Chaos.

That was the single word that had sprung to mind for many, when Michael Townley and Trevor Phillips announced that they were having children. It wasn't entirely unsurprising, considering the fact that they were both pretty chaotic personalities. Two distinct men that should have – and very much did – clashed at every given opportunity, all cool and calm dramatics against downright anarchy. Despite this, the two of them made a good pair, and marriage had felt... good. More than good. Amazing. It had been the perfect conclusion to a romance forged through blood and fire and chaos, and when their children had come into the world? Michael had been more than a little emotional, holding them each close as he had whispered soft names, inspired by thievery but far more gentle then they had ever been uttered before. Butch, Midas, Clyde, and Franklin. They were his wonderful little children, the ones he had brought into the world with his husband. It was difficult to think of anything that could bring him any more joy in the world.

Overall, the thief liked to think that he and Trevor had been doing fairly well as parents, thus far. Things weren't perfect, but no family really was, and Michael had taken to a parental role far more quickly than he or anybody else had expected. He made sure they ate, slept, interacted with others, and stayed safe, or as safe as he could keep him. And sure, perhaps he and Trev weren't the best influences, considering they still stole and played gambling games that the kids picked up on, but at least they weren't throwing themselves into danger. That was more than could be said for some of the younger people within The Typhoon. Either way, the dealer did prefer to let them have some level of freedom. He wanted them to be safe, but he also didn't want them to feel suffocated, either. Which is why he hadn't immediately followed Butch when he heard the other stumbling and bolting from their home. He wasn't sure why the boy always insisted on making a great escape of leaving the house, but he supposed the dramatics had probably been inherited from himself.

Several minutes after Butch had headed out, Michael slowly got up to his feet, arms stretching straight up over his head, until he heard a faint pop in his back. After allowing that to settle, the raven-haired male checked the rest of the house for kids or husbands before he headed out, carefully closing the door to their home behind him. It wasn't hard to figure out where Butch was going, but the fugitive still took his time, strolling at a leisurely pace over to where the jungle met the sand. The familiar sound of carving met his ears quickly, causing him to chuckle as he remembered his own youth. Days spent moving from camp to camp, sometimes on his own and sometimes with Trevor. Occasionally, the only thing he had to do was carve into the trees, his only company. Clearing his throat as he grew close, Michael's hands lingered in his pockets as he faced his son, a small smile on his face, "Hey, Butch. What're you carving in the tree? I hope it's not one of the old clichés." The dealer's gaze then lingered temporarily on the nicks on his son's hands, not saying anything for the moment. He could be overbearing later.