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Log Title: 5th Day Kicking

Log setting: Lafitte’s Apartment, early on the fifth day.

Log Cast:
Trace
Jason

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The fourth night then passed with a relative calm, punctuated by only a brief panic attack around 3:00 in the morning, quickly quelled. The sun has risen, dawning an even less eventful morning. Trace has been entirely unmotivated to eat, keep up a conversation, or do much of anything really aside from watching the strength of the shadows change and shift from around that brick-facing window. Half on the blanket pile, half on the carpet, he stays in an only semi-comfortable sprawl, occasionally mopping at his brow with a stale rag. Though not in a foul mood, he doesn't even seem that thoughtful... Just slightly vacant. And in truth, looking closely, there's a thick, thorough exhaustion settled over him. These sleepless nights are taking their toll on the boy.

So, yeah, the sleepness night haven't exactly been a holiday for Jason either. He spent most the night by the window. A couple new little doodles appeared, but they were aimless, wandering sorts of doodles. He's done his best to keep more food and water going in than coming out, but he doesn't force anything on you. But, finally, he motivates himself to take care of some more of this business, and, in the afternoon non-light in the apartment, he comes trotting in with a rag and the bowl of water. Bathtime. Or... something.

Trace shifts his head slowly to look up at you and the bowl you carry. He makes a little face as slow-turning gears finally deduce what you likely have in mind for him, and sighs, giving the window one last glance before pushing himself up into a sitting position with weary, slow effort. One hand lifts to rub at the slimy upper lip from his runny nose, neglected until now. "What..." his throat rasps a little from disuse, and he clears it and coughs softly before asking, "What you doin'?" His hand darts down to swat absently at his ankle, and his still-wary eyes stay on yours.

Jason heaves a soft sigh as he crouches down beside you. "What I usually do with the rag," he murmurs, setting the bowl down and dipping the cloth in it. "Don' worry, won't get any water on ya." He wrings the cloth out, then unfolds it. "'Sides, ya reak, Trace." He tries on a small smile. "Smell ya in the other room."

The bluecap flashes teeth and then grumbles, "Gee thanks, m'kindly keeper." He gives a soft, relenting sigh and says, "Jest be careful. Near made me sick last time you did that." Okay, so it probably wasn't the rag specifically that made him queasy, and rather he had the poor luck to be subjected to both the unpleasantries of an upset stomach and one of these pseudo-baths cropping up at the same time. He reluctantly tugs his shirt off, since if he smells, it's probably time for a change. Once it's cleared his skin, his arms curl up around him protectively and he grimaces at the temperature shift, commenting, "Ugh."

Jason grimaces a little in return when you take your shirt off, knowing full well how much it must suck. He brushes his fingers lightly across your braids. "Won' make you sick this time, promise." And then he sighs again and starts wiping at your face. "How you feelin?" he asks softly. For the first time since you got in here. Either he's optimistic, or he's that desperate for conversation.

A few helpless shivers run through him from the adjustment of the cooler air. Trace drudges a weak smile at your question. "My skin's all creepy... From the air." And now your rag, too, but he's given himself up to your nursings and bites back further protest. "An' I been, arg." The toes of one bare foot scritches at the top of the other one, then the ankle again. "S'jest been itchy-tickly sometimes, in a bad way." He flinches a little as you start to near his neck with the rag, and starts to counter it with hunched shoulders, but forces himself to relax the tense muscles there and let you work. He's clearly trying to be something close to cooperative. "I guess it's not--" But his words are cut off in a sudden gasp, and at the same time he jumps, reaching to slap sharply at his calf. His breathing picks up quickly after that, frightened.

Jason gives a faintly apologetic smile and mumbles, "I'll take my time then, if yer enjoying it so much..." He quietly goes about wiping your face and then moves down to your neck and shoulders, periodically rinsing the rag off. He's probably find some amusement in your reaction to his ministrations, but , well... you're not amused in the least. "It's not...?" he asks distractedly, but his eyes go down to your leg and a small frown forms. "You okay there?" His hand moves towards your leg, but then he pulls it back, for fear of making the sensation worse.

Pant, pant... Trace stares down towards his feet and tosses his head in a quick, shaky gesture of denial. "N...no, I...mmph!" A sudden whimper, and he scrapes at his ankle with his other foot, and then makes a desperate, scrabbling grab for your rag, scratching at your hands at first to pry it free from your hands. He takes the scrap of damp cloth and plunges it into the water, then slops it all over his ankles, already cringing at the sensation, but it doesn't override his irrational fear.

Ah, shit. Please, not now... "Trace?" Jason says gently, trying to get your attention. "/Trace/," he repeats, more firmly. One hand goes to the scrubbing hands while the other goes to brush through your braids. "Shh, I think they're clean now. Gimme the rag back," he murmurs in as calm a voice he can muster. But it's clear by his eyes that he doesn't think it's getting through to you. He slides his fingers down to your chin and tries to pull your gaze up to him. "Ain' nuthin' there but air, Trace..."

