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013. Wings
- October 4th, 1999 -
"I want you to pick them apart, one by one."
Young Crona stands with Medusa in front of a glass case of butterflies. Harmlessly, dozens of them are scattering around in the case, wisping from branch to branch, their airy wings yellow and white like sunshine.
They're so small, and so thoughtless. Can they see? Do they even know where they are? Do the butterflies, who used to live outside, realize that they are in a cage now, in the lab of a witch who is only going to use them to further her purpose?
Crona stares at them, in their box on the counter, feeling confused and worried.
Medusa just asked him to kill them.
"But, L-Lady Medusa…"
His mother raises a brow at him, unamused.
"But, you just put them here," the child worries.
The glass case has only been in the lab for three days. Crona has curiously noticed it sitting there every day, every time he's come in to be used in more experiments.
The finite movements of the little butterflies, distant behind the glass, have distracted him each time he's laid down to be used by her. If nothing else, he could count the individual flutters of their wings as needles pricked his skin and tears burned in his eyes, could watch they wandered around behind the glass, looking for a place to land…
Medusa's experiments always hurt him so much, what with the incisions and alterations but at least there have been winged little friends there to stare at as he lies, unsure, open for her on her table.
He wonders if the butterflies are ever sad, too, that they are stuck in a glass cage.
The little bugs can't speak, and they probably don't know that he is there, but they are still comforting; just by virtue of the fact that they're alive, when so many other things in the house are dead. He wonders why Medusa is keeping them there…does she like to do experiments on butterflies too?...but he doesn't mind their company, regardless.
Now she is telling him, however, that she wants him to pick the wings off of their little bodies.
"Don't argue with me," Medusa instructs. "It won't take long. When I open the lid, I want you to catch one, and dismember it completely. You'll do the same with each of them, until they are all gone."
Crona's hands clench into fists at his sides.
But…they didn't do anything bad, he thinks.
"Go on."
Crona tentatively walks towards the case of butterflies, stands before it, bracing himself. Most of the little bugs are resting on a branch now, but one in particular is flying around near the lid, almost as if it's excited to someday fly freely again…the way it moves, so carelessly and lightly, looks like happiness itself…
That's the one I'm going to have to kill.
Medusa suddenly stands so close that he can feel her pressed up against his back, cornering him to this task. She snaps the lid open for just few seconds and the butterflies begin to scatter and cower in fear, but only one of them slips out before she seals it shut.
Crona panics and jumps up to capture the now-free bug between his hollow palms, making it a cavern for it from which it can't escape.
He can feel the butterfly's body beating frantically against his hands to try and escape, the wings quickly flickering and dragging against his sweaty palms—
His heart is beating just as fast. The poor thing, he just wants to let it go, it must be so scared—
"Take it apart, Crona."
She's still pressed up behind him, too close, too close. But it'll hurt, he is thinking.
"Rip off its wings."
Please, I don't wanna.
"M-Medusa…"
She leans down, runs a chilling hand through her child's hair, and scratches gently at his scalp; it would be a comforting gesture from any other mother, but from her, it's a reminder that she is in control.
"It's just another experiment," she tells him in his ear, and then her grip in his hair suddenly tightens and she yanks hard enough to tear strands out of his skin; Crona can't help but yelp, hands tightening around the bug in a crushing grasp.
So he takes the butterfly, one wing in each hand, and tears until the wings rip clean off, and the little body falls onto the floor.
"See?" Medusa's hand is gentle in his hair once more, and Crona stares resolutely at his shoes, trying not to feel bad. "That wasn't so bad."
It isn't so bad. Crona tries really hard to believe that. None of this is so bad…
(+)
- October 4th, 2009 -
Crona watches, now, as a butterfly lands beside him on the grass.
He and Maka are having a picnic today, in a park down the hill from the Academy. It's a Saturday afternoon, and Crona is wearing khaki shorts with a yellow and white shirt; an outfit Maka says reminds her of sunshine.
Earlier, Crona was in Soul and Maka's apartment as she finished cooking the food for their picnic. Perched politely next to Soul, he kept looking over at Maka in front of the stove, as Soul (seemed to be) fixated on whatever was on television.
"All done!" Maka announces from across the room.
Crona stands quickly, watching as Maka starts transferring food into Tupperware, placing silverware and condiments into the basket.
Crona smiles, noting the care she's putting into all this. She always makes time to do special things like this, outside the time she spends with her other friends.
"Thank you—" he starts to say.
"I wouldn't eat it if I were you," Soul warns from the couch, chuckling. "The last time I ate her sad attempt at stir fry I couldn't eat again for over a wee—"
Maka throws a cookbook at him like a mid-air Maka-chop, and Soul reaches up to catch it in his hand, easy. Their light antagonizing of each other is weirdly in sync, Crona thinks.
"Don't listen to him, Crona," Maka defends herself, scraping at one of the pans. "I worked really hard on it."
Crona watches as crusty, black and brown lumps, which should look edible, fall out of the blackened pan and into a container…he isn't sure what that's supposed to be…stir fry, Soul said?
"Um, uh, what's that saying?" Crona rambles, racking his brain. "'The thought counts'?"
Maka turns and grins at him over her shoulder, and as always, her smile instantly tinges his cheeks with dark blush.
