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Log Title: Awakening

Log setting: Beight’s motel, the morning after Trace’s birthday party

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Jason
Trace

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Morning. Slowly, muzzily, Batiste becomes aware of the world again. Hazy remembrances of the others getting up, untangling and dressing and stumbling to their homes, but the triangle remained. He finds himself in the puppy-pile, listening to the sounds of slow, deep sleep-breathing, and thinks back over the previous night. Did it all really happen like that? So gentle and scared-sweet? A drowsy smile passes over his face, then flickers uncertainly, like a light bulb about to fall from its socket. What will Trace think? How will he react? What if he's never comfortable about the two of them again? No. Mustn't think of that. Concentrate on the good parts. He squirms gently, stretching, making fuzzy-mouth noises. Wow. Someone knitted little sweaters over all his teeth.

Sometime during the night, Jason got rid of his jeans. Three people under one set of covers gets far too hot. But now he's about as comfortable as can be. Curled up amidst a nest of blankets and friends, he sleeps like the dead. One arm is thrown across Trace, fingers touching Batiste's chest. His face is buried in his smaller friend's shoulder, his red hair all spread out about. Undoubtedly tangled. But it's late in the morning now, and wakefulness is intruding itself nastily. A few smacks of a cottony mouth and a groan, then he rebels against the light and nuzzles closer. No. No waking up. The dream of last night was much better.

Trace is curled close to the both of you, very close. Such a peace has stolen over his expression, untroubled by nightmares, worries, or insecurities as he slumbers. Squirming and stretching from bedmates starts to tug him gently from the depths of contented sleep, however, and after a slow minute or two his lashes flutter heavily, and his arm starts a languid creep towards the headboard, back and neck arching a little, reaching for full stretch. Hazel eyes still squinted and sleep-clouded smile up at Batiste once he's able to focus somewhat, and he cranes forward a little to press a nuzzle against the boy's shoulder. At the same time, he reaches to clasp his hand around Jason's arm where it's sprawled across his chest, squeezing once with affection. And for a moment he nearly lets it go at that, ready to drift back into sleep, because Batiste being the first one up, rising at hours too insanely early in Trace's opinion, is nothing really new. But wait. Something's different. There's an unaccustomed freedom clinging to his skin, too soft and unrestrained against the sheets. Oh, god. The bedding is tangled over the three of them, draped over his impossibly thin form, but nothing more clothes the boy, and the realization comes as a faint, confusing shock, with more memories hurrying in right on its tail. A wise friend once told him it was funny, how the night loses its magic once dawn comes, and it's so true now, stealing him away from where he wants to be with all his heart, and reminding him again where he should be. His arm around Jason tenses, and he draws back a little. Silent. Eyes widening. No sleep clings there any longer as he licks his lips and tries to swallow.

Jean-Batiste closes his eyes when he feels Trace tense and draw back a little, so the expression there is hidden away, obscured by drowsy, placid features. Will he get up and flee for the bathroom? No, probably not - he's always so self-conscious about his scars. He'll huddle there, getting smaller by the second, feeling trapped. Memories panic-dance through his head until they're forcibly quelled. This doesn't have to end miserable and uncomfortable, not if he can help it. He takes a deep breath, and shifts away a little from Trace, disentangling gently. "Morning," he murmurs, voice scratchy and a little rumbly from disuse. He rolls over a little, glancing around. Shorts. He tossed them around here -somewhere-, last night...

Jason whimpers softly in that half-sleep before full wakefulness. No tensing and pulling away, please, it makes it much harder to sleep on you. He pursues the retreating arm, snuggling closer... until something conscious deep in his mind pokes him. Trace is awake. He was afraid of this point, wasn't he? He mumbles something incoherant, then flashes sleep-gummed eyes. "Trace?" he asks softly.

