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Log Title: Tenth Day, Freedom!

Log setting: First Lafitte’s apartment, then Chez Walker.

Log Cast:
Trace
Jason
Ryan
Glass
Walker

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'I Knew', by Trace Anderson

Fireheart,
The day you came,
Peeled off the concrete
A weak and trembling me
Instructed
To draw what I see,
And I ran, but your hair
Came in purple waterfalls
Into my thoughts
And I knew it was true.

Fireheart,
That night you laughed
And swung from lamposts,
Flung your pickles
Rushed me
With fingers sticky sharkadelic
And fell asleep, as my pencil
Shaped the lines
Of your face, your smile
I knew it was true.

Fireheart,
The night you stole my breath
So slyly
Your gift weaving into me
Smoke tendrils
Pulling my thoughts down
Brave, untravled paths
Peeking up, shy green-gold glances
You made sixteen ever sacred,
And I knew it was true.

Fireheart,
That night alone
Beneath the bridge
Huddled safe together
Magic moment, magic you
Curled in your coat
Warm, despite the storm
The fire so bright
But your eyes brighter still
And I knew it was true.

Fireheart,
My Jason,
I knew then
As I know now
Very simple, very true:
I am yours.
I am yours.
All yours.

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Showers here rattle the plumbing and send water trickling down the stale old piping to soil the plaster from the inside out. The whole building can smell this seeping, subtly drifting down the halls and the stairwell. It calls to Trace's mind a swampy locker room, where water reeds drift alongside greyed socks and boys shake frogs off equipment mildewed towels. But thankfully, these lovely inspiring aromas don't follow Trace back into the apartment. The door creaks open as he enters, wearing just his jeans and doing the best he can to cover the rest of himself from the public eye with a towel. Not like there's much public out there, but still, he's shy, and hoping there's a fresh shirt somewhere in there. They haven't soiled ALL Walker's borrowed clothing, right? "Jason...?" he calls, running a hand through sopping braids. His skin is pinkened from vigerous scrubbing, but it's definitely an improvement.

He hasn't been... himself the past few days. Jason. He hasn't been /Jason/. Much more distracted, out of focus. Duller. Like watching one of those old home movies or something. Fortunately, you've been able to take more and more care of yourself. Or, perhaps /un/fortunately, because Jason's had more and more time to just sit and stare at nothing, silently. But then he seems to snap back for little moments, talking with you for a bit, maybe even giggling. Almost invariably, though, he eventually slips back to his quiet states. Of course, you've had a little more on your mind lately than him, and he's certainly not done anything to draw your attention. Anyhow. He's not hard to find, sitting there in the middle of the floor, facing away from the door. At first, it'd be easy to think that he's in one of those 'not on planet Earth' states again. Except this time he's got a piece of paper in his lap, unfolded. With three torn pieces of tape sticking out.

Trace pads into the room barefoot, speaking softly as he approaches. "Hey Jason, we got any clean..." But the boy trails off as his eyes fall to the paper on your lap. He swallows hard and looks away, towards the window, where the plastic has been torn down to finally let in the view of outside. "I, um. I'll find something." He moves to the laundry pile and starts picking through it absently, as his thoughts are stalled at the moment. He's wondered, earlier, if you had perhaps already read it. Confusion purses his lips gently. He'd figured you'd read it after one of the bad times, as the note directed. After all, hadn't things been going smoothly lately? Hadn't he been good this past day and a half, doing almost everything himself, and leaving Jason so little to worry about? But it doesn't matter. What matters is he's a sucky poet, and Jason read it, and it's sitting in his lap Right There, and aiiiie! He blushes helplessly and finally casts a shy glance back at you.

Actually, the laundry pile is neatly folded and everything, over in the corner. Your shirt's been nicely rinsed out and left to dry under the window. Jason. The little homemaker. He'd be right at home with the girls in home-ec. I am the muffin-man, the muffin-... But, you know, you actually have no idea of what the hell Jason's been going through. You had your hell, but Jason had one completely his own. Withdrawls, of a kind. And today, when he shut the door right behind himself and... didn't feel anything - /that/ was the Bad Time. When you glance back at him, you see what you couldn't from the doorway. Jason, hunched over the paper (he looked like he was reading it before), arms wrapped around himself like he was freezing, eyes clenched shut, tears leaving sparkling trails down his cheeks. Caught in one of those crying fits that are so deep, they don't let any sound come out.