"Exactly," she sing-songs.
When she turns back around, Crona continues to stare at her, having a little moment with himself. Her outfits is nice today: a beige sundress and strappy sandals, it makes her legs look so long and clean and pretty, and her hair is half-up, half-down, the lower-half falling in wavy strands that pour between her shoulder blades…he flushes harder, wishes he could run his fingers through it and play with it, the way he wants to when he wakes up in the mornings…
"What is it you guys're gonna do today again?"
Soul's voice cuts Crona out of his thoughts, and Crona is thrown off by the way Soul's looking him directly in the eye from the couch.
The way it looks like Soul…almost wants to laugh about something. (Did Crona do something embarrassing? Maybe Soul wasn't paying so much attention to the TV after all…)
"J-just a picnic," Crona answers, tugging at his shirt hem.
"We'll be back in a few hours," says Maka to Soul. She passes by the TV, basket in her arms, as Crona follows closely behind her, like a puppy infatuated, towards the front door.
Soul watches them until they've slipped outside.
"Wonder if he knows how bad he has it yet," the weapon chuckles.
They are out on the picnic blanket in the park now, and have been an hour. They haven't eaten yet, because Maka's been reading him a part of the leisure book she's been into it lately. During this part, the action-heroine is describing the way she feels about her lover when he rescues her from harm; Maka's hair is fluttering lightly in the wind, and Crona thinks she looks like an angel lying on her stomach with her ankles crossed delicately, he's really having a hard time listening to her words...
Some days he can look at her just fine without feeling this way, but the last few days, his friend has been overwhelming him. Some days, it hits him that she's so much goodness and happiness all at once, and that if it hadn't been for her he wouldn't've been saved from his wretchedness; his brain can't manage to focus on all of the thoughts, they become scattered, unsure of how to handle or where to place her, but he is so glad for her human contact.
Nothing has ever felt this freeing for Crona before.
A little later, they're lying side by side on their backs, staring at the sky. Crona is looking around at all the scenery, and Maka has paused her reading, just letting him have a moment. Crona's eyes drift from the bright petals of the flowers nearby, to the intricate lines etched into the tree trunks which surround them, and eventually settle on the clear blue sky, at the all the butterflies that wander around up above him.
And that's when a butterfly lands on the grass, near his hand. Crona looks over and stares at it, breath becoming faint. Its antennae twitch, and then it picks itself up again, drifts towards Crona's face.
It plants itself right on his nose, and Crona instantly holds his breath, goes rigidly still.
"Hey," says Maka from beside him. She giggles and sits up to stare at him. "I think it likes you."
It stays put for a while. The wingspan touches his lashes, its legs tickle his nose, and he's starting to feel uncomfortable holding his breath this minutely, but he wouldn't dare move and disturb it, he'd try to let it stay as long as it wanted.
Such extreme amounts of empathy Crona has, even for little insects.
Maka shifts, very slowly, so that she's somewhat hovering over him, wanting to see this up close but not wanting to disturb the guest on his nose. Crona makes eye contact with her. She smiles at him. He holds his breath still, starts to tremble, and counts the times she blinks to keep himself distracted.
Her eyes are like light, like escape, like freedom.
…It looks like she's gazing at his lips for a moment. It makes him want to hide; she does it from time to time, and he likes the way her mouth looks, too…but there's no way he could ever look at hers the way she looks at his. He doesn't know how to deal with how lightheaded her lips make him feel; can't imagine himself as a boy who woos a girl in with a kiss, the way the heroine in that book wished her lover would do.
He isn't even sure Maka would want it. Of course she wouldn't. This is just the way friends must look at friends.
He'd never even hugged anyone before her anyway, all he knows is words on pages, she should probably be spending her time with a real boy and how does she always find their moments together so nice, there's no way a friendship like this, with someone as stupid as him, could make her this happy…
The butterfly skips away from his nose, escaping upwards as Crona puffs out his exasperated breath.
Then he sits up somewhat frantically, looking around for the butterfly everywhere. His eyes find it again as it flies away from the two of them, disappearing against the blue sky.
At least it's safe.
He's quiet for a long time, then; memories of butterflies with torn wings, memories of Medusa stroking his hair, flicker though his mind and temporarily take him to another place.
"Take it apart, Crona. Rip off its wings."
"It's just another experiment,"
Maka is just looking at him from his side. And when he comes back from his daze, the feeling of her sitting next to him is comforting, rather than nerve-wracking.
He feels her hand crawl over his in time, resting there, soft.
"Tell me what you're thinking about?" she prompts.
Crona breathes easier than before, and thinks about living butterflies instead of bad things.
"It would be nice to have wings, I think," he says.
Maka smiles. "I think it would too."
She rubs his hand a bit, and Crona suddenly feels a squirming in his stomach, followed by a noise. They both look down at his abdomen.
"We should probably eat before this gets cold," Maka chuckles.
She puts two dishes of so-called stir fry into hers and Crona's lap, only to take the first bite, wince, and spit it out into a napkin, making a horrible face.
"Okay," she groans, "Nevermind…"
Crona tries not to laugh at first, but when he sees Maka smiling at herself in humility, he can't help it.
She tells him his laughter is cute, later on as they lay side by side.