗʰ⁻⁻that."

"Taking bulls by the nose and crushing down-- chomp!" he clapped his hands.

Error made an interesting noise, a computerized buzz that rapidly escalated in pitch like a zipper pulled taught straight on and through, tugging the fabric. Ink silenced himself and froze. Cease to breathe, cease to be seen. The drowsy couch looked as if it could sigh, awakened by childish play. Ink closed an eye and grated his neck to turn, widely peeking back. Dream was still asleep, Blue shifted onto his side, rubbed his face, and settled his arms on his stomach.

"Whoops," Ink whispered.

A parallel hushed voice, laced with the tone difference of amusement, "Stupid inkblot."

They remained as was. In the dark.

Ink decided to slide down opposite side of slumbering packmates and in the shelter behind the mount. There was a lump curled that suggested the previous presence of legs. The warmth was better felt, the sleeping bag was lain open, exposing the guts and gore of the blankets and Error hidden within it, retaining the heat and tired air in its lighter underbelly. Ink toyed with the edge, the zipper that looked so wrong not folded.

"I'm hungry," Error informed, lifting the covers with his hand to act like a trailer RV's shoddy makeshift porch. iThey could see the glow of his eyes and blue pupils that purposed by distracting themselves with anything but Ink.

"I could eat," Ink added, "I wonder how much I could eat at once."

"Not as much as me," yellow teeth, "I ᵣₑ₋₋remember how much you puked up in that candy AU."

Joyous memory, "I was faking," he cheekily snagged his tongue between his fangs, "I know I can eat a lot more than that. More than you definitely."

"Faking?"

"Well-- well I guess not exactly. I just happened to be eating when I got over-yellow."

Error grunted. In tread a comforting silence, welcome and subtle. The prospect of filled stomachs swung merrily in Ink's mind, it would take the hard edge of boredom and file it down to a dull, prodding jab in the side. But in the meantime, they settled. There was a certain warmth in the quiet, especially since the red glow of his friend's lights still illuminated the seams of their hakama pants, in silence there could be something to appreciate. In silence, they've learned, despite the absence of development or nourishment, it was fulfilling to simply exist for a spare moment.

Silence was a guest, laying on the couch after hours and watching one drearily pour a glass of water. Silence was the hug of dark Nothing, not a death sentence, nor an isolation verdict, a calm and passive pause to think.

And think they did.

Error was murderously lovely.

Then Error's lights were gone, his face again hidden by fabric. The mound wriggled, it shifted, it slipped. He sat up and cracked his neck, letting out more of a 'humph' than a sigh and looking towards the kitchen. He got to his feet, not-so-lightly shuffling past sleeping slumbermates, claws coming from muffled carpet to clik-claks on the tile floor. Ink crept in pursuit, and leapt onto the counter.

Crawling like a cat Ink marveled at the way his fingers bent like racoon paws.

Error flicked on the lightswitch and knelt to open the cabinet beneath Ink's feet. Pulling out various canned and boxed and bagged items. Chips, canned pears for prosperity, and aloof and free floating plastic bundles of crackers. Without thinking, the Creator yanked one of those sets of crackers from Error's hands-- brief contact was made, the static transferred and Error's grip suddenly curled and stuck back into his own chest as if lava had graced his knuckles. The thump of fist to chest was palpable before the glitches settled back down.

Ink tore a hole in the cracker wrapping to fish out the round, salted disk of joy. A concerned brow went up.

His hand relaxed, unclenching and reaching out for the cabinet once more. Error exhaled and continued his hunt not without a sharp glare and pointed sneer.

"What do you think you're looking for?" Ink asked after a moment.

"Chocolate."

Figures.

He pushed another cracker onto his tongue and crushed it up against the roof of their mouth. "Blue doesn't keep a whole lot of sweets, you're wasting time. If you want chocolate you might wanna invade Stretch's room!" They giggled.

"I'm sure I saw ₛ₋₋some earlier," he examined a tupperware that was marked with a printed label, reading 'CHALK' in impact font. "Huh," he noted.

"Gimme!" Grabby hands ignored!

"Seriously? You're ᵍᵘ₋₋gunna eat this?"

