"Frisk. Frisk." Chara means to add something else to that, but the words drift from their mind like smoke under the agony of coming apart. Once again they paw out, but in the direction of Frisk's voice - they're not exactly in any condition to realise there's more than one here, and the quietness of the words goes unnoticed.

If their left hand gets a hold on any part of them, they're not letting go, even if the pressure of their grip painfully distorts the remaining flesh on their fingers. Their shoulders relax a little. Frisk is here.

"Don't. Do that." It's a weak anger that they manage to muster, but it is anger. "Where...?" Where should they go? Frisk knows. Frisk knows things.