[ their guilt is strangely mutual. falco listens and while he’s surprised that dipper had so much of a possibly strong backup that didn’t get used, he’s . . . not mad at him in the slightest. no, no no no, how could he? if he wasn’t the main cause, they both at least shared in it. a brief glance down to his book of open notes is cast, but they linger on the poor boy’s discolored hands. that was another thing. ]

The restraints . . . Those weren’t enough, either. I shouldn’t have even allowed it done that way. [ he should’ve given dipper a full rundown of what he was and what he could do, but it was all too much of a domino effect and the illusion of hardly enough time to get it done was painfully panicking. ] That was my ability, it just— used it. I knew it could. What happened to you . . . Happened to someone else, once.

[ it was one immense reason why seeing these burns hurt so much. they were individually different circumstances, but they were similar, too. he didn’t see dipper afterwards, but he could smell him. scent the crisp, arduous smell of charred flesh and heat. he had no memory of the first time he turned, but he could only imagine how it went. sometimes, the imagination is worse.

on top of that, he doesn’t even want to think how he’d be if he were suffering stages of corruption, though, all the way up to beasthood. then that thing would run wild. falco wets his lips, steadies his voice, but it’s already wobbly and cracking. ]

We both weren’t thinking straight— and I know it won’t change things now, but . . . I’m sorry, Dipper. [ now it’s apparent: he’s crying. softly, but pained and overwhelmed with empathy. ] I’m sorry you and your family went through this.

[ there was a second bed in the room. his uncle. the picture on the wall. they must’ve felt something when dipper died. but, speaking of that (and the fact that it’s awkward, crying for too long when both were in need of soothing), ]

What do you remember—?