Trace blinks a little as he takes in your expression, surprise melting into a kind of embarrassed guilty confusion at the sight. He blindly snatches up one of the shirts from the pile and cautiously creeps over to you on hands and knees. Finally depositing himself in a sitting position beside you, the bluecap wrings the black fabric of the shirt in his hands nervously, entirely at a loss for words. Finally he leans close and touches his cheek to your shoulder gently, a couple wet braids spilling down to tickle at your back.

Like he was in some silent, motionless stasis that only your touch could cure, he suddenly takes a deep, gasping breath and immediately buries his face into your soaking braids, letting out the breath in a sob. Hands grasp onto your shirt like he was drowning. "I... I couldn't..." he gasps out, but in that jointless, incoherant way that pretty much means it's not part of any coherant thought. It's just words, thrown out in some futile attempt to say what's in his brain. "Can't feel..." He shivers against you, something cold running through him head to toe. "I just want to go home," he whimpers, the little child.

"Okay," Trace whispers into your shoulder, nodding very gently. "Let's go home, Jason. Let's.. let's just go." He lifts his head slowly, nuzzling his dry cheeks to your damp one, rubbing at your nose, affectionate. "Let's not even clean all this up yet or gather our things... Jest fuck it, f'now. We'll just go. Maybe we'll worry 'bout that after we got some fresh air, spent some time expressin' to our bean bags an' the waterbed an' Walker an' Ben an' the kittens how much we missed 'em all.... Let's jest go." He slips an arm around your shoulder and clings gently, no longer bothered by sensitive skin and in fact, hungry for the close contact.

Jason shudders against you more, haggard. Some weird, inexplicable junxtoposition of situations where the comforter now needs the comfort. Or maybe it's not that weird. He nods a little at your words, but you can't exactly be sure if he's hearing them right. "S'jus' all... so far... Can't see it..." A hand falls away from your chest and gropes around on the floor. "...feel it. S'cold." He swallows hard and wipes roughly at his eyes. "Le's go..." he whispers, fingers going to the poem in his lap again.

Concern flashes in Trace's eyes, bright and bewildered. He's not sure what you're talking about now. He's eager to go home, of course. But you're quietly freaking out on him here. He gives you one final, fierce squeeze and then pulls himself up into a slow stand, snatching up a hand on the way and then tugging gently to help assist you to your feet. Once you're up, he braces both of your forearms, tiny hands wrapping around them as he looks you in the eye seriously, and tries to hold your gaze. "Love you," he says softly. "I mean, I jest... I don't even know how t'thank you, even if it was hell. I still.. don't know how." But no more sentiments and dallying, because they've been in this room for too goddamn long. The world's waiting out there. Friends and loved ones are waiting, and a sun to make their mole-eyes squint into slits as they break free of this tunnel. The right way out of the tunnel, as bidden. With a big sign at the end, Freedom, Keep Right.

Jason sniffles and bites his lip, blinking as you fix your eyes on him. Those eyes quiet him up, even as the words bring fresh tears to his eyes. "Jus'..." He takes a deep breath, turning his arms around so he can hold your forearms as well. "Le's... go, kay? I... Le's just get out of here." But he doesn't make the first move. Just stands there holding your arms, looking into those eyes you have. You're both battle-weary, weakened, but victorious.

One of Trace's hands fall away, while the other slides down your forearm to tangle fingers up with yours and hang on tight. Time to go. It's frightening, too, in a way. No longer being locked up, he'll soon have to face choices. Disconcerting as the padlock was, it meant he had no *choice* in the matter, and sometimes there is no small amount of comfort in handing over control entirely when you're in over your head. However, he's not going to worry about that now. Still holding your hand, he takes the first tentative steps towards the door. The padlock was removed back when he wanted to take his shower, but now the knob turns and he pulls the door open for the both of you. This is it. He flashes you a nervous smile and steps out into the hall.

[Travel spam snipped -- the two head home.]

