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This is how he dies. The baying of hounds, claws clack against the stone path behind the little raccoon as he runs for his life. He doesn’t even have time to mourn the half eaten apple that fell from his grip.
His heart pounds and he fears, as he runs through an alley and onto another street, that it will give out before he’s snapped up by the salivating jaws of death behind him. Humans yell, but he ignores them, desperately dodging whatever one of them swipes at him.
This is until he’s scooped up, a large hand around his middle. He flails and screeches, claws catching in fabric as he’s pressed against a broad chest.
“Enough.”
The little raccoon hisses, tail thrashing, as the hounds circle the human holding him above them, like some sort of bait.
“Control your dogs, for fucks sake.” The voice over him snaps.
“That’s vermin!” The human who set his dogs on the little raccoon shouts back. A hand settles under his lower legs and tail, holding him more securely. The little raccoon, surprised to be not dead or bleeding out, eventually slows his frantic thrashing.
The humans continue to argue. But the little raccoon doesn’t care to listen. He looks up into the face of his saviour. Brown eyes and brown curled fur - although the humans call it hair - on the top of his head. Both are the same colour as the comforting soil, where he burrows and digs out his dens.
His tail flicks and the human strokes his fur and it’s warm.
With winter setting in and snow fast approaching, the little raccoon has not been warm for weeks.
The human turns on his heel and walks away. He’s surprised when the human takes them down the path out of the town, expecting him to live with the others. The human must be like him, all on his own.
Hunger gnaws at his stomach, but he ignores it to rest against the human’s warmth. It's something like safety, like knowing there’s no way to fight back anyway, like wanting something nice before his sad little life ends.
-
The little raccoon jolts awake, chittering.
He gets his bearings, from within a weird burrow. It’s soft, like fur, and with light permeating through the walls. He wriggles and rolls out of the weird burrow, a hand catching him before he falls a great height.
“Sorry buddy, I thought you’d be cold.” The little raccoon furrows his brow and sees the weird burrow wasn’t a burrow at all, but a soft swath of fabric that he’s been bundled in.
He was cold though. He makes a mental note to try and steal the fabric, even as he’s distracted by his stomach grumbling. He twitters to the nice human,
“You hungry?” Yes! He is! The nice human picks him up and the little raccoon lets him carry him to a different room. There he’s placed down on a table, where he picks up the little trinkets on it. There’s holes in the top and something inside it that he can hear when he moves it. He tips it upside down, white spilling from it onto the wood.
The little raccoon sticks his hand into it and pulls it up, covered in the white granules, and sticks it in his mouth. Disgusting! He recoils at the weird taste and the dryness of his mouth, scrunching his face up.
“That’s salt,” the nice human says, humour in his voice, “Here, have this.” A white, round egg is pressed in his hands. He chitters thankfully and gnaws at it, boring a hole. The nice human clears the salt off the table.
A mouth full of egg, the really good kind from chickens and are bigger than songbird eggs, and the little raccoon chews at it, some falling onto the wood. The human just laughs,
“Introductions must be in order, I’m Wilbur,” then, “Are you enjoying that?” He is! He tries to chirp around his mouthful before going back to slurping more egg from its shell, crushing it in his grip.
Wilbur isn’t even angry at the mess he makes.
-
Wilbur carries him on his shoulder around the clearing the cottage is in. There’s a small barn with a few cows that sniff at him curiously, great tongues lolling from their mouths, and a large section of water.
He scampers from his perch on Wilbur, to inspect the water. It’s not a lake, all self contained. And much bigger and colder than the bath Wilbur had forced him into. He can see that there’s fish, darting around the plants, scales glinting under the sun.
“That’s a pond buddy.” Wilbur tells him, as he plunges his hand into the cold water, the little gold fish scattering. He hisses, disappointed, and tries again without leaning too far over the surface. He’s so focused on his game that he doesn’t notice Wilbur settling under a large tree nearby. He takes his instrument and strums it gently, smiling to himself.
