[ falco avoids eye contact and retreats into himself physically, curling up into a tight ball and pretending it hasn’t been just his own arms squeezing him. underneath his arms, just around his kneecaps, is a shake of his head shedding silent tears. ]

I don’t . . . Want to go back. I want to stay here, with you. With all of you.

[ there’s hardly much to go back to at all, at this point. his gooey disposition is simply an effect of reaching that conclusion, and if the ocean calls one day, he’d much prefer to be a squid than go back (as much as he’d reach the conclusion that he had to finish what was started). ]

You’re what I have left. [ it’s vague, what comes next. he almost wishes to leave it at that, the way they come word for word. but his voice is too tight from withholding the tension that would comfort us features. he mustn’t. he still hides half of it. ] And I’ll— I’ll, um . . . Have that for a few more years, I think.

[ breathlessness builds up in him, and his parted, silent lips give his hesitation away. when a bead slips from his eye, it falls with the viscosity of syrup. ]

I have— only a few years.