KISMET ─ vento aureo.

INTERLUDE III *. ⊹

★ ⁺ — 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐒

content warning for descriptions of violence and sexual abuse. 

★˚⋆ PANNACOTTA FUGO HAD NEVER BEEN LUCKY enough to know his parents cared about him. The Fugo's had never been warm people. Their emotions were cast in smooth glances and icy tones. One was hard-pressed to ever know what they were thinking of. They always appeared stoic and aloof, and that carefully maintained appearance was to be in place at all times, no matter the circumstance.

Fugo suspected early on that his parents had never cared to have children of their own. His mother was an astrophysicist and his father a political-science professor. Their marriage was businesslike, a partnership between like-minded individuals who didn't want to be scrutinized. The Fugo's were immersed in their work. The austere glass-and-chrome penthouse they lived in was hardly the place to raise a child. It was more for appearance's sake that they had Fugo at all. Couples their age had children. They had Fugo for the same reason that people bought the latest holopad—not because they needed one, but because everyone else had one. They probably would've named Fugo something perfectly mundane too if it weren't for his grandmother.

"Panna cotta," she said, spooning a bite of sweetened cream and vanilla into the infant's mouth. The baby laughed as though she had said his name, and the sound was every bit as sweet as the dessert. The Fugo's frowned at the unorthodox name, but weren't people always trying to find unique names for their children? They supposed it would do.

Nonetheless, his grandmother was the only one who used that name. He was only ever summoned by his parents by a curt "Fugo."

The affection that Fugo received from his parents was always distant. Removed. If it could even be called affection. They held his hand in public. They met with his teachers. They attended his sports events. But their involvement was obligatory. Any chance they had to hand Fugo off to a tutor or babysitter or friend, they did so, because raising a child did not interest them.

This lack of interest might have glanced off a different child, but Fugo was a burning fire. When left unattended, he grew out of control.

Fugo's temper tantrums were awesome to behold. His anger was too large for his little body, and it threw him around, burning him out, escaping him in ragged screams. There was no controlling him when Fugo became angry. All you could do was handle the aftermath. The unbridled anger that all children had never left Fugo. It only grew larger. Simmering under the surface until someone was stupid enough to lift the lid. Fugo was smart enough to keep the anger from his parents, but sometimes he wondered if they would've cared at all even if they had known.

The school day was drawing to a close. All of the primly uniformed boys were seated at their desks, their tablets flickering as they swiped through pages for quiet reading. Fugo was doing his best to focus, but he couldn't help being annoyed by a redhead in the back who kept snickering with his friend . He told himself to ignore it. But his six-year-old attention span was scant, and the boys just wouldn't shut up.