The little raccoon is pulled away from the pond by the noise, transfixed as Wilbur makes sounds he’s never heard before. It’s almost like the birds but more . High and low pitches that have him slowly making his way over, sitting in front of Wilbur and watching him play his instrument with his eyes closed. The little raccoon chitters back a low-low-medium-low-high-higher back to him after he plays it. Wilbur opens his eyes, bestowing his beatific smile on him.
“Very good!” He plays the little tune again, nodding at the little raccoon to repeat. He chitters to himself, anxiously wringing his hands, before repeating the simple tune.
“Oh you’re so smart, little buddy!” Wilbur reaches a hand over, ruffling the fur on his head. He licks his palm before scampering back to the pond, the music starting up behind him again. Before he gets to the edge, he crouches, spying the fish that think they’re safe. Silently, he darts forward, splashing through the water’s edge and emerging, victorious, with a fist full of a slippery little golden fish.
He chitters excitedly and bites at its head, making his way back to Wilbur.
“Well done, you got it!” Wilbur cheers. He finishes his snack in record time, scattering glittering scales on the grass around them, to curl up next to Wilbur’s thigh and purr with the soft music.
-
It’s snowing. Fluffy flakes swirl outside the window, buffeted by the winds that howl down the chimney. Winter has truly set in and the little raccoon is glad to not be desperately searching for food in the white world outside.
But he watches the snow anyway, trying to catch it against the glass, taking kit-like joy in how its harmless to him now.
Wilbur strokes a hand down his back.
It’s warm.
-
Wilbur is still asleep.
The little raccoon crawls from his cocoon of blankets to inspect.
The human sleeps on his back, one arm in the raccoon’s direction where they’d both fallen asleep as Wilbur pet the soft fur of his neck, the other arm tossed up around his hair. He snuffles at the hand, a curl of hair tickling his wet nose. He sneezes, and pauses, guiltily, as Wilbur murmurs something illegible. Having not woken the human up, he crawls under the human’s heavier blanket and cuddles into the space under his armpit, flush against his skin.
He stays there for a moment before getting bored. The bed is less fun when Wilbur’s asleep. Tentatively, the little raccoon steps onto Wilbur’s chest. When he doesn’t wake up, he brings all four paws up and sits high just before his face. His bushy tail wags and he chitters softly, pawing at Wilbur’s cheeks. He likes how they squish and are easily malleable. Then he smacks it slightly, laughing to himself.
Wilbur’s eyes shoot open, before rocketing back with a “Shit!” and the raccoon, suddenly afraid, shrieks and throws himself across the room, hardly stopping to pick himself off the floor when he falls.
Wilbur sits up, one hand to his chest.
“You can’t do that!” He speaks loudly, the little raccoon cowering even if it is not a yell. “You can’t wake someone up like that!”
He chatters out a desperate apology, curling in on himself in the corner. How awful to be afraid when he hasn’t been in so long! He worries his heart will give out from the lack of practise of beating so hard, blood thrumming through his veins as the urge to flee and the need to stay with Wilbur leaves him torn.
Wilbur’s chest heaves and the little raccoon anxiously shuffles in the corner of the room, unsure whether to go. Their eyes catch and Wilbur’s go soft and sad. He pats the bed with one hand,
“Come here buddy, it’s okay,” he coaxes softly, “I was just surprised, we’re okay.”
He takes a step, then another, and as Wilbur doesn’t try to scruff him like the town-human’s do - not that he would, says the part of his brain not filled with the urge to flee, it’s Wilbur - he climbs up into bed again. Wilbur slides back into the covers, resting his head on the pillow, on his side.
“Come here, let’s have a cuddle, it’s okay bubba.” He gestures to the space carved out by his body and the little raccoon curls up, Wilbur wrapping his arm around him, his legs bent underneath him, curled around him.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled. It’s not your fault.” Wilbur whispers into his fur.
His heart relaxes. He’s safe in Wilbur’s arms.
-
Wilbur wraps a large blanket around his shoulders and scoops the little raccoon up. Over his shoulder he has a bag, liquid sloshing inside. He sniffs at it, trying to wriggle closer to the sweet scent as Wilbur laughs.
“In a minute buddy, wait.” He doesn’t want to wait!
Wilbur doesn’t take them to the front door, instead unlocking a hatch in the ceiling, a ladder falling down.