"Mornin'," Trace whispers softly. He hesitates just a moment, then swallows again and reaches for Batiste as he starts to pull away and look for clothing. "Hey," he rasps, and smiles faintly, nervously. A long silence, as his eyes drift upwards to admire the far-away stiples decorating the ceiling. In a tiny, distant voice he recalls a passage, speaking so softly that some of the words are more breath than voice, as though speaking to himself. "Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear..." A shy, awkward chuckle. How do these things stay locked up in his brain all this time without fading? He keeps his eyes trained heavenward a moment longer, then glances slowly left, then right, a hesitant look to both.

Jean-Batiste pauses when Trace reaches for him, and glances back over his shoulder to share a gentle, tentative smile with the bluecap. "Hey," he echoes, reaching out to touch fingertips for a second, just the briefest of squeezes. Then he's sitting up, carefully flipping a corner of the bedsheets over his hips before stretching briefly and scratching his belly. Scritchscritch. He leans forward, grabbing his bicycle shorts, and wads them up in his fingers. How exactly does one put on bicycle shorts -modestly-? "What poem is that?" he wonders, glancing back towards the two of you as he turns the shorts right side out and right side up.

Trace chuckles very softly and explains, "It was what Juliet said to Romeo, to keep him from dressing and leaving her side." Quietly wry.

Jason blinks his eyes open. Whoah. Blinkblink. Okay, yeah, this is a nice, if not usual sensation. And... Trace doesn't want it to end yet? Buh? He swallows hard, but doesn't pull away. "'Mornin..." he whispers. Just... wait. Stay still. See what happens. /Then/ bolt if things go wrong.

That'll learn you for sketching during English class, Batiste. He blinks, and freezes for several seconds, looking down at his bicycle shorts like they were the cruellest, most evil things on the earth. All their fault. Yeah. "Um..." he murmurs, finally getting up the courage to look back at Trace. "Oh. I thought you were uncomfortable." He's not -that- eager to get dressed - he starts to slip back under the covers, rolling over on his side to face Trace, head propped in his hand.

Trace leans back again to watch the ceiling. "I just... I don't want you to rush away yet," he further clarifies. It's hard to explain, because not only does he feel, ahh, acutely heterosexual and naked figuratively and literally; it's also his whirlwind emotions right now, racing just beneath his calm, still demeanor, and while it shows in his expression and especially those open, forever-honest eyes, he presses on bravely. "I just... I had... a really amazing birthday." A flushed smile to Batiste. "First french kiss... And then my first..." Jason gets an impish, blushing look and he just breaks into a grin. "Yeah. Anyway." He curls modest arms around what is exposed of his pale chest, and tries for casual rather than shy, failing miserably. "I jest. I mean. I do feel... different now, like I thought I might, y'know? I can't help it. But I jest... I may not be -- I -- I may not like boys that way on my own," he finally gets it out awkwardly, "but it was still the best present I coulda gotten. Because... Because I was always so -- scared of what you two had, it was jest this huge, untouchable thing I didn't understand, but now --" A pause. He takes a moment to look at the both of you and smile, honestly smile, "I jest, I been there... And you both made me feel so.... loved, and -- and beautiful, and--" his voice chokes up, lashes glimmering, but he swallows and reigns it all back in to conclude, "I just... Thank you. Jason, Batiste -- what a sharing."

Jason's breath was held for every word that Trace spoke... and he didn't know it. At the last, he suddenly takes in a deep breath, his whole body shivering. He's all blushed up too, especially at that impish look from Trace. Even Jason, who usually doesn't consider what he's done after the fact, has the thought, 'I did /what/ to my friend?' going through his head. Ohhboy. X. But then he swallows, slipping his hand up to rest on Trace's, nuzzling his shoulder. "So... yer okay?" That's about all he can ask.

Jean-Batiste, too, lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding as Trace finishes speaking. This could have been a 'I can't be a part of this any more' speech that Trace was about to give...but blessedly, blissfully turned out to be something better. -Much- better. "Things...things will be different now, yeah," he murmurs. "I mean, like...not uncomfortable, but different. Because we'll all remember. But...oh, Trace." Long, soul-deep sigh, soft eyes moving from one of you to the other and back again. "I won't ever forget that. And...I'm just so glad you're still happy with it, that you...that you don't regret it. Just..." He edges in a little closer, resting his cheek down on his arm, fingers of his other arm resting on Trace's shoulder. "Thank you for letting us share it with you. Happy Birthday."

