revivalproject

Entry tags:

Scoria

WHO: Tony and...you?
WHERE: The forge, the hospital
WHAT: Dealing with Iron Man
WHEN: Mid-September
WARNINGS: Tony's depression is a rich bouquet of alcoholism and self-destruction. It's a touch gory.

a. forge
This wasn't a completely unusual scent in the close air of the forge. The acridity was standard, the taste of coal and slag even before the regularly singed hair. It was the richness, like oil that shouldn't have been so close to the mouth of the fire, that Tony could taste in the back of his throat and had him blinking out of his distant focus to finally feel the sear that seemed to reach straight to his heart. He sucked in a sharp, wakeful breath, any other sound cut off by the metal clanging to the ground as he dropped the crucible, tearing the deadened skin of his palm with it and leaving him still again as he watched silver spread across the floor and held his scorched hand shakily aloft, struggling to remember what his intended next step was meant to be. His glove dangled from his other hand, along with a glass, chosen primarily for its cleanliness as he searched through the Deep End, and was now smudged liberally with fingerprints as Tony endlessly twisted it at his side.

The criteria for the bottle he had taken had been significantly different, though no less straightforward; as long as it wasn't a terribly lurid colour, it would probably do the job. Tony backed away from the fire, to return to the bottle on the workbench, dropping the gloves and the glass alongside it to consider his blistering hand with a sigh of disappointment. It did hurt a little more when he tried to stretch out his fingers, and he couldn't quite bring himself to, instead leaving it with a glare and propped up on the table as he searched carelessly through nearby boxes and baskets for something to wrap it in so he could keep working. Not that he was going to get much further. Dedicating the amount of resources that he had in the first place to the Iron Man had been a profound waste, and now anything else was best applied to regrouping and rebuilding, and actually protecting them against a future disaster. If he was going to build something like the armor, he was really going to have to recycle what he already had. Which meant he was going to have to go get it again.

b. hospital
When a gentle knock returned only silence in the darkened hallway of the hospital, and Tony easily pushed the door open to a largely empty room, there was an unspooling of disappointment in his chest. Not that he was exactly prepared for what he might say to Wesker, but it didn't seem like he'd have to carefully calculate the kind of provocation that would get him pinned to a wall. A cheerful 'good morning' would have been perfectly effective. Leaving a small puddle of water behind, Tony went drifting into the abandoned room, and slowly sank down onto his knees in front of the lumpy rag that he knew when he tweaked up would reveal the slightly battered scales of the Iron Man. "Morning, dear," he mumbled to it in lieu of someone that would punch him, and slid the scattered pieces he'd dredged out of the fountain alongside it. They jangled delicately, while the bottle he set down at his other side clanked on the ground with conviction. Now what? It wasn't like he could lift the imposing weight of the full set of armor and cradle it back to the forge to be melted. It wasn't even all here; there were more parts yet, glowing like embers behind his eyes, somewhere further down the hall, the full list of their individual destructive power and itemized armament scrolling endlessly at the back of his skull like white noise drowning out everything around it. He was squeezing the glass in his lap, and had to take a deep breath to release it again, and shake out his stinging, bandaged hand. He could have at least filled it with water while he was at the fountain, so he could also have something to sip.

He unstopped the bottle, so he could watch the pour, just a couple inches, then carefully set the arrangement aside. He could just ask the armor to assemble and walk itself out of here. It was probably fine. What was the worst that could happen? Plenty of people could have one drink. He wasn't doing anything anyway. He took another breath so he could push himself back up, and set out for those last few pieces. Once the full set of armor was together, then he would have to think about tearing it apart.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A quick reversal happened, where it became clear that Gladio did have some idea of what Tony was talking about, only for Tony to be left quite unprepared to handle 'Insomnia' even with the context. It seemed out of place enough that impulsively he muttered, "Like...in books?" If Tony knew much of anything about Noctis he might have understood better, and he might not have asked such a jarring question. As it was, Gladio's resignation made his open declaration of love that much more reckless. It drew Tony's attention up, with a wide-eyed inquisitiveness, not sure if he had given Gladio some reason to trust him like that, or he was just comfortable with the inevitability that someone was going to use this weakness against him. Probably at Noctis' expense.

"Does he say it like that, too?" Tony had to guess. Some things might have been worth being able to tell everyone how in love you were.

"Like what?"

Gladio asks, his voice soft and pained. They've gotten off topic but it's into something that's hurt him for so long tha he doesn't know how to hold it back now that he believes someone knows the secret. Now that he believes someone other than Link know Gladio can only have what he has because he will lose it.

