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Log Title: Second Day kicking
Log setting: Around noontime of the second day, in the apartment at Lafitte’s. We set it early so we could say Batiste was still sleeping in his huddly near the kitchen.
Log Cast:
Trace
Jason
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High noon, and for once the sun is out. Thank god for the plastic on the windows. Even so, Trace's brain is nudging him towards conciousness, much to his disappointment. The longer you can sleep through it, less aching long hours you have to endure. And as wakefulness starts to creep up on him, his face screws up with discomfort, head turning to bury himself further in the blankets beneath him. His first conscious thought is for heroin. Nothing new, but usually there's some nearby, or on it's way. And this time there isn't. As soon as his eyes heavily open and he finds himself looking at an unfamiliar blank wall, that realization hits him. There's none coming. No relief on its way. It's just going to get worse... A small moan, and one trembling hand grabs at lose blanket and pulls it fully over himself. Another whimper from the little blanket mound, which shifts and heaves gently at his quickening breath, his rising panic.
You know, Jason, unfortunately, doesn't have the option of sleep. He already did. For as long as he could. But for the past few hours, he's been dreadfully awake. The blank walls hold nothing for him either, except for the promise of long hours of emotional pain punctuated by periods of intense boredom. Like now. He's got the PSX in his lap, earphone hanging in one ear, but doesn't seem terribly enthused by the thing. Whacking people off of bikes with crowbars was actually kinda amusing for about an hour, but, well, that sunlight's been calling him. It'd be /sooo/ nice to slip out for just a bit and lay out on the grass in the square. But, no, no one leaves. Not even him. Because the both of you need him, see... At the movement out of the corner of his eye and the small moan, he lifts his head and peers over. Deep breath. Day two had to start sooner or later... He flicks off the game and tugs the earphone out, then slides out from beneath the blanket that was thrown across his knees and pads over to you with one of the glasses of water he had handy. The redhead kneels beside you and runs gentle fingers through the blue braids (that, undoubtedly, will be blue knots before the week's out). "Trace? Can ya take couple'a sips?" comes the soft question. Yeah, he knows the likelyhood of it, but, he's gotta keep you two hydrated as long as possible before you start puking it all up again. "Don' suppose y'want breakfast, huh?" he asks as well, though this time with a wry tone.
"N-no food...!" Trace gasps, and stays in his shivering huddle under the blankets for another minute or so. Just when it's starting to look like he's not going to come out for you, the blanket is flung off, and he pulls in another gasp and breathes it out hand in hand with a plaintive, "Too hot..." He peers at what you're holding out, brows drawn together in a half-scowl. More water. Why's Jason giving him water all the time? But finally reluctantly he takes the glass from you and it trembles in his hand, though not enough to spill over the rim. He just holds it though, working up the will to drink it, and mops at his brow with his free hand. His shirt is soaked through with perspiration, his braids damp when you caress them. His head bows, some of those blue ropes sweeping down limply, and he shudders.
Jason smiles softly and sweeps the braided hair back from your face after you take the water. Concerned, yes. But get used to it, it'll be etched so deep by the end of this that it'll prolly take forever to go away. "Sip it," he murmurs, "It'll be easier." And then he pushes to his feet and pads into the kitchen area. There's a rummaging as he pulls out one of Walker's tupperware bowls and fills it with water, but then he's back again bearing the bowel and a couple of rags. It prolly won't help you feel any better, but he's gotta try something, at least... He kneels down again, pushing all his hair back over his shoulder, and soaks one of the rags, then begins to wring it out thoroughly in preparation.
Trace flashes teeth at you in an almost grateful attempt at a smile when you brush his braids back. The boy swallows hard and looks at the water dubiously. Alright. Just a sip isn't hard. He brings it up to his lips and tips the glass just barely, and as the cool water touches his lips he makes an exaggerated look of childish disgust, like it was really gross cough syrup you were forcing on him. But once it's in his mouth, cooling his sleep-thickened tongue, he takes another gulp and then another before setting down the now half-full glass on the floor. Okay, so that wasn't so bad; it even got some of the icky taste out of his mouth. The boy curls up again, on the floor this time rather than the damp, too-hot blankets, and his breathes come in huffs. Stay calm, stay calm. This isn't as bad as it could be. Well. Okay, actually this is pretty damn bad. "Even my teeth hurt," he complains in a quiet groan, shutting his eyes tight.