"I'm okay. Batiste's right, I don't regret it." Trace sighs softly, leaning in for a moment to give the fireheart a brief nuzzle around his neck and cheek reassuringly. Not afraid, see? Kept my promise, still love you both so much. He leans back against the pillows and, at the touch on his shoulder, clasps his fingers over Batiste's hand and squeezes gently. Then a sudden, soft giggle escapes his lips as a thought occurs to him. "Hey, wait. Am I still a virgin? I'm not, am I! I mean... I mean, what -- how far -- till it counts, do you think?"

Jason makes a soft, happy sound as he's nuzzled, and returns the gesture warmly. Reassured, he presses close against his blue-haired friend again and closes his eyes, re-draping his arm across Trace. But at the giggle, he lifts his head and peers down into Trace hazel eyes, his own dancing. His turn for the impish look. "Well, y'know, we could fix that right now, if ya want..." And then a bright giggle and a burrow to show he's kidding.

Jean-Batiste laughs softly, fingers curling warmly around Trace's hand and returning the gentle squeeze. "Mmn," he replies thoughtfully, eyes half-closed as he breathes against Trace's shoulder. "Well, I think..." He hesitates, nibbling his bottom lip bashfully before mustering the courage to continue. "If you're a virgin until the first time you have sex with a girl, I guess you're still a virgin. But if you're a virgin until the first time you, um." He blushes a little, glancing down shyly. "Until the first time you make love, then, um. Then maybe it's different. I think it's really up to you, though. How you feel about it." He puffs his chest out, and affects an impish tone like Jason took moments before. "But yer an expert kisser, now, yep. Heh, heh. Kissed both of us." He relents to shy, soundless giggles, and nestles into Trace's side, face hidden for a few seconds.

Trace rolls over a little and cranes his neck to hide his blushing giggle into the pillow at Jason's words. He just stays there a moment though, and withdraws again, as Batiste speaks. More embarrassed giggling at that last bit, about the kissing, but then he nuzzles his lips against the blonde braids near his shoulder. "I..." He looks up a bit more to give it serious thought once his blush has faded. Finally a grin. "I think... I'm not a virgin. Because... because X let this happen, but so did the fact that... I mean, I *do* love. Y'know? S'like, Xed outta my mind, I wouldn'ta done nothin' if it'd jest been Glass around. Y'see? I do.. love you both. And that part means more than sex t'me. And really...ya both mean more t'me than any girl I ever met. There's no one I trust like you two. So...so I don't mind that it was you. I really don't."

Jason makes a small gasp into Trace's shoulder as the realization hits him that... well... he was partly responsible for Trace losing his virginity. Another deep breath and accompanying shiver. And then he just reaches up and gently runs his fingers through the blue braids. You know... he'd rather be responsible for Trace than to trust it to someone else (who'd likely flub the job, if he remembers things). "Thank you," he whispers.

Jean-Batiste doesn't gasp like Jason does, but he -does- flush a nice, rosy pink and bury his face completely into Trace' s shoulder, wrapping his topmost arm over the bluecap, outstretched so he can touch Jason as well. It's an overwhelming feeling, to know you were a part of something truly memorable, to know that you helped make something a -good- memory. If last night was his fifteen minutes of fame, he'll die a happy streetrat. "I'm just...so glad you had a good time, Trace," he murmurs. "So glad. And, and thank you. For still loving us." He lifts his face then, to smile at the both of you, trying to nestle even closer.

"No matter how weird it is to think back on it now, I distinctly remember that then I was having a really good time," Trace admits with a big grin. "No need to thank me. In fact, if it weren't my birthday at the time I'd prolly feel bad I was too... new 'n surprised 'n everything and it's like I got all the attention and I didn't do nothin' fer you two..." He shrugs just a little, shy and still grinning faintly. With a languid stretch, he peers out over the room, surveying damages. "Wonder if my silk shirt's still okay, an' not sitting in a puddle 'a melted ice cream somewhere..."

