Of all the things he had expected her to say, of all the ways he had expected, perhaps even hoped for her to react, what she did say in that moment was enough to cause genuine surprise to pass over his face. His hand fell to his side and in a moment an entire kaleidoscope of feelings passed over him. Antonin had never liked to feel as if he were not making his own decisions. He had always believed emotion to be of importance, it gave a person drive, an edge and for him personally he felt it gave him power. Only now for the first time in his life he felt emotion to be a weakness. Perhaps all this time it had been Rowle who was right. Caring only made you weak and he was not weak and yet for the smallest of moments he forced his eyes to meet hers and they were begging, they were begging to be saved.
That’s when he felt the anger seize up inside of his chest like a red hot poker had been forced down his throat and was erupting inside of him.
“You don’t understand,” the words came out bitterness wrapped around each syllable.
It was then it wouldn’t have mattered if it were Faith sitting there, it was then he found himself coming undone. A long time coming perhaps with his father, his duty, his fiancé-… A woman he might have truly loved and one who he might have truly cared for. There had been a time he had said yes so blindly, signed his name on the dotted line because he was Antonin Dolohov and he was stronger than such frivolous things. He didn’t need any of these luxuries- he simply wanted them. He could survive without them because take everything away, everything surrounding him and you would be left with a blunt instrument designed for one sole purpose, devoid of regret.
“You don’t understand!” he erupted, suddenly on his feet, “Don’t you know who I am?” he found himself repeating, his hands running through his hair, “I’ve been built for this, this is what my life has been given for. I have no hope! I have no salvation, no single piece of goodness or light to hold onto. I don’t get to be saved! I don’t get to be in love. I won’t ever be able to wake up in the morning and feel okay. I’m nothing but what He wants me to be,” he swung his fist violently to the left of him coming into contact with a pile of Quidditch supplies. The pain he was numb too, the blood only a colour in his peripheral vision, “I’m Antonin Dolohov!” he shouted his face returning to hers and yet he felt himself falter and fall back as the last of the words fell from his tongue, “And no one cares.”
Faith could do nothing about her situation, despite absolutely aching to do so. She was utterly aware of every single thing around her in that moment— the rapid beating of her heart, the pulsing in her head, and every little change of expression that flashed across Antonin’s face as he spoke at her. For at least one short moment she was certain she saw a hint of regret, of pleading in his eyes, but before she could even process it the look had changed.
And that look was utterly terrifying.
It was the look of a man torn. He had cracked right before her very eyes.
The problem now was that she could not predict what this would mean for either of them. Would he simply continue to speak, to shout? To monologue, have a change of her and let her go so he could release his anger on his own? Or would he do the unthinkable? He had already cursed her, she was already in front of him, easy pickings, to do whatever he wanted. What was to say he wouldn’t?
Oh, how Faith wished more than anything that she could have seen this all coming. Why didn’t she listen to her instincts? Why didn’t keep that goddamned wall up like she did with everybody else?! Of course everything he promised was utterly false! Just like the promises every other person in Faith’s life had made.
Her train of thought had strayed briefly, a silly move because within a split second his anger had rose so terribly that he turned and struck the Quidditch equipment full force. Despite previously being unable to move, she clearly flinched and sat back as far back as was possible under constraint, her breath hitching with the action. She could see the blood on his hand but he was so wound up that he appeared to completely ignore it.
Her eyes met his once more and she held her breath as if keeping the last ounce of courage in her body. Shut the fuck up and pipe the fuck down! she wanted to scream. If only she could stand up and slap some good old fashioned sense into him. Then again, she also wanted to burst into tears and run for the hills but neither was going to happen. She had to think of something to say that would calm him down, perhaps something that would make him realise there was no need for her to be the victim of his rage. Could she convince him to let her be his confidante instead?
"Would you let someone care?”