Jason laughs very softly. It's... funny. But he knows that it's not an exaggeration either. Good way to never touch junk? Watch someone come off it. He sweeps those braids back again with careful fingers, tucking them behind your ear, and then gently wipes at your sweat-soaked brow with the moist (but not dripping) rag. It's room-temperature water, but it's gotta be cooler than your fevered skin. He watches your reaction closely, to see if it's just too much sensation, but slowly dabs about your cheeks and jaw too. "'Ve got some soup too..." he murmurs. Oh yeah, there was a hotplate in the kitchen. But he makes no move to go get some. Can't force it on you, that's for sure. He shifts, getting his legs beneath him cross-legged, and reaches out to try and coax you into his lap.
Trace's breathing calms just a little as you start to sweep the rag over his skin. Finally he opens his eyes again, and murmrus, "Feel's weird." Even so, he turns his head a little so you can get to the other cheek, and it brings his eyes up to meet yours. Dark eyes... Nearly black eyes, the confused pupils have expanded so much. Ever since you've known him, those eyes you've expressed a fondness for have been consumed with a warm green-tinged light brown, and pupils so tiny. "Jason..?" he says, voice ragged, "Jason, gimme something to make it feel better. Please? Then maybe I can eat... What kinda soup is it? Ain't eating no big..." he chokes out the words, "meat chunks or... nothin'."
Jason gets you as settled as you're gonna get in his lap, offering you as brave a smile as he dares, green eyes caught in the shadows of red hair that seems to insist on falling over them. He runs a finger over your cheek fondly, and then goes about soaking the rag again and wringing it out. "S'jus' that Cup O' Hot Water shit they got at 7-11," he murmurs. "Noodles 'n broth, y'know?" He resumes wiping your neck and a little at your collarbone and shoulders, what he can get at. "Got couple a' Valium... Or got some'a Dancer left, if ya wanna try that?" Yeah, so, he was stressed after last night. Can you blame him? Quiet eyes follow his gentle touch. He wasn't always the kid who could shove others down the stairs, you know. Somewhere inside the firey shell there's a little boy who fell asleep on his mother's lap while she read poetry and sang to him...
Trace flashes you a considering look, but finally agrees halfway, resting the back of his head in your lap and looking up at you, allowing your gentle administrations with the rag. "How bout both," the boy gives a queasy, sheepish grin, knowing how greedy it sounds. "I.. I don't know, coz what I really want is some Valium, but I think Dancer'd maybe give me munchies, I dunno. It jest, it hurts, an--" His brows pinch and he looks away, just briefly, as though trying to hide his weakness from you. Dark eyes flood. "I-I dunno how I'm gonna do this... It..." He sniffles. "It hurts so much, Jason, already... An tomorrow an' the next day's gonna be worse, an' it seems like forever..." He's not quite crying when he looks back up to you, but frightened and pained enough to bring him close. Wet lashes blink in vain, and he says meekly, "You... you give me what you think's best. I don't know. I." He shakes his head helplessly, looking up at you. "Make it a-a little better, please, and I, I'll try to eat my soup."
