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Log Title: Third Day Kicking
Setting: Lafitte’s Apartment, nine or ten in the morning.
Log Cast:
Trace
Jason
Jean-Batiste
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As last night wore on, the bluecap's condition could only decrease, and after midnight or so much of his time was spent poised and gasping over a bucket. Dry heaves, mostly, so that soup must have gotten into him on time. Terrible temperature fluctuations, sweating and burning up one moment, tossing the blankets away furiously, and five minutes later he'd be shivering and hiding under the whole pile of them. No sleep for Trace tonight. Around five in the morning the exhausted boy pleaded for Valium and with it, was able to at least lay calm and still for a few hours, though his lingering, dulled pain refused to allow him any real retreat into slumber. Now the sun's been up a few hours, and Trace is growing more and more restless. You can see it in him, more tossing, blanket rustling. Sometimes he sits up in a huddle with his arms wrapped tight around him, rocking, eyes darting about like an animal trapped. A storm's brewing..
Jason knew it has been for awhile too. The first thunderings seemed early when Jason locked the door, but there was a relative calm the next day. Sick, but still coherant, you could still work with him. But that night, he didn't sleep much either. A curled up lump on the single chair, he was awake most the night, watching your tossings and turnings. It took your pleading for the Valium for him to give it, though. Unlike the other drugs he brought along, these he actually went to Lucy for, and she reminded (well, notified, really) that while they might ease the suffering, they'd only prolong the withdrawls in the long run. He managed to catch some vestiges of sleep as you lay quiet, but your renewed restlessness woke him up. From a dream he really didn't want to continue, but, then again, at least /it/ was a dream. Green eyes peer through a mass of red hair, hidden by the almost total shadow. Then, finally, the formless mass on the chair shifts, legs going to the floor silently and the whole of it rising. It shuffles soundlessly beyond the doorway and there comes the soft sound of running water. Then it's back, an hand that's projecting out from beneath the blanket holding the tumbler again. "Trace?" comes the quiet voice, calling out to you as if unsure that you're really in there right now.
He looks up, and it's Trace there, but pushed very near the brink of non-Traceness. The extended glass is ignored. "I... I can't do this Jason," the little artist moans softly, looking up, eyes flashing sharply with desperation. "I can't, I can't. I thought I could, an' I wanted to be strong f'you, but it *hurts*, Jason, it hurts an' I want out. I give up. I need a hit, Jason." He sniffles and says again, a little less whiny and more firm, "I want out of here, Jason. Lemme' out."
Jason takes a deep breath and crouches down, murmuring, "Take a sip at least, Trace.. Y'can do it, 'n do it fine." His gaze lingers on your eyes that, while familiar, have a wild, animal thing (a thought shoots past: do I ever look like that?) that he so rarely sees in you. The Junk Monster is lurking so close. He'll see its face, though, before this is done. He takes a deep, shivering breath, steeling himself. And then says softly, firmly, "Can't get out, though. S'only one way out the tunnel, Trace, 'n it's the other side." The glass is proffered slightly again. "C'mon, take a sip."
Trace makes the attempt to knock the water out of your hands. "No, yer always givin' me fuckin' water, an it don't *do* anything. I don't need no water! If I'm so dry, why'd I got water pourin' off my skin, eh? Geez!" He drops his chin down close to his knees, arms curling about them, hiding his face except for a pair of stormy dark eyes peering out from beneath his limp, soggy mop of braids. "Jest... jest, if I want water, I'll ask ya fer it. Right now, I don' want water. I want out. Can't keep me here, it's like kidnapping, you gotta let me out if I want out. I know a way outta tunnels, an it's back the way you came." His lips are hidden, but it's probably a fair guess that he's scowling under there.
Jason snatches the water back, pretty much expecting that reaction. Sigh. Yeah, the working /with/ part is kinda gone out the window. "Ya don' want it, but yer gonna have it, Trace," he says in that same soft, level tone. "If it all comin' out 'n none goin' in, yer gonna feel worse." But he doesn't quite move to give you the water yet. Got to wait for the right moment. "But the way back out's locked 'n I ain' got the key. Won' get it 'til this is all over. Only got one way ta go, 'n it's my way." So there. But despite his firm words, his other hand reaches up, fingers brushing your braids back gently. He fully expects it to be batted away, but, well... Some things you just have to do sometimes.
