Chapter Text
In all fairness, it was a really good shot.
And it wasn’t just a lucky one either.
He got cocky, maybe too cocky, let down his guard, and his opponent, predictably, took that opening without much thought, and shot.
It was pretty clean too, almost like that one epic showdown in any cinematic movie. The type of scene to get you an oscar nomination, you know? Stars he wishes this were the oscars. Imagine that, Ink going up on stage, the applause, which would probably be deafening, would accompany him as he made his way up those carpeted steps. He would walk down the stage, waving and right before he'd take his prize he'd do his signature smile, the one he made right before he acted out his greatest death scene yet, the same scene that would be playing out again right behind him.
…
..That would've been pretty cool.
But that’s not what happened.
He(unfortunately) didn’t get an applause when he felt a sharp pain right above the space in between his eye sockets. The stage was replaced with the plain white snow of snowdin, which was currently being stained black as drops of his own blood dripped down his face, off his chin, and fell below him. His hand reached up to touch the wound instead of waving. He was only slightly disturbed to look at his fingers to find that they had almost been fully stained with his blood, looking as if he had dipped the tip of his fingers in a tub of ink.
You'd think with the amount of times he died, got hurt, or lost a limb he wouldn't be fazed by the amount of blood that could come out of a person, monster or not.
In response to him freezing in place, the hooded skeleton in front of him stood as still as rock, eyes wide in shock, probably at the fact that he actually made the shot if he had to guess. Ink honestly couldn't understand what he was so surprised for; if he could he would have started clapping for him with how well he made it. But unfortunately for ink his body had finally seemed to be catching up with what just happened and he was quickly losing feeling in his lower legs and hands. It won't be much longer until he's gone so he might as well make the most of it, he thought to himself, a thought that was quickly replaced with the realization that he was losing his ability to think clearly.
It felt as if a fog was quickly making through his head, blocking out most of his thoughts and actions. If his head was a town, then that shot was just the beginning of a darkness that started to turn off every light in its path as it sped through his mind.
Distantly he could hear voices, some louder than others, talking around him. To him.
The one that now felt the closest was also accompanied with a skeleton which he took longer than a second to remember as dream with his signature yellow gloves, which were now touching the sides of his face as they both kneeled on the ground(his legs must have gone numb and given out at some point but he doesn’t remember the exact moment it happened). He can see Dream telling him things, tears brimming his eye sockets as he speaks but he hears almost none of it except for the small word here and there that surfaces from the jumbled mess of words he can't make out.
It’s about to happen. He knows this. And he assumes the others can see it based on the amount of panicked faces he can see right now. Of the little he can see left anyways. Dream, who by now has tears of gold streaming down his face, attempts to bring comfort to Ink to no avail as he slips in and out of reality.
In his last moments the only thing Ink feels is horrible. For making Dream cry, for not trying hard enough and making a small fight a lot more than it needed to be. For all the trouble he knows is about to come from this. But saying all of that right now sounds like a lot more work than his body is worth right now.
So with all the energy he has left with his face he focuses the best he can on dream to give him a tiny smile that makes Dreams breath hitch and in a voice that sounds farther away than it should be he says the only thing he can.
“Sorry”
And everything stops.
-*-
The next time he comes to his senses, away from dreams of giant fleshy hands with matching art materials and empty nothingness, he's in a place all too familiar and foreign at the same time. Even without opening his eyes he could feel it, swirling all around and through the gaps in his bones, coming over to cover the tattoos he familiarized himself with all too well.
It was just as calming as it was suffocating, like the last moments of consciousness in the deep water before the darkness overtakes your mind.
He feels the paint swirling around his skull especially, around his eye sockets, through his nasal bone and coming together at the pint between his eyes. It pushes and pricks yet feels like the most comforting thing he's felt in weeks. Has it been weeks? Maybe months- no, years. But as soon as that comfort comes it's washed away in an instant and he remains stuck in this limbo. Distantly something pulls at him, figuratively pulling at the markings on his bones, calling for his release from this odd prison.