Jason's face scrunches up a bit as he tries really hard not to let his stomach tie up in knots at your words. He just quietly continues to do his best to cool your skin and give you /some/ semblance of comfort. Finally, he murmurs softly, "Y'know... I had a dog once, turned out ta have cancer." He wipes gently at your wet eyes. "Cried fer weeks as he got worse 'n worse. But he was always so happy ta see me... Didn' know how that could be, cause he was in so much pain. But.. m'mom said sumthin I didn' realize 'til later. 'He lives in the moment,' she said." He goes quiet a few moments, re-moistening the rag for one last pass. As he dabs at your forehead and ears again, he continues: "Thought 'long time 'bout it when I was sick, after I left home. 'Meant... no future fer my dog. No past. He didn' think 'bout how much happier he was 'fore, 'n he didn' think how much worse he'd get in the days comin'. Jus' was happy ta see me right then and there." Okay, yeah, so... it's hard to listen to someone talk about something that they're not going through directly, and he knows it. So he gives an apologetic little smile. "Um... let's try Dancer 'n see how he works, huh?"
"Alright," Trace gives a shaky nod. "Dancer, then..." He pulls in a few long breaths, slowly in, slowly out, like some stupid impromptu junkie Lamaz is going to sooth him. Finally, "I... I'm sorry about your dog. I wish I could be like that, though. It'd... be nice. T'not think how many days I got left.." Slowly in, slowly out. "I guess, I jest... gotta keep in mind I *am* gonna get better, an' then I'll be free of it, right?" His lips purse, brows furrowing again with a sudden sad thought, and he says, "What if I'm different?" He rubs at his runny nose. Got that conjested heavy head feeling already. "You.. you never known me not on junk. Times we spent, an I seemed sober, I was jest' straight, y'know? Five mils t'get straight, seven t'melt, t'fly." He nips at his lower lip briefly and then puts a hand to his chest. "This... *this* is me sober. A-a wreck, sick as hell... An after, who knows? God, after near two and a half years, who knows?" A sad, just slightly deranged laugh. "I got no armor, Jason. Star... Star's all 'fuck you' to the world, an' Flagg's got a sneer f'everybody, an' Bat covers everythin' up so he looks so strong. But what'll I do?"
Jason smiles softly as you agree to burn the rest of Dancer. He goes about pulling the roach from his pocket (flicking a little bit of lint away, eep) and then locating his lighter. Was just here... Ah! He gets a shakey little breath as your doubts begin to spill, swallowing as you paint him a picture sober just like he did to you junked. But then the green eyes seek out your nearly black, brighter in the darkness than they are in the light almost. "What if ya are diff'rent? What if ya find out ya can fly without yer needle-wings?" A tiny smile, strong in that it's a pure one. "Y'still got me, y'know..." He glances back over his shoulder at the other huddled form in the corner. "'N Bat..." He tries to make the last part sound sure... But then he just grins. "C'mon, let's dance a little..." He puts the roach (significantly smaller than when it was seen last) between his lips and lights it up. The cherry flares as he only takes a little drag before the j's placed it between your own.
Hushedly, "That I do." Trace pulls on the joint awfully hard, as much as he can draw in, but now hopefully it's your turn to forgive him this. He pulls in the smoke as though it were his only source of air, and then holds it up to you, eyes watery again, this time from the indrawn smoke. Silence as he blows it out again, looking up to follow the drifting cloud as it rises and disappears. "I don't think this will work," he points out, and then meets your eyes to clarify, "The weed. I mean, I didn't mean the whole thing, jest... nevermind." He sighs softly.
[A break in the scene. Off-camera it is decided that they finished off Dancer and talked and Trace managed to get some soup down. Jason played his pipes real quiet and low, nothing fast or trill.]
Probably a combination of the weed starting to hit him, and the long, soothing notes of your panpipe, but Trace finds himself somewhat soothed in comparison to his aching awakening this morning. Still doubled up with cramps at this point, and perspiring enough to undo much of the efforts of your rag, but his expression has lost some of his tension, and he's trembling and shuddering less. Near the end of your playing, he had stumblingly retrieved the sketchbook and sticks of charcoal from where you set them last night and returned to his blanket pile (solemnly swearing to himself upon his collapse of a return that he won't ever move again, not once. However, better to get it himself than disrupt your playing.) He told you he would draw later sometime, and now he makes the attempt, but the bones in his hand ache so he often takes breaks, rubbing at the thick muscles in his palm and the bony knuckles. But between these rests, he moves the dusty black stick along the page. Abstract. He's listening to closely to you, and his hand's in no good shape anyway, to attempt more than the swirling lines and pretty shaded whorls that he's fiddling with. The lamp casts gold angles onto his face, the silhouette of his cheek and the line of one brow arching down his strong nose. He's trying hard to be careful; already broke one stick from holding it too fiercely or shuddering at the wrong moment.
