"Fuck! Fucking dammit shitcock!" The crash of exploding pottery punctuated the string of profanity, and a corner of Lesley's mind helplessly watched the pieces of the clay jar scatter across the entire courtyard. They couldn't exactly afford for him to be breaking things like that, he couldn't rightly ask his mother to just swallow the expense of replacing it, but it wasn't like he had any income to be able to do so himself. She was already feeding him out of what hadn't been a generous budget before he moved in with her, and for all that he tried to help out, he didn't think she was actually making any more money from the little he managed to actually do. He doubted she even appreciated the help, given what else his presence entailed.

The overwhelmed, instinctive, slightly glitchy part of his mind that was currently in charge of his actions decided that that wasn't a good reason to calm down, but instead was simply a source of yet more stress. He - barely - stopped himself from kicking another pot, and instead punted a piece of firewood into the stone wall opposite. "Damn shit-tastic idiot, fuck."

"Lesley?" The petite woman who twitched the curtain aside looked far too small to have birthed the muscle-bound gladiator currently throwing a tantrum behind her shop, but the concern in her eyes was definitely maternal. "Are you - oh," she sighed heavily on seeing the mess. "What's bothering you."

"Nothing," he retorted in clear violation of all the evidence. He looked down and realized that he'd knocked over his pot of paint when he'd stood to throw away the offending pot, and just stared helplessly at it rather than bending over to pick it up. Usually painting helped him calm down, any art did, but not today it seemed. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, focusing on his breathing, trying desperately to get himself at least under control enough to figure out how to do something at least vaguely productive next. All he could see was problems and stress and anger and he knew there was straightforward solutions to at least some of it he just couldn't figure any of it out.

Riana sighed at her son. "I can clean this up, Lesley. Don't worry about that, just... what set this off?"

"I don't know." The scene he'd been putting on the jar hadn't been turning out right, but he knew there was no reason that should have set him off. "I'm going to go for a walk. Maybe go have a swim." Maybe go throw himself off the cliffs. The thought was sarcastic rather than serious, but it was born of very real frustration. He wanted to get away, his mother's worry was making him uncomfortable, but as he spoke the suggestion, he realized maybe exercise would help. It was hard to feel anything when you were exhausted, let alone sustaining this sort of anger. He stepped back and let her start dealing with cleaning his mess up, while he checked that he had his knife and a few coins and headed out.

Something about his expression made people get out of his way, and the streets weren't crowded enough for the presence of other people to get on his nerves. He was sensible enough, despite his first impulse at the first wine shop he passed, to keep walking; grief could often be drowned in wine, but its ability to mellow his anger was significantly less reliable. At the third such, though, he went in and bought a wineskin anyway. He would have rather something stronger, but unfortunately he couldn't afford it.

Lost in trying to sort out his own thoughts, and his mood only marginally improved by the date bread he'd also picked up at a street stall, he wasn't paying attention to where he was going until he looked up and found that his steps had brought him all unknowing to the gladiator's barracks behind the arcus. He shrugged and stepped inside, heading past the areas where the free fighters and trainers rented their rooms, and continued on to the inner area where the slaves lived. Contrary to some sensationalist philosophers' rantings, even here the men didn't sleep on bare stone locked in cages like animals - that was no way to keep a man in fighting trim. Still, the accommodations were hardly luxurious. And yes, all right, there were a few locked cells for those condemned prisoners expected to try to escape, but very few - most gladiators knew that most fights didn't end in death, and felt their life here was better than they'd have on the run. Exile was a criminal punishment for a reason, after all, and here you always got fed enough and plenty of women if you fought well and there was plenty of pride in yourself to be found as well.

Lesley missed it.

He stepped into his friend's small room and dropped to the floor with his back against the wall. "Fuck everything."