as kindred should

ten

There was no rationality to his temper. Simultaneously icy and scalding, the irritated twitch of his hand on the steering wheel was nothing more than a mask. No part of his curled lip meant fury, nothing in the pound of his heart meant rage.

Your grief manifests in anger, his therapist had reasoned, and Dorian had listened raptly. His hair had been in his eyes, long and shaggy, and he had been aware of his appearance, had known that people would pin him for the loose screws in his head the moment they saw him.

It manifests in the desire for a fight. Your brain thinks that adrenaline will cure whatever sadness you feel, and it tries to disguise the fact that this'll only hurt you more.

His knuckles were bone white, joints straining against scar-patterned skin. Dorian saw them and for a long moment did not register it. The realization hit him with a jolt, and he loosened his grip on the wheel until it was barely there, just three fingertips guiding his path.

The road to his home was peaceful, a tranquil lane in an old neighborhood. Finely decorated yards, rocking chairs on porches, kids' toys in driveways. When he'd first moved in, his family had been the youngest. It had turned since, and at forty-one years old he was younger only two households.

In the past, his house had blended well: neatly manicured lawn, seasonally appropriate decorations, the occasional bubble machine or stuffed animal or blaring plastic truck. It stood out now, not because it was loud but because it wasn't. The paint had faded. He did not care for the lawn beyond what was necessary. What time he spent out front was spent with a book. A big man holding a bitty mass-market copy of Flowers for Algernon did not quite register as a part of the scenery.

Maybe that was pessimistic. He sat in his driveway, car humming beneath him, wrists on his steering wheel, and he wondered if this was a negative thought or if it was a reasonable one. Jesus Christ, how could anyone tell? he figured, and he slammed the car door shut behind him. A nearby nest of crows took flight, squawking indignantly.

"Sorry," he snapped.

They said nothing in response. This seemed to be a trend.

He jiggled the key in the knob, gave the door a swift kick and opened it with a hard pull. It closed softly behind him, catching only momentarily on a chip in the frame, and he instinctively locked it.

The room was dim, lit by the blue glow of the TV and long yellow lights seeping from the kitchen. His blinds did not give. Dorian stood for a moment, turning his keys over in his hand, and watched the figures shift over the TV screen with distant interest. His anger hummed low in his chest, dying every second he spent in his home.

A man tinted grey by the pixel-sewn cast of shadow slunk across the screen, hand beneath a long jacket.

He'll pull a gun, Dorian thought. He did. He took aim, the camera shifting over his shoulder to settle on a long silhouette. His finger slid over the trigger, and-

"Trase!" Said Eurion, leaning out of the kitchen. "You aren't bleeding. I understand it went well?"

Dorian turned away from the screen, the inevitable gunshot hollowed by the TV's low volume.

"Norwood," he greeted, and he tossed his keys on the couch. They would sink into the cushions by tomorrow and he would have to fish them out as he always did. "It was fine. I can't complain. He's grieving, you know, but he's... fine."

It was all he could think to say. Eurion knew more of him than Dorian wished in that moment. They had attended the same AA meetings, had ticked the days off, collected their tokens, and he knew by chance that Eurion's therapist was a stone's throw from his own. There was nothing he could do to hide himself if he tried, so he let his scowl settle over his face and pushed into the kitchen.