(no subject)
Title: Anger Management
Rating: G
Pairing: Hints of Yuuri/Wolfram. Kind of.
Summary: Written for the 'two characters interacting as children' challenge at uke_society. :3
As a child, Wolfram had thrown horrendous temper tantrums.
It was impossible to tell what would set him off at any given moment. What he didn't bat at eye at one day could send him into a hysterical, fists shaking, incoherent screaming fury the next.
And when Wolfram was in a tantrum, the entire kingdom knew it. He screamed, he knocked things over, destroyed anything he could get his hands on, pulled hair, kicked legs, lashed out at anyone who dared get near. He was overwhelmed with his anger, the extent of his fury seeming to confuse even himself, his actions growing increasingly frantic and wild.
His anger knew no limits, it came like a tidal wave and swept him away. He couldn't understand it, couldn't contain it. Anger ate away at the core of his very tiny self and there was nothing he could do but scream and hit.
Until his father stepped in.
He would calmly grab each wildly swinging limb, ignoring any injuries this might earn him, and wrap his son up in those impossibly long, strong arms. The restraint would push Wolfram even more toward the edge initially, until he was too angry to even form words, just screaming and practically convulsing in his father's lap.
Then, in a voice barely above a murmur, the man would start telling stories of war, or his grandfather, what his plans were the next day, what was getting fixed for dinner that night. He'd talk till his voice gave out, but more often than not it only took a few minutes for Wolfram to finally calm, to ride his rage to its end.
"Never be ashamed of your passion," he'd say once Wolfram could actually listen again, thin chest still heaving in the wake of intense emotion. "Tame it, control it, but never let it die."
When his father died, suddenly, horrifically and forever etched in Wolfram's mind, the tantrums, which hadn't really been seen as a problem because of his father's expert handling of them, only grew in intensity.
If Wolfram's anger had been a tidal wave before, it became a mythical cleansing of the world.
Only now, there was no one who knew how to fix it.
His mother didn't know what to do with this red faced, screaming child, so different from her sober Gwendal and gentle Conrad. Finally, after the cost of damage he was causing began threatening to put the entire kingdom in debt, she began taking to locking him in rooms of entirely breakable objects until he grew quiet. Usually passing out in the middle of his destruction, into a much needed, miserable, sleep.
His rage became a never ending cycle, at best a low simmer, but always there. Constantly dancing in his minds eye, ready to jump out at the slightest provocation.
Then one day, after Gwendal was just too busy to make him yet another stuffed tiger, and earning a thoroughly bruised calf for his refusal, Wolfram was dumped in the room that valiantly withstood his wrath.
Kicking and scratching at the door soon lost its appeal as it'd never caved in before and he doubted today would be that day. When he whirled around to see what new things there were for him to demolish, however, his eyes widened in surprise.
"Who are you?" He demanded, confusion temporarily throwing his tirade off beat. Usually people hightailed in the opposite direction when he started loosing it. Not willingly locking themselves in rooms with him.
The boy looked up from . . . whatever it was he was doing, utterly unfazed by the waves of anger that were radiating of the blond, and gave a small smile. "Yuuri."
"Yuuri." Wolfram sneered with a disgusted huff, crossing his arms, "That's a stupid name."
"It's July." The strange Yuuri said, almost distractedly, going back to running fingers over a piece of parchment. Wolfram blinked; every place his finger touched, color appeared on the paper.
"What are you doing?"
"Finger painting!" Yuuri said, smiling again and lifting his fingers so Wolfram could see the small circles of color on each tip. "Wanna try?"
"No!" Wolfram snapped, "You really are stupid, you're only supposed to paint with brushes!"
But this strange Yuuri really didn't seem to care about what Wolfram thought about his finger painting, because he completely ignored the bit about brushes and went back to his picture. After a while, he leaned over to a small tray with dots of colors, rubbed is finger in blue, and started adding in a sky.
"Didn't you hear me?! That's a stupid way to paint!"
Yuuri shrugged.
Wolfram scowled deeply; ignoring him was the highest form of offense anyone could possibly commit.
He stomped up, grabbed the picture off the ground ("Hey!") and smiled wickedly at the sound of it ripping in two.
Yuuri glared up at him for a moment, then reached over, pulled out another piece of parchment, and began again.
Wolfram stared. Did Yuuri not notice . . . ? "I just ripped your painting!"
"I know! That was mean of you, I was almost done with that one." He said, scowling at the memory.
Wolfram blinked. He watched Yuuri draw a wide, yellow circle and add orange lines radiating from it.
"Let me try." He demanded.
