Chapter Text
White, Douma had always seen white, not literally. Rather in a metaphorical way after all, every time he looked in the mirror he managed to see his wings, his large wings with too many feathers to be counted in an exact number. Douma had tried as a child to count each feather on his wings, but he had never been able to reach the exact number either because he got tired or because his parents caught him distracted during ceremonies and stopped him with a hard grip on his wrist or with a slap at the end of the ceremony then the day came when Douma stopped trying to count them, already tired of the consequences or of his feathers being damaged by touching them so much according to his parents.
There had come a time when Douma thought his parents were stupid and he hadn't hesitated twice before saying it out loud, just a thought that came out of his mouth too fast to be stopped and for which he spent a whole day and a half in bed without being able to get up at all. He never dared to think about anything around them again, always keeping his mouth as closed as possible the less he let his thoughts come out of his mouth the better. After all he only had to speak at the ceremonies, nothing more.
Sitting on the engawa outside his room with a small tray at his side that had been containing his already long-devoured breakfast. Douma waited impatiently for winter to arrive, his favorite season, he waited all year for her to be able to see her again and appreciate her even though he was not allowed to spend much time with her when she came. Just as white as his wings or just as white as the blooming roses that came to his little garden every spring. His late mother had planted them the first time, saying something about how they would help ensure the purity of her little angel and that it would be better for her to plant them since the servants could harm them with there impurities. Douma again didn't understand, but he didn't mention anything about it nor did he just take it no matter how stupid it was since after all his mother had planted them and Douma would pick up every little crumb from her just like a dog. Douma hated it, but there was nothing he could do about it or so he thought.
Sighing and not wanting to go back inside, he stayed looking at his garden for a few more minutes, observing the small pond and the Weeping Willow that stood up, managing to project its shadow on the small pond with lotus flowers. It was November and the beautiful blue lotus flowers were beginning to come out, representing the wisdom and knowledge that Douma did not feel he had. Next to the Willow tree hidden among the grass was a small house that had belonged to his first rabbit, Shiro, it had been the only gift he had ever obtained from his father, and God knew why. Once Shiro had died, Douma did not think about getting another one, but within a few years he found Puchi a small, injured brown rabbit that had sneaked into his garden looking for help. Douma lied to the priest saying it was a gift from one of his fans and not a simple rabbit from there he had obviously first made sure that the rabbit did not look like a simple rabbit from there, but anyway, he had managed to keep little Puchi.
Puchi was calmer than his previous rabbit and a little smaller, he was rarely seen in sight, always hidden or hidden in the small house. Little house which Douma had built when he was very little thinking it would be fun and it was, he had fun making and painting it knowing that he was doing something good for his little new bunny, but it's a shame that his parents and the priest didn't think the same. Douma had accidentally ruined one of the ceremonial robes while he was trying to store the paint and boards he had used in a place too high for an 8-year-old boy so they had fallen, splashing and tearing his robe. His father used those same boards to beat his wrists until they bled knowing that his healing abilities would kick in and his wrists would be as good as new in no time just so the man could hit again without fear of the winged boy getting marks or permanent scars upon completion.
Sometimes he wished he was a rabbit so he could just sleep and eat all day, he could also go out whenever he wanted and not when told to, he could run and run knowing that he was so small that he could hide or go faster if someone wanted to catch him. He wondered if perhaps he could find a good owner who would take care of him like he took care of Puchi since he couldn't take care of Shiro properly since if he could Shiro would surely still be with him and God knew not where. Sometimes he missed him, it was silly to sit and miss an animal and think about what his life would be like one, but he couldn't help it, his parents would definitely be disappointed if they saw him and the priest would be furious will preparing his blow when he knew that he had not yet prepared for the today's ceremony, it's not that he really wanted to go, he didn't want to go today he felt bad. Not physically, almost never physically, but his heart hurt for no reason and it confused him.
He felt small today, empty, like something was wrong with him.
The town was beginning to wake up and he could hear servants walking through the large halls. Douma sighed before standing up, his large wings no longer touching the ground, his feet slightly numb from having them supporting most of his weight as they were under him and not stretched out properly. He grabbed the small tray next to him and walked through the doors back into his room as he placed the small tray on top of a small tea table as he headed towards the bathroom. Looking at his already prepared robe in the corner, now he only had to put on his makeup and try to comb his hair since his body was still clean from the night before.
Taking a brush he began to run it through his large pile of semi-silver curls. His hair was always as complicated as his eyes, different colors, abnormal, different, strange, weird, confusing, disgusting, the voices in his mind sang together and Douma wished he could yell at them to shut up again, he cursed himself for not being able to be a normal person like everyone else in the Eternal Paradise. A few minutes after just brushing and brushing trying to get a better result than the previous time he stopped and simply decided to leave it like that thinking it was already acceptable enough. Douma continued with his colorful, but lifeless eyes. With dark circles underneath showing how tired he wasn't supposed to be at all.
