He tells himself not to let his fists clench further. Tells himself to halt the step he starts to take; keeps himself in place. This is Enri. He should. He wants to. He will. Keep himself contained.
(He broke a door. His hand drips blood. There will be fallout.) (Too late to consider that now.)
It's the sight and actuality of Enri that necessitates restraint, and triggers Morgan to remember. It's the sight and actuality of Enri that eases his shoulders minutely, that barely, just barely calms the raging purpose behind his eyes.
It's also the sight of Enri, and the sound of Enri, and the outright fury and dissent of Enri that tangles thought and thorns Morgan. (Morgan hates, Morgan hates confusion. Hates to find the world turmoiled past recognition. Hates to lose all grasp of certainty, to lose the outline of the world as he knows it.) That tightens his jaw again and gathers in a rough inhale, a breath held moments too long, the air in the room charged electric.
He will—
He feels the urge to.
He knows he ought to.
Grab the boy and draw him out. (Grab the boy by his fucking collar.) (...Take the boy by the shoulder. Tug. Offer, first.) End this before it can stretch any further.
The question driving haze through thought: fuck's come over Enri?
What's happened in this fucking room, and why is the boy raising hackles, ready to fucking fight? (It's not right. It's not usual. Something is wrong here, and Morgan can't sort what or how. Something is wrong, and the world feels as if it slips awry, leaving Morgan to scramble internally, leaving Morgan half-blank, drifting from comprehension.)
(It's dangerous, this absence. He knows it. He's been told.)
(Lydia, where's Lydia.) (Why won't the boy obey?)
His own lip's a snarl, twisted. When he speaks, his voice has lowered, the volume leveling toward a rumbled quiet.
"Now."
And, as he moves toward the door leading outside - moves to block the door, then snap shut lock the door, focus fixed on Enri even when his back's turned - adding— "Into the hall." Turning to face the boy, shoulders squared, brow furrowed. Trying, telling himself, to keep his fury from heightening.
no subject
Fucking— No?
He tells himself not to let his fists clench further. Tells himself to halt the step he starts to take; keeps himself in place. This is Enri. He should. He wants to. He will. Keep himself contained.
(He broke a door. His hand drips blood. There will be fallout.) (Too late to consider that now.)
It's the sight and actuality of Enri that necessitates restraint, and triggers Morgan to remember. It's the sight and actuality of Enri that eases his shoulders minutely, that barely, just barely calms the raging purpose behind his eyes.
It's also the sight of Enri, and the sound of Enri, and the outright fury and dissent of Enri that tangles thought and thorns Morgan. (Morgan hates, Morgan hates confusion. Hates to find the world turmoiled past recognition. Hates to lose all grasp of certainty, to lose the outline of the world as he knows it.) That tightens his jaw again and gathers in a rough inhale, a breath held moments too long, the air in the room charged electric.
He will—
He feels the urge to.
He knows he ought to.
Grab the boy and draw him out. (Grab the boy by his fucking collar.) (...Take the boy by the shoulder. Tug. Offer, first.) End this before it can stretch any further.
The question driving haze through thought: fuck's come over Enri?
What's happened in this fucking room, and why is the boy raising hackles, ready to fucking fight? (It's not right. It's not usual. Something is wrong here, and Morgan can't sort what or how. Something is wrong, and the world feels as if it slips awry, leaving Morgan to scramble internally, leaving Morgan half-blank, drifting from comprehension.)
(It's dangerous, this absence. He knows it. He's been told.)
(Lydia, where's Lydia.) (Why won't the boy obey?)
His own lip's a snarl, twisted. When he speaks, his voice has lowered, the volume leveling toward a rumbled quiet.
"Now."
And, as he moves toward the door leading outside - moves to block the door, then snap shut lock the door, focus fixed on Enri even when his back's turned - adding— "Into the hall." Turning to face the boy, shoulders squared, brow furrowed. Trying, telling himself, to keep his fury from heightening.