He opens his mouth but the second he does the paint pours into his mouth and invades every part of his being. The more he tries to take in anything but the paint, the more his ribs start to burn and his head sounds to pound from the pressure.
Desperately, before a wave of calm threatens his mind which he knows happens at the end of all these scenarios, he starts to use his hands to feel for something, anything, to pull himself out of this miniature hell he found himself in to almost no avail.
At the last he feels an edge and he takes in his grasp like a lifeline, clawing at it hard enough to leave marks from the edges of his boney fingers. He tries to pull himself up the best he can but paint is heavier and thicker than water and he's having trouble just lifting his head through it all as it clings like a parasite; to his bones, his tattoos, his livelihood.
Using his second hand to grab the ledge right next to the first he tries again for slightly better result, feeling himself rise through the paint. Inch by inch he can feel it, some of the pressure subsiding as less and less remains right above him until he can finally surface and the bright golden light from above makes him squint, and the only that comes out his mouth is the paint that was so forcefully surging down his throat.
Despite the paint that went in being the purest definition of color any living being could ever think of, the ink that comes out of him is anything but, darker than most things natural.
Not like he’s natural. So that doesn't matter.
At least, he doesn’t think he is. Not that he could remember anyways so probably not.
After coughing out the very last remnants of what just happened and the swirl of colors in his vision stop he reaches his entire arm over the ledge of this odd pool of paint probably coming from one of the buckets above in the corners of his vision. His head is still pounding but considerably less than it was submerged and his limbs, although not completely numb, now feel terribly heavy, probably the heaviest he ever felt.
He attempts to pull himself out of it completely but ends up slipping on his feet the first time and falling halfway in again.
The second time is better, a little rough but better.
It ends up with him half way through, tripping in the opposite direction, and landing on his face on the floor right beside the pool. It takes more energy than it should to turn himself around as his bones creak and scrape against each other, but that doesn’t stay on his mind long as he gazes directly above him, his sight already adjusted to the brightness.
The only thing he can focus on is just how.. Beautiful it is.
The papers hanging in the air reflect the golden sky from above, making it look like each au is glowing. The buckets hanging around them shining from the gold hitting off each of them and each pouring out a unique color of paint, some of them hitting islands and converging into pools, much like the one he was just submerged in. The paints, when they do touch, act like oil and water, floating around each other, never mixing but instead making beautiful patterns as they naturally flow round each other.
The more he looks, the more he wishes to grab a paintbrush and attempt to do the scene justice. In the back of his mind he knows that it could wait, that this will always be here. He has more important things to do. For as long as he is alive and protects the pages that fill this space it will always remain.
Yet, when will he ever get to look at this again? With sight as fresh as they are right now? Who knows how long this will last before he goes back to seeing this as the 'normal' and he forgets beauty like this exists right outside his doorstep. How long will he be able to remember how the bright vivid colors and contrast before it all fades into routine and plain shades of bright yellows surrounded by the various colors of his vials?
Ink soon realizes on this train of thought that It hurts to think about his terrible memory like this. He knows it will end, like all things will. Like friendships do, like most relationships do.
Like he does. Repeatedly.
At these new, and not entirely welcomed, thoughts he subconsciously reaches to his chest expecting to grab a circular tube containing paint like the color of warm gloves with a familiar soul-shaped knob on top, but only ends up confusing himself when he only feels his own flawed and decorated ribcage.
His paints. He's missing his paints.
Actually, better question, where are they? They had to be somewhere around if this is where he ended up. Looking around from his position on the ground he couldn't see anything that resembled a house or living space(because he just remembered he had one apparently), but that didn't make any sense. Maybe he just forgot the direction again and he would have to make a new one, it wouldn't be the first time or probably the last time anyways. But something in him tugged at him to go search for it and the things it held inside. Not just for his paints or his clothes but for sketchbooks, filled with figures and friends. At least, he thought they were his friends, but he can't remember a single face on those pages for the life of him.
Well not like he had a life anyway, considering he just rose from the dead, but he had other things to worry about now! Sure he could always drink out of the pool that basically just birthed him but he didn't want to stay here forever! He would never be able to paint this place if he couldn't even get the materials for it!
