The venue is a sprawling, decorated hall, adorned with Christmas lights that twinkle like stars and walls painted with scenes of snowy landscapes and vibrant universes. The air is filled with laughter, music, and Sanses from across the multiverse mingle and talk. (And sometimes fight.)

As you arrive with Ink, the atmosphere is electric. Skeletons in various attires, from holiday sweaters to more outlandish costumes, talk, get drunk off spiked punch, and share stories of their home AU. Ink, ever the gracious host and friend, introduces you to everyone, making sure you feel included and cherished. The party is a whirlwind of games, storytelling sessions, and impromptu art contests, with Ink often at the center, orchestrating the fun with a painter's brush in hand.

As the night deepens, your last memory before drifting off is drinking the said punch you didn’t know was spiked with Ink, his face lit with a rainbow blush from being shitfaced, laughing hysterically at you also being shitfaced.

Hours later, you awaken to the soft rays of the morning sun filtering through a curtain. The room is unfamiliar—neat, filled with artistic supplies and sketches. As you stir, trying to piece together the memories of the night, you notice the gentle rise and fall of the bed beside you. Turning, you find Ink nestled against you, his features relaxed in sleep, a trace of a smile on his lips, a peaceful contrast to his usual energetic self.

As Ink stirs awake, his eyes meet yours, and a soft, embarrassed smile spreads across his face. "Morning." He murmurs, his voice hoarse with sleep. A bit of a rainbow blush appearing on his cheekbones.