KISMET ─ vento aureo.

INTERLUDE III *. ⊹

Fugo pushed back from his seat. The other boys glanced at him as he made his way to the redhead's desk. He gave the boy one last chance to stop talking. When he didn't, Fugo opened his mouth.

"You need to be quiet. We're supposed to be reading."

"I know," the redhead sneered. "I already finished reading."

Fugo clenched his fists. "Then you should be quiet so other people can read." The redhead exchanged an incredulous look with his friend. Then, to Fugo's annoyance, he ignored Fugo completely and picked his conversation back up with his friend.

Suddenly Fugo had never despised red hair as much as he had at that moment. "You need to be quiet!" he said. His high-pitched voice rang with anger.

"What are you getting mad at me for? No one else is reading, stupid."

Fugo felt red-hot fire race down his arm. It lifted of its own accord and slammed down on the boy's face. A satisfying smack sounded. The gasps around him only egged him on. He brought down his hand again, the savage feeling of hurting this boy sweeping him up like a tide.

"Are you gonna be quiet now? Huh? Are you?"

Fugo shoved the boy so hard he fell to the ground. He stood above the redhead, breathing heavily. The edges of his vision blurred red. For a moment, all Fugo could think to do was—

"Pannacotta, what is going on here?"

The teacher dragged him away. He was only able to do so because Fugo's anger had withdrawn, leaving a pale, scared boy behind. He sat mutely in the headmaster's office, the chair seeming to swallow him. He rubbed his eyes but didn't cry. Fugo felt strangely empty after his outburst. The adult's sharpened words slid off him like water. He only felt the smallest prick when the headmaster informed him he would have to call his parents.

They didn't come, of course. His grandmother arrived in a black Levi to pick him up, exchanging solemn nods with the school staff. Fugo was hurried into the car like a feral cat and the ride home was silent.

Fugo searched for signs of anger or disappointment on his grandmother's face. He found none.

"Aren't you going to scold me?"

"You've probably had enough people scold you by now."

That was true, but somehow, Fugo found this worse.

"Aren't you upset?"

Fugo's grandmother sighed. "I am, but I understand, Pannacotta. I know you well enough to know that this won't be the last time your anger gets the better of you."

Fugo waited for the rest. His grandmother would beat the anger out of him, send him to a distant star system.

"Nonna?"

"Your anger will consume you," his grandmother said. "All you can do is become stronger. The anger will come again, but you must learn to deal with the consequences."

Fugo frowned. "Then why don't you punish me when I have a tantrum?"

"Because you have every right to be angry, Pannacotta."

And so, the person who truly raised Fugo was his grandmother. He didn't learn how to share or be kind like other children. Instead, he learned to listen, to understand. To control himself, because he couldn't control others. It was impossible to tamp down on his anger, so he had to learn to guard himself. He had to understand himself to understand the anger.

Fugo was a boy who didn't know how to express himself, but everyday he found ways to show his grandmother how grateful he was that she tried in a way his parents never had.