Chapter Text
On the night of Koutarou’s eighth birthday, the storm outside is so strong he cannot even see the tree that spreads beside his window, the tips of the longest branches just barely missing the glass. The wind is so strong he can hear it howling, whipping the rain into bullets that beat against his window pane, turning it ice cold against his nose. Koutarou’s mother drew the curtains not an hour before, and told Koutarou to stay in his warm bed. But Koutarou is drawn to the storm, drawn to the chaos. Shrieking wind and the thunderous rain makes him want to run and jump and climb out his window, but he knows his mother would scold him. She usually does, when he does things he enjoys.
Wind and rain are his favorite elements, because they can be both gentle and rough and fun and terrifying, and they’re never the same. So of course he spends storms with his nose pressed to the window, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders he’s dragged from his bed. It’s the only way to spend a storm, after all!
The storm on the night of his birthday is the strongest one he’s ever seen. As the digital clock on his bookshelf reaches eleven, the wind is so cold Koutarou shrieks with it, safe from being overheard because his parents are downstairs, they aren’t listening, and the wind is too loud. He is laughing and shrieking with the wind when there’s a thud against his window, like something has hit it. Koutarou sees nothing, but then remembers he is on the second floor, of course whatever hit his window fell down!
Five minutes later sees him in bright yellow boots and a raincoat, sneaking down the steps to the door, quietly unlocking it, and dashing out into the rain. The moment the drops hit his face, he’s smiling, the dark not scaring him at all. He skips in a circle before remembering he is on a mission, and his skip turns into a determined march. The window to his room is on the side of the house, and so Koutarou treks all the way around, to the little green bushes his mother planted last summer. Judging by the fact his window is right above him now, he must be in the right place! Without a moment of hesitation, Koutarou jumps into the bushes, peering here and there, pushing the wet leaves away and sticking his face underneath to look for clues.
He almost gives up, but then he hears it. A tiny, weak cry. Like a bird! Koutarou’s efforts double as he scrabbles around, frustration making him a little clumsy, until his hand touches something. It’s smooth, and wet, and… feathered? He reaches both hands forward, groping around until he gets his little fingers around the thing, and gently pulls it up out of the bushes.
A bird. No–an owl! Koutarou has a tiny, pure black owl in his hands. It’s small, oh so small, and looks a little drenched. It’s also not moving, and its wing is drooping in a way that makes Koutarou worry. But he knows what he must do; he must bring the owl back inside.
His raincoat has a soft, fuzzy inside, so he unzips it and sticks the owl inside, close to his heart. It’s warm in there, and maybe the little guy just needs some warmth! With everything in his little heart, Koutarou hopes the little owl is alive. The hope is what makes him hurry back inside, quickly lock the door, and run up the stairs so quickly he nearly trips. Finally, when he’s back in his room, he lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
After taking his boots off, he grabs a blanket, one with stars and clouds on it, thick and soft and the kind that water always soaks into really quickly. He spreads it out on his carpeted floor, then slowly unzips his jacket, and draws the little owl out. Its feathers are all messed up from being inside his coat, like when Koutarou gets bedhead, and it still isn’t moving. Carefully, oh so carefully, the little boy sets the owl on the blanket. Grabbing one corner of the blanket, he uses it to gently pat the owl’s feathers, rubbing very softly to hopefully dry it a little bit. After a few minutes of careful, light patting, he grabs another corner, and starts to rub little circles and ruffle the feathers a bit, smiling while he works. The owl is very pretty, he thinks. He’s never seen such a pretty little bird.
His clock is flashing eleven-thirty-six when he finally gives up his drying, and decides he needs to try something else. There are no clothes in his closet that will fit the owl, so instead he grabs a scarf; yellow, with black stripes like a bumblebee. It’s perfect to use to wrap around the owl, turning the bird into a little burrito. The thought makes Koutarou smile to himself, cradling the owl to his chest as he slowly tiptoes over to his bed to lay the little bundle on his pillow. He lays it on the middle pillow, the most fluffy one, right in between the two less fluffy ones. Once he thinks the owl is comfy, he backs off and admires his work. It looks comfy, even if it’s still not moving, so Koutarou is pleased with his work. But now, he has to change. The owl is warm and nearly dry, but he is very damp.
Towels are only in the hall cabinet, and he doesn’t want to sneak out anymore, so instead he uses the blanket he was previously using for the owl to towel his snowy white hair. It sticks up in wild directions after he scrubs at it vigorously, but at least it isn’t wet. He peels off his wet clothes, leaving them on the floor, and hurriedly rubs himself dry with the blanket. Fresh underwear go on first obviously, then he wiggles his way into the footies his aunt gave him last Christmas. They’re soft, warm, and he loves them a lot. Once he is warm and dry, he pulls down the blanket of his bed, crawling underneath and drawing the owl down to his chest. He cuddles it close to his heart, blowing warm puffs of breath against its little head.
He is nearly asleep when he feels the owl stir. It shakes its little head, and Koutarou lifts his so he can look down as the owl slowly blinks twice, then opens its eyes fully.
Koutarou gasps. The owl’s eyes are deep, deep green. No–blue? Both? He can’t tell. They’re swirling darkness, but there’s a bright glow to them all the same, like little pools of the night all wrapped up in moonlight. There’s even stars, glittering silver specks, and Koutarou would wish on them if he wasn’t in such awe. The owl’s eyes are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. They are pure wonder, and Koutarou’s breath has completely left him.
Only a moment goes by where he gets to appreciate those eyes. Or maybe it is an hour, or a year or a day or even a hundred years. Koutarou does not know, and he does not care. It is the most amazing moment, and it ends with the owl burrowing against his chest, hiding it’s face and snuggling towards the heat source of his chest.
Koutarou can only wrap his arms around the owl, fall back against his pillow, and slowly let sleep overtake him. He dreams of deep, glowing eyes, of stars that are not in the sky, and soft, dark wings that hold him close to a fluttering heart.
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When he wakes up, the owl is gone, along with his scarf, and only a silken black feather, just as long as his palm, is left in their place.
Koutarou is sad, until he touches the feather, and the memory of beautiful eyes comes rushing back. His sadness fades away as he closes his fingers around the feather, his lips already turning up into a smile.