[enolive/mphfpc] chasing shadows

fury is passion

A/N: A bit of contemplation on rage.

•

His anger is dry.

It is loud, and uncaring, and assertive.

His features clench, eyes crease, mouth screws in a furious scream. Wrath leaks from a dark, black hole inside of him, crawling across the floor, seeping hideous, orange-red flames. They curl toward the offender, blasting pure fire.

He speaks with a distinct vehemence, arms waving, head shaking. His entire body moves with the effort. He is passionate, confident; he knows he is right – even when he isn't.

The glare shooting from his eyes could cut stone. His words scald the miscreant, leaving them without a voice, meekly retreating.

When his anger finishes flaring, his exterior contorts, his expression softens, and he heaves a sigh. The arid, burning rage is a blessed release, relieving him of strain, pressure, sorrow. The space in him is empty once more, but then a speck of grey trickles in, and his anger builds again.

•

Her anger is wet.

It is desolate, and hushed, and still.

Her lips press together, eyes watering just slightly, voice wavering. Fury rolls in gentle waves beneath her smile. She holds her breath, trapping the passion, the frigid, unforgiving hatred, and inhales a colorless breath of air.

She always comes off as optimistic and joyful, but it takes all of her strength to push the rage under the surface. The unreleased feeling is quieted, flowing down to meet a swirling, red-black shape, pulsing, strong. It's her anger, built up for so long, never let out.

She doesn't know it yet, but in just another few days, it'll explode, shooting burning ice, burying shards of glassy resentment into anyone – everyone – around.

Anger fades to sadness, a searing melancholy that pulls tears to her eyes. She pushes those back too, wiping her eyes, biting her lip ― anything to keep them away. Once she is finally alone, she grieves, arms wrapped around her shaking body, mouth open in a silent sob, drops of salt and sorrow dripping from her face.

When she is finished, nothing is lost, just more shadowed anger added to her growing pile, and her burden grows.

•

"NO," he screams, fists pounding down onto the table. His normally pale face is clenched and red. His lip curls into a sneer, and he glares at her until she cracks under his gaze, near tears.

"Shh, it's alright, Claire," Olive soothes, patting the young girl's golden ringlets. "Just go in there, okay? I'll take care of it." Claire hurries into the other room, expression worried, and closes the door.

"Enoch."

That's all she says - simply his name. Her voice is quiet and gentle, but beseeching as well. Almost immediately, his eyes soften, and he drops his arms and hunched shoulders.

She can practically see his rage, a little flame, but instead of rising from his hands like hers do, the fire burns in a pit deep within him. Emotions swirl: irritation, stubbornness, exasperation, and a passionate anger.

Enoch frowns, crossing his arms defiantly. "It's not my fault."

Olive puffs out a breath of air. "Yes, Enoch; it is your fault. She's just a little girl - you should know better than to scream at her like that." Her forehead creases, and she stares him down, disappointment lingering on her face.

"Little girl? Come on, Olive - we're all old enough to 'know better.'" He moves to clean up his destroyed dolls, grumbling irritably as he sweeps broken clay pieces from the table into a jar. "What a waste of a perfectly good heart."

"She may be decades old, but she's still a child at heart. Don't be such a bully." Instantly, she winces, regretting the words.

Slamming the jars into the table, Enoch strides toward her. "Don't tell me what to do, Olive," he grounds out through clenched teeth. His figure towers above her, livid and strong.

Maybe another day she would try to calm his anger, soothe his raw nerves, but it's all very tiring all of the sudden. Her body seems to close in on itself, her posture wilting, smile dropping. Quietly, she steps out the door.

"Goodbye, Enoch."

•

"Don't―" she cries, flinching as Hugh flies into the room, running straight into her nightstand and knocking over a delicate vase of flowers. For a moment, it seems like the entire world is silent, waiting for what will happen next.

A spark ignites on her face, blooming a furious red burst of anger, but it dissipates even more quickly, until her expression is completely blank. "Do be more careful, Hugh," she reprimands, taking a deep breath and folding her hands together.

"I, uh, I'm really sorry, Olive," he stammers, slowly backing out of the room. It's not often that the others get to see Olive upset, and although Hugh wouldn't admit it, it scares him.

She stands there by herself for a while, arms braced against the wall, inhaling and exhaling deep breaths as her eyes flutter shut. Quieted rage pulses fiercely against her chest.

"Olive? What's the matter?" A flat voice, tinged with worry, sounds from across the room. Enoch steps inside, his expression troubled, a subtle crease forming between his eyes. "Are you alright?" 

Slowly, Olive opens her eyes, dropping her arms. Only he understands. Only he knows the extent of how much she suppresses, how much she holds within her to the point that she explodes. It's not Hugh that bothers her; she's spent days, weeks keeping it in - never yelling, never letting out the irritation bundled up in her. So it sits, waits, until one day, she breaks.

Enoch wraps his arms around her, his body gently enveloping hers. "Shh," he soothes, tucking a strand of fiery red hair behind her ear. After a brief hesitation, he presses his lips to her hair for a moment, and Olive melts into his arms. He lets her stay like that, flush against his chest, her tears pooling into his shirt and her open-mouthed, silent screams blending into his skin. 

"Feel better?" he whispers when she finishes, and with a quiet sniffle, Olive nods. 

"Thank you." There are still tears in her eyes, but she's smiling, a watery, grateful smile.

"Anytime."

•

A/N: How do you deal with your anger? Like Enoch or Olive? (I'm more Olive, but without a shoulder to cry on - bottling it all up until you can't take it anymore, and it all comes out in a disastrous, ugly mess.)