A logical reason to drink that water, but Trace isn't quite logical right now. "What you mean you don' got the key? Who's got it?" Panic rising quickly. God... What if someone's coming with the key in a few days. Maybe he really DOES have no choice about staying here. "Where's the key?" he demands, not batting your hand away, but with that question sitting up and pulling back enough to disengage your fingers from his braids. "How could you jest lock all of us up an have no key? What if there was an' emergency? What if someone got hurt?" And it's like those words present a new idea for escape, but one too dark to fully consider just yet. Just the briefest flash of something dangerous in his eyes. Seriously, Jason... What if someone *did* get hurt?
Jason sighs softly and lets his hand drop away. "I think this /was/ an 'mergency," he says softly. "Even though ya don' right now, ya jus' gotta believe me." Eyes, brilliant in their fierceness even in the darkness, raise to yours again. "But no matter what, y'ain' gettin' out 'til it's gone. No matter what you say, only three of us're goin' out the door. No monkeys, no junk monsters, nuthin' but us, tagether. Y'unnerstan?"
Panicked now. And this deep a fear and helpless rage brings the usually repressed Southern to the forefront. "Naw, it's you what doan' unnerstand!" He pulls up out of his huddle quickly, shifting to crawl closer, to wrap his fingers around the scruff of your shirt. "Ah cain't make it Jason, ah feel it awready!" Wild eyes, blazing and black, "Ah cain't, ah cain't! Tell me y'gotta key! Tell me! If you doan', ah'll scream, someone'll hear me! Y'll be in trouble f'lockin' us up like this with no key!"
The water's been set aside and most probably forgotten as the brunt of the panic-attack hits you. Green eyes stay afixed to your black as Jason's long fingers wrap around yours and attempt to unpry the panic-strong grasp. "'N then what, Trace? Cops come, take us 'way, you still don' get yer junk. Hell, y'go /home/ without yer junk. His other hand slides up and grabs yours, both now being held tightly, as if he could stop the trembling in both your bodies just by the grip. "Y'/know/ I can' lissen ta ya like this, cos it ain' /you/, Trace..." God, he /knows/ this isn't you speaking. It's still hard. He's got to suck it up hard to keep his gaze firm and tear-free.
Trace writhes furiously for a moment as your hands lock their grip around his, trying to tug away, but finally slumping down and letting the struggle drain out of him. He leaves his hands where you hold them and bows his head low, braids falling down to hide him in a tattered blue curtain. "D....d'wanna go home.." he chokes, and then sobs softly, shoulders heaving once. "Ah jest... ah jest *hurt*." Another shudder, but silent, trembling. "How.. kin y'do this t'me?" he says thickly between unsteady breaths. "Y'killin' me... How kin' y'do this t'me, y'*fucker*, it hurts! Jest, jest you should love me anyhow an', an not hurt me so..." His voice breaks off in another sob and he lowers himself down more, curling up, forhead nearly touching his knees.
Jason holds your hands tightly until you suddenly go slack. And then, with a deep, shuddering breath (in which he prays you don't hear any of his tears), he reaches out and enfolds you in his arms, face burying in sweat-soaked braids. "I'm sorry," he whispers, pained, but not weak. "I have to... you know that. I have to..." It's a good thing you're not in a state to ask deeper questions. He couldn't answer them, probably. "S'... I gotta cause I love you," he whispers.
"Ah," sniffle, "Ah love you too, but y'still a fucker," Trace sobs. He was still for a few moments, even after you put your arms around him, but now he renews his squirming to try and escape the embrace. Not that he doesn't need to be held, for he does. He needs the comfort, but can't stand the contact on his hypersensitive skin. It's like some whacked out bad trip of X, where instead of amazing, everything feels ugly, like mild torture, too much to endure. He hates the fabric of his clothes. He hates the carpet and the dampened blankets and braids on the back of his neck. Now that he's got his hands free, he rubs at his face pitifully, to free himself of the terrible warm trickle of his own tears. When he speaks again, at least his accent is backing off again. He doesn't like talking like ma; it's not becoming. "We.. we ain't doin' this right, Jason. I can't come down like this. I can't." He looks up now, bleary from his earlier hysterics, and his eyes are just as wild but he's trying hard now to keep logic in his voice. "I can't jest go off it completely, I see that now. I didn't know, y'know? I'd never tried, but, but I mean, we should jest do it less and less a day, Jason. You-you could control how much. It jest, it'd be better. It would."