Jason murmurs absently into Trace's shoulder, getting nice and comfortable again, "S'on the lamp, I think..." Actually, it's on the chair, but hey. He shifts his legs against Trace's... then blinks a little. Oh, wait, he /thought/ he was wearing something. Ahem. He coughs and rolls onto his back, mumbling an apology. "Was a little warm..."

Ah, yes. Those wonderful silk shirts Ali crafted. What a wonderful present for everyone. What a thoughtful... "Holy shit!" Batiste's suddenly sitting up in shock, staring down at Trace, aghast and amused at the same time. "Your present! Shit, we forgot to- Shit. Just. Um. Damn. Uh, close your eyes, or something!" He giggles as he hops out of bed, nekkid as the proverbial jaybird, and starts struggle-hopping into his bicycle shorts. Hop, hop, wriggle-tug-tug.

Trace lights up with a brighter grin and closes his eyes, then covers them with his hands too. Just a tiny bit of peeking. Hee. Hopping Bat. He shuts them again. "So what is it?" Tsk, so impatient. Eager and surprised too -- he hadn't expected this.

Jason suddenly he pushes himself up onto his elbows, blinking at Bat... and then tilts his head, eyebrows raised. He doesn't cover his eyes at all. Big, lopsided grin. Both at the present and the hopping. Ooh, wriggles.

Jean-Batiste's feeling good enough that he'd turn around and waggle himself at Jason, but to do so he'd have to also waggle at Trace...and let's not spoil a good thing by getting too cheeky, hmm? He finally struggles the clingy lycra up over his hips, tucks everything in properly, and gives the bottoms a final soft snap before picking around the sticky puddles of melted ice cream - oh, the maids are going to love them again - and crouching down to pull something heavy-sounding out from under the bed. "It's from the whole family," he murmurs, as he picks it up. It's a large, heavy rectangular present, wrapped in electric blue paper with silver ribbons curled into a complete -mess- of curlicues.

Jason sits up fully, gathering the sheets about him to be decent, and bounces. Yay! Present! Trace is gonna love this. He knows he would... if he was like Trace. Well, anyhow. He beams proudly, as if he were soley responsible for this wonderful thing, and looks to Trace, waiting expectantly.

Trace gives a tiny squeal as he opens his eyes. Not just a present, but a really big, curly-ribboned, BLUE present!! He leaps up with enthusiasm and clambers half-way across the bed towards it with typical Trace-like eagerness, but yelps and dives back into a self-conscious huddle when it finally occurs to him that he's bare-ass naked. A blush takes hold of his cheeks, even if he knows they've both seen him. To worsen matters, now Jason's hogging all the sheets, and he can't drag them all with him, so he sighs and makes a lightening-quick dash for his silk shirt and tugs it on. Remember how he was swimming in it last night? Well, that's still the case, and it hangs down far enough that he doesn't bother with pants for now and just throws himself right down next to the present. He takes a few moments just to admire the pretty wrapping job, scrunching the ribbons up with his fingers and smiling, pleased. But it's a short few moments, to be honest, and soon there's blue paper flying as he tears at the box with a vengeance.

Whoah, hello there. Trace's sudden case of streaking certainly catches Jason by surprise and he completely forgets that staring's not polite. Or that giggling at another's plight isn't either. And he does plenty of both before he regains his senses. When he does, he clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle the humor, and lowers his eyes so that, well... Ahem. Hey, that shirt looks cool! He bounces again and is about to comment on something to that extent when the paper starts flying. Oh! Distraction. He leans forward expectantly, bright eyes dancing.

The present is a book, as can be quickly deduced by the shape and weight. Big enough to be a Bible - but certainly, considering the family, it wouldn't be -that-? As the last of the paper is torn free, a bible can indeed be seen...though this is one of a different sort. A huge, heavy reference tome, hardcover, labelled with neat Roman letters: 'Anthology of Western Poetry'. Well over a thousand pages, referenced and annotated, holding the choicest morsels of poetry from the present back to Beowulf. Batiste sits on the bed, smiling at Trace with large, hopeful eyes. He licks his bottom lip, takes in a deep breath, and murmurs, "Since we'll have a place to keep it, we could get you something big like that..."

