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Its little feet scuffed the hardwood floor, claws dragging along the wood as it slowly lifted itself. This always made a little noise, like a bird scrambling for flight or shoes on the wrong dirt. Taking steps, remembering to walk with its head so fuzzy it was more like goo. It should be easy, but it all felt so new.
When inevitably it fell again, chest hitting the table as its knees gave in, it sobbed something broken and heavy. Its little clawed hands, feeling far too big and more like weights, seemed more of a chore than a help.
Not long after its tears began to fall, a taller inkling raised it to her chest. She cooed and purred as it wrapped its shaky arms around her neck, sniffling into the yellow sweater. “First steps are always the hardest, baby. You’ll get it eventually,” Frye chimed, so bright and warm. Yet they weren’t its first, it knew it well. Somehow, though, it was okay.
It was always okay.
Another week later, it felt far older (though that may be an overstatement since it was barely reaching 7). The living room, bright with the sun’s spring light and the joy of family was full of laughter and big, bright smiles.
“Go, go, go, get ‘em! C’mon!” the little octoling shouted, mashing buttons between its fingers. “Up- up! Not that high!”
“Y’ can’t just say up without any other hints!” The other chided, almost teasingly. They were different from Frye, a little shorter and they couldn’t hold the kid much like she could, but they were just as great in their own light.
Shiver was snarky, brave, a little bit strange but so loving. The little octoling always looked forward to playing with them, even if the others couldn’t join. Though they could be mean, they all could be, really, they were a little nicer in a way. The others were loud and competitive while Shiver was cool and quiet. Maybe that's what made the little octoling prefer them.
The bottom of the screen went black as bright red letters formed to make a “YOU DIED,” though the upper stayed lit and moving.
“Dammit!” the kid shouted, though not lashing out. That was the hardest part, not hitting its hip or clawing at the controller's plastic. This was better, and they hoped it’d stay that way.
“Language,” Shiver nudged it before returning focus. It only huffed, putting down the controller. Sure they knew what was best, but what’s the point in swear words if you couldn’t ever use them?
For another month, maybe, it went without feeling younger. Another birthday went by, making it officially older. At times the thought would make it nauseous, a cold sweat on its face as it’d shake in its jacket. ‘God, not another birthday. The previous was hard enough,’ it’d tell itself.
Yet no matter what, it’d always pass.
The manta ray was the biggest of the bunch, with flippers that could reach either side of a room without strain. However, that may be easy since most rooms are small compared to his pancake-like body.
He always knew what the little octoling needed, even if he couldn’t always do what he wanted to help.
“Ay, ay (I’ve got you, kid),” it took a while for it to understand what he was saying before it could appreciate the words. That might’ve been the first thing Big Man has ever said to it, and all it wanted was to be able to hear it again and again and again.
They often went scrap hunting when it wasn’t lil, for lack of better words. The octolings boots would kick up dirt and sand as it ran through the desert, its pale skin red yet shiny with a gluey sunscreen. It felt almost like a bit of freedom, even when it’d fall back to its knees, scuffing the skin and maybe even drawing blood. All it did was laugh it off.
“Ay! (Careful!)” Big man almost yelped as he kept it from falling off its own feet, earning nothing but a laugh as it steadied. “Ay! (We only have so many bandaids!)”