Jason only really hoped for a brief hug, really, and he got it. As you squirm, he lets you go, letting his arms drop away. "Always been a fucker," he murmurs with a faint smirk, again reaching up to push those braids back from your face. He wants to see your eyes, even if they are consumed by the darkness and need right now. But when you look up, his eyes are like two green crystals. Sharp, clear, cold, behind them you can see compassion. But he's not going to let you get at it - it's been placed far back there. "Y'gotta. Just like I gotta. If we go easy, we'll never be free..." Yes, we. He came to a realization as he ferried supplies into the apartment and made deals with the pushers on the street for the pills. A realization that, as much as he tried not to be, he still became attatched. And if you go down, he goes down. "Y'heard what I said ta Bat... We're all in this fer the long-run."
"Y'ain't listenin' t'me!" Trace protests. "Y'talk all like 'oh, I do it coz I love you', an' we gonna be free t'getha, but I'm *tellin* you I ain' gonna make it if we do it this way, Jason! It's tearin' me apart, here, it's killing me! We-we gotta..." He doesn't complete the thought, but instead blows out a sharp, frustrated breath. "Fuck this." The bluecap starts to push himself up. The stomach cramps shriek in protest and he nearly falls back down on his ass again, but catches himself and pushes, finally managing a lurching state of upright. Time to test the padlock. Sure, he swore he wasn't going to move ever again, but this is also a fierce motivation. Foolish, probably. But a prisoner rattles the door of his cage more than once, or sometimes just to prove that he still has the spirit left to do so. He paces towards it with slow deliberance.
Jason is silent as you accuse him of lack of empathy in not so many words. He knows you probably even think it's true right now. But it's your junk-brain talking and he can't listen to that. Ever. He catches his lower lip between his teeth as you make the painful attempt to stand, but he doesn't help you. It's then gnawed on further as you make towards the door. He just stands and goes to the doorway to watch. You gotta find this out for yourself. Because you won't listen to him, that's for sure. He wipes at some hair that's starting to cling to his forehead with the back of his hand. At least you haven't started screaming at him. That's when /his/ real test starts. When all semblances of love are forgotten in the pure need for junk. So he just stands, leaning heavily against the wall. But ready to leap forward when you start to look like you're going to hurt yourself.
Trace wraps trembling hands around the metal padlock, feeling the heavy, cool weight in his palms. Definitely secure. He tugs once anyhow, sudden and sharp, but it's futile and the arch of unforgiving steel doesn't budge. He studies the part of the door it's attached to with growing despair. Dammit, shoddy as this place is, why does this one tiny expanse of wood and metal have to be so goddamned secure? He makes a soft, despairing sound in the back of his throat and yanks again, harder, but it only hurts his hands as they tug free of it. The lock clatters as it falls back against the door. He rubs hard at his eyesockets for a few long moments, and then still hiding in his hands, he slumps back against the door and says muffledly, and it sounds as though he's speaking through gritted teeth. "Jason, y-you have the key. I know you do. Ya was jest bullshitting me earlier. Show it t'me, now. Show me the key." He pulls his hands away to look at you warningly.
Jason grimaces as you tug at it, face screwing up a little as he forces the pained look that was forming back down. Be strong. Have to be strong. Even though just that image tears at his heart. You shouldn't be locked up. HE shouldn't be locked up. But... he's got to be strong. Especially now, as the storm's about to break out on him full-force. He straightens and takes a deep breath, and then meets your eyes, quiet and calm. The storm may break against the walls, but the walls still stand... "No," he says simply, firmly. Denying you. You don't get to see the key. Not now. "C'mere an' lay down, Trace." Because this discussion is over now. You're not going to go out. Another deep breath. Because he knows it won't be that simple.
"No! Fuck you!" Trace turns and lands both hands hard against the door, *slam!*. "Lemme out! Somebody fuckin' let me outta here!" It's all chaos. It just swirls and bounces off the margins and has no place to go. Choked and trapped. "Lemme out!!" *slam!* He pants and gasps against the hard wooden door, still a moment. Calming, finally? But no. He turns, slowly, still slumped on the door, with his expression lit and fierce and gone. He's gone. He's not Trace, and you're not Jason; you're an object in his way. An obstacle, solid and stubborn as the door. And he draws himself up with all the rage of his kith in his eyes, and steps forward, advances, snarls, "Gimme the key!"