"Pained? Because... Because it hurts. Knowing every day we have together could be stolen away if the Agrii sends one of us home. I'll never be with him in my world, and in his own..."

In his won that Gladio will have someone else because his king will be dead.

Right, the Agrii, the most immediate sword dangled above them that Tony hadn't been able to cut down. The theory that Gladio had some reason to trust him was neatly terminated. He mumbled, "Sorry," even while shaking his head, because that wasn't really what he meant, but maybe also entirely what he meant, and it was about time he dragged that bottle across the bench to unstop and finally pour a glass. "You didn't sound pained," he corrected when that ritual had steadied him. "'I kinda lose myself with it'. Poetic, maybe. Not a loss you regret."

"Ah. That. I don't know if he's like that with me. I'm just... I know I only have what we get here. And I want every moment he has me to be as full of love and support as he could ever want," he says with a sigh.

Maybe he needs to sit. Yes. He needs to sit. He's going to sit.

"Back home he didn't get that enough. At all. And I want what we have together to make up for that in whatever way I can."

To be so unguarded was still making the anxiety for Gladio twist around in Tony's chest, but it made a gutwrenching amount of sense when he put it like that, and cast a stark clarity on just how thoroughly Tony had been squandering his time. The shock of it had him looking away quickly, suddenly very intent on gathering up the small parts that had been scattered across the bench in his search for a bandage for his hand. "Lucky guy," was the most he could muster, unable to promise that he was going to make sure they all got out of here together anymore, and knowing that it wasn't to Gladio that he felt the urge to justify there were plenty of ways to show love and support without sharing it so liberally. He handed the glass to Gladio, and punctuated the statement with a clear ring of the bottle tapped against the it before taking a drink.

Gladio... Actually doesn't want to go home. He's afraid of that moment. Of saving another Noctis from fate and forever putting his love out of reach. So he takes the glass and takes a drink from it.

"What about you and Jon?"

"He's great," came out so automatically that it only occurred to Tony afterward that Gladio might have known otherwise, and he abruptly added, "Why, have you talked to him?" That was definitely too obvious. He had to set the bottle down to free both hands to talk busily, filling the space with a more honest answer before Gladio could fill the gaps himself, "He's a marvel, he gets better every day. More beautiful every time I see him. More powerful. I've been lucky enough to know so many extraordinary people in my life, and I've felt slow and clumsy, but I've never felt so small. And he just continues to explode, building something more infinite than I can imagine, so--He deserves the space to do that."

"He doesn't seem to like me, so I try and give him space," Gladio dismisses. So no, he hasn't hear anything. But he listens to Tony and raises an eyebrow.

"That sounds like someone who is madly in love and so scared of that that he's trying to run way from it. Have you considered going the other direction? Double down on the desire and just commit to him."

Tony didn't have any argument against being in love, madly or sanely, or against being scared, though that was about where he started to shake his head, because he didn't think he was running. Not that he had a very good track record with the commitment; it was Jon that had to make a big mess and get him to agree they were even dating, and Tony hadn't thought he was running then, either.

"Like move in together and ask him to marry me," he mumbled, almost a question, because those were all of the next commitment steps he knew and couldn't tell Gladio which one of them he had screwed up. That was a big part of his problem, he still didn't understand what he kept doing wrong, and not just with Jon. His focus slid back to Gladio then, looking dubious, realizing this might have been the longest he had talked to anyone without them getting frustrated in a very long time. "Why don't you think he likes you?" he asked, not sure now what must have tried Gladio's patience.

"You should do that," Gladio says. And as for himself, he's gotten to the move in already and it's not like...

His eyes go wide. Why not? Why shouldn't he? Was there something wrong with it? No one here could stop them, could protest.

"I could propose to him."

The question about Jon is lost in Gladio's realization and how it distracts him.

Edited 2023-10-02 19:22 (UTC)

Tony, too, was dwelling, feeling like taking those steps had only revealed his defects and Jon was pushing him out over them. It was his move, and any shift in the balance was going to bring the whole structure down. So he missed that shift in Gladio's expression, and was left going, "Jon? That would certainly elicit a strong response..." Not necessarily a course correction for whatever was going on between Gladio and Jon, but definitely a new course. It was only when Tony stared at him and realized that Gladio was quite serious that he went, "Oh," tenderly like Gladio was a bird he had just found under the window. Abandoning the bottle, he shifted closer to get Gladio's attention with a touch to his cheek, and hold his jaw with a tiny restless tapping. "You're going to."