Moss Street -- Bayou St. John

Trace hesitates at the door, and casts you a glance. He's not sure why he's shy about this... Will they be upset that they left without saying why, or giving warning? Does Walker miss his shirts? Should they walk on in like usual..? Because he has the strangest urge to knock first, like he's been away too long and his walk-in-to-chez-Walker pass has expired. So his glance to you seeks courage.

Jason calmed down on the slow walk here, though the folded up poem is in his hand and it's not likely that it'll be given up anytime soon. Like, during this lifetime. But at the door, he gives you pretty much the same look. He's not feeling like the same person who left. And you're definitely not the same person who left. He takes a deep breath, squeezing your hand in his, and then turns and reaches for the doorknob. He pushes the door open and steps inside, bringing you with him.

The boards of the strong weathered stoop creak as you quit the shelter and step inside.

[Meanwhile, within chez Walker...]

Ryan arches an eyebrow a little quizzically at that and then shrugs again, "It's what ya do, well what I do anyway. If I don't graduate from school I won't get to go to college an' if I don't go to college it'll be harder to get into a pro team. So it's a means to an ends I s'pose... But then the same could be said about you to? You don't look exactly happy with life right now."

Glass is sitting on the couch with Ryan, smoking a joint and looking impassive, if a touch red-eyed. "I'm okay. Just moody, I guess. Things are working good for me." Doug tilts his head a little at Ryan and chuckles. "You want to be a pro football player?" The idea makes him smile, faintly because he's feeling down, and wryly, well. Because of the topic at hand. "That's kind of a weird goal. Why?"

Ryan laughs at the question and seems surprised by it, "Why? Umm... Gee I dunno I've always wanted to do it. First time I ever played I got hooked and I've been playin' ever since, it's the one thing that I am truely good at," he grins, "And it's good for the ego when ya do well. The crowd cheerin', women screamin' at ya and then jumpin' all over ya afterwards... It's a rush, and a free one at that. Plus they pay you shitloads of money in the process. It beats workin' for a livin'."

Glass shrugs at Ryan and drags on the joint again. He bugs his eyes out a little and tries to bite back laughter. Despite the effort he looses his hit and he grins at Ryan, "Fuck, you'd get paid for it." He squirms a little on the couch. "Shit, I want some of that orange juice now." Another hit on the joint. He doesn't bother to hold it in long this time, "Sure you don't want some of this? I'm gonna put it out if you don't."

Ryan shakes his head, "Nah if I want more I got plenty, you can put it out if ya like." He settles back in his seat and takes it easy, "So yeah I guess I'll have to start crammin' for exams sooner or later. The football season end at the end of the month too so if we win that and I do OK with the grades I should be a shoe in to cruise through and then I'll be on easy street and happy. I'm kinda lazy at heart."

The door creeks open very softly as the two boys slip into the house. It's not at all a grand entrance; rather meek, in fact, as Trace peers on down the hall shyly and glances to Jason for reassurance. His fingers are tangled up in the redhead's, and slowly the two encourage each other forward. A blue mop of braids and two curious eyes peek around the corner, looking into the living room, to see who's home. He really does seem nervous, but the ultimate result is almost comical, sneaking into their own home like a pair of little amature prowlers.

"Exams bother you any?" asks Doug, seeming to still be amused at the thought of the future professional footballer Ryan. The sound of the door makes him look up and glance over at the two coming in. Some spark of black emotion flickers through his eyes, some unpleasantness that is gone too fast to be identified as anger or sorrow or something else. The starry darkness of Doug's eyes takes on a more pleased expression an instant later, and he smiles at the doorway, welcoming. And there his attention stays. He doesn't say anything, but the smile and his gaze may be enough.

Ryan grins and shakes his head, "Nah not really, nothin' really bothers me much any more. I kinda just take everythin' head on an' see what happens. One day no doubt I'll get squashed like a bug but until then I intend on havin' a fuckin' good time. Life's to short to piss up against the wall." His eyes follow Glass's gaze over to the door and the latest arrivals, "Howdy," he says to the pair and gives them a wave, "Where have you two been hidin'?"