There it is. Jason's jaw tightens as you slam on the door, wincing involuntarily at the sudden noise. He almost takes a step toward you as you slump, but then you turn and he sees the storm raging. He draws himself up. No matter how scrawny-thin he is, he's still larger than your hunched self. Not that that will deter you. But it's his defense. That and the fact that he /is/ as solid and stubborn as the door. Unyielding. "No," he repeats, firmly. The cold crystal of his eyes solidifies even more, hiding even the compassion away. It'd be wasted on this non-Trace-thing advancing on him anyway. "Yer not gonna see the key."
"..rrRRRFUCK YOU!" the junk-wild non-Trace cries and lunges for you, his desperation lending him strength. "Yer gonna give me that fuckin' key, Jason, yer lettin me OUTTA HERE!" He meets the stubborn obstacle fearlessly and launches his full out, scrabbling attack. Trace is small, yeah. He's weak. Wildman Trace... We joke about that, but in this case it isn't funny. For he does fight with all the viciousness of a tiny wild thing, the smaller animal backed into the corner. And fights dirty at that. This boy don't fight with his fists up. He uses ragged nails to scratch and sting, uses knees and elbows, but worse still, doesn't hesitate to snap with little wildman teeth at anything that comes near his mouth. Though surely he forgets that you're more animal than he ever could be.
More animal, possibly. But Jason can't afford to let himself give in to those animal reactions right now. He has to be the one stable and strong, see? He sees the attack in your eyes way before you lunge, and he's ready. At least as ready as he can be. Jaw clenched, he takes your impact and stumbles back a couple of steps, almost backing into the wall. Hands struggle to grab at your flailing limbs without fingers being snapped off by teeth that come terribly close. He tries to keep his head back from those scratching nails, but you score a couple of hits and nearly tangle your fingers into his long hair before he manages to grab your wrists for an instant. Using what little leverage he can get, he pushes you back from him and dances back himself, putting the chair between your bodies. There he stands, breathing heavy, three red lines across his cheek that already start to ooze blood. "I /can't/," he breaths at you, eyes still hard. Though now it seems like he's trying to keep more back than just his compassion and pain at your condition. "We ain' leavin'," he whispers hoarsly. Eyes stay fixed on you, attempting to stare you down. But he's ready for you to come again. Expecting it, really, with his wiry body bunched and ready to move.
Trace stumbles back hard and nearly goes down, his head is spinning hard by now. He makes such an effort to steady himself. He must. He needs out of here so badly, he NEEDS so badly. He centers himself, eyes flashing bright and not-there, with deadly focus. Starts a slow circle to manuver himself around the chair, no longer a cowering attack. Hunting, plotting, coming after you. The chair's a new obstacle, but not the one he's interested in. "Hand it over, r'll rip that key from you," he spits. His wrists ache from where you wrenched them back, but he doesn't think of that now. Just moves in a slow, trembling circle, eyes locked on yours, tense and ready.
And Batiste is...where? Around the corner, huddled. Knees to chest, arms 'round chins, cheek to knees, staring at the bathroom door. He's gotten very familiar with that door over the last few hours. He's got a blanket, too, that he took with him during his very brief visit to the kitchen a while back. No comments, next to no sounds of life at all. This screaming and banging and fighting is enough to finally spur him into action, though. "God, -enough-, already!" he utters, clambering up to his feet and rubbing at his face with both hands, palms dug into his eye-sockets. This is like...a hangover's hangover. Anti-X, like Trace said. He stumbles for the bathroom, slamming the door loudly behind him. He locks the door, sets the water to running full-tilt and noisy, and sits down on the floor, head back against the wall, rubbing his face to try and make it feel right.
Usually one pass will settle things, but, silly Jason, junk doesn't work that way. As you start to circle, he lowers himself a little and does a counter circle, keeping the chair between the both of you as much as possible. "Told you, Trace," he says quietly, trying to get through to that itty bitty rational part of you that's probably not listening anyway. "Don' have the key, won't have it either." The back of one hand goes up to feel at his cheek as a trickle of red starts from the deepest gouge. He glances at it, then back up to Trace, jaw muscles tensing. Okay, yeah, that /is/ starting to sting. "Don' have it," he repeats. But then the sudden slamming of the door makes his gaze dart from Trace to the bathroom. Blink. Well, if you wanted your opportunity, there it is.
