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When Spada’s angry, he likes to punch things. He gnashes his teeth and paces around in circles, and you can tell when he’s really angry when he fidgets with his cap and cracks his knuckles and announces that he’s going for a walk. Alone. Because he can’t stomach the idea of staying in the same place seeing the same damn faces, and god forbid one of them grips him by the shoulder and tells him to calm down.
So he’ll find a bar, any bar, any shitty hole in the wall that serves booze and will let him in, and drink. Sit and savor the whiskey fire burning its way through him and the heavy weight settling in all his limbs that makes them feel doubly, triply, present and attached to him.
And if he’s gets angry – which usually happens when he starts to fall asleep at the bar and the world turns into a mesh of the ugly now and the old Devaloka – Spada finds a fight. He finds the biggest, ugliest son-of-a-bitch and calls his mother a whore and waits for all the drunks to grow quiet and watch.
The first punch is always the best. It smashes Spada into the tables and chairs and leaves him gasping for air. The first punch is always the strongest, the one he always feels the best. Because suddenly he’s aware that he has a face, because it hurts, and a nose, because it’s broken and bleeding, and lungs, because they’re grasping to get the wind knocked out of him back in him. Every nerve is hyper-aware of its own being by aching and throbbing and when Spada wipes the blood off his face, it seems all the redder on his fingers.
And throwing his first punch is almost as great. The adrenaline coursing through him and mixing with the alcohol, not slowing him down just making his decisions stupider, makes his grin sloppier and kicks wider, makes ever hit he lands all the better. Because it makes Spada feel alive to have the pain crack through him and to see his knuckles split open and feel the teeth swill around in his mouth –
Up until he realizes he needs a weapon. He needs to use something to fight with.
And Spada grabs the first thing he sees. A chair, a knife, the whiskey bottle – he smashes it and grips it tight by the neck and swings it wildly. He grips it tight. Because Spada Belforma needs a weapon, he can’t use his fists or feet as weapons, he can’t be a weapon. He left home because the seventh son inherits nothing and just fights wars, becomes another sword in House Belforma’s collection, and Spada is human, he’s human goddamnit –
Spada usually doesn’t remember how these fights end. He wakes up aching and awful all over, but he takes that over numb any day, and slinks his torn and beaten ass back to the rest of the group. Ange teases but dresses his wounds, except without magic – as punishment for his stupidity – but the sharp, spiking sting of salves and tight bandages are fine with him.