Jason lifted his eyes to you as you shuffled away, about to stop and get it for you. But.. you have some motivation pushing you to do it yourself, and he's not gonna stop you. It's good to see this. Now, at least. But, anyhow, he didn't really mean to stop playing. It just kinda happened as you started to draw and his attention was captured. Shapes and shades take form and the whorls draw his eyes in. "Saw things once... when I was sick that one time" A quirky sort of half smile, though his eyes don't leave the page. "S'what I saw, kinda..." His hand lifts to your braids and push a couple back from your sweat-soaked brow at one of your breaks. "Y'tell me if y'see somethin?"
Trace was in the process of smudging at a dark patch with two fingers, pushing at the smudge and rubbing so that it shaded a swirl gently from stark black to dusty gray and finally to nothing, the bare white of the page. He gives you a feverish glance up from his task, curious but also distracted, before dropping his eyes. "S'jest.... it's chaos, y'know? It's spinnin' an' swirlin, but the beginning comes back to the end, and there's no escape. An' the page seems so small... But yer music made it softer." He goes back to his gentle scrubbing and shading. "An' jest everythin' you been doin' fer us.." He picks up the charcoal again and starts another line, this one trailing up one margin of the page, reaching, reaching, only to find the top and spiral back down, hectic and dodging about confusedly. "How was ya sick? What happened?" he wonders softly.
Jason smiles faintly, fingering the pipes. His eyes follow the line like it were some living, breathing thing that crawled across the page towards escape, only to have it denied. "Dunno," he murmurs distantly. "Flu 'r sumthin'. Was rainin' a lot 'round then, kids gettin' sick all over the place." Chaos. He can feel that coming from the page. Entropy. Rebirth. He smiles another faint smile. "Feel like that one there... One part's light, other part's black... but it's all mostly jus' grey. Like... bein' with you 'n Bat. S'like that." Or... something. His eyes slide back to your blackened fingertips and whatever they're doing. He raises the pipes to his lips again and blows a couple low notes, soft.
As more and more black found its way onto Trace's picture, growing cramped with too many lines and margins, swirls turning into squiggles, picking up panic, it starts to make his skin creep a little. But the soft pipe sounds rescue him, and as you start to play, there is a rattle of paper, as the chaos picture is pulled up and tucked back. Fresh page, fresh start. They are gentling notes, rather like a low, soothing voice or a slow pet to his blue braids. He looks at the white for a moment, drinks it in, and then puts his charcoal to the page. Another hesitation, but the notes pull him into a line, almost a full oval, 'round it sweeps. Then the oval is retraced, shaped with more detail and then additions that give it the look of a non-human face. Little details etched in as carefully as he can, fighting against tremors and sickness. A little upside-down Y of a mouth, triangle nose... Stripes like thin, wiry whiskers. Then startling shapes falling down around the face, long and exaggerated, but finally, looking right, it takes on the shape of a rabbit. Not quite a realistic rabbit, and currently eyeless, but just the same, there's not much else those floppy ears could mean. Very little little touches cross-sectioning the face give the appearance of stitches. A child's toy. He takes a break, to work kinks from his hand, rubbing at the muscles with frustration and smudging black onto white skin. This work doesn't leave his hands as dusty as usually. With his palms so clammy, it cakes. His eyes regard the rabbit seriously, though somewhat distantly.
