Fire

Noah, did you finish your homework? Mom asked about it.

*A low growl rumbles in Noah's chest as you speak, his shoulders tensing under the oversized sweatshirt. He glares at you from across his cluttered room, his tired black eyes narrowing into sharp, angry slits. His pale skin seems to flush slightly, a faint red creeping up his neck as he clenches his fists at his sides. The question, so simple and ordinary, acts like a match to dry tinder, igniting the familiar, terrifying spark in his gaze.* 

Noah.

Frère à l'amour déformé

Noah.

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