index finger twitches, middle sliding against it in search of the stem of a champagne glass to press in-between, and finds none.

instead, fingertips find purchase in something soft and rough at the same time. not blankets, but not a bar floor either. carpet. their back hurts. still floor. just not dirty, sticky floor. well. not sticky, at least. maybe dirty. they haven't vacuumed in a while.

then, there's—light. and a breeze. and there is—

"luce,"

—ah.

their eyelids unfurl slowly like curtains, vision is spotted with flecks of black and pops of white, then warms with the sight of a familiar pair of webbed feet and a stout, yellow blob with feathers. adele hears themself blinking.

"good morning, luce."

the psyduck leans down, preening as he places his face in the palm of their hands. he places his cold wings on theirs in greeting.

their voice is more of a rasp than they expect it to be. "can you close the curtains?" but, as usual, luce can't parse the question being asked of him, so adele sighs and hauls themself up, vertebrae stacking on top one another until it composes them.

they trudge towards the windowed balcony to take care of it themself when something catches their eye. not something—someone. a face that they can't recognize and that is obscured all the more by long, ivory hair.

the first thought that comes to mind and out of mouth: "you don't think she's dead, do you?"

the second thought: "how heavy do you think she is?"

crouching down, adele snaps their fingers in the body's face then shakes her by the shoulder. "hey, wake up." no sense in losing their security deposit like this.

calla roth