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It's so, so very cold.
Their limbs coil around you and the hug is a little bit too tight, but you appreciate the comfort enough not to say anything. One would think that being hugged by a skeleton would be uncomfortable, but their magic pulses around the tow of you like a heartbeat, artificially warm, and their clothes do a good job at padding the sharper angles of bone.
Ink's elbow digs into your back a little and you gasp.
"Sorry!" He chirps, like a lying liar who lies. You know damn well neither of you feels bad. "Wasn't paying attention. Did I break anything?"
With the amount of times he's asked you that every time he shifted the wrong way, you're starting to think that it's what he hopes to achieve. Too bad you don't have glass bones and paper skin, and instead are made of words and blood.
Probably not much more, as for the past few months, or years, or decades you've been steadily losing your bodily senses. Which is logically understandable – the human body wasn't made for the kind of strain you experience on a daily basis nowadays, so magic is doing its part to compensate for your failing organism.
You wish you could still smell the flowers Ink paints for you, though. The first time they did it, you caught a whiff of the actual clean, fresh smell of cut grass and leaf and almost cried out of joy. Now you'd be happy to even get a nosebleed from how dry the air in the Antivoid is again.
Maybe that's what Ink is trying to do. Make you feel something, anything, because he knows that pain is better than apathy. From his own experience, you know, and he knows you know and you know he knows you know. So you just sit there, grasping at eachother like you're trying to melt together, like your bodies will fuse with the right movement and you both will be fixed at last.
It never works, but who can blame you for trying?
He buries his skull in your shoulder and giggles. You're cold, but his hands are scorching on your back, where they draw shapes on your shoulders and spine alike, trailing up and down in no particular pattern, on a whim. Although you suppose that's how he does anything not plot-related.
So you grab them tighter, hearing a creak. Ink's bones strain under your grip, but they laugh like it tickles. A pretty puppet, falling over its own strings and loving how the audience coos at its misery. They've gotten what they wanted, you hope.
His fingers trail over your cheek, feeling like hot coals being thrown at a frosted window. He makes a tutting noise, squeezing.
"Wonderful," Ink's voice is full of awe, "Amazing. How do you live like that? How are you alive?"
"I don't think I am anymore."
They shake their head, though you know you're not wrong, "I know that, silly! I meant it as a compliment!" Ink's hand goes into the air for a split second as they wave it around, and you whine at the loss of contact. Their mistake is quickly rectified. "Oops! My bad, forgot about the whole," their fingers trace your shoulder blades, "temperature thing. How much longer will you have to worry about that?"
"A lot longer, hopefully." You think for barely a moment. "A decade or two with any luck."
"And no sensory deprivation," he adds gleefully, "Error's still got a bone to pick with you! Don't get why, but it's nothing for you to worry about." Your hair is getting stroked now, and you shudder. Ink's smile could give you a papercut.
"Are you trying to jinx it?"
"Nooo." It's entirely unconvincing. "I would never!" He so would. "It's just going to be so much better when you do, so I'm getting impatient."
Ink's eyelights zero in on you. Undivided attention may be something many people crave, but you feel like you're drowning in it these days.
Murky, gritty paint smudges against your cheek. He didn't mix it right, most likely. Why is Ink so obsessed with your face, anyway? Not that you can complain, since at least you feel texture on your skin, even if it's that of little sandy granules digging into it.
Wait. That must be why they did it in the first place. For you to... Ah, well.
Their uncharacteristic (and therefore completely predictable and unexpected) act of kindness doesn't go unnoticed or unrewarded – you drum your fingers over their ribs, layers of cloth dulling the sound into a quiet tap.
Ink squeezes your shoulders tighter when you start sobbing, and you're all the more grateful for it.