And the mass of red hair appears just below the blue, green eyes peering around the corner into the living room as well. Jason's clearly in one of his rare states of extreme awkwardness, seeming rather unsure about everything here. Unsure and vague, like he's not exactly all there at the moment. Tired. Yet, while both the boys don't seem like their usual selves, like they've been through some ordeal, it appears they've emerged victorious. A pair of returning soldiers. "Um, hey," he offers softly with a tiny, tentative smile. Can we come in?

Glass holds up the joint in his hand and wiggles it. "Hey, guys," he returns, voice softer than he intended, and not as cheery. He seems about to say more but the way his voice betrayed him a moment before is unsettling, and he stays silent instead. Easier that way. Shaking off the awkwardness he smiles fondly at Trace and wiggles the joint some more. Come in? Why certainly! Doug will be a good host, even if it he

Ryan chuckles and peers across the intervening distance between him and Glass and Trace and Jason, "Hey hey hey hey," he waves hand, "Come on in and pull up a seat. We're just sittin' an' yackin', the more the merrier." His eyes linger on Trace, "I was lookin' out for ya at Ali's party but ya never showed up, you find somethin' different to do?"

"Yeah," Trace nods a little, very shyly, as he breaks awa y from the totem pole he was making with Jason and steps into the living room somewhat skittishly. "I jest, I had... this thing I had to do." He jams his hands down into his pockets and looks as though he's about to just stand there, but it sinks in belatedly that he was invited to sit down, and so heads for the couch and takes a tentative perch there. "Kin' I have some of that?" he asks softly, looking between Ryan and Doug. Already has the feeling this whole ordeal is going to turn him into such a pothead.

Ryan grins and shrugs again as he reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out another tin, "Hey could I ever say no to you?" Unscrewing the top he pulls out a few greasy, smelly green buds, "Hold out ya hand and catch... I don't think I got any papers left but, you'll have to dig up a pipe from somewhere, or a Coke can at the very least."

Very likely it will. Case in point: Doug. The young man is quite a pothead, perhaps moreso than his friends realize. He's not stingy, at least, but hands the half-a-joint to Trace, murmuring, "Sure, ami. I'm glad to see you. How you doing?"

Jason pulls away from the doorway as well, but only slips in a little ways, hands also being shoved into pockets. He looks between Ryan and Glass as well, even though their attentions are on Trace. He shifts his jaw back and forth a couple of times, then looks back over his shoulder, towards the stairs. Wonder if Ben and/or Walker are home. Or maybe the kittens. Hey, even Godiva'd do at this point.

Trace peers between Doug and Ryan, as both shove weed at him. Ahh... hmm. "I.. don't got a pipe," he mumbles to Ryan with slight embarrassment. Batiste's the one with the pipe. But... yeah. Don't go there. "I, um." He takes the half joint from Glass, takes a pull, hands the thing back with a close-lipped grateful smile. Once he's blown out his hit he calls, "Jason, you know where Walker might keep a pipe or a bong..? Coz Ryan's just holdin' this stuff, here..." The football player gets a little grin, but Trace is distracted by a quick flash of white. He sits up a little and peers towards where it disappeared under the chair. "Dove..?" He slips off the couch and drops down to press his cheek to the carpet and peek at her. "Hey!"

Ryan peers over at Jason as he keeps his hand held out to Trace, those yummy green buds just waiting to be stuck in a pipe and sucked into nice, relieving smoke, "What you doin' over there Jase? You can come over to, we ain't gonna bite ya or nothin'. Come and relax and take a load off, it'll make ya feel better."

Glass gets the joint back. Hm, okay, at least it's something to do. He hits on it again for good measure, then holds it up and wiggles it at Jason. Here you go. Doug's expression is sort of dry, as if Jason doesn't hold much esteem in his opinion. But it might just be a look he gets when holding in a deep tasty hit of marijuana smoke. Hard to say. He murmurs and releases his hit to say to Jason, "Here, want some? Have a seat." His voice is soft and pleasant, the tone unreadable. He punctuates the words with a faint smoke ring.