"No, no I *need* it!" Trace insists, pulling away from your gaze stubbornly and clinging to the rag now, wrapping two white-knuckled fists around it and rubbing hard. Still breathing hard, panicked, but the scrubbing slows and finally he's just holding it there, as though waiting for more of whatever he thinks was crawling on his skin. Skittish eyes dance all along his legs. "Jes... jest lemme... keep it a second," he pleads softly, panting. "I'll give it back inna sec. Jest..." It's broken off with a sharp cry, and the whatever-it-is has crawled up his knuckles and onto his forearms now. He drops the rag in surprise, but instead of moving to retrieve it, tries to get it off with his bare hands, rubbing and then scratching hard. Jagged nails dragged across sensative skin, leaving red, angry trails. He's really starting to freak out, his constant whimper growing louder, nearing a breathy shriek as he attacks his arms with a ferocity that's quickly nearing the love he showed your cheek earlier.

Jason lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding as you chill out on your legs. Okay, maybe it was just a false alarm or something. Just came and went, see? But, no. He blinks in surprise at your cry, snatching his hand back as if they were the cause or something. He bites his lip and watches for several moments, pained but unsure that he should, that he /could/ do anything. But as your rubbing becomes a frantic clawing, that's when he realizes he's got to do /something/. "Trace," he calls. "/Trace!/" Slender fingers wrap about your wrists in an attempt to pull them apart, to keep the nails from digging into flesh any deeper. "Trace, look at me, c'mon, geez..." His grip tightens, and, while not brutally strong, it's quite firm. "Look at me, ain' nuthin' but air, Trace. Ain' nuthin'."

Animal panic meets your gaze, and the blue-haired boy's voice comes in breathy gasps. "M-make'er take 'em back! I don', I don' WANT..." Another cry, twisting his head way back and out of the way, like a child denying a forkful of vegetables. His hands rage against your grip on his wrists, yanking, with a desperate need to free them. "I d'want ANY MORE!!" he shrieks. "They got faces, they're people, I D'WANN'EM! MAKE HER TAKE THEM BACK!" He writhes, and it's probably all you can do to hang onto his wrists.

At least he knows what you're seeing then. But they're most certainly not here, not right now. If they are... well, he's in a lot more trouble than you can imagine. Anyhow. Jason's weight is suddenly thrown against you as he's forced to use it against your thrashings, face contorted with both stress and the pain of you shrieking into his face. "Can't hurt you!" he calls, trying to sound calm. "She'll take 'em back, I'll eat 'em if I have to, jus' chill out! Shh!"

"Y-you eat 'em..." Yes, this is a fabulous idea. We really should fly with this. The words are whimpered, as Trace's panic is briefly thrown into check when you force him down with the whole of your weight. His eyes flash with terror, skittish, darting over your face and now frightened to look down. "Din' know there was so many... Get 'em off me. Now." He squirms a little, and pulls in a few sharp breaths in succession. "NOW! Please, they... they's crawlin'... They're gonna find my mouth! Jason..!" Further protest is made silent as he closes his mouth tight, lips pursed hard as he can, and squeezes his eyes shut.

It's kinda like make-believe, but it's /not/ in a very scary way. Jason doesn't let up off of you, but his fingers loosen a little as he murmurs, "Okay, m'gonna eat 'em, alright? Won' none make it nowhere, kay?" Your left wrist is releases as his hand pulls away, and then you feel him brushing at your shoulders and neck and arms, plucking up here and there. And he's making munching noises. "Y'know, mmmrmmnmphlm, these ain' so, mmnlphm, these ain' so bad, actually," he chatters along, trying hard to sound cheerful as he stuffs (?) imaginary human-headed spiders into his maw. "Could use a little, mrowlmmn, more salt though." But, really, it's impossible to be cheerful as you're freaking out beneath him. He's more along the lines of, oh... scared shitless, maybe? But he's been that a lot over the past few days. He's almost getting used to it.

Trace keeps his mouth clamped shut, but peeks down timidly to look at you as you munch away on his imaginary Wendy-bugs. The accelerated breathing remains, but after a moment is allowed to hush gently between no longer tightly-pursed lips, and after the freed hand slaps at a few places on his chest, after a moment he falls still, watching you. Just the tiniest, very tense almost-giggle, a soft 'heh', as you claim that the bugs need salt, and that shatters the illusion. He lets out a shaky breath and tugs at your arm. "I.... s'okay. Y'don' gotta.... I'm..." Broken sentances. He runs tentative fingers over the red scratches on his arms, and winces a little at the hurt. God. But the delirium is definitely fleeing him, and as it does, he's even confused at his own broken memories of the weird hallucination that just transpassed. Hazel eyes drift up towards the ceiling. Why did he ask Jason to *eat* bugs? Who the hell's 'she'? It's all quickly dismissed. Junk needy dreams are allowed to score 9.5 on the fucked-up-shit-o-meter without too much pondering. "M'sorry," he mumbles, with a lingering tremble in his voice.

Jason stops the munching noises and lifts his eyes to yours at the tug on his arm, then, slowly, he raises himself off of you, fingers running gently over the clawed-at skin of your arms. "They never really seemed ta work all that well fer me anyways," he murmurs with a tight smile. Gentle touches to your forehead as he pushes back tangled knots of blue hair. The smile grows a little fond, and then he's looking away again, hand reaching for the rag and dipping it in the water. "Y'still reak, though," he murmurs softly, just the hint of playfulness.

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