Create And Destroy (Error X Ink)

Corting

The hushed corridors of the castle often echoed with the same whispered tale, a narrative Ink had meticulously crafted and repeated countless times. He told everyone, from the lowliest page to the esteemed royal guard, about his encounter with the infamous Night Terror. The creature, shrouded in shadow and mystery, had approached him initially, a looming shape in the dim light, and at first, Ink, ever the artist lost in his own world, hadn't even recognized it for what it was. Not until his insatiable curiosity, a trait as defining as his vibrant palette, got the better of him. Without thinking, or perhaps, because he wasn't thinking of consequences, he'd reached out in the darkness, a fleeting movement, and in a moment of startling revelation, his hand had knocked the Night Terror's mask clean off.

When pressed for details, when curious eyes probed deeper into what the terrifying entity might have wanted, Ink's answer remained steadfast, delivered with an air of simple disinterest that belied the secret nestled in his core. He'd merely stated, with a shrug and a slight tilt of his skull, that the Night Terror was only interested in knowing about any upcoming shipping carts, mundane supplies, nothing more.

And they believed him. His story, unblemished by hesitation or alteration, never changed. His unwavering consistency, coupled with his seemingly innocent nature, made the tale utterly convincing. Even after three long months had drifted by, periods marked by the changing seasons outside the castle windows, the narrative held firm.

The Queen, Toriel, a figure of maternal grace and concern, and her son, Prince Asriel, would often check up on Ink, their visits laced with gentle queries and reassuring smiles, just to be sure he was truly fine, truly unscathed by the encounter. Eventually, the Queen, satisfied by Ink's cheerful demeanor and lack of distress, lessened her frequent visits, believing him to be well and recovered. But Asriel, ever the more sensitive and observant, harbored a deeper, almost protective concern, and continued to check in on Ink from time to time, his presence a comforting yet persistent shadow.

Up in his sun-dappled chamber, a haven filled with canvases and the scent of paint, Ink spun his custom paintbrush, a tool he cherished, across a fresh sheet of parchment. The bristles danced, leaving behind trails of rich purple, fiery red, cheerful yellow, cool gray, and serene blue. Then, with a flourish, a vibrant streak of emerald green appeared, followed by a delicate dash of blushing pink. He was painting a single, captivating rose, its petals unfurling amidst a backdrop of deepening, almost oppressive shadows. In his mind, the darkness wasn't a threat, but a profound embrace – a cradle that held and enhanced the fragile light.

"That's a lovely rose," a voice, low and silken, whispered directly into his ear. Before Ink could even register the sound, two familiar, skeletal hands expertly gripped his waist, pulling him back a single, startled step until his back pressed firmly against another's body. The sudden, intimate contact brought a prickle of shock, quickly replaced by a wave of warmth.

Ink felt an immediate, familiar blush bloom across his cheekbones, painting them in an array of soft, varied hues. He smiled softly, leaning back into the solid form, allowing himself to be enveloped. "You think so?" he murmured, his own voice barely above a whisper.

Error, his presence a stark, exhilarating contrast to Ink's vibrant world, chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through Ink's frame. "I know so. Look how it blends in with the darker colors, like it's born from them, one of them."

Ink's smile broadened. "I think it's the darker colors surrounding it that really bring it in. They protect it. It's a safe place for the rose to be." The words, though seemingly about his art, were a soft confession, an unconscious declaration of his feelings for the very entity that embodied those 'darker colors.'

Error grinned, a flash of gold in his eye sockets, resting his chin gently on top of Ink's head, his arms tightening around the smaller skeleton's waist. He understood. He always did. Ink was telling him how he felt, as he so often did, through his paints again.