Every time he thinks the peak is finally subsiding, it flares again, and molten anger churns in his core, filling him to the brim with a white-hot fury.
Oh, so now he thought he could make passive-aggressive remarks? Is that the game Enji wanted to play?
The fact he had the audacity to address him as if he were Touya, as if Natsuo hadnât been there the last time their father addressed Touya directlyâ
A pressured inhale, then an exhale, and his jaw grits together so hard it pops, fingers digging into the polished wood of the table so hard he could imagine it splintering in his grip.
The small mantra of âdonât, for Fuyumiâ, was drowned out in the rush of blood roaring in his ears, screaming in a decade of unchecked grief.
âDo you think this is funny?â He hisses, thinking about how lucky his father was that he wasnât close enough to just sock him in the goddamn jaw.
âDo you really think you have any fucking right to start joking around about stuff like that, you stupid motherfucker? Just because youâre âtryingâ? Just because you finally made the decision to stop slapping a kid around?â
âNatsuo-â Enji had realized his error, but it was already far too late. His son had already begun. Knowing speaking would only further infuriate him. He remained silent, motionless apart from the occasional flaring of his nostrils. There was nothing he could say or do to help this situation, for he was the root cause in the first place.
Breaking eye contact with his son, he walked back over to his desk, and slid the file he collected into a drawer before leaning forward to rest both his hands on the surface.
âIf there is nothing else, I believe we are done. Thank you, Natsuo.â
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