#yeahyehayeah

he can hear birds.

they're far away, or at least, they sound far away—or muted, or muffled, as though he hears them through some kind of filter. disjointed, coming in waves or just a second or two of sound before rushing silence. seems as though he hasn't heard birdsong in ages, probably, not since the last time he went to banora. the sparrows would make their nests on the low branches of the dumbapple trees, and one time when they were all young, angeal had carefully tugged one down to show him the little hatchlings, and even the hungry chirping had been pretty.

it's not as close now. there's something else closer, a feeling, a sense. moving. moving somewhere. steady as a drumbeat, but where does it come from? something alive and here.

his head shifts. he means to turn and look, but finds there's only something solid he turns to, and that his eyes feel stuck shut. a sound, displeasure, crackles and hums in his throat. feels rusty, feels dry, too much to feel and not enough to know—sephiroth's brow pinches as he stubbornly opens his eyes, long as it takes him, only to meet the stinging and blinding whiteness of daylight, and the dark shape of the something solid, and then everything goes black again.

the next time he awakens, it's with a sudden and vicious cough tearing from his chest, and there is no birdsong and it's dark; on instinct he sits bolt upright without knowing he'd been laid down, lungs burning and tight. drawing breath feels sickly, painful, the coughing makes him gasp and shake as though he hasn't tasted air in years.