Jason ehs a little at Trace's inquiry, blinking back from his futile search for Godiva (why was he looking for her again?). "Um... the bong? Er, yeah. S'just..." He waves his hand towards the stairs, then remembers that he was supposed to go /get/ it. Or, rather, that was the implied suggestion that he got out of it. He takes a step towards the doorway, then pauses again, looking at Ryan for a long moment with an 'oooookay' expression. "Ummm," he contemplates for a long moment, but Doug's offer seals it. "Jus' gonna get the bong, I know right where it is." He gives Glass a weird look, then turns and trots down the hall. His light footsteps can be heard going up the stairs.

Ryan calls out, "Watch it, the married couple are up there doin' married couple things. I'd be careful."

"I bet it's right behind Walker's chair," says Doug mildly from his place on the couch. Heh. He's still got the joint. Well, it's just not right that it's proving hard to get rid of this thing, so he applies the hand-space-rental tax to it and takes another hit before offering it again to Trace. He smiles at his blue-haired friend and stifles giggles, his nose leaking smoke. After a moment he can't help it and blurts smokily, "I'm glad to see you!" Did I mention that before?

Trace gropes under the chair until he's got a white fluffy bundle of pure squirm in his hands. He settles himself back down on the couch and leans down to nuzzle his nose into her soft fur, murmuring very softly, though perhaps loud enough to carry to a couchmate if they really want ammo for ridicule, "Who's a fuzzy pretty Dove..? Missed you, y'lil' fluffa kitty..." But when the joint is waved his way again, he grins sheepishly and sits up. "Good t'see ya too, Doug. Really..." He frees a hand to take another hit. This time it's held out to Ryan, even though he's got weed in his hand at the moment. Unlit it does the kid no good.

Ryan gets to his feet and lays the stuff on the seat he was just occupying, "No thanks Trace," he replies, "I'm stoned enough already. I been smokin' the stuff all night." He smiles at the others and sticks his hands in his pockets, "Well I have to get goin' unfortunately but it was good to catch up with ya's all. You guys have got my number right? If you need anythin' just gimme a call, or if ya just wanna hang out gimme a call then too."

Trace looks around. DO we have his number? But he smiles up at Ryan and bobs his head amiably, "Yeah... yeah, I think we got it. An' we will, Ryan. You take care, man."

Glass looks over at Ryan with mild suprise. "Oh. Thanks for the smoke. I'll see you, okay?" Then he turns his attention back to Trace, his eyes so much warmer as they look over the blue-haired boy. They get a little sad after a moment, and the smile fades to a softer one. "Glad to hear it," he murmurs. "You okay and everything?"

And those light footsteps don't take long in coming back down. Jason comes trotting past the doorway and pauses, eyes focused somewhere towards the front door. He looks rather pale, actually, like he's about to lose his lunch. If he HAD a lunch. "They said it's down here somewhere," he murmurs distractedly, presumably to those seeking the bong. Eyes turn to find the kitten-distracted Trace. "'M gonna get some air. Too dark." And then he disappears again. Apparently completely oblivious to the fact that Ryan had just left before him.

"I'm.... better'n I was at the beginnin' a the week, anyway," Trace allows with a weak grin. He seems about to say more, but it's bitten off as Jason tries to make his getaway. "Hey, wait..!" he calls, and as Dove's swept up too suddenly when the boy stands, the little kitten offers a displeased teensy kitten snarl, entirely too cute-sounding for her liking. She'll have to work on her mighty roars. Trace gets up and stands at the end of the hallway, but upon looking at Jason's retreating figure, he suddenly grows awkward and less sure of his chase. But he says plaintivly, "Where... you going? I mean." He glances around, cheeks flushed. He feels so weak. "Are you gonna... come back? I don't..." He bites his lip and looks down at Dove, mumbling towards her, "Don' leave me alone tonight. Not the first night. Please." Dove peers up at him. Um... Sure thing, blue guy. You can count on me.

Glass nods at Trace's admission, understanding. Then the bluecap stands and is hurrying after Jason, leaving Doug rather at a loss. He frowns to himself and stays where he is, watching Trace with an unhappy look, like he too would prefer to leave now. But he stays put and waits.

