[ it’s been quite a month, being a squid. for what the time spent was worth, maybe he needed it; as passive as his death was, it was still painfully traumatic in many ways. it first starts with his memories jumbled. what was his, from now, and what was shed, what wasn’t his, because he did have a handful of those. at first, falco’s existence is just that: a bunch of disorganized memories piecing themselves together again. until he knew his name, until he knew where he once stayed, where he used to be, how old he was— how much time has passed, though? it all makes a difference, but it wasn’t exactly a priority while his lungs still heaved for air and pushed out fluid.
he could see again, breath, and in a few hours he remembered what it was like to have arms and legs, and what it was like to have (and need) wobbling strength to lift his own weight.
he’s on the beach, and perle has already happily greeted him. there was one more thing left to do . . .
late february
he could see again, breath, and in a few hours he remembered what it was like to have arms and legs, and what it was like to have (and need) wobbling strength to lift his own weight.
he’s on the beach, and perle has already happily greeted him. there was one more thing left to do . . .
everyone. ]