"Here," Yuuri moved the tray of color so they could both have easy access, "you can help me with this one."
Eyeing Yuuri carefully, he settled across from him and turned his attention to the picture. It was a long while before either spoke again, diligently working on their purple cats and green people.
"Painting is good for when you're angry." Yuuri said wisely when they finished their masterpiece, nodding his approval.
"Let's do another one!" Wolfram said excitedly, reaching for another piece of paper and hitting Yuuri's hand along the way, it instantly becoming a rainbow of green, purple and yellow.
"Hey!" Yuuri said, more of surprise than annoyance, looking down at the back of his hand.
"Oops." Wolfram didn't sound sorry as much as cautious.
With a look of firm resolve, Yuuri reached forward and swiped the back of Wolfram's hand, streaking it with orange, blue and black. Wolfram stared down at his hand, as if he couldn't believe anyone would dare touch him. Then he smirked and swiped brown across Yuuri's cheek.
He got a smear of pink across his own cheek for his trouble.
It was a while before either spoke again outside of giggles, both working diligently on their newest masterpieces.
__
The hallway that led to Wolfram's Room of Destruction™, was suspiciously silent.
It usually took him at least a half hour longer to pass out or calm down enough to try and lure someone toward the door so he could make a break for freedom.
Worried that he might've finally caused himself injury, Conrad started jogging toward the door. "Wolfram?" He asked, bursting into the room, expecting to see him laying underneath an overturned bookcase or a in a puddle of blood . . .
Only to find him kneeling on the floor, happily humming to himself, surrounded by piles of paper decorated with stick figures and colorful, tiny finger prints.
"Hi!" Wolfram greeted happily, colors smeared in haphazard patterns all over his face, dotting wildly in pale hair and coating his hands.
Relief and deep confusion. "You're a mess! What happened?"
Wolfram picked a piece of paper from around him seemingly at random and rushed to show his brother, "I was painting with my fingers! Look! See, there's me and you and Gwendal and mother," he said pointing to each wobbly figure.
"Lovely." Conrad said, "And who are those people?"
"That's Yuuri and his family. He helped me paint it."
"Yuuri?" Conrad asked, trying the name out.
"It means July."
Author's Notes: You get no explanations for why Yuuri was there or where he went. Such is the merciless power of the author. *Bwaha*
Rating: G
Pairing: Hints of Yuuri/Wolfram. Kind of.
Summary: Written for the 'two characters interacting as children' challenge at uke_society. :3
As a child, Wolfram had thrown horrendous temper tantrums.
It was impossible to tell what would set him off at any given moment. What he didn't bat at eye at one day could send him into a hysterical, fists shaking, incoherent screaming fury the next.
And when Wolfram was in a tantrum, the entire kingdom knew it. He screamed, he knocked things over, destroyed anything he could get his hands on, pulled hair, kicked legs, lashed out at anyone who dared get near. He was overwhelmed with his anger, the extent of his fury seeming to confuse even himself, his actions growing increasingly frantic and wild.
His anger knew no limits, it came like a tidal wave and swept him away. He couldn't understand it, couldn't contain it. Anger ate away at the core of his very tiny self and there was nothing he could do but scream and hit.
Until his father stepped in.
He would calmly grab each wildly swinging limb, ignoring any injuries this might earn him, and wrap his son up in those impossibly long, strong arms. The restraint would push Wolfram even more toward the edge initially, until he was too angry to even form words, just screaming and practically convulsing in his father's lap.
Then, in a voice barely above a murmur, the man would start telling stories of war, or his grandfather, what his plans were the next day, what was getting fixed for dinner that night. He'd talk till his voice gave out, but more often than not it only took a few minutes for Wolfram to finally calm, to ride his rage to its end.
"Never be ashamed of your passion," he'd say once Wolfram could actually listen again, thin chest still heaving in the wake of intense emotion. "Tame it, control it, but never let it die."
When his father died, suddenly, horrifically and forever etched in Wolfram's mind, the tantrums, which hadn't really been seen as a problem because of his father's expert handling of them, only grew in intensity.
If Wolfram's anger had been a tidal wave before, it became a mythical cleansing of the world.
Only now, there was no one who knew how to fix it.
His mother didn't know what to do with this red faced, screaming child, so different from her sober Gwendal and gentle Conrad. Finally, after the cost of damage he was causing began threatening to put the entire kingdom in debt, she began taking to locking him in rooms of entirely breakable objects until he grew quiet. Usually passing out in the middle of his destruction, into a much needed, miserable, sleep.