Trace's eyes widen with surprise, and he looks down at the label for a moment, reading the four words several times as it sinks in. Then a big smile lights up his whole face as he looks up at Batiste, then Jason, then back to his gift. He flips it open and scans random pages within. "Wow!" he grins. "This is amazing..." Flip, flip, flip, occasionally punctuated with, "Ooh, I know this one!" and sometimes the occasional, fond mumbling of a familiar line. He quickly gets lost in it.

Jason scoots close so he can peer over his friend's shoulder at the pages. All these words. Damn, it's making him dizzy just thinking about it. Maybe he knows a bunch of them as well, but he learned them a completely different way. But still... all this in one book. It actually sparks a little burn of curiosity deep down inside. "How'd... how'd you learn so much poetry, Trace?" A soft, delving question. Curious. But no answer is really needed, as his eyes are on the book.

Trace pulls his attention away from the book with effort and grin widely at Jason's question. "My dad had a bookshelf hidden up in the attic, with lotsa poetry, an' art, an' great stories 'a far-off places..." His eyes are distant, joyful. "An' I'd read everythin' on that shelf by the time I was eight or nine. Didn't get it all at first, but I read it. Over 'n over 'n over." A little shrug. "N'then since I knew all this stuff so young, they put me in English with older kids. And...well, I learned more there..." But his book is open again, flipping through one fascinating page after another, and his words trail off distractedly.

"Jabberwocky's in there, somewhere..." Batiste murmurs, leaning in close to Trace to kiss the blue-haired boy's cheek. "I like that one. I used to know some of it..." He watches a few pages flip by, then gives Trace a sideways hug and murmurs, "I'm starved..." and climbs off the bed, heading for the fruit on the table. He murmurs to himself as he pops blackberries in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "And the mome raths outgrabe."

Jason murmurs softly, his chin sinking to rest it on Trace's shoulder, leaning against the smaller boy as he stares at the flipping pages, hypnotized. "M'mom used ta read ta me alla the time when I was little... When I was big too. Guess a little rubbed off. Didn' much like whassername... Um... Em'ly Dickenson, though. Too bubbly." He's rambling a little, but that's excusable. He just had a wonderful birthday (well, Trace's) and now this bonding thing.

"Twas brillig in the slithy toves did gire and gimble in the wabe..." Trace smiles, but can't find the page to quote the rest of it, which he can't remember off the top of his head. Following Batiste with his eyes for a moment, the blackberries get a lusty smile. Mmm. But he's got a brand new gift disctracting him right now. He grins as Jason settles down near his shoulder, and nuzzles the boy's cheek briefly. "Dickenson... Yeah, I know. Cept when she got all creepy talkin' bout death 'an the window of her life closin' in, smaller an' smaller... Her death stuff ain' bubbly at all. But still not so great. Anyone who writes all 'er poems so that ya kin' sing Gilligan's Island to 'em needs some variety..." He falls silent as it sinks in that Jason just talked about his mom, and that's not something he's used to. He looks up with a thoughtful smile and asks softly, "Do you wanna hear some've these sometime?" His eyes are hopeful, open. "I jest... I mean..." He doesn't want it taken as insulting at all, and tries to fumble a shy explanation. "It'd jest be... real nice t'cuddle round the book an' share 'em with ya sometime, if yer still interested in 'em at all..."

Jean-Batiste's eyes widen a little, as Trace's words spark his memory. He turns, gulping down a mouthful of sweet blackberries, and murmurs, "'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe. All mimsy were the borogroves, and the mome raths outgrabe." He beams to himself, pleased. "That's all I remember. That's where D&D took vorpal swords from, though, I heard. Because it wasn't a word until he made it up."

