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Log Title: To Kick or Not to Kick
Log setting: Chez Walker, after midnight
Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Trace
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There's a limited amount of silence that one can maintain when trying to sneak into Chez Walker. Batiste manages that - maybe he even pushes the envelope a little - but it's still far from silent. The porch creaks. The door squeaks. And his boots aren't the best for silent steps, neither. Still, his entrance is relatively silent, and once the door is safely closed behind him, a slow, soft, deep sigh can be heard. Hair rustle-rustles as he steps forward, and can be seen - he's standing there, rubbing at the nape of his neck, clove held and smouldering by his side. He glances around, checking for anyone awake - he spots you, and straightens a little, smiling faintly around his clove as he drags on it. "Hey," he murmurs, smoke leaking from his mouth.
Trace had been sleepy, but not so much that he could fail to notice your attempt at a silent entrance. The scent of the clove heralds your coming as well, and by the time you call out to him, he'd already been looking up at you, smile shifting to take you in. "Hello, Bat," he greets softly, and is quiet a moment, looking at you. "Come sit," he finally invites, patting the cushion next to him. "I been waiting for you. You been out a long time t'night."
"Mmn? Oh, yeah," Batiste murmurs. Distracted, maybe. He drags on his clove again, blows the smoke at the floor, then spends a moment to unlace his boots before padding into the living room. "It's late," he agrees, sinking down next to you, draping his clove-free hand 'round your shoulders and leaning comfortably in. "What're you reading?" he wonders, tipping shiny-bright eyes from your face down to your book. A second later he's undraped his arm, and leaned forward to take the final drag off his clove and grind it out in the nearest ashtray.
The bluecap smiles fondly as you lean in close, and after your clove is stamped out, he reclaims your arm, tugging it back around him insistantly. That's where it's supposed to be, after all, when he's sharing the couch with you. "This is a poem; it's called Kubla Khan," Trace explains quietly. The lights are rather dim, despite the fact that he was attempting to read, and all the others are sleeping. The entire house is respectfully quiet, and it keeps his voice soft. "The guy came up with it on an opium nod... Woke up an' wrote like crazy, but it was never finished coz' some guy walked in on him and blabbed for an hour, an' when he got back to his poem he couldn't remember his vision clear 'nuff t'finish it. Kinda sad, really." His eyes scan the printed words sprawling down the page. "It's so beautiful, the world he saw."
"Yeah?" Batiste's dark eyebrows shoot up a little as he gives the poem another look-see, lips moving with a couple of the words. He picks up the cadence and reads a stanza before looking back to you. "Bet it was Jehovah's Witnesses that were at his door or something, huh?" He chuckles to himself, amused, then settles back against you, head tipped against the back of the couch. He stares up at the ceiling, counting stipple-spots, for several minutes. Finally, he glances towards you, shaking hair out of his face and wondering, "You were waiting for me? What's up?" A brief smile, lazy-fond.
Trace gently closes the book as you look up and takes the few minutes of silence to set it down and then nestle up close to you, one arm slipping around your stomach and squeezing gently. "Yeah," he admits softly. "Yeah, we got stuff t'talk 'bout." He sighs softly and doesn't explain right away, nuzzling his cheek against your chest with sleepy affection. His words are reluctant, because this is so nice. You seem so relaxed and languid right now. But he's got to explain sometime, and now here he is alone with you, so... "One of Jason's old loves was a junkie," he murmurs quietly. "Did you know that? He told me just a little... About holdin' someone as they were sick, an... an' watchin' them fade. It was really sad. His eyes were all shiny an' liquid green as he tole' me..."
Silence. Batiste listens, and a mild frown slowly creeps onto his face. Tension winds itself up subtly through his shoulders and arms - he shifts a little, sighs, and gives a distant shrug to shunt some of it away. "Nah," he murmurs, putting his head back against the backrest, eyes on the ceiling. "Didn't know that. He..." Pause. Consideration. "Doesn't talk to me about stuff like that." He clicks his tonguebar against his teeth a couple of times, thinking to himself. "Yeah?" he murmurs. "His eyes get like that, sometimes. So what'd he say?"
"He usually doesn't admit stuff like that t'me either," Trace points out softly, and then his own sigh joins yours as he clings close again, burying his face against your shirt. Hiding a moment. Okay. Gonna say this. It shouldn't be so hard. He lifts his head a little to peek up and say with very quiet desperation, "Don't you see, though? I-I can't do that to him, make him watch *me* fade. It isn't fair and he was so sad, and he, he talked like I was almost half gone already, and..." He closes his mouth with effort to put a stop to the timid rush of words and finally just swallows hard and blurts, "I'm gonna give it up for him. Real soon." Then he's hiding against your shirt again. Muffled words mumbled into your chest. "More an' more I think the mural not gettin' done is my fault, coz'a that. An' Jason accused me of that too. So -- so enough. Afta yer party, I'm done with it." His clinging grows unconsciously fiercer. Brave words delivered in such a tiny, uncertain voice.
Jean-Batiste counters your first point with another distant shrug and a noncommital, "Okay." Not going to argue the point - there's been too much arguing lately. He wraps his arms around you as you cling closer, petting frazzled blue braids with the gentle, soothing stroke of long practice. His mouth tightens for a moment as he looks down at you. "Said it was -your- fault?" He opens his mouth to say more, then just sighs instead, and tips his head to the side, resting his temple against your braids. More listening, and a soft, "Mmn." Give it up. Just like that. "Okay," he replies, rubbing his cheek against your braids. "We'll get everything together that we need and do it in the apartment, like we said? Did you talk to Glass, about getting some Valium or that other stuff for you?" He keeps his arms 'round you tightly, as he mentally checks off the things that need to be done.