Damned chair. Trace is silent, his gaze hard and unapologetic as he watches the dark red trickled down your cheek. "You got it," the boy growls in promise. "Wouldn' lock us all in here an' trust the key t'somebody else. You fuckin' got it." And you're *keeping* it from him. Some friend you are, Jason. Keeping it from him, when he's being so persuasive in his suggestion you do otherwise. Finally he makes another sudden rush and wraps both hands around the sides of the chair's back, pushing forward with all his strength.
Jason looks back to Trace at the reassertation of the key's position. "Goddammit, Trace, I don' /got/-" But he's cut off as the chair comes tumbling at him. He's fast. And he's not suffering from the cramps. So his dodge to the side, even as surprised as it was, is pretty much in time. The chair clips his foot, sure, but he's already charging Trace. Hands go for the smaller boy's shoulders as the redhead bears him over to the floor, trying to pin the need-driven wildman to the ground with his weight without having something bitten off. "Stop it, just STOP IT!" he yells into the bluecap's face. "/STOP IT!!/"
Meanwhile, back in the bathroom, Batiste is...silent. Doing something. Doing nothing. Hard to tell, with the door closed and the water still running full-tilt like that. Maybe he's watching the kaleidoscope patterns that form on the inside of your eyelids when you lean on the heels of your palms for too long.
Trace goes down hard and finds himself effectively pinned. He rages and writhes beneath Jason's weight, flailing, trying to kick his legs free. How dare you! How dare you lock him up, pin him down?! His body goes into full protest. You will not hold him! "Lemme go, lemme goooo!!" he shrieks, bucking and shaking his head, eyes closed tight when he finds himself unable to rise. "Ahhhggghh!!" His cry barely sounds human, let alone like Trace. "Ahhhgod, lemme gooo--!" And it shatters. His will, perhaps, or more appropriately, the junk creature's. The mad shriek cuts off, choked to death by a sob, and with his eyes still shut, he slumps. Broken pieces handed over. Won't you take care of them? A deep shudder and another pained sob. Something warm and wet hits his cheek. A drop of blood from the fireheart's cheek. He shudders again and turns his head, letting his own hot tears spill into that sticky red trickle. Oh god...
Jason steels himself against the storm raging beneath him, laying his whole weight upon the flailing form beneath him, limbs pinned beneath his own. All he can do is hang on and ride it out. And eventually, he does. One of you is hidden in the bathroom and the other has his eyes shut tight, so neither can see the huge crack that goes through his crystalline armor at the sound of the breaking of Trace's fight. Pain tears at his expression and he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a long moment. More drops against Trace's cheek, but some of these aren't blood. But then, with a deep, shuddering breath, the weight on the bluecap is released and Jason's gently tugging him up to his feet. Yes, he'll take these pieces. "C'mon," he whispers softly. But his eyes go to the bathroom door, shut. A pang of suspicion, distrust... But it's one at a time right now. Get Trace settled, then deal with the other. Who, hopefully, won't try to kill him too.
Trace is difficult to tug upright because at first he's not cooperating at all. Quite content to lie on the floor and shiver. But finally, reluctantly, he pushes himself up slowly and hangs on as though without Jason's support he'd fall right back down again. Hell, he probably would. He sniffles and rubs at his nose pitifully, which is running again. Then at the sticky mess of blood and tears on his cheek. His breath, following such sobbing and hysterics, can only be pulled into his lungs in soft, wet hitches and gasps. He allows himself to be manuevered as Jason wishes, though still not helping out much. Like a child learning to walk. For now, he's given up, and only exhaustion and shame remain in the wake of his earlier raging. As he nears the blanket pile he's claimed for his own throughout this ordeal, he greets it gratefully, breaking away to collapse into an only half-upright heap. Blankets are drawn up around him. And perhaps to prove to Jason that he has indeed won, a shaky, unsteady hand reaches out and snatches up the tumbler of water so long forgotten and chokes down a sip before setting it down and sprawling out to lie down and gently tremble.