There's the *cli-klatch* of the door and it's halfway open when Trace appears behind Jason in the hallway. The redhead pauses and looks back to the bluecap, swallowing hard as if attempting to keep something down. "Jus'... gonna... sit here," he says soft and haltingly. "Get some air..." And he sure looks like he needs it. Faded, unfocused. But then he swallows again at Trace's plea, though this time it's more like he's trying to gather up his strength. "Not... gonna go nowhere. Jus' gonna..." He blinks a couple of times, and then suddenly gets that 'about to lose it on the carpet' face going on right before he spins and darts out the door, storm-door banging loudly behind him. Probably can't hear it in the living room, but Trace there in the hall can most likely make out the soft sounds of what Walker's bushes are being subjected to. Y'know, he never used to get stage-fright this bad...

Trace starts as the door slams, and blinks at it a few times. But... No one likes an audience for moments such as these. He grimaces with sympathy and turns, cuddling at Dove again as he makes his way towards the couch once more. Settling himself down, he releases his hold on Dove and is just faintly pleased when, rather than flee, she decides to circle and stake out a comfortable portion of his lap. The smile touches his lips only briefly, however, and he glances towards the door before murmuring softly to Glass, "Jason's bein' sick..." He looks down. "Guess I gave him hell, y'know? Were you rough on Shay...?" He shifts on the cushions anxiously.

Glass nods slowly. "Yeah," he murmurs, "I guess so. I was pretty nasty, and I made a lot of a mess. She had to clean up." He shrugs a little. "It wasn't so bad. I mean, she did okay, she got through it and wasn't all weird with me later or anything." Dark eyes drift over Trace's face, then down to the kitten. "I think it was worse after. I was. Well, I was just a total asshole for a couple of months. To everybody, Shay included. I dunno. It's hard to explain." He sighs a little, and tries. "It's like I. Well, I was pissed off at everybody for wanting me to be clean, right? I was like, the world sucks, everything's ugly, why does everybody want me to suffer?" A little shrug. "I still get that way sometimes." He pauses for a beat. "But I think. I think it'll be easier for you. You got friends, and your art."

So, yeah, Jason's having a moment outside or something. If anyone bothers to look out the living room window, he can be seen sitting on the steps with his head between his knees, hands holding his hair back. While he's not puking anymore (hopefully), he certainly does look thoroughly miserable.

Trace's eyes widen a little as Glass speaks, and by the end he's nodding, very gently, but insistantly. The head-bobbing stops and drops his eyes down to his knees. "I." He sucks in his lip to chew on, but immediately releases it. "I know what you mean. I mean, I ain't been out long 'nuff to know 'bout after, but I 'member bein' in there an' sometimes..." His voice lowers, made quiet with shame. "I hated him sometimes. I was jest' thinkin' these horrible things, why's he tryin' t'kill me, how can he love me and still put me through this..." He shakes his head. "I don't know." Slender arms curl around his chest protectively, and he lifts his eyes to the gargoyles across the room. Dove gets bored and hops off his lap, but he doesn't seem to notice. "I kinda. Feel different. Not like... I mean, I jest..." A pause as he gathers his thoughts. "Stripped down an' scared of everything." He purses his lips, brooding, and decides, "Guess it'll pass." A glance towards the hallway. "Jason's been out there a long time." He hasn't, really, but this boy's paranoid.

Glass tilts his head a little, "Is this your first time? I mean. Well, I'd kicked before and knew what to expect, and so did she. I didn't." He breaks off and shakes his head, not meaning to lie to his friend and uncovering the lie to himself in the process of trying not to. "Yeah. Well, I guess I did that too, sometimes. But I had plenty of valium and pot. So it wasn't. Wasn't so bad. I was real sick and had the screaming meemies, but you know." Doug sighs softly, and distracts himself from the memory by reaching into his coat for his cigarette pack and lighting one up. "I knew what to expect," he says. Dark eyes flicker over towards the hallway, following Trace's glance. "Not that long," he says softly. "I guess I should go soon."

Glass goes on, murmuring, "Yeah, I was scared. And, uh. Naked like that, stripped is right. I didn't know what to do. I mean, it was my reason for living before. Everything I did I did with one thing in mind. It's real easy to live like that, you always know what to do, right?" He drags on the cigarette and blows a gentle stream of smoke. "I didn't really do anything but shoot up and whatever would get more junk. When I stopped needing to get more I didn't know what to do. I'm like that still, too. Sometimes I just don't get out of bed."

