'Pyractomena Borealis, in bush,' noted Trowa in a slightly battered blue book. He squinted at his half legible scrawl and shrugged. Only he'd read it. The insect- or rather insects- in question were more commonly known as fire flies or lightning bugs. It was around twilight so the sky was a rapidly darkening navy blue as the first tiny stars began to sparkle dimly. The moon was in a waning cresent, two days before the last quarter moon. A great night for bug hunting.
Trowa Barton was a bug hunter. Silent as one of the great cats he worked with, he lay on his belly in the cool grass, an early summer evening. Crickets, cicadas and grasshoppers sang around him, fire flies flashed in the bushes and ants crawled on their merry way.
The insects (KNOW the difference between bugs and insects!!!) didn't seem to mind his presence. From behind his ever-famous bang, he could see a spider spinning it's web between several blades of grass. It scuttled from one end to another with an astonishing ease that made the most talented acrobat pale in comparison. He was one, he should know.
A ladybug landed on his face and began to crawl along his nose. Long practice at this stopped him from laughing at the ticklish little legs that pattered up his nose and ventured onto his eye. He closed his eye gently and it crawled across his eyelid. It seemed to circle his eye and settle down comfortably. Trowa opened the other, unoccupied eye. His gaze met with brown-red hair. A lot of it.
Mentally shrugging, he closed his eye and just lay there, taking in the scent of evening flowers, moist grass and clear, non-recycled air. A few moments later, the ladybug crawled off and walked the curve of his cheek. He opened his eyes and watched a cricket jump milimetres by his nose. Trowa had already noted most of the insects that he's seen since sundown, when he's first gone outside.
Trowa sighed, knowing that all good things had to come to an end. He shifted, disturbing the ladybug. He rolled onto his back, stretching and looking up at the stars. He saw a moth fly by. This was new. Very still, he observed the moth fly in a half-drunken manner over to a tree where it landed. It clung to the tree, pumping it's wings slowly and in a rocking manner. Trowa went on his side to observe it better. It didn't move for the ten minutes that he watched it. Then it pumped weakly. A brief 'protect the weak' rant went through his mind to be followed by a 'death happens' and a 'follow your emotions' rant. The thoughts clashed and fought until a simple 'life is beautiful' speech took root. That decided him, he'd save it.
He stood up, headed to the house and opened the door. He found a pair of non-latex gloves and a shallow cardboard box. He went back outside, finiding grass clippings and fallen leaves to fill it with. He walked slowly over to the tree and gently moved the moth, extra careful to not touch the wings or damage the legs. He set it down on a table in the studio occupied by a dark-haired young man. He looked up questioningly at the taller boy but cleaned off the brush he'd been painting with. He capped his paints and excused himself politely. Trowa watched his green tanktop clad back retreat and turned his attention back to his 'patient'.
The moth pumped again, seemingly unaware of the change in it's surroundings. Trowa knew that the rest was up to it. He left and quickly found his battered copy of Peterson's Field Guide for Moths(c). He determined after a moment that it was a Cecropia moth. He went to bed, uttering a prayer to the Lady of the Wilds to protect the little creature.
The next morning when he awoke, the sun filtered in through the cracks in the window blinds, literally the crack of dawn. He groaned and got up, then remembered about the moth. He padded into the studio, past the oriental boy making French Toast and the yawning blond leaning against a wall. The moth wasn't moving. Trowa saddened. It was too la-
The moth beat it's wings frantically, not taking off. A smile split Trowa's face as he watched the very lively moth. He turned away, knowing tonight it would be free.
The day seemed to drag on and on. The sheer mundaneness was almost enough to drive the seventeen year old insane. First, there was school. It was basically an illusion, a pretense for them to integrate- or assimilate- into mainstream society. For the most part, his housemates and he were a close knit circle of friends, or a posse, as his longhaired friend had once quipped.
Dusky evening finally fell, much to Trowa's joy. He brought the box outside and the moth cautiously flapped and took off. It spiralled from Trowa's feet up and up around his body, finally shooting past his face and off into the night sky.
Silly it may have been, but he would never forget that he saved the moth.
'Hyalophora Cecropia, found on tree.'
The End
1) Never pick up a moth or butterfly. If they aren't poisonous to you, your bare skin could be to them. Sometimes even touching one could damage one.
2) Not everyone can wear latex. A lot of people have allergies to it.
3) Peterson has a guide for EVERYTHING! Really!
4) Hyalophora Cecropia is the latin name for Cecropia Moth. See? See? Katsu no Miko isn't the only one who knows latin!
5) This story became slashed with a story my grandfather told me about a gull he rescued and recovered overnight. Go Grandpa!
6) The Moth is fine! It flew away the same evening around 10! Awright!
Gwynn 'adversity builds character' Whitelock
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