Jason doesn't say anything else. Because nothing would mean anything, really. Not to either of them. He silently bears Trace to the pile of blankets and watches the smaller boy flop into them. The sip of water is a small victory (because he certainly doesn't see the outcome of the fight one, really), but it doesn't quite seem to give him any satisfaction. His hand twitches at his side, wanting to reach out and brush the braids back, wipe the blood and tears from Trace's sweat-soaked cheek, but something holds it back. It was the junk creature, not Trace, he tries to tell himself. A deep breath - perhaps he can believe that once he's calmed himself down. The redhead turns towards the bathroom, wiping at his cheek (though that doesn't do anything really but leave red streaking fingerprints perpendicular to the clawmarks). A few quiet, padding steps, and then he pushes the door open and his blood-streaked face peers around it to Batiste. "Bat?" he asks softly. "You okay?"
The doorknob is turned, and rattles. Locked. It's got one of those high-tech loop-and-hook gadgets that campground bathrooms like to use, as well as a slightly higher-tech locking doorknob that can be defeated with a nutpick or long pin. It's enough to stop the first attempt to open the door, though, and a half-second later, two thumps can be heard, slightly staggered, as booted feet brace against the door. Just...you know. A precaution. Under the hiss of the running water and the bubbly gurgle of the drain, Batiste's voice, clipped: "I'm fine."
Well, okay, so he just /intended/ to poke his head in. But the locked door catches Jason by surprise as he bumps into it with his shoulder. A brief frown as he tries to process this. Batiste is blocking the door. And then suddenly, on dark wings, the shadows sweep across his face as the anger wells up. The door shivers as he delivers a sound kick. "Open the fuckin' door, Bat!" he shouts, all that betrayal and its residual distrust coming up again. But he doesn't wait for Batiste to obey. He pulls something from that zippered pouch he's always got /somewhere/ on his person and kneels down before the door. It's only a matter of seconds before he gives a little twist of the wrist and the lock clicks (oh, those high-tech bathroom doorknobs, they usually can't even deter little sisters). Before even a breath can be drawn, Jason's slamming his entire (though scant) weight against the door, shoulder first. "Get out of the fuckin' way, Bat!" he snarlyells, face twisted up so that the bloody scratches and fingerprints look like warpaint.
Half-drowned by the water and the rattling kick Jason bestows, an angry, low voice: "Fuck off, Jason. I don't -want- to open th e-" *Wham!* "-Jason!- Leave me-" Batiste's voice cuts off - maybe an angry sigh can be heard - and when the final shoulder-rush comes, there's no resistance on the other side. Just Batiste, turning off the sink, standing with his back against the wall, half-squeezed between the wall and the sink to keep from being hit by the arc of the door. He rubs his nose with a curled knuckle and sniffs sharply as his eyes raise to Jason's. He still looks like hell warmed over, though he's no longer at the hell-rewarmed-over stage that Trace left behind about twelve hours ago. Shiny, distant eyes, blank expression. Waiting.
Wow, stuff's going on. Loud stuff. It's annoying Trace. Maybe now he'll sympathize with how Bat, rather than intervene, just flew past muttering about how much noise the other two were making. Coz seriously, guys, quit it. People are trying to lie here in abject misery. He sighs and rubs at his sticky cheek again, dreading how that will feel when/if it's allowed to dry. Hazel eyes find the ceiling.
The door flies open, reverberating as it slams into the wall, doorknob now firmly embedded in the drywall. And standing in the doorway is the animal that Jason tried so hard not to let out on Trace. But this... this he couldn't control. Even if he wanted to. He trembles as every muscle resists the instant urge to leap on Bat and scream and take out all the frustration and pain that's been building up over the past few days. No. Past few months. No. Longer... Just one look is all that he needed though, just one look at the sniffling, glassy-eyed boy in the bathroom. "Get out," he whispers, unconciously wiping at the renewed trickle of blood on his cheek. "Get out," he repeats, slinking forward a step. And then... "Get OUT!" he yells as he grabs Bat with both fist by the shirt, trying to yank him out of the bathroom. He's smaller, he's lighter, but he's /pissed/. Beyond all description.
Jean-Batiste flinches back sharply when the shout and grab comes, cracking the back of his head against the wall. Ow. Towel bars aren't made to be cranium-friendly. He doesn't resist the forward momentum, though - if anything, he cooperates for the four stumbling steps it takes the pair to get out into the livingroom. Then he scowls, anger and frustration tangling up with fear, and tries to shove Jason back, two-handed. Flat-eyed, he utters, "Back off!" in an absurdly calm voice. It's the same tone, the same expression he had when he faced down Deanna and Stan so long ago at the Renfaire. There's no knife in his hand this time, though. Considering the look in Jason's eye, he's starting to wonder if he shouldn't have one.