His rage became a never ending cycle, at best a low simmer, but always there. Constantly dancing in his minds eye, ready to jump out at the slightest provocation.
Then one day, after Gwendal was just too busy to make him yet another stuffed tiger, and earning a thoroughly bruised calf for his refusal, Wolfram was dumped in the room that valiantly withstood his wrath.
Kicking and scratching at the door soon lost its appeal as it'd never caved in before and he doubted today would be that day. When he whirled around to see what new things there were for him to demolish, however, his eyes widened in surprise.
"Who are you?" He demanded, confusion temporarily throwing his tirade off beat. Usually people hightailed in the opposite direction when he started loosing it. Not willingly locking themselves in rooms with him.
The boy looked up from . . . whatever it was he was doing, utterly unfazed by the waves of anger that were radiating of the blond, and gave a small smile. "Yuuri."
"Yuuri." Wolfram sneered with a disgusted huff, crossing his arms, "That's a stupid name."
"It's July." The strange Yuuri said, almost distractedly, going back to running fingers over a piece of parchment. Wolfram blinked; every place his finger touched, color appeared on the paper.
"What are you doing?"
"Finger painting!" Yuuri said, smiling again and lifting his fingers so Wolfram could see the small circles of color on each tip. "Wanna try?"
"No!" Wolfram snapped, "You really are stupid, you're only supposed to paint with brushes!"
But this strange Yuuri really didn't seem to care about what Wolfram thought about his finger painting, because he completely ignored the bit about brushes and went back to his picture. After a while, he leaned over to a small tray with dots of colors, rubbed is finger in blue, and started adding in a sky.
"Didn't you hear me?! That's a stupid way to paint!"
Yuuri shrugged.
Wolfram scowled deeply; ignoring him was the highest form of offense anyone could possibly commit.
He stomped up, grabbed the picture off the ground ("Hey!") and smiled wickedly at the sound of it ripping in two.
Yuuri glared up at him for a moment, then reached over, pulled out another piece of parchment, and began again.
Wolfram stared. Did Yuuri not notice . . . ? "I just ripped your painting!"
"I know! That was mean of you, I was almost done with that one." He said, scowling at the memory.
Wolfram blinked. He watched Yuuri draw a wide, yellow circle and add orange lines radiating from it.
"Let me try." He demanded.
"Here," Yuuri moved the tray of color so they could both have easy access, "you can help me with this one."
Eyeing Yuuri carefully, he settled across from him and turned his attention to the picture. It was a long while before either spoke again, diligently working on their purple cats and green people.
"Painting is good for when you're angry." Yuuri said wisely when they finished their masterpiece, nodding his approval.
"Let's do another one!" Wolfram said excitedly, reaching for another piece of paper and hitting Yuuri's hand along the way, it instantly becoming a rainbow of green, purple and yellow.
"Hey!" Yuuri said, more of surprise than annoyance, looking down at the back of his hand.
"Oops." Wolfram didn't sound sorry as much as cautious.
With a look of firm resolve, Yuuri reached forward and swiped the back of Wolfram's hand, streaking it with orange, blue and black. Wolfram stared down at his hand, as if he couldn't believe anyone would dare touch him. Then he smirked and swiped brown across Yuuri's cheek.
He got a smear of pink across his own cheek for his trouble.
It was a while before either spoke again outside of giggles, both working diligently on their newest masterpieces.
__
The hallway that led to Wolfram's Room of Destruction™, was suspiciously silent.
It usually took him at least a half hour longer to pass out or calm down enough to try and lure someone toward the door so he could make a break for freedom.
Worried that he might've finally caused himself injury, Conrad started jogging toward the door. "Wolfram?" He asked, bursting into the room, expecting to see him laying underneath an overturned bookcase or a in a puddle of blood . . .
Only to find him kneeling on the floor, happily humming to himself, surrounded by piles of paper decorated with stick figures and colorful, tiny finger prints.
"Hi!" Wolfram greeted happily, colors smeared in haphazard patterns all over his face, dotting wildly in pale hair and coating his hands.
Relief and deep confusion. "You're a mess! What happened?"
Wolfram picked a piece of paper from around him seemingly at random and rushed to show his brother, "I was painting with my fingers! Look! See, there's me and you and Gwendal and mother," he said pointing to each wobbly figure.
"Lovely." Conrad said, "And who are those people?"
"That's Yuuri and his family. He helped me paint it."
"Yuuri?" Conrad asked, trying the name out.
"It means July."
Author's Notes: You get no explanations for why Yuuri was there or where he went. Such is the merciless power of the author. *Bwaha*