Gold Metal I of II
Gold Metal I
Summary: Adamo's hurting. Not because he lost it all, but because he didn't, and the one he loved did.
Warning: Angst. Badly written angst. And drunkenness
--
Sometimes, when he was drunk beyond reason, he hated Balfour's metal hands. Or, rather, the reason he had those hands, the circumstances, because he could never hate anything that was a part of Balfour. Ever. He reeled against the injustice of it all, slamming his fist into the nearest object-be that Rook or a wall-his mind and heart screaming that it was unfair that Balfour had lost his hands, his brother, his girl, all his fucking opportunities while he, the oldest, the one in charge, the one used to loss, had lost nothing. In fact, he had gained something, which, too, was also unfair. Why should he be happy, have everything he ever wanted when sweet, gentle, kind Balfour'd lost it all?
So he'd yell and scream and pick fights-the biggest whoresons he could find-and while the others blamed it on sexual frustration-he played along, because Balfour was gone a lot-that wasn't his problem. Not the true problem. No. His true problem was that it hurt seeing how few options Balfour had, now that his hands were gone. He had once wanted to be a doctor, long before he was recruited, and now that was impossible. The worst of it was, Balfour never complained. He took it better than most of the others.
It just wasn't right! Adamo thought, throwing a pitcher across the kitchen in a drunken rage, unappeased by the resulting crash of glass shattering against the wall. Usually, when drunk, Adamo was hilariously forgetful and silly. Most days, he was a fun drunk. But sometimes the easily amused factor of his drunkenness would disappear as soon as the people did, proving that, that day, it was a front. It was those times that he went down to the Mollyedge and picked a fight or two, coming back bruised and bleeding, but not this day. This time, he was content-more or less-to just destroy the kitchen. For the moment.
He threw more glass, food, whatever, absolutely furious with the Ke-Han, itching for a fight. He wanted to hurt someone, make them feel exactly how he felt, avenge Balfour and 'Stasia and the loss of the future the younger man could have had-such a future, too. He wanted to make them feel how it was to have their hands destroyed.
What always hurt the most, though, was that Balfour still had his habit of playing with his gloves, but instead of pale, white hands peeking through, he now saw gold metal, only gold metal. Never again would he see those dainty, pale hands. He was stuck with a color he was coming to hate quickly: gold. When he was drunk, it was enough to set his blood boiling, just the sight of such metal. He threw a skillet, breaking a cabinet door in his fury.
“Sarge really needs to get laid” he heard Niall remark from the common room. So, they were hiding, the rat bastards. He threw an apple at the door, enjoying the thunk that resulted.
“I don't think that's it, Niall” Leave it to fucking Royston to think he's got him all figured out, just because they were friends. Adamo threw something gold and metal at the door, then something else at the pitcher because it was gold metal and it made him think about those hands, remember the state of Balfour's hands when he found him, but he didn't want to think, didn't want to remember, and that's why he was drunk, assholes! He threw something else just because it was gold metal, as well, and he didn't want to look at it, and turned quickly to get a swig of his beer.
Instead of the expected loud clanging, there was a surprised sounding squeak-which he made nothing of-and a muffled clinging sound, and then the clang as strong hands grasped his arms and wrestled the beer bottle out of his hands, an angel's voice calling out to him.
Then, Balfour's face swam into view, large blue eyes-eyes he loved so much-full of fear and worry. Adamo calmed quickly, touching his face and kissing his hair, captured by an instinct to calm his young lover, whispering over and again “It just ain't right” before being led gently by his hand to their shared room.
Summary: Adamo's hurting. Not because he lost it all, but because he didn't, and the one he loved did.
Warning: Angst. Badly written angst. And drunkenness
--
Sometimes, when he was drunk beyond reason, he hated Balfour's metal hands. Or, rather, the reason he had those hands, the circumstances, because he could never hate anything that was a part of Balfour. Ever. He reeled against the injustice of it all, slamming his fist into the nearest object-be that Rook or a wall-his mind and heart screaming that it was unfair that Balfour had lost his hands, his brother, his girl, all his fucking opportunities while he, the oldest, the one in charge, the one used to loss, had lost nothing. In fact, he had gained something, which, too, was also unfair. Why should he be happy, have everything he ever wanted when sweet, gentle, kind Balfour'd lost it all?
So he'd yell and scream and pick fights-the biggest whoresons he could find-and while the others blamed it on sexual frustration-he played along, because Balfour was gone a lot-that wasn't his problem. Not the true problem. No. His true problem was that it hurt seeing how few options Balfour had, now that his hands were gone. He had once wanted to be a doctor, long before he was recruited, and now that was impossible. The worst of it was, Balfour never complained. He took it better than most of the others.
It just wasn't right! Adamo thought, throwing a pitcher across the kitchen in a drunken rage, unappeased by the resulting crash of glass shattering against the wall. Usually, when drunk, Adamo was hilariously forgetful and silly. Most days, he was a fun drunk. But sometimes the easily amused factor of his drunkenness would disappear as soon as the people did, proving that, that day, it was a front. It was those times that he went down to the Mollyedge and picked a fight or two, coming back bruised and bleeding, but not this day. This time, he was content-more or less-to just destroy the kitchen. For the moment.
He threw more glass, food, whatever, absolutely furious with the Ke-Han, itching for a fight. He wanted to hurt someone, make them feel exactly how he felt, avenge Balfour and 'Stasia and the loss of the future the younger man could have had-such a future, too. He wanted to make them feel how it was to have their hands destroyed.
What always hurt the most, though, was that Balfour still had his habit of playing with his gloves, but instead of pale, white hands peeking through, he now saw gold metal, only gold metal. Never again would he see those dainty, pale hands. He was stuck with a color he was coming to hate quickly: gold. When he was drunk, it was enough to set his blood boiling, just the sight of such metal. He threw a skillet, breaking a cabinet door in his fury.
“Sarge really needs to get laid” he heard Niall remark from the common room. So, they were hiding, the rat bastards. He threw an apple at the door, enjoying the thunk that resulted.
“I don't think that's it, Niall” Leave it to fucking Royston to think he's got him all figured out, just because they were friends. Adamo threw something gold and metal at the door, then something else at the pitcher because it was gold metal and it made him think about those hands, remember the state of Balfour's hands when he found him, but he didn't want to think, didn't want to remember, and that's why he was drunk, assholes! He threw something else just because it was gold metal, as well, and he didn't want to look at it, and turned quickly to get a swig of his beer.
Instead of the expected loud clanging, there was a surprised sounding squeak-which he made nothing of-and a muffled clinging sound, and then the clang as strong hands grasped his arms and wrestled the beer bottle out of his hands, an angel's voice calling out to him.
Then, Balfour's face swam into view, large blue eyes-eyes he loved so much-full of fear and worry. Adamo calmed quickly, touching his face and kissing his hair, captured by an instinct to calm his young lover, whispering over and again “It just ain't right” before being led gently by his hand to their shared room.