The lightest of footsteps sounds on the stairs, easily missed. In moments a lick of shadow wanders into the light from the living room to lend contrast by way of highlighting snowy skin. Walker, bare of make up and decked out in a robe slip-slide trudges on socked feet, slender hands jammed into the pockets. A veiled peep is thrown into the sitting room taking a quick check of who's there.

The front door is halfway open, with the stormdoor closed. Only Trace and Glass are visible in the sitting room (Dove too), both on the couch. Jason's on the porch steps, head between his knees. The prodigal pair have returned.

"I... didn't know what to expect," Trace says very softly. "I mean, I'd never... tried to kick before. Not really. This is the first time I been clean more'n two days in, like, god, forever. Over two years." And to sixteen year olds, two years is forever. Two years ago, he'd just turned fourteen. The shift in maturity is drastic. As Glass goes on, his eyes widen once again. Jesus. He fidgets uncomfortably and glances down, finally realizing Dove has snuck off. "I... I got other stuff t'do," he asserts uncertainly. "I kin... draw." That's the answer. He has a healthy hobbie, yeah. "And friends." He nods a little to himself. "But I guess it'll be weird, though... I mean. Not going to score ever. I mean. Sometimes it was like a reward, after a long day drawin' for tourists, an' I had people there who weren't, y'know, friends, but they were people I talked to. Who tole' me shit what was goin' on in N'orlins and stuff. And I guess... there's lots of people I can't see no more. Not for a long time, anyway. Coz I don't feel very... strong." He licks his lips. "I don't even trust me with any money." He frowns a little. Gee, this sucks. Sobriety Sucks 101. Thanks, professor Stevens.

A short stint with espionage leaves the pair in the sitting room undisturbed; vice-killing talk. Walker's certainly not one to pitch into -that- conversation. His drawer's been in as much use as it ever has these past couple of weeks which is odd considering it's only been him and Ben here regularly for a while. More sliding trudges carry him toward the kitchen with a peep out to Jason. Brr. Chilly out. "Hey..." Softly called through the screen. Doesn't move to close position further than where he is though. Sort of like fishing. Judging from Jason's posture he could either allow company or spaz on it and it's not the night for gambles for our resident beauty-queen-gone-anorexic.

Walker’s Desc:
Tall and slender, graceful as a swan with skin just as porcelain pale. 5'8, beauty's willowy height blends with subtle lines and the gentlest of curves. A fall of thick blue-black hair cascades over slender shoulders brushing the hips in glossy length, swaying gently with every step. A face delicately chiselled yet strong of jaw owns full cupid's bow lips pale as winterblush. Hollowed, intense cat's eyes of jade are shadowed by thick charcoal lashes to paint an exotic portrait of sultry beauty made fragile through loss of weight.

The sleek, willowy form is swaddled in a soft robe of rich black, a few shades darker than the inky fall of hair. Slender, pale hands are a snowy contrast to the ebon fabric, gemstone eyes truly the only striking color about him. Smooth, shapely legs bare of hair are milky white compared to the dark material of the robe; far too feminine for a man. A pair of plain white socks keep chill at bay. No shoes whilst in comfort m ode.

Two unornamented gold hoops grace the ears, flanked with three studs on a side. A lone leather thong necklace supports the weight of a leather pouch - the only necklace worn. Two steel barbells poke through one fine brow, a silver stud on the left side of the petite nose as matched by a labret stud beneath the curve of lip.

A band of scalloped white gold is the only ring worn, positioned on the left ring finger.

Glass nods to Trace and smiles, a little weakly. "Yeah," he murmurs, "I didn't see a lot of people for months. But it doesn't matter. The truth is, it doesn't matter if you don't know where your connection is, it doesn't matter if you don't have any money. If you're gonna fuck up you'll just do it, doesn't matter." He shrugs. "But don't take me wrong and lead yourself into temptation, huh?" The smile gets brighter, fondly teasing, but it fades fast and he regards the bluecap quietly, dark eyes gentle anddeep. "It gets easier," he assures. "It seems like it doesn't 'cause it takes forever but it gets easier. I don't. I don't even want it any more. Not for real. Last time I did it I felt like such a shit after that it just wasn't worth it. It isn't any fun anymore."

