He felt how his nearness and touch liquefied the cartilage in her joints, body possessed and exorcised with the breaths he took on her. He had hurt her before, when this wooden box wasn't dead. She'd warned him not to spin her, and then she's told him while the air was circling him just like her. You can't. So he'd had to. There is too much moss on the ground and the rocks are too sharp. But in the end he made it a matter of trust, and even the smallest Reno had an attachment to those notions. Even if brother was trustworthy, she wanted at least to be the kind of pair that didn't care about that.<br/><br/>He'd fallen with her, at least, when the swirling had taken on an erratic shift of weight, and the green, green forest had jumped around them with the faltering of his ankle. In the eternity it takes for the momentum to spin you a few more times, balance leaving just a few seconds after your wits, he managed to pull her close and cradle her head. He never admitted it to her, but he succumbed to the fall then, when he thought she was safe against his chest. Maybe it would even help, to lift his feet and curl around her. It was a precarious stretch of life that they lived together in the air. And then a complete confusion upon impact. The light between the branches became rude and glorious.<br/><br/>The soak into his socks said there was too much moss, yes, and the smarting in his side and over his back let him know that the rocks had been too sharp, also. The boy he'd been didn't mind being wrong, because he'd not faltered greatly, yet, so he meant to tell her when he sat up. She already cried against him, and wouldn't listen to his apologies. She was even madder than most other times and it seemed scary even for the older boy, when they were alone in the forest, as though she'd found something primal here to draw from, perhaps a remnant from when the world was still mystic.<br/><br/>When he touched her she slapped him, and threatened to run away if he came closer. Her face was red with determination and her mouth was a banshee by itself. He saw her fists tighten to give her lungs more purchase. Like a damned performer. It made him want to hide or put his shirt between her teeth. He even had the thought to clasp his hands around her throat. Even then, Volk couldn't bare when he couldn't control Reno, and by his own doing he'd made her hysteric. In the end he only knew one thing that could help, and dove against her, head first. He picked her up and squeezed her to him. It worked like a noon-day miracle. She had two, maybe three good jerks.<br/><br/>And then she was what he had in his arms now, when they'd lived a lifetime each apart.<br/><br/>He had felt the anguish petition for her thinking hemispheres, it felt like great sounds under water, but she didn't listen, couldn't, when he fenced her in and drew himself tight. Here's your home, Reno. Again pitiful, but he didn't know what else to do. Her anger was his doing, and so was the sadness she chased with. Her naked feet didn't kick him. She wasn't shrugging to slither out of his hold. She was hurt worse than the little girl had ever been, but she was also worse neglected.<br/><br/>So he started taking for himself, finding nooks and places on her where the sequins wouldn't cut him, and their bones would click together. It wasn't the same places as before, but they could find new grooves for new junctions. He'd needed it too, he discovered, turned out those pretty treats in neon light oasis were empty after all, and only the infinitesimal resources of family counted. Perhaps it was her task to always be the one to give. He hoped physicality would be their peace.<br/><br/>She had little room for protests or fight. She might as well have been floating there against him, shot in the chest and left to make her own fog, fallen from the bridge into the polite, clear ocean, where her reds would be fully realized in clouds and sharp-ended tentacles. He found it, perhaps her tears had washed enough of the mask away, or maybe the salted tokens themselves had her real perfume, but there it was, swimming alongside the familiar cheap tricks of human chalk and tar. His throat held on to the exhales like it hurt him, and his wide mouth watered when he ate her scent.<br/><br/>He didn't want to answer. It didn't sound like judgement, it was more like an afterthought, but he still objected to it. She was owed it, surely, but he always had a hard time paying up. He was a king in his own right now. Social prostitute, in his brothel of wide spread vices. She'd be sick from the sugar if he plunged her into the life. Made his way with elbows Miranda had sharpened for him. Made iron horses for the other kings. A bloated, beautiful glutton with an endless river of mice dancing down his tongue to knead and expand his larger-than-life ego. So many someones to-- clean his house and suck his dick.<br/><br/>But it was like eating your best meal by corpses. So much saffron and truffle, and still that rot filling your head. How long had he carried her, just like now, while managing his sordid, splendid life with his other hand? He never focused on the others, which kept his shoulders soft and his ventures successful. Only things that don't really matter can be perfect. "Happy." he repeated. It was the examination of the word and its own question at the same time.<br/><br/>The rootwork of wrinkles between one cheekbone and that side of the bridge of his nose said a wolf self was coming to lend its annoyance to the thought. He nuzzled her forehead to get her away from his chest, so he could drop his head and smell her. It made a tingling weakness behind his forehead. The corners of their mouths caught and let them make toothy grimaces as he rubbed against her, trying to infect himself with her emerging notes. He breathed exhausted against her cheek, lifting her higher, when their lips had let go. Had he held his breath since he'd gone from here? He sucked, agape, at her until her cheek was cold, air ever roiling in between his maw and her pretty. It was mad, but it was intimate, too. Burning Bear animal.<br/><br/>"It's glorious." he confessed. "I had it all for free." Because I came with nothing. "But..." he needed to give her something. So he put her down, and shoved her back, cadence like he was positioning her for something - to be hit again, or to be harshly dismissed or scrutinized, or even fucked. He came to her, where he'd pushed her against the wall, on his knees. She wasn't much of a tower over him, even with this advantage. Her brother started lifting her dress while he looked at her face, throat exposed. "It doesn't feel like this."<br/><br/>He ducked under the skirt quickly, to fit his head against her stomach. Such privacy in such violation. He pressed his cheek against her skin and circled his arms around her legs to keep her to him. He felt safe to let a pair of tears wash her. Volk sighed, finally enveloped in her real scent. "But it's all I had without you."