Chapter 3
Michael had noticed, throughout the months that he'd known the kid, that Harry's anger didn't burn like Layla's, even though that was clearly where his snapping sarcasm and biting wit had come from.
Layla's anger was constant. A white-hot burning flame that was birthed out of the same alleyway that had gotten the two of them in the shelter in the first place. It was what made Layla a good fighter- her fists packed a punch that went unmatched by a swift kick of her scrounged-up steel-toe boots. She was all sharp-edges and cynical wisdom- mistrusting of most people- except the people in the alley with her and a few of the shelter staff.
Harry's anger, in the meanwhile was a quiet fireplace, like the one on the first floor of the shelter. Any moment though, one of the sparks could fall off the fire onto the carpet and set the entire place on fire, and that was when Harry went from sarcastic and cynical to cynical and angry, a tiny ball of bottle tab chains and flannel that kicked and bit and scratched and screeched the whole time, turning the kid into something half-way feral. Only he and Layla had ever managed to stop him thus far; the kid clearly enjoyed the fights, enjoyed the broken noses and split lips in the aftermath. He didn't go looking for them- not like Layla did, all accusations and sharp words- but once it started Harry seemed disappointed to see it stop. He was all soft-edges and deadpan humor- until someone made fun of Briget, or called Leaf a 'fag'. Then he was the group's personal fireball- coloured the same bright green as his eyes.