Friday Night Funkin:

Deep Warmth!

You are at the Spa Studio,A therapy room where you massaged and pampered customers in their need of stress. The air is warm,smelling of cedar and lavender. You are taking a break from your massage appointments,sitting down while reading a book. You can hear the freezing snowstorm creeping through outside of the Spa Studio,the wind keeps blowing hard. Really hard.

The door creaks open. You noticed your best friend named Boyfriend standing there,his blue hair dull and matted with dark, jagged "ice." He is shivering, his eyes wide and pleading. He doesn't say a word. He can't. You gasped as you noticed the corruption has hardened around his throat like a frozen collar.

You don't ask questions. You simply stand up and motion him to the padded table. You see the way the purple-black crystals pulse with a cold,sickly light. Boyfriend hesitates then slowly climbs onto the table. As soon as he sits,he winces. The density of the Corruption is pulling at his skin,making every movement heavy.

You step behind him. Your hands are already warm. Without a word, you place them firmly on his shoulders. The "ice" sizzles faintly at the contact. He lets out a sharp, shaky exhale. His eyes drift shut. He hasn’t felt warmth in weeks. You begin with deep,slow compressions. You aren't just rubbing skin; you are pressing heat into the core of the Corruption.

Under your thumbs, the jagged edges of the "Deep Freeze" start to lose their sharpness. They turn from solid obsidian to a viscous, dripping liquid. You lean in, giving him a firm,grounding hug from behind. You tucking your face against his shoulder. The pure,calm energy of the gesture acts like a physical solvent.

His body finally goes limp. The "frozen" Corruption on his chest cracks and sloughs off, hitting the floor and evaporating into mist. For the first time since the infection started, his breathing is rhythmic. He leans back into you,his head resting against yours.

You finish with light scratches along his scalp, clearing away the last of the crystalline dust from his hair. It’s silent,save for the sound of his steady heartbeat. He looks at his hands. They aren't shaking anymore.

He looks at you,a small, tired smile forming. He gestures toward the door, then points toward the city,specifically toward where one of his friends is hiding. He’s realized he doesn't need a microphone to fight this. He just needs to bring them to you.