Propose to Jon? He laughs.

"Jon's your love, the one you're supposed to propose to. But yeah. I think I should. Grab what time with him I can. Suppose I can replicate some rings."

And he looks frustrated because he's run out for the month.

"That's a waste," Tony said readily, already turning back toward the bench and starting his rooting around, his wrapped hand tucked frustratingly against his chest and slowing him down, but at least available to twirl as he rolled his eyes and elaborated, "Not the proposal, that'll be perfect, nothing could go wrong, I mean the replicator is a waste." He produced what he was looking for, which turned out to be a small, dense block with a circular impression in it. "Do you know what size he is? His finger. But if you want to elaborate, I'm not going to stop you."

What size he is? Gladio smiles to himself. Good enough to satisfy. Not that he's saying it clearly. But he's staring at what Tony has presented, intrigued.

"You know how to make jewelry? And yes, of course I know his ring size."

DOn't ask why.

The 'why' seemed self-evident enough to Tony, who could give exacting details of any dimension of Jon, that it didn't occur to him to ask, and instead he only paused to raise an eyebrow at Gladio for expecting Tony to be able to make an axe with confidence, but not a ring. "This will be too small," he could say confidently about his mold, hand going from it then out expectantly for Gladio's, because his hands were definitely bigger than anyone else Tony might have been crafting for. "But I can customize it, if its going to take you a while to find a stone. There's some here, if you don't want to go shopping yourself." He kicked a basket under the table, which rattled with an assortment of rocks, sea glass and the strange gems that had appeared on the festival grounds.

"A stone?"

No, hold on, that makes no sense to Gladio. Why would he look for a stone? Those weren't in rings back home. Not unless they were things like signets. When they are displayed he shakes his head.

"Those aren't traditional in Lucian culture. Not between men.'

Between the proposal and the rings, Tony had been assuming this process was all going to sound pretty familiar, and it hadn't occurred to him that there was both an alien, and a male-specific cultural expectation that he was blindly offering to meet. His mouth opened, then shut, not sure what to ask when he didn't know what he didn't know. "We don't have that," he landed on. "You're going to have to..." he tried to encourage, gesturing vaguely toward the bench.

"You don't have marriages between men?" Gladio asked, intrigued by that. "It's still a ring for us, but it's just a metal band. Giving a ring with a stone is more like a sign of fealty."

And he thought a simple band was suitable anyway.

"No--maybe some places--..." Tony grimaced, hand wavering, sort of. Definitely not with enough confidence to suggest there were any traditions around that kind of arrangement that he knew about. "In the circles I travelled in, the expectation was that a guy proposed to a gal with the biggest rock he could afford, so she could pretend not to flash it at all of the important parties all season and run up the stock prices. I guess it doesn't sound that different to me, engagement, fealty."

"That's pretty common with super wealthy women," Gladio says, but he shrugs. "Noct and I are also fighters. Having a huge ass rock of any sort could get in the way."

But engagement and fealty are not the same. He has to smirk at the other man, shaking his head.

"No. A simple band. Some sort of silvery metal."

While it looked like it would be harder to convince Gladio that he deserved some adornment sometimes, too, Tony still started to suggest, "Isn't that part of the promise..." letting his hand go limp, only there to look pretty in the big ring his man had given him. That wasn't really for everyone, he did have to admit. The most admirable couples he knew were still fighting side by side, a wedding hadn't changed that. He frowned thoughtfully, though didn't have much of a chance to decide which version of a marriage he thought he'd been chasing this whole time because he was blurting, "God, that's barbaric. Silver? Do you not have a lot of silver on your planet?"

They didn't do adornment like that Tony.

"Could get caught on things, or damaged. Smooth profiles are better," he points out. Though the sudden outburst about the metal has Gladio flinching.

"What's wrong with silver? It's one of the colors shared by our houses."

"No, I mean, sure, it's fine, it's very practical. Understated. Wouldn't want to get too excited, it's really best if you blend in with the flatware," Tony graciously allowed. "Then he knows you don't want to show him off."

What? Gladio looks at Tony because, what?

"It's not flatware. Are you kidding?"

That was the point Tony was trying to make, and it wasn't clear if Gladio had actually gotten that or didn't understand what a fork was. Tony locked him in a dubious, sidelong look while reaching across the bench to pull out a coil of gold wire that he had pulled to make chips, but knew his projects weren't nearly as important. He set it between them, shimmering and resplendent in the flicker of the fire. Much more striking than any of the silver that littered the bench as tools and solder.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject