lay it all out, c

Apologies—in the redhead's mind—had always been a phrase set for weak-minded individuals, weaklings; they were for those who were in the wrong, those who have made mistakes. People who were in right never had to utter the awful five-letter word of "sorry" for they were correct in every sense of the word, and this was a category Reno was utterly sure he fell in. It wasn't his fault people were stupidly annoying 101% of the time, it wasn't his fault when people couldn't do things reasonably right, and it wasn't his fault when anger trembled down to his fists and burned at his throat. People were his trigger, and he was the gun, safety off, and already set to puncture holes through every pointed target. He was always right. That was a fact.

But it also took a bigger man to admit a fault than one who refused to accept that they might have been the root of a problem, for there was no harder task than to swallow pride and actually declare an apology—and this was fact, too, to a stubborn boy who had more pride than a king among lions.

He, however, had nothing to admit to, expression sour as mismatched orbs glared ahead, teeth gritting against the chill temperature as legs stomped behind a guiding Killian; what wrong had he done? Mind reeled to the past, flashing at points that only strengthened his role as the victim, not the aggressor; he had his shirt ruined, he had his picture taken without permission, so it was only right for him to return the unwelcome gestures, wasn't it? Of course it was. If people did shit, they get (s)hit. Or so Reno attempted to convince himself in the days that trudged after the incident with Luke, head rattled by inner arguments that constantly tormented his conscience.

People, in general, were surprisingly smart not to question his highly agitated (more so than normal) behavior and steered away from the human bomb, and others were frankly dumb—perhaps curious or truly, genuinely well-meaning—to ask if there were any burdens the Roslin would like to share and release, but their inquisitive probings, no matter how kindly intentioned they were, would only be returned with a "none of your fucking business!" accompanied by an attached signature scowl. Yet, what planted such a foul mood wasn't what had happened with Luke, but the persistent feeling of—ugh—guilt. Guilt, because that was a signal, an undeniable clue, that he had done something he shouldn't have, and that was: breaking what seemed to be an extension of his friend, a camera. And a camera to Luke was like a guitar to Reno: invaluable.

Every dollar and cent he had raked in was carefully pocketed into his savings; no spending money on that album he had looked forward to buying upon release, no buying lunch during breaks at work, and any available hours he could obtain at a nearby grocery store was immediately fitted into his schedule with the aim of replacing what he had destroyed. It was the only way he knew how to apologize, the closest he was willing to apologize without ever having to say the words for it.

So why the hell did he even agree to the Callahan's invitation for a cold treat? He didn't. Not initially, at least, but if agreeing served the purpose of shutting the blonde's mouth from spewing a rapid-fire of please please pleases, then whatever. He'd just have to make sure the other suffered from brain freeze for wasting his time. Before his lips peeled open to impatiently demand as to how far the ice cream parlor was, the musician halted upon hearing a name being called out by the blonde. Luke. Did he hear right? Luke. Shit.

His eye twitched, falling onto a distant figure who indeed appeared to be the aforementioned lad, "You... ha, you stupid shit, Killian," he growled, capsules narrowing as they snapped onto the Callahan, "Should've known you were up to something completely retarded when you said you wanted ice cream... in the middle of fucking winter!" Bastard must have been so proud. Did he think he was some kind of a genius? Did he think rainbows and flowers and shit would come rocketing out of his and Luke's asses upon seeing each other, like it'd be some slow motion scene in a corny movie where they'd hug things out and everything would be alright? What world was he living in? Fucker.

"To hell with this," Turning on his heels with a fed up motion of his arm, Reno proceeded to walk away.