Jason giggles softly at the Jabberwocky quote, then returns Trace's nuzzle fondly. He goes quiet as Trace picks up on the ramble and goes all knowledgable on it, enjoying this new perspective that he gets. Gilligan's Island, huh? Another soft snicker. Flipflipflip... He pulls his head back a little and blinks at Trace's offer, head tilting, yes, a little defensive. But... cuddling around a book and listening while Trace reads... that'd be wonderful. You can see it in his eyes, the spread of a soft, warm glow. A smile and a little, bashful, nod. Chin back to the shoulder, eyes on the hundreds of poems that lay just within reach. If only... But no. "Friend's friends all played D&D... thought they were hackers too... Lived in his garage fer awhile."

Trace gives a sunny smile when Jason wordlessly consents, then looks over at Batiste and lifts his brows, pleased and impressed at his older friend's recitation. "That's... wow, that's great! You did it better'n me, too... I messed up some words, an' don't got it memorized that far..." The boy doesn't know Thing One about D&D, so his only comment is, "It'd be cool to have a vorpal sword."

Jean-Batiste shakes his head bashfully at Trace as he returns to the bed, bouncing down onto the mattress and holding out the plastic basket of blackberries for all to share. "It's just one part of the poem. I just loved how it sounded, to say, so I memorized it." He munches a couple more berries, then adds, "A vorpal sword named Snickersnee." He grins.

Jason has no idea what the hell either of you are talking about. He remembers /some/thing about Jabberwocky, but it was like Dr. Seuss to him. At least at the time. Full of delightful sounds and conjuring delicious images that were never the same twice, it nonetheless was something he could never wrap his mind around enough to remember. And this whole vorpal sword business is completely beyond him. So he just stares at the page that Trace landed on and starts trying to read the words there, his lips moving very slightly with his eyes.

"Snickersnee!" Trace giggles. What a word. He reaches for a blackberry and pops it into his mouth, wipes his hands on his jeans so as not to get any berry stains on the crisp, clean-smelling pages, and is just about to turn the page, but stops when he notices what Jason's up to. He sneaks just the tiniest peek, then stays very still, still like trying not to scare away a butterfly that landed on your fingertip. He drops his eyes to the page too. It's not one he's read before, and he skims the work with a deliberate slowness. Not bad...

Jason finishes reading the fourteen line poem... A sonnet! Well, he didn't see the header or anything like that. He's still at the word-by-word stage. But slowly learning... When you two aren't watching. Fortunately, he's so consumed with the task he doesn't notice Trace's gentle attention to his efforts. His lips move as he once more goes over the poem... Oh, hell. He learns by hearing, and he can't hear the words. Softly, in a voice that's used to reciting and singing, but not to reading, "No longer mourn for me when I am dead/ Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell/ Give warning to the world that I am fled/ From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:" He wrinkles his nose, but smiles slightly as the words sink in. He continues in that near-whisper (having by now completely forgotten that either of you were here - even with Trace as his chin-rest), "Nay, if you read this line, remember not/ The hand that writ it; for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,/ If thinking on me then should make you woe." The rhythm's easy to fall into, if not the words easy to read. "O, if, I say, you look upon this verse/ When I perhaps compounded am with clay," he stumbles along, then picks up again, "Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;/ But let your love even with my life decay;" His head tilts, starting to get intrigued, "Lest the wise world should look into your moan, and mock you with me after I am gone..." He blinks a little and sits back, letting that sink in... Then gets this odd little smile, both sad and pleased. He read it! And, well, /kinda/ understood it. But it's in his head now (for the most part). And, get /this/, all he needs to do is turn to the page and read it again if he needs to. Numbers he can remember. He blinks some more, then looks at the both of you. And blushes furiously. Oh! Trace's present. Doh. "Err... sorry," he mumbles, ducking his head bashfully.

Trace just smiles fondly and just kisses Jason's cheek. Smooch. Quite proud, and pleased to have found this unexpected common interest. "It was a sad, beautiful poem," he smiles. "Don't ever apologize." His eyes find their way back to the book. So much to explore here! But the sun is rising, and his tummy is growling, so he gently closes it for now, infinitely careful, and eases his shoulder free of Jason to clamber onto the bed and share a blackberry breakfast.

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