He sigh before grabbing the powder.
Douma was going to scream.
Today when he felt like shit was the day when apparently the entire town had decided to come to him for advice or help, with wounds, problems, worries and other things that were mandatory he had to care about since that was his job. Caring about others and helping them even though sometimes he didn't want to and felt horrible about it. A good few minutes had already passed where he had been giving advice and easing concerns. The only good thing is that he helped heal a little kitten who had been hurt and his owner had come horribly worried with tears in her eyes begging him to save her little son and he couldn't say no more helping the woman gave him some satisfaction at the end. Not to mention that his fans made a fuss about it and gave him even more compliments and praise, not that Douma really liked them. But a long time ago he had given up the idea that everyone in Eternal Paradise would stop treating him like that because he was not a God, he was simply a boy with wings and some good abilities, but nothing more. It was always the priest who preferred praise more than anything in the world where he was praised the most there he went.
Douma settled better in his seat while opening the white gold fans that had small and delicate gold gilt details on them. He took care of smiling as best he could without a smile that reached his eyes while he delicately opened the fans until they covered the lower part of his face, thus finding a way to knock down his hollow smile and hide it from his admirers who were there. They were still in the room. There's no end to this, he thought as he watched more people come through the doors toward the line in front of him.
So without being able to do anything to stop it, Douma continued to offer advice to his fans, constantly trying not to roll his eyes at the slightest problems they presented to him. He understood that some had real concerns and that he really wanted to help them, but some of those concerns were a little silly. Seriously, who would walk twenty or fifteen minutes and stand in line for hours just to ask him what he should eat his next morning. It didn't make sense and sometimes things like that made Douma really worry about them, but he didn't say anything. He only responded and advised them as he always did, he also sometimes doubted that his fans were listening to him more focused on his white wings protruding from his back. It was as if they only came for that, to see his wings and with no real concern at all.
The atmosphere in the room became tense, hard and raw, Douma forced himself not to shift uncomfortably like a worm in his seat under the harsh gaze that now pierced him, creating a hole in his chest and sending his heart to his stomach. The priest had entered the room.
Lowering his fan and closing it in an appropriate manner, Douma gently placed it on his lap, keeping his equal company. He smiled at the fans as he continued with his work not wanting the priest to think he was hiding behind them like a coward when he was supposed to be anything but that. If the priest was here it could only mean that he would surely come to give a talk of more than thirty minutes as always or that he would come to dismiss the people and order Douma whatever he thought he wanted Douma to do. Douma prayed for the second, everything would be better than the priest's motivating talks that Douma did not feel well to listen today. Also that they had already spent a few good hours with the fans admiring Douma and the priest thought that Douma should not give them everything and that he should rather leave them longing for more, for that reason there were always people who at the end of the day were not attended to from time to time. It didn't seem right to Douma, they were supposed to help and that wasn't helping, that was ignoring.
He was right. The priest spoke and soon all the people had begun to leave the room, leaving him and the priest alone. This time he couldn't help but tense up as he stood up from his seat, making sure not to wring his robe and feeling his hat slip out of place. Douma swallowed, looking at the ground as he reached the priest's side, who was already looking at him in a non cheerful way.
"Your hat is crooked and your hair is messy." The priest mentioned as he grabbed his wrist and gave it a squeeze that would surely leave marks for a few minutes depending on how long he let go of his grip. Douma swallowed again.
"I understand. I promise to fix it better next time." He admitted, the priest glared at him.
"You always say that and you never follow through. Next time you will lose some good locks to see if you can keep them well arranged." He said as he tugged on Douma's wrist to add more power to his warning. Douma nodded and the last thing he heard was the priest ordering him to go to his room. He left like a soul driven to the devil, trying not to run, still feeling the priest's gaze between his wings as he walked away from him.
Walking through the maze of corridors he could hear some servant gossiping here and there, passing by one he kindly asked him to bring his lunch to his room after realizing what time it was. The servant nodded, telling him that in a few minutes he would get it before running away. Douma wanted to tell him not to run since he could get hurt, but he decided not to, he didn't want the priest to hear him scream through his very calm hallways. Besides, yelling wasn't like him. Then he continued on his way to his room, closing the door behind him, Douma let himself fall, his shoulders fell and his posture half slouched, releasing some of the tension he had accumulated during the last few hours sitting too upright. Feeling like ripping off his clothes and caressing the tender flesh between where his skin ended and his wings began, Douma headed to the bathroom.