Of course, Jason has a knife too. Though not on him, thank god. If he even notices the head-bang, he doesn't show it. In fact, any incidental injury to Batiste incurred doesn't seem to be of much concern to Jason. Injury to himself either, probably. Already going back, the shove sends Jason stumbling several more steps. Bat does have the height and weight on the kid afterall. But, yes, that look... If Jason could inflict all that pain and anger in his eyes on someone else, Batiste would be thrown through the wall, most likely. A bloody-fingered hand clenches and then goes down to his ankle, slipping into the sock. Eyes, of course, fixed on Batiste. "Y'don wanna kick?" he growls, face twisted with rage. "Fine, ya win, Bat. But you ain' fuckin' this up for us no more..." And then he spins and goes to the door, kneeling before the padlock and fiddling with it. "Y'won' hafta worry 'bout this /no more!/" he snarls as he struggles with the lock, hands trembling. "NO MORE!" he screams as there's a click, and he yanks the padlock open.
In the face of all this shouting and screaming and rage, the silent docility that Batiste follows after Jason with is rather surreal. He glances at Trace for only a moment, mouth quirked at one corner, then turns his eyes back to the trembling redhead fighting with the door's fastenings. A shoulder goes into the wall, leaning. He glances down at the floor, licks his lips once, then again. Breathe. He looks calm, seems calm - but it's that calm that comes when your heart is beating too fast and your mind is whirling too quickly to react any other way. "I came along to help you with Trace," he murmurs, raising his eyes back to Jason, shoulders flinched a little as if expecting another attack. "You can't do this yourself. You're losing it already."
"Jason ain' losin' it..." Trace protests meekly from his huddle. "He.. he's a fucker, but he... he's takin' care of me..." He sits up a little, shaky and unsteady, with something like sorrow clouding up his eyes, slackening his face. The rage has slipped away and with it sapped all his energy. He feels weak and drained as a water reed. Eyes flash to Jason's huddled figure over the padlock. "So ya did have it. Bastard." But he sighs the words without vengeance, like one would say 'boys will be boys'. The boy rubs at the slimy sweat at the back of his neck, and pinches at the cramped muscles there. Hazel eyes seek Batiste, watching him. Quietly, "You leavin' us, Bat?" Then just a moment of pursed lips, unhappy, before he decides, "Don't go."
Unfortunately, Jason hears none of this over the roaring in his head at Batiste's words. The padlock drops to the floor, key still in it as Jason's eyes go up to Batiste and fix on the larger boy's face. Blink. And then there's nothing in those green eyes but an all-consuming fire. Bat's expectation is fully warranted as Jason launches himself up from his crouch, right into Bat's midsection with his shoulder and onward with his target until he meets /some/ obstacle. Like a wall. Fists and clawing nails, an uncomfortable echo of Trace's earlier attack on himself. "MotherFUCKERRRR!" he screams. "GET OUT! You don't BELONG here!!!"
OhmygodwhatISthat?! Whatever it is, it bears only a -tiny- resemblance to Jason - and even that tiny bit is -gone- once the shoulder hits Batiste's stomach and the fists and nails start up like some kind of demonic crossbreed of a fox and wolverine. Batiste grunts as air leaves his lungs without his permission, and stumbles back into the nearest wall - thankfully, it's not too far away - and tries to bring his arms up to protect himself from nail-gouges and punches and torn-away hair. "Jason! Jason-Jesus-Christ-stopit! God, just- Ah! -Jason!- Back off, I said-" Nope. Too much. Batiste is just trying to get Jason off him and a short distance away at first, but his spirit breaks rather quickly thanks to good old-fashioned soul-deep terror, and he's struggling for the door. No, -fleeing- for the door. And out of it.
"Stop!" pleads the bluecap pitifully, but there's no strength to back up the word, nothing to carry it safely into that terrible cyclone fray. "Stop, please stop!" The two he loves best in the world, and they're hurting each other! Yes, each other, even if Batiste is the only one taking physical damage. "It's my fault, please stop! It's my fault!" Who knows what he's talking about. He crawl-stumbles towards the hall and peers out, but by the time he's at the mouth of this frightful cave, Bat's already out the door.