An expectant hand fondled the air, framing Ink's dastardly teeth biting their tongue, lifted brows with squinted eyes, "Yes indeed. Gimme!"

"Well, you're n--not the boss of me," he stuck his five tongues out and tossed the tupperware back into the depths where it came from.

"It has the taste of Blue on it, I just know it. I wanna consume the abandoned hand juices," twiddling their fingers together and looking side-to-side, "I'll absorb his powers and become a god."

"You freak! Eugh!" he shook his head as if to shake the taste away, "you're enough ᵃⁿⁿ⁻⁻ᵃⁿⁿᵒʸ⁻⁻annoying just as you are. If you change ᵢ'ₗₗ₋₋" freezeframe, "ᵢ'ₗₗ₋₋" cut off, "Ew!"

"Judge-y! Oh c'mon Error, it's a dog eat doggy world, I need to come out on top somehow!" snickering behind a hand, struggling to remember to keep the volume down.

"You're so GROSS! At this point, why don't you go lick Blue's hand?!"

Pause. Ink's grin widened. Error's frown pulled into disgusted disbelief.

"...Maybe I should."

"...Well," and he thought about it. "If you ᵈ₋₋do, that'd be kind of funny."

"Cracker?"

Refused.

In the low light, a small pile of searched items had accumulated beside Error. Ink had gotten down to their last cracker and held it between two fingers like a throwing star, tilting it so they could close a light and peer through the miniscule hole to spot Error's blue scarf on the other side.

"You're my little Fell dog," they muttered confirmation. The stain of sea-swept tears still soaked into the threads. Marking him permanently, even if it were washed out.

-Error-

Ducking his head into the cabinet to avoid such a weird statement, he grumbled "Don't you mean doll?" As a means to deflect. There was a cobweb in the back.

"Didn't I say doll?" Came a vaguely muffled voice.

In a mumble he said on automatic, "No," and creased his brow in the wake of an interesting line of thinking. The gentle scratching of a pencil on paper, in the peaceful quiet of the Anti-Void. He remembered falling asleep to it, washed over with a sense of calm because maybe, maybe, there was something worth feeling calm around.

He remembered false hands twining with his fingers, and being so, so furious with the owner. If only one being in the whole Multiverse could prove themselves traitorous, it must've meant every other soul in it's bandwidth shared the same cruel power. Ink should've been no different, and yet even at heights blinded by the wing-clipping claws of burning, irresistible terror, they'd held Error's gaze. Unlike every other failure, who averted and shielded their lying, conniving faces.

Lovely Blue was sleeping in the other room, although different in everything but personality. A different face.

He realized, rather with a warm soul-swelling welcome, that Ink was still the same Ink he knew months ago, whereas Blue's AU had only reset back to the way it had been, and the original him had been lost, forever. Ink would never be lost forever.

Forever tied to this one Ink. Like a dog on a leash. A doll on strings. Wrapped up in his own silk and hung in proud display with everything that sent earthquakes of familiar fear and deep want. He hadn't held another hand since that first being. He can't remember ever giving one a hug, though.

Whoa, he'd actually done it, hadn't he.

Leaning back out of the cupboard, catching Ink's lights. This long moment of thinking had their attention lost, and Ink entertained themself with their fingers, stretching them and wriggling them as if he'd never seen his own before.

"I'm ₙ₋₋never ᵍᵉᵗ₋₋ᵍᵉᵗ₋₋getting rid of you."

"Nope," The creature scrunched their nosebridge, talons lightly curling in on the air filling up space between the claws and their palm.

Gathering up the breath for coming words that were reluctant and nervous to leave his mouth.

"ʸᵒᵘ⁻⁻ʸᵒᵘ⁻⁻" stutter stutter, those eyes. Stutter stutter. "What's wrong with you?" He meant it nicely.

Ink then bit their tongue, "Can I talk to you about something? I tried to mention it earlier, but you weren't really in the mood to listen."

"Okay," he rested his head on his hands, they had the same expression when they were prepared to tell him everything they knew, back from their indeterminate-long journey in a world Error hadn't bothered to investigate, or had just sprung up. Sometimes they broke every rule Ink thought he held himself to.

