Butterfly
If I can't hear you scream
I want you to crush me in your hand
While I can still call myself "me"…
Your arm holding me back becomes silent dust;
I just sit quietly
Holding up my hands…
Tsukiko Amano, "Chou"
When a caterpillar was ready to make its final rest…its final rest before growing up to maturity, it wrapped itself into a cocoon, hiding itself from the world.
It always started out fat, gluttonous…sometimes even fuzzy or cute. Something that people either missed, gawked at for a quick moment (Aww, that's so cute…look at the little caterpillar going towards that leaf. Doesn't he know that the spider's going to eat him?), or flicked off the leaf for fun. Sometimes rude kids even led the poor thing to the spider, watching with glee as it was eaten alive by the much stronger arachnid.
Alfons had always considered himself a caterpillar of sorts.
Though he wasn't so full of himself to think that he would one day become a butterfly. He didn't think he could become quite as radiant as that. One that would captivate…spread their wings and fly amongst the flowers and all that.
What a joke.
That was something that a girl would say. Not a guy.
If his brother had ever heard him even make such a comparison, even in thought, more than just teasing would come in response to that.
But still…
Looking at him now…it was hard not to make that sort of comparison.
He was sitting in an old, stuffy study with the door locked, lights dim…the musty smell of yellowed books floating in the air around him, silence pounding in his ears. His bedroom sat several rooms down, unused for days; the door was locked and the dust was probably gathering on his dresser, on his blankets, on his floor…
Damn it…how many days had he spent in that chair anyway?! Had he even eaten?!
He vaguely remembered going to the bathroom…maybe bathing.
…He might as well have been in a damn cocoon, now that he thought about it.
A cocoon that he might never have been able to get out of.
"I'll be going to Munich." Edward had said, "The University there may have some answers."
Answers.
Answers to questions that were in a sleep, dream-riddled brain.
Dreamer.
Lunatic.
Chasing a dream that he knew that he would never have—well, he wasn't much better, he was sure. He did the same thing.
It would be the death of him, that was for sure—
He followed the brightness, clung to the light in front of it. He floated there, like a moth…soaking up the warmth and staring into it…applying it to himself.
Without that warmth it was hard to even concentrate. Even think.
Why?
It was too hot. It would burn him—take away everything he was, strip him to the core and bring him in flames…he'd fall to the ground in a heap and twitch there until he stopped moving, stopped breathing…
But he still wanted it there. In this room.
In this cold room…no light, no air, no room to breathe, no room to think…as if that presence there would make everything all right. Would lift the dust, would lift the darkness, would make the air bearable and would take out this ache in his chest that he didn't understand.
He smiled sadly, looking down at the desk, drumming his fingers over the surface.
Yes.
That's right.
He wasn't a butterfly…
He wasn't going to turn into one. This cocoon of his wouldn't make him spread his wings and make him radiant and great…
It would turn him into a moth.
A moth following and trailing the one who was truly radiant…
And truly beautiful.