"Yeah, I talked to him a little," Trace admits, and then shuts his eyes tight. Really doesn't want to think closely on preparing puke buckets and sponge baths and all the specifics of being sick right now. Later they can deal with that. "I know it's kinda... not fair to you," he says softly. "I had no right to push up the kick date like that for the both of us. So, I mean. Yer fine Batiste. Yer so cool about things. If you don't wanna deal with any of this, I understand, coz you hadda go through this bullshit last year f'ya birthday, and I didn't mean for that t'happen again. I really didn't." He peeks up at you, hazel eyes full of question.
Jean-Batiste starts nodding a little, the words of comfort coming all but automatically...then he pauses. Halts. A little chill of realization tweaks the base of his spine. The kick date for -both- of them? Excuses, reasons, explanations - they all start spinning through his head, some of them justifiable in his own mind, some panicky-outlandish. Then, a bright, shining reason comes to him, and he holds you a bit closer as he murmurs, "We have to do this right for you, mmn? We both kick at the same time, and it'll be too much for Jason, I think. I...don't know how bad it'll be, for me." Mostly true. Mostly. If you squint and look at it sideways. "We'll get you healthy, fixed up, get Jason's eyes shining right again, and then worry about me. Deal?" He quirks a grin - it's a little off, crooked and sad but adoring nonetheless.
For Jason's sake..? Trace peers up at you oddly for a moment, but finally nods. "I..." He nips at his lower lip thoughtfully. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I kin' see that. I mean, you wanna be calm an' stuff dealin' with me -- d'wanna be irritable at all, an' all emotional, coz I'm prolly..." he licks his lips, "not gonna be so nice sometimes, an' you can't let it get to you. An' y'gotta be there, t'comfort Jason, if I get all pissed at him or something." He winces a little. The junk creature is ruthless, unforgiving. "Prolly don't even hafta say nothin' bout it t'Jason. After things is all better, jest quietly drop it, an' so y'might be cranky for a few days or somethin'." He shrugs lightly. "Would that work..?"
Might be cranky for a few days. Cranky. Batiste just smiles a little, somewhat distantly, and breathes out a very deep sigh. "Mmn," he replies, rearranging his arms 'round you then squeezing you close once more. "Yeah. Yeah, that'll work." It'll work for now, at least. And he can come up with something better in a week. And then a week after that, maybe. And a week after -that- if it's necessary... "Yeah, I can do that," he repeats, a minute or so later. More convinced-sounding, this time. Maybe your determination, even concealed with worry and fear, is contagious.
Trace smiles at your words, a smile thick with relief. So it's settled. He gets up a little, shifting, so that he's kneeling and facing you. His eyes shine with tentative, fear-laced courage, briefly held to yours, before he leans in and presses himself in close for a hug, marked arms curling around your neck. He murmurs into your brittle blonde hair, making his sudden surge of queasy-hopeful optimism audible, "An' then we'll be clean together. We'll be free."
Jean-Batiste smiles at you. Warmer, stronger. Braver, even. "Yeah," he murmurs, one arm against your back, the other rubbing at a winglike shoulderblade. "It'll...it'll really be something, won't it?" He closes his eyes and is content to sit there, embracing you, for as long as your knees will let you stay like that. He thinks of...well, what you'll be like without the junkmonster breathing down your neck. What will it be like? He's never seen you without it, after all. Maybe he'll be able to get you to eat more often. And you'll grow. Wouldn't it be too ironic if you ended up taller than everyone? He smiles into your hair, saying nothing, imagining.
"Gotta promise me you won't be sad, or upset, if I get terrible, and say mean things," the little artist insists in a childish voice. He sounds so young right now. "I won't mean it, Batiste. Honest. I love you, I swear it, an' I won't mean a word of it." Keeping his arms still draped around you, he pulls away from the hug very gently to give you a serious look, hazel eyes large and full with black pupils in the dim light. "Gotta 'member me like this, holdin' each other."
Jean-Batiste closes his eyes for a moment, smiling at your words. "Yeah," he replies, murmur softened to a whisper. Opening his eyes: "Love you, too. You can do this, Trace. I know you can. And...I know, it'll be hard. And you'll say terrible things to us. But...it's the junkmonster. It's not you. And we'll know that." He's brave, now. Whether his armour will be that strong when he's been up for hours, worried and overtired, and the junkmonster launches another verbal-venomous attack is...better left for when it actually happens. "I'll remember this. Don't you worry," he murmurs. "Couldn't forget something like this." He smiles at you, then sits up a bit straighter, and kisses your forehead.
Trace grins and ducks his head down to encourage the kiss planted on his brow, and then gives you another impulsive squeeze of a hug, burying his nose into crisp blonde hair. The boy lingers there for several minutes, listening to the silence, breathing slow and content. When he pulls himself away, however, gears have clearly been turning. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, looking down, pursing his lips thoughtfully. Then finally, slowly, peeking up, "Wanna have one last bang t'gether?" There's a lust for it in his eyes already, adding more shine. But he looks apprehensive too, as though you may scold him. "It... it ain't yer party yet," he rationalizes meekly. "We could make it a real good one, just a last time together sorta thing..."
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