They climb it, Wilbur stooping in the attic. Then he shimmy’s the window lock, the window opens and the cold air creeps in. The little raccoon chirps and Wilbur secures a hand around him.
“Ready?” Wilbur asks. The little raccoon doesn’t even know what they’re doing, but nods anyway. Wilbur giggles and maneuvers out of the window, feet on the outside ledge. He reaches up, gripping something on the roof before pulling himself up, feet catching on the edges of the stone to help him climb.
It’s arduous. The little raccoon figures that he could probably do better on his own. But Wilbur makes it.
He arranges the blanket on the gently sloping roof and lies back on it, the little raccoon under his arm.
“There’s a meteor shower tonight,” Wilbur tells him in confidence, smiling dopily at how the little raccoon explores the space around Wilbur’s head, picking up littles grown vines and moss to show him, “Do you know what meteor’s are?” Wilbur strokes his knuckles over the little raccoon’s soft head, pushing his ears back on the down stroke slightly, “What about stars? I don’t reckon you get much time to just look up,” He pauses, contemplating the critter as it spits out a bit of roof plant with an obvious ‘bleh’ and laughs, “Maybe you do. I wouldn’t know.”
He raises his arm and the little raccoon curls into the space. He looks where Wilbur points, straight up into all the little spots in the dark sky - stars he called them - and soaks in the stories Wilbur gifts him. The human’s voice wraps around the little raccoon, more comforting than any blanket, warmer than the fire he feeds.
And when the spots of light begin to fly, streaking across the sky in large arcs, the little raccoon catches the fervent wish whispered into the fur between his ears.
“Please, please don’t leave me like everyone else does.”
-
“Come on buddy,” A hand invades his burrow, coaxing him forward. The little raccoon wraps his hand around one of the big fingers and lets Wilbur pull him out. He grumbles sleepily as he’s tucked against Wilbur’s chest, secured with a scarf, “I know you’re tired,” Wilbur laughs, “But we have to go to market.” He tucks his head under the large coat, too big for Wilbur and lined with fur. It keeps him warm as Wilbur steps out the front door.
Once he wakes up properly, he pops his head out to watch the world pass by. The town isn’t too far from the cottage, but enough that they’re separate and private. But the path is nice, the world frost covered and quiet, with only an odd bird swooping through the crisp air. He chirps to one of them but it must be too high up to hear him. Wilbur quietly whistles back to him though, and they make music the whole way.
He can hear it before they arrive. They yelling of humans at their stalls that he would try to steal from and the thunderous sound of lots and lots of feet. He ducks his head down again.
“Don’t worry, just stay up high.”
He hides most of the trip, peeking out of the jacket as Wilbur fills his bag with food and supplies. Some of the smaller humans, their little kits, try to get a look at him, nudging each other and pointing. He grips Wilbur’s sweater tight and tries to ignore them until they run off to play.
The kits are cute. He can imagine a little Wilbur-kit with all that hair running around the cottage, playing his too big instrument. A weird, wistful feeling in his chest emerges, but he ignores it to inspect the produce Wilbur is buying.
He judges the eggs harshly, shaking the ones Wilbur passes to him and chirping if they sound right. Wilbur thanks him kindly, then pays the sour-faced man.
Why they’re so insistent on those little green rocks, the little raccoon will never know. They don’t even taste good. He thought they might be like shells or eggs, but he couldn’t break through them. Eternally confused by humans, he ignores Wilbur to gaze over his shoulder.
There’s two people attached to each other!
The little raccoon digs his claws into Wilbur’s jumper as he scrambles up to see better.
There’s a pair sitting on the edge of the fountain. Their knees turn into each other and they’re biting each other! What in the world? He chitters, confused, until Wilbur turns his head to see what’s got him so worked up.
“They’re kissing buddy,” Wilbur laughs, “It’s what we do when we love someone. Here, it can also be like this,” and Wilbur presses a kiss to his furred cheek.
The little raccoon slinks back into the coat, hiding his face, and treasures the kiss the whole walk home.
-
All good things come to an end.