Jason's gone beyond the motivation to get Bat out the door and has slipped into some vague area where all he wants to do is hurt someone, make someone feel like he does right now. But somehow, as the door's flung open and Batiste is chased out into the hallway, Jason's fight dies at the threshold. As he passes through, he just collapses instead of pursuing the fleeing Batiste, falling forward onto his hands and knees with a gut-wrenching sob, hair falling around his face to pool on the floor. "Just get out," he gasps, much much softer. "Didn't /need/ you..."
Jean-Batiste might not have run this fast with the demon-dog slavering at his heels. He remembers - at least at a subconscious level - that the chase is what puts the spark in Jason's eye, and he's doing his best to evade the fireheart regardless. Bolting down the hallway, gouged hand out to grab the bannister, skidding 'round, and thumpTHUMP!thumpTHUMP!thump down the stairs. Squee-WHAM! goes the downstairs door, and Batiste's booted steps quick-time it out the alley into the silence beyond.
Trace crawls closer to you, scooting and dragging himself for the most part, his expression shocked and shaken. A glance to the open door, but he stays himself once at your side. "I-I'm sorry, Jason," he whispers mournfully. "S'my fault. It's all my fault. I got him back on. I did it. I was so selfish. I thought.. I mean, he was always so strong about it. I din' know he'd gone an' let it get 'way from him.." He sniffles and touches his cheek carefully to your shoulder, pressing it against the tangles of red hair draped over it. Another sniffle. "He's all fucked up now, WE're all fucked up, an' it's all my fault." His arms shift, about to settle arms around you, but reconsiders and hopes for forgiveness. It just feels too bad. He feels bad all over. He curls up in the hallway there, arms wrapping around his midsection, looking up at you. A glance to the door. God. It's open. It's there, left wide open. He stares. Opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again. Freedom. "J-Jason..?" he whispers softly, still on the ground, head craned back, looking out . "Jason, would you..." he chokes on the words like they taste bad. "Would you shut the door...?"
Jason's folded up there, trembling, hiding in his hair. After that last gasp, he makes no sound. He's not crying. He's /not/ crying, dammit. Suck it up, store it all away, maybe we'll get to it sometime... NOT crying. His forearms shake so hard he nearly pitches face-first into the floor... But then he's suddenly up, wiping his hair and what literally is blood, sweat, and tears from his cheek, expression hard. Not crying... "He got two feet," he says softly. "He know how to walk on 'em." He's already reaching for the doorknob when you ask him to shut it, but your request makes him stop and look back down at you. Blinking. /Now/ you see his chin wrinkle up as the tears start all over again, but he looks away again as the door clicks shut. But it isn't until all the locks are in place again and the key hidden away once more that he just collapses again in the corner with his knees against his chest and lets the heart-broken sobs come full-force.
The sound of your sobs pool up his own eyes, and Trace pushes himself up again to painfully drag himself close to you and slump down, curl up into a little ball at Jason's feet. Three days. More sober than you've ever, ever seen him. And instincts unclouded make his hand reach out without thinking, grasping next to you, grasping nothing. He blinks in confusion and instead touches your chest with one extended hand, looking up tearfully. "M'sorry, Jason," he whispers. "B..bout yer cheek, n'.. everything.."
The touch, really, is what brings him back. Jason chokes back yet another wrenching sob, and swallows hard, lifting his eyes to yours. Oh god. What happened? The fires of a burning bridge glisten in the tears of his eyes. He knows something irrevocable just happened. His hand covers yours, gentle and tentative at first. And then he grasps it, holding firmly. Okay, he's here. He can breathe now. "No," he whispers, pushing back your apology. "You didn'..." His other hand lifts to his cheek and wipes some blood away. He looks at the fingertips, and then back to you, shaking his head again. There is no blame in his eyes for you. Not for you. You asked him to close the door. He swallows hard and wipes the fingers on his shirt, then licks his fingertips and reaches out to wipe the spatter of drying blood from your cheek as well. "I..." he starts to say. But then whatever it was dies away. No. Can't think about things right now.
Trace keeps his eyes on yours, lying still as you brush at his cheek. He blinks, the flutter slow with exhaustion, reluctant clingy pale lashes pulling apart wetly. His small hand clings to yours weakly, but still held fast by your firm grip.