Ink pointed to his bandolier, the amateurish stitchwork then suddenly a glaring issue. He'd have to steal it and fix that himself when he got the chance, that excuse for patching up was hideous. "Well, I tried to tell Dream about this, and they made me think I'm going about it all wrong. But you know those movies where the whole lighting and camera angles change for two characters? And they stand gazing into each other's eyes?"

"Oh! Oh! Like ˢ₋₋Sin and ᵗ₋₋ᵗ₋₋Toriel at the end of Season 6: Episode 45 in the three part storyline where they're talking in that restaurant?"

"Yeah! Exactly! So imagine if that were us. Just not all the other stuff. Like," Ink squinted at the ceiling, then tapped his Pink vial, "Like just this."

Feeling leashed, Error gave him a tremendously critical but curious pout, "Like what?"

"Just this. Just for me really. I've been thinking about it for.... uh, an amount of time which I forget the duration of. It feels right, feeling Pink for you. It doesn't feel the same for Blue or Dream or anyone else, only you."

This sounded like the proclamation of love Sin had recited for Toriel (Season 6: Episode 47) when things were tense and urgent. "Why? Shouldn't ᵖ⁻⁻ₚᵤₕ₋₋Pink work the ˢ₋₋same for everyone?"

"When I take it around Dream, all I get is thoughts about how sweet they are, and how I like playing their game with them. I feel the color, but the color doesn't change my opinions, I think."

Ink held his gaze earnestly now, Pink decorated the edges of a Yellow sun shape, with a striking line shadowing periodic nicks in the circumference; a sundial, paired with its twin in the other socket which steadily rotated two overlapping triangles, both working in opposite directions.

"When I take Pink around you, it brings up all these thoughts I've always known I've had about you. It makes me... taste something weird, like a pencil I've discovered a trick of the hand with, or a guitar cord progression I play and think, 'I swear I've heard that before...' So when I look at you, if tastes as if I'm more put-together. Less forgetful. More of a person.

And I wanted to ask if you tasted something weird too."

The hug upstairs had burned. A vat of acid consuming his body in lush, pressured release. Every sob sent into his shoulder a radiowave vibrating down to his toes. Their chest tight to his and cold, freezing like frostbite, and miraculously so, so easing. Biting nicks as if the marrow in his bones would implode in a squeezing attempt to wrestle itself free, snapping glitch jaws latching its teeth and pinching in a million micrometers in every bend, straight edge and curve of its own body.

A shallow breath in. A shallow breath out. Error had never felt anything like it, because it had never happened.

Despite the pain, despite the fear of doing it wrong. So wrong. Knowing that his hands were misplaced and his form was awkward. Eons wondering how to hold a person close, or crying in shaky anxiety alone tangled in string. How would it be to be hugged? Was it like holding hands? Was it like sleeping under blankets? Could he grip his ribcage and squeeze to satiate it. Could he forget about it, and crash again, and again, and again, and think about ripping joints from sockets and beating faces into mush.

Despite doing it wrong, it felt like he'd done it right. And it did feel like hugging himself, but without knowing whose limbs were whose.

"I think so," he responded, "ᴵ⁻⁻ᴵ⁻⁻ᴵ⁻⁻" he hissed, glitches worked their way up his arms. The words snagged, and he wished he could transport all of these clashing sentences straight into Ink's skull, so he wouldn't have to sort them out and select the most efficient one all by himself. "ᴵ⁻⁻I f̴̧̠͙̣̠̮̻͖̪͂ͅeè̵̯̈́̓̀̚l⁻⁻ ᶠ⁻⁻ᶠ⁻⁻fuck," he whined and shook his hands out, looking up at Ink in dismay.

No way to communicate it verbally, no way to communicate it physically. Visually, he scowled and huffed, then softened his features and flipped open his inner pockets. He pulled out the MaddenedTale Frisk doll, little black cloak and hidden face. Ink reached down, accepted the offer and awaited further dialogue.

"That's you. Or, it ʷ⁻⁻ʷ⁻⁻will be," Error said, "if you lose some size."

The Protector giggled, "You want to put me in your pocket? Overjoyed, I can eat all the lint in there. Make room for the cockroaches."