They were having a nice evening. Wilbur read aloud to the little raccoon from one of his father’s many old books, regaling him about customs from old, forgotten countries that haven’t been touched in years. He’s lying on the back of the sofa, head resting on Wilbur’s shoulder, lazily wagging his tail in the air.
Wilbur gets to the end of the book and looks at him. Like he’s the entire and only thing in the world, eyes curved into half moons with his smile.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, kissing the top of his head, “I was alone for so long, and now you’re here.”
The little raccoon’s heart thumps in his chest and he wants. This is no mere survival or winter food haul or chance to swipe fruit from a market stall. He wants Wilbur and he wants to be wanted and it frightens him. Wants Wilbur to kiss him like the humans at the fountain, wants a den full of kits, wants a family and wants to stay here for it.
The little raccoon flees the cabin, terrified by the rhythms of his heart. He hears Wilbur behind him, sadly uttering a soft ‘Oh, please don’t.’ but doesn’t turn back. He dives into the familiar hidden paths of the forest and makes his way to his lonely den.
His fur catches frost from the bushes that he shakes off with an agitated chitter. When he was younger he thinks that maybe he must have had a family to huddle in a warm den with throughout the winter months. He remembers the warmth, but they are long gone.
He finds his burrowed den and bunkers down it, ignoring the ache in his chest.
The little raccoon wearily rests his chin on his hands and lets sleep take him.
-
The days after are cold.
Physically, of course. But he thinks, as he digs up roots to feast on, that it wouldn’t be as cold with Wilbur by his side. Perhaps he’d make those warbling sounds that he calls ‘singing’, play that string and wood thing that makes a nice sound. He shakes his head.
There’s no use in thinking of Wilbur.
All it does is remind him that they are too different.
-
At night he dreams. These dreams are toned with the colourings of a sleepy dawn. He’s curling up, in the dream, sleep drunk against a warm, fur-less chest. A large hand strokes over his ears and he stretches, snout pressing into the underside of a slightly stubbled chin.
-
Under the bright sun, he tries not to think of kind humans.
He fails.
-
On the fourth frigid night, the little raccoon, restless and weary, stumbles from his den.
Something compels him to wander. It tugs in his gut, like he’s attached to something. He’s pulled further and further into the forest, scrambling over fallen trees and avoiding freezing puddles from the recent rain.
When he looks up through the bare branches of the trees, there is no moon. Stars speckle the dark ceiling of the world, winking at him conspiratorially. Like he’s in on some big secret and not so small in such a big world.
He wonders what the stars are like. Would they be cold? Would it be like plunging through the ice into a lake, leaving him struggling to breathe? Would they be hot? Like wildfires that ravage the forests in the dry seasons? The little raccoon stands and reaches his hands up to them, like he’d be able to pluck them from the skies. Wilbur liked the stars.
A squawk disrupts him, and the little raccoon falls onto his arse.
There’s a crow in front of him and it begins to laugh. A crackling inhuman thing, before it takes flight. The little raccoon watches it fly up and up and perch on a large shoulder. His eyes widen and he chitters nervously at the appearance of what must be a forest spirit. He’s never seen one, but he knows the stories of these old almost gods that raise and raze forests on a whim.
“Hello little one.” A kind, deep yet feminine voice says. It isn’t loud and does not boom like he’d think a spirits voice would, but it's whispery and he almost has to strain his ears.
He wriggles to his feet, too shocked to reply as he gazes up. She wears a long black dress and what looks like a shawl of feathers, except some of them move. Long dark hair tumbles over her large breasts and stomach. Her face is obscured from the height and the wide brimmed hat. Her feet are obscured by the fog on the ground, but he’s not even sure she has feet.
“You’ve been in much distress, little one,” she whispers. The spirit is so welcoming that the little raccoon instinctively nods, warbling sadly, “Won’t you tell me why?”
He plays with his tail, running his hands over it soothingly, as he confesses to the spirit,
“I don’t want to be a raccoon anymore.”
“Oh?” Her head and large hat tilt to one side questioningly, “Why?”
“I want to be with him.”
“Him?” The little raccoon cannot bear to look at her, “A human?”
The little raccoon looks up at her, ashamed, before nodding sadly.