It wasn't really a song forming. At least it wasn't intended to be. But as you flip pages and a new image starts to evolve, so does the tune. What started as a few long, low, idle notes continues that way, notes seeming to shift and flow in a slow, random order. Really, what you're drawing is entrancing him. This image of childhood seeming to pop out of nowhere. Of course, that's usually how things go with you. Little pinpoints of colored light amidst a rich, textured darkness that seems to have its own light and shadow pattern. He shakes his head a little, clearing that image, then finally lowers the pipes again and reaches for the rag. "Was he yours?" he asks softly, eyes going over the eyeless bun. "He's lonely," he says even quieter, absently. Like he was remarking the time.
"Is he...?" Trace says in a quiet, distantly childish voice. "I wouldn't know. I lost him..." He shakes his hand out gently and returns to the task. The rabbit now gets a lumpy, somewhat misshapen body, like his stuffing has been pushed about inside with pouncing and play. And the poor thing finally gets an eye, just one, a large button. The other button is drawn in a flat disc at the bunny's floppy feet, and as he draws it, he gives a small chuckle and says, "Always told him I'd find a way to sew it back on. Carried that stupid button around forever... He--" The boy stops, glancing up sheepishly. God, he must sound like a nut, talking about some stupid stuffed rabbit like it were real. "Anyway. He... wasn't mine to start with. He b'longed to a friend of mine..." His lips purse, brows pulling together with disappointed confusion. "I... his name. I can't.." He sighs and shakes his head, brushes it off. Eyes go back to the bunny. "My friend'd bring him over, and I jest loved it for some reason. And when I was gonna run away, I tole' him so, and he gave me the bunny and said it'd look after me. And I..." He laughs a little. "I talked to it sometimes. I guess I was jest--" *Crack* Trace blinks, looking down at his charcoal. He's broken another stick with his tense hands. He sighs embarrassedly and sets it down. "Jest a lonely, fucked up kid, I guess," he finishes.
Jason watches silently as you finish up the details. He's not going to bring your attention to anything outside the picture right now because he noticed your hands stopped trembling. Even if for just a few moments. "Pudge," he whispers softly as you struggle for the name, not looking up. But the soft snapping of the charcoal stick makes him blink and look to your hand. "Naw... not anymore," he says softly, reaching a hand out to you for the broken pieces. He'll take care of those... Green eyes raise to your darkened hazel. You may have thought so way back when Jason snapped over your habit, but he's, honestly, never been one to judge you. Not a nut in his eyes. If anything, it's the other way around in his head. "Everythin' I had when I left home, I lost." A hint of sadness, but one that he doesn't quite hear himself. "Found new stuff, though. New pretty things, hidin' in the mud." And the mud's only going to get thicker as the days come.
"Pudge," Trace agrees, looking up at you somewhat startledly. But he doesn't press how you knew that. He must have spoken of him sometime long ago. Yeah, he probably did. He doesn't hesitate to hand over the charcoal when you extend a hand for it. Drops his broken pieces into your palm, for you're sure to take good care of them. He dusts shaky hands on his jeans and tries a little smile, murmuring, "Mud ain't so bad. We went over all the neat stuff y'kin do with mud, under the bridge, member..?" A chuckle, but really you weren't talking about mud and he knows it. The bluecap flops back down onto his blanket pile and looks back at you. Seems that's all the drawing his hands want to deal with at the moment. "Still glad you found me, though." He squirms about restlessly, trying to get comfortable.
Jason slips the charcoal pieces into his pocket. Don't worry, they'll be here when you need them. "Best part'a findin' stuff like that is washin' it off 'n findin' out what's 'neath t'all." His eyes are on the worn-out old bun as he says the words. But then he smiles softly, taking the sketchbook when you flop back and setting it aside. And then, without any words, he reaches out and takes one of your clammy hands, his own seeming excessively warm and dry in comparison. He sits there just holding it quietly, eyes on the connection for long, silent moments. And then he lifts his eyes up to you. "Stole some'a Walker's shirts, if ya wanna stop swimmin' in yer clothes..." He plucks at the shirt clinging to you with a wry smile.