'Hey.' That single word doesn't seem to get through to Jason, considering his complete lack of reaction to the word when it's spoken. He's in his own little world or something. Then, as one would have given up on his hearing of the hail, he shifts. Suddenly wide green eyes, obscured by tangled red hair and set in a face far too pale even for an Irish lad, flash back over a shoulder to the robed shape in the hallway. 'Hey?' they seem to ask. 'How can you say /hey/ to me?' Wide, wounded, shimmery with tears, it's almost as if Walker personally did something to hurt him. But even before a questioning look can be returned, the emerald eyes are hidden again, red-haired mass hung between the knees.

"I still want it," Trace says, his tone hushed to a near whisper. "I... I don't when I think about everything, and remind myself about everybody who-who'd be disappointed, and how much it sucks to be sick, and to depend on something to be, like.... yourself..." He closes his eyes and sighs, keeping them shut a moment, but finally opens them. "So I guess that means... I don't want it. But I mean, I think I just ain't so used to being clean yet, because before I remind myself of all that stuff, I really do. Coz it'd, like. Be really fucking amazing after all this time clean, y'know?" He looks up at you, to see if you do actually know, but immediately drops his gaze again for fear of betraying lust in his eyes. And god, how sad that ten days is 'all that time'. But it is. It was like an eternity. Ten eternities. "But it'll get easier," he assures himself weakly. "Like you said."

Shadowed jade absorbs the folded figure out on the porch, China-doll mask of a face unflexing in gentle-neutral as he reads the expression. At once repelled and -com-pelled by the look shot him from under firey locks he continues to hover there in front of the door for several beats before moving to join the youth. Well. For as long as he's allowed, anyway. No telling. And burned on overload from frenetic, frantic days-n-nights he simply doesn't have the energy to spar mentally with anyone. But he does have the oomph to see if maybe there's a chance he can make someone's time a smidge better. Just a little?

Amazing after all this time clean. Doug smiles at that and nods. "Yeah. It would be. And remember that if you do screw up, ami. You could kill yourself easy if you forget and start to serve yourself up something that would take care of your old habit." He sighs, thinking about it. "And I know what you mean. If I didn't know how I'd feel once I stopped nodding, how everybody'd feel about me, I guess I'd be back on it. I." Doug furrows his brow a little. "Well. I guess not, I was. Thinking about that the other day. And I think if. Shit, say if I got deported and couldn't get back, and didn't know anybody or love anybody. I'd still try. To stay clean. Just. Just because. I don't know. I just don't want to be like that again."

"I wouldn't," Trace admits candidly with a shrug. "I didn't mind it at all, when it was jest myself. If nobody cares, neither did I. It wasn't 'til I met this family here that I ever once considered it, really. I mean..." he looks up at you, and his hazel eyes seem darker from the larger than usual pupils. "If you have a magic potion that..." his face pinches a little. "That warms up everything cold in you, and smooths away everything sharp, an' fills up everything lonely... It's not somethin' you wanna let go of." He sighs softly. "Not me, anyway." Though he feels less shame in this, it's still not easy to put to words and admit so frankly. "Cept now it's different, coz I'm hurtin' people I love with it. An... An' now I want their respect, an' I been thinkin' bout what I'd do for my future. Ain' gonna be no junkie dad to my kids." He smiles hesitantly at first, but it quirks into something warmer. "Coz I'm havin' em, you bet I am."

Glass bites his lip. "Yeah. I didn't wanna give it up either. But. It doesn't really make you warm, or take away the sharp and lonely. Not really. It just makes it so you don't care for a while. That's what they made it for in the first place, so dying people wouldn't care and would stop screaming. It never made anybody better." Another drag on his cigarette, another breath of smoke. "And it took me a real long time before I felt this way. I don't know how it happened. Even a few months ago, maybe, I might have been back on it like anything. Like, if Shay kicked me out. I was so afraid of that, for a long time. But I guess part of me wanted it, too. Because then I'd go back to the skag and it would be easy." He sighs. "But it's not easy because it's good, it's just simple." Weariness fades from his face and he returns your smile, "That's lucky. I bet I don't get any. You'll be a good Dad."

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