“I can make you a human.” She speaks like she is smiling, a lilt to her voice that leaves him giddy with the hope that fills his small body. He grins, showing off his sharp teeth.
“Really?”
“Oh yes little one,” Her voice goes a little quieter, “However, I deal in permanent change. The end of one thing and the start of another.”
He thinks for a moment. But there is nothing but a cold den and a half empty stomach for him here. Maybe a panicked, blood filled end if he isn’t fast enough to avoid dogs.
He only has one true worry though.
“But how will he know who I am?” The little raccoon asks, wringing his small black hands. The spirit laughs, crouching down from her massive height, crows fluttering from their perch on her shoulders. Her face is still shadowed from her hat, but he can sense the smile she wears,
“Little raccoon, do you love him?”
“I do.” He says readily, as if he had not spent the last week hiding from this. But he remembers long, clever fingers stroking through his fur. The way he picked him up and held him close. A soft kiss to his furry cheek.
“Does he love you?”
The little raccoon bows his head slightly. He hopes so, but not many would love a little creature like him. Most humans try to smack him with brooms and let their dogs chase him.
The spirit chuckles, not unkindly, and places her large hand on his head carefully. He feels comforted, eyes closing serenely as he leans up into her cold palm.
“I think he does,” she tells him, rubbing behind his round ears, “But if you’re so worried, I’ll give you a boon. Go back to him,” She gives him a small push, before standing to her great height, towering above the trees. Her voice stays the same though, as if she had not moved at all, “And when he recognises you, you’ll become forever human.”
There’s a loud rustle and the little raccoon covers his ears as hundreds and thousands of crows all leave their hidden perches in the trees, swarming the spirit. The sound crescendos as the raccoon cowers and then, as suddenly as it all started, everything’s gone. The forest is quiet and dark again. Frost shimmers over shallow pools on the forest floor and the little raccoon turns and takes the familiar trails back to the warm cabin.
He keeps walking as the rising sun paints the sky with reds and oranges.
Goodnight stars. When he next sees them, he’ll be different.
The trees become less thick. Not exactly sparse, but more comfortable and less claustrophobic. He smells smoke and wriggles through a particularly thorny bush. It does not bother him in this state. The only upside.
As he squeezes out the otherside, the cabin comes into view. Smoke rises out of the chimney, and the cows moo as they see him. The grass of the clearing crunches under his paws, fringed with frost. There’s a light in the kitchen window, flickering as someone passes in front of it.
Wilbur.
The little raccoon can see his curly hair. His heart thumps like it has never beaten before and he’s almost bowled over with the force of his affection.
He trips up the stairs to the little landing before the door. Then he scratches at the bottom of the wood.
There’s the soft sound of approaching footsteps on the other side and the door is opened.
The little raccoon sits back. He raises his head and chitters. Wilbur smiles down at him.
“You came back!” He exclaims, kneeling down to scoop him up.
White light shimmers around the little raccoon, held against Wilbur’s chest. They both close their eyes when it gets too bright, shielding away from the concentrated supernova that he has become.
When it fades, the little raccoon is no more.
Wilbur stares at him incredulously as he looks down at the large pale hands he now sports.
“Oh shit.”
He opens his mouth, letting out a weird chitter-esque sound before coughing. Goosebumps spring up on his arms and he rubs at them instinctively. Wilbur wraps his arms around his back, tugging him into the cottage and closing the door behind them. He tucks his head under Wilbur’s chin and closes his eyes. Wilbur holds him, sits against the wall, and he’s warm.
He’s warm and he’s home.
“You’re home.” Wilbur presses the words and soft kisses into his hair. He’s home!
He raises his head and their lips brush in a chaste kiss that leaves them both blushing. Wilbur nudges their noses together, smiling,
“You’ve come home.” Wilbur repeats, like he can’t believe it. Neither, honestly, can the new human.
He kisses him again, anyway, trying to press all the love and relief and sheer joy to be home into it.
It’s very effective.
In the near future they’ll work on a name and he’ll figure out the talking thing. Tommy will start talking and never stop and Wilbur will be so happy for that little cottage to be filled with sound again.
They’ll be home, together.