So with this new found determination he attempted to get up on his feet again which was a lot harder than it should have. For starters he couldn't even prop himself up on his elbows without his arms begging to be left alone again, already shaking and still feeling like heavy-weights were strapped to his bones. However, not letting that discourage him he continues to sit up all the way, even using the edge of the pool again for leverage in pulling himself up. His legs were worse, now they weren't supported by liquid they just felt like stone attached at his hip. Still he persisted until he supported most of his weight on his arms and his legs weren't shaking like leaves on a tree in the middle of disaster.
If there was one thing his enemies collectively described him as, it was stubborn. He wasn’t sure why he remembers that fact now, out of everything he knew he was probably missing, but something told him it was a good thing so he didn’t dwell on it.
Now, he just had to move. Without holding on to dear life(still not actually alive!).
He could, no, would do it. If he could walk before he could do it again easily! really, it should be a piece of cake!
-*-
It wasn’t. At all.
The first time he tried to walk without any assistance that plan fell apart and crumbled. Almost literally. He tripped over his own feet and almost fell off the ledge of the island he was resting on. Maybe to any other character it would've been a bit discouraging, or enough to keep them rooted in their place. Ink, however, just blankly stared at the dark gold, almost fading into black but not quite, abyss and willed himself up once more. He tried it about twice more, each ending the same before the thought occurred that he should probably try to balance first, which he soon realized was a little harder than it should've been.
Walking was worse, both with and without the support. It was a bit painful after the 3rd fall, honestly just boring after about maybe the 8th, but by 12 he was pretty sure he had it down pat! Took him longer than he would’ve liked to but that wasn’t important anymore. Now he just needed to get home.
…
Where did he put it again? He needed to find it specifically for some reason but why? He really could just build another one honestly. Just so long he had himself, the paint of the doodle verse, and his trusty broomie beside him he’d be just fine.
But as he reached around himself to grab it behind him and his hand reached around nothing but air it had become glaringly obvious that broomie was nowhere to be found. Why he thought broomie would be there if he didn’t have any clothes at all was anyone's guess really. But now that meant that he was truly alone, and that would never do.
Turns out jumping from island to island isn’t nearly as bad walking which in hindsight doesn’t make much sense but he cant find it in him to care as his head starts ache again and the only thing he can think about is the fact that broomie isn’t with him, and that he's alone and he doesn't have his paints anymore and he's jumping to fast to stop by another island or reach for a bucket but he can't stop and his legs ache and the speed his racing at makes his vision dizzy and his bones shiver from the wind hitting and rolling off all of them through the gaps and-
His train of thought is interrupted when he runs head first into some sort of structure stopping him in his tracks and causing the back of his head and his back to slam on to the ground with an unapologetic thud. He’s left reeling more than he should and uses both hands to grasp in an effort to make the faint ringing go away.
Once he gets up he’s able to almost immediately recognize the familiar patterns and grooves but can’t exactly put a finger on where he's seen it before. But, deciding not to curse it out because 1. It’s not alive like broomie is and 2. It could probably help him get his memories back just a little faster, he stands up a lot more firmly than before and tries to go around to find a door. The house itself is odd compared to most, with little sections seemingly growing out the sides, lines that aren’t exactly straight and windows in almost random spots.
The first door he finds he recognizes as a back door coming from the slightly less prettier side of the house, where imperfections were hidden in the small corners that only Ink could point out and the certain shapes and colors just didn’t seem to like each other as well as he’d like. He knows he could probably change the entire house if he didn’t really like to, the outside at least, be he always either forgets or doesn’t care enough at any given moment, so the imperfections will unfortunately have to stay. He doesn’t remember the kind voice (or was it voices?) that reminded him that it was the small imperfections that made great art. After it was just like he had told them, it’s impossible to truly be perfect so why try?
Walking inside is even more strange because now he knows that it’s his house which means that logically everything should be fine and make sense. But it doesn’t. There are doors he doesn’t remember adding, spaces that feel changed but he can't figure out if something is missing or if it's too much, frames on the walls of strange familiar faces that he can't help but feel weirdly about.