"I don't have cockroaches!"

"You do! You-do you-do you-do! I saw one!" Pointing with intense, court-worthy passion.

"You're blind!"

"You're blind, actually," he made a handsign; two handed, mirror pictures. G handshapes that pulled the placement of the frames of glasses right over his eyes. The doll had dropped into his lap.

Error growled, "yeah, if only they weren't broken."

"Broken?"

Hard exhale. Error rolled his eyes and dug in his pockets once more, yanking out the twisted, bent round glasses and using the momentum to spin them around his pointer. The failed things were too unmotivated to try and balance, and their crumpled form slipped them off his finger within a few rounds, he caught them before they could clatter on the floor.

"Did you eat them?"

"No," Error gave Ink a weird look. "It's all your fault, actually. ʸ⁻⁻you took them off in the first ᵖˡ⁻⁻place. And threw them halfway across the Anti-Void."

"I did?" Ink's eyes went wide in true belief, then smirked to a cocky side-eye, "Heh, I probably did. I have that great an arm."

"Not literally, you idiot!"

The Protector reached his hand down, little fingers twisted in on themselves, the very bone sharply inclined towards the space halfway up the middle finger. He understood why they had been so entranced with them this evening. Nobody else had hands like those, so oddly carved. A tiny voice whispered in his head, a tiny voice he couldn't be sure was his own, but didn't sound like any of Them. A voice with such quiet pronunciation, it was more of a murmured urge than a commanding sentence. But it was his own, it was his own voice.

Temporarily unaware of the implication until a shaky pain seized Error's own hands, up his arms, to his neck and soda fizzing in his nosebridge. Suddenly the act of looking up at his friend on the counter felt uneasy with that extended hand so. Close.

He shuffled backwards, and dropped the glasses where he'd been sitting.

Ink focused on those glasses, hand still unmoving. and then bent over his knees, crushing his stomach seemingly, and readjusting his legs to provide more leeway. He folded his spine like a napkin, and stretched down, down, and brushed his claws to the lens that made tiny clik-cllk noises at the touch. He sat up with them in his clutches, scanning them over.

"Yikes, lemme fix that for you."

Taking out a brush, wetting it with a Pink and Yellow tongue. The saliva turning black at the fragile touch of the bristles, for it had always been just paint. He leaned in, blocking Error's view.

A small amount of miracle magic. Seeing the butt of the brush flick and spin. He'd seen it a million times before, this performance. A glaring afront to the overarching goal, and so unbearably unique nonetheless.

Error hadn't given much attention to what the world would look like if he completed his task. He'd always thought logically that Ink would cease to exist. But in the abstract sense, maybe Ink could remain, and play his flute, draw his frogs, and belt his beautiful songs until the end of the end. Forever alone in a birdcage Error wouldn't get to witness, but might draw a last breath in simple content at the mere idea of it being in the Protector's future.

They'd have fun with the original timeline, and Outertale, and Undernovela. The only things in the Multiverse with true meaning and purpose.

Ink was finished.

"Lemgaurdian-fixioso," he hummed a giggle, presenting them as brand new and shining red.

Stretching down again, he left them where they had dropped.

It was a weird feeling. A weird taste, as described. And at the moment his mind was pleasantly still. No screams of oblivion and dripping black teeth. No cracking vertebrae, or pin-struck skulls. Strangely at ease.

Strangely. It didn't feel very in-character for himself, though the warmth of it was unparalleled. Behind the buzz in his hands there was a feathery, wispy, loving cry dancing on bare feet in his ribcage.

So putting the glasses on, for the first time in months he could see clearly.

And Error asked, "What else ᵈ₋₋does Pink do?"

And Ink didn't waste any time coming up with an answer, "Means I like being your best friend. Means I won't forget you, like I know I'll forget about everyone else."

And everything about those words brought a rush of overwhelming wakefulness, tired in contact like the tucked in corners of the blanket Ink had guarded him with after his crash. Those small words in that small voice whispered again, whispered that he wanted to hold Ink's hand.

"You'd look ᵍ₋₋ᵍ₋₋good as a best friend doll."