[And he just lurches forward. It's almost a spastic movement and he really doesn't quite know what he's doing. It's supposed to be a hug, but he holds too tightly and doesn't seem sure where to put his arms.

Up close he smells like a sick-room, blood new and old, stale sweat and a faint mustiness of poorly washed clothes.]

Couldn't get my mad on at you long, Karkat. Best motherfucking friend.