Trace gives your hand a tentative squeeze, and as you are silent, he keeps his eyes turned inward, aimed vaguely at the shared clasped fingers and pressed palms. Your words call his gaze up to meet yours, and he gives a weak grin, full of pain and almost amused bashfulness. "Guess I am gettin' kinda waterlogged, eh?" he murmurs, and rubs his free hand at his shiny neck and brow. "I.. I guess so, okay." Another pause, hesitating, but then he starts to push himself up, and gives your hand one last squeeze before moving both to the hem of his shirt. "You mean... now?" Yeah, so you've seen him naked before, and even the scars aren't a big deal, but even so, this body-shyness is a long-time habit.
Jason's little smile turns into a more crooked one, a little more sure. The music and the drawing seemed to renew his batteries, so to speak, and he prolly can do nurse for the rest of the day. Or.. until Bat wakes up. If Bat wakes up... Hmm. "Well, or we could wait 'til I gotta do it m'self," he murmurs, a hint of playful creeping in. If it's gonna happen, might as well make light of it. He reaches out and gives your knee the lightest of touches and, with a look of slight concern to the huddled Bat, he pushes to his feet. Then he's trotting off to the corner where the towels and shirts and whatnot were all tossed in a pile. Hey, he might have put a lot of thought into what to bring, but he's still basically a slob at heart.
"N....no, I'll do it," Trace decides as you're retreating, and pauses just a moment longer before yanking the sticky, clinging fabric up over his head and ultimately off, tossing it away. For one, two, three seconds it's alright, but then it hits him. The cool air rushes to slither over his damp, feverish skin, quickly covering the whole of his chest, back, and shoulders. "Fuck.." he breathes, curling up instinctively at the horrible feeling, arms curling around his chest protectively. It doesn't help. Finally he takes one of the blankets and throws it over himself, but the blanket he slected is mostly dry and ultimately does little. It's not like there's a breeze in here, but just a definite drop in temperature considering the sticky wet oven that had been his t-shirt. So he stays in a tiny shivering ball under the blanket, waiting for his skin to adjust to the change.
Jason's back in a few moments with one of Walker's billions of long black t-shirts (this one with just a big pair of red lips on the front) and kneeling back down beside you. A little frown at your reaction, but at himself for not really thinking about your reaction to the air. It's been so long since he had one of those awful fevers.. Anyhow, he smiles apologetically, and murmurs, "Here, hold out yer arms, we'll do it quicker next time." He balls it up all ready for you to just stick your arms and head through. "Stole his long ones in case yer jeans get too bleah." Bleah: it's a technical term. "Didn' have nothin fer pants 'cept my other jeans." A little frown at that too, but just at the annoyance of it all. Logistics, sheesh. Shoulda really talked to Ben or Bat about all of this. But that would mean /not/ being secretive for once.
Trace lifts the blanket and peeks out somewhat comically, though he certainly wouldn't see the humour in it, if pointed out, surely. Upon seeing the t-shirt all ready for him, he shoves the covers away and dives for it, scrambling to get his slender limbs through the holes and tug it down on top of him. The feel of the rough fabric being pulled down over him is slightly odd and lurches his stomach too, but he grits his teeth and puts up with it. For once the shirt is in place, and he's laying down again, picking at the red plastic of the lips on his shirt, that it occurs to him that he really would rather be wearing this new dry shirt than his old, damp one. "Thanks," he mumbles humbly.
"Jus' wanted ta see ya nekkid," Jason murmurs playfully, swatting at a damp braid. He leans way over and snags the discarded shirt with his fingertips, then drags it over. A quick inspection (nose wrinkled), and then he tosses it out through the doorway into the kitchen area. Possibly for a future laundering or something. Yup, Jason washing clothes. And probably blankets soon enough. Sigh. Chez Walker (and more specifically, Ben) will be muchly more appreciated upon return, that's for sure. Oh well. He sits back on his heels and looks around the barren room thoughtfully. "Shoulda swiped the TV too," he mumbles, somewhat ruefully. The walls really /do/ seem to be getting blanker.
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