Sure, from the walls to the windows and even the staircase leading up to the second floor and above it seems mostly the same but everything else here looks almost completely different. However, before he can continue to lemment on the details he spots it. Right in the corner, perfectly propped up in all its fine greatness is broomie, devoid of any scratches and waiting eagerly to be picked up.
He lets out a loud “Broomie!” in joy and forgets everything around to hold it again and feel it comfortably in his hands. His voice is rasper than it should be but considering he’s barely talked the entire time he’s been alive(again), it probably makes sense.
With broomie back in his grasp and his feet back on the mostly familiar floor a calmness washes over him, replacing the confusion(that was inching closer to frustration more than anything), and making him momentarily forget his worries.
It’s broomie who reminds him that he still doesn’t have any clothes on and the only thing he says is “oh” before going to his room with skip in his step, propping broomie up on the wall closest to him and reaching for the bucket of Ink that he always keeps by his bed for occasions just like this.
Instead of a bucket handle or even the brim of it toppled over his hand grasps around nothing but air, which doesn’t make sense at all because he always left it right there! Broomie quickly and unhelpfully suggests that he look in the closet on the other side of the room but that just wouldn’t make sense! It's supposed to be out and easy to access in case he ever needed to remake his clothes or help healing. Putting it in the closet it's just impractical in every sense!
The confusion and frustration that was building up slowly before started to finally show its true colors, making his eyelights turn a dark orange pinpoint and a purple swirl. While looking under the bed next to where it should've been, and should always be might he add, Broomie urges him one last time to the closet rather instantly. Annoyed, he finally listens to Broomie(of course not without declaring how wrong it probably will be) but to his surprise, and Anger, Broomie was right yet again.
Except, instead of being placed near the bottom or on the floor of the closet like it would make the most sense to do, it was placed on one of the highest shelves just out of reach, away from all of the various outfits he had hanging up just below it(half of which he doesn't even remember buying let alone wearing, despite the fact that some were obviously worn more than once if the small doodles on the cuffs of jeans and the sleeves of different shirts had anything to say).
He ignores the obvious 'I told you so' said smugly by the tool in the corner and reaches for the bucket in vain, not even reaching the bottom despite standing as straight as he could. He managed to nudge it on the tips of his toes but, to his demise, it wouldn’t budge.
Sucking up his own embarrassment(and after a quick “i'm not that short!” to an amused Broomie), he tries to jump it and successfully grabs the handle on the first try. It only causes the bucket to topple over and spill directly onto his head but it works just as well because soon he feels the same familiar fabric draped over his bones with the same comforting browns and off whites along his arms and legs.
His new scarf sits comfortably on his shoulders and warming up the vacant space underneath his head. However he notices very quickly that it's far more plain and bare than it should be. There is no writing, no doodles, not even a single reminder from before he died to give him a hint of memory of anything or anyone.
Feeling the oddly clean fabric between his hands and fingers stirs something deep inside him that feels like a weird chasm that wasn't there before, joining the rest of his hollow body and creating more cracks and holes than there already were. He considered going out and finding his death scene, to see if his scarf has fully dissolved into nothing but ink yet and see what parts of his old pile of bones he can still salvage before it's too late but he knows it's an unlikely thing. If he's still right about the timing then the scarf would've been long gone by now after being untouched for so long, if not dissolving than already buried under new layers of snow.
deciding he's had enough of the plain surface he opens up one of his many art-supplies-designated-drawers and pulls out a pencil(thankful that its placement among the other utensils hasn't been changed too), adding a reminder for himself to check tomorrow and go back outside to see what he's missed in his time gone, already feeling slightly better now that it's not so plain anymore.
He tries to ignore the unfamiliar faces in glass frames on top of the dresser showing himself next to warm smiles, star shaped eyes, and a golden crown among a few others in the background. He tries not to think about the hints of fun laughter, cozy sleepovers, and fun adventures as he plops down unceremoniously on his bed to let himself rest after such a long day. Even as he feels the unfamiliarity of calmness wash over him like it did in the pool of paint, he fails to stop thinking of friendly, welcoming, distant voices begging him to stay awake just a little bit longer.