Despite his brand of broken, Volk didn't like submitting. He'd float on beds of varying threadcount like a drowned someone, bumping shore with saltwater eyes and foam beard, so the curious, painted partners of that particular night could take nibbles of him. And then, when they'd had their appetizer of sensitive, soul filled boy with their fathers stoic about their problems - only on their side - and youth's rebellion in his mood swings, he'd usually have them whatever way he wanted. Which was a little more chastising than they'd expected. Surprises make girl's mouths go wide. It makes them croak and it keeps them honest throughout. His flavor were unobtainable ladies, who already had their hearts set in place, out with their beau, sometimes - thanks mother - and those mouths were the prettiest when undone by his good work.<br/><br/>So he was still bustling like the surface of some constantly erupting star at the atmosphere Burning Bear tried to dress him in. He'd taken the dive into this fog, and it wanted him back, caressing away the history he'd become, the self he'd built. He wanted to swing his arms and tell the childhood world that he got it, that this was enough, but insistent forces won't let up just because you say you're with them. You have to prove it with abandon. He wasn't about to revert or relent. Angry young redwood planted among the pines. It shouldn't happen if only for the asymmetry of it. But here he was, hip deep in old earth and woodchips.<br/><br/>It killed the cigarette faster, and the fire climbed without its flames toward his lips that he'd let Reno kiss when she was the princess who saved him, and his back was bent over the best part of an uncomfortable rock. He'd had to push her away once, when she sucked his lower lip like she did her thumb. He'd laughed and wiped it off, but danced around that particular junction in their kingdom-games after that. Sometimes he wondered if he saw her pursue it, simply because he was avoiding it. It is scary, what weapons little girls have. Unlike a woman, they're effective, since grown-ups trade with peace and absence of offence, while children operate under the assumption, true, that you love them.<br/><br/>He didn't listen to her shoes when she came, but didn't startle either, when she announced herself. Hadn't he been begging, a bit, for her acceptance by father's lasts bed just a moment before? It would seem he'd already settled into a normalcy or expectance of her now. It was more a consequence of his reluctance of this place, than any prickling feeling he had about her. He turned his eyes at her and one of them held the star of the stick he was murdering expertly. She'd let him in, demon, and he was reacting to her new tone. An empty nod. Little girls had no business driving. As far as he was concerned, she wouldn't get her keys back until he left. Stealing silver noise from her pocket was by far the smallest thing he'd ever done to her.<br/><br/>And then she broke through her own image, growing through all the clothes he'd fitted her in for convenient archetypes, shooting out of the little girl's skin to be a tree in her own right where all the rot of his betrayals hung. She turned away, drew to mind all those days together, before mother. Reminded him she was his idyll. The only good thing at the center of their triad of neglect. Really, he should revel in her closeness, but he was raw also from what he'd done. Genuine anger blooms in all directions. Collapsing core by the rust, and a distant celestial with all the star-leg expanses of her pale hair.<br/><br/>End of their time. He'd never felt sad as she did, when mother kept to the red digits of their kitchen clock so well. It was the fault in their activity that made his stories with Miranda worth their sweat and blood-rush, but it was the right in taking care and enjoying Reno that satisfied him with her. His own mother hadn't loved him like that. It gave him currency to spend in the marital bed in a house where he didn't live, staying quiet, sometimes holding Miranda's mouth tightly, so as to not disturb their princess. It had fueled the woman's hips, too.<br/><br/>He touched the red head of his smoking roll to a broad button on his jacket. It would have looked like he was snuffing the favor against his heart, if she'd been looking. Slow steps, so she would know he was coming. There really was no other people here, in their gray cotton world, where all the surfaces had cold sweat and the grass looked sick and plastic at the same time. He wondered what it did to her, standing behind her when she wouldn't turn. Little Reno wouldn't be so patient. She hadn't been this broken, either.<br/><br/>With her back turned, she was reaching out for him. Beautiful, miniscule soul. He'd wondered about her too, but it was hard for him to see her grown up. Even now, she was his ward. It was impossible that she had lived a life by herself, here, where he didn't see to her entertainment and laughter once every day. He had the impulse, so he touched the back of her head, and tested the quality of her hair. It didn't have childhood's gleam anymore. Didn't she use her mother's conditioner?<br/><br/>"I'm here." was all he could say that was true. "Let me see you, Ren."<br/><br/>He wondered if she would. She'd dreamed of him. She greeted him with such sophisticated bile. If she hated so much, there should be enough passion to spin her heels and look at his traveled face. If she did, he would go about fussing over hers. Fingers everywhere, where her tears had made streaks on the foundation and black. How lightly can you touch a bird? "You don't need all of that, Ren." he'd mutter and sighed, looking at his smudged thumb. "You grew, didn't you." But that's not what he meant.<br/><br/>And there was the truth of it, in his crooked, apologetic smile, inflated lower lip. He had never insulted a grown woman. Children aren't entitled to their emotions because they don't have enough weight to be put to the scale yet. She couldn't possibly have seen enough things to make her emotions so valid. He was regretful that she suffered, maybe, and that hurt him, but there was not real need to consider the depth of his markings on her. By some fluke, perhaps, she'd kept Jonas alive for this long, but that didn't make her a peer. That made her a child of circumstances. The love he looked at her with, free of guilt and even a little pride, was likely the most heartfelt condescension anyone had been subjected of.<br/><br/>"I still know the way home." he bragged and brushed her shoulder to direct her around the car, to where the steering wheel wasn't.