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Log Title: Bongs and Boston
Log setting: Walker’s house, downstairs.
Log Cast:
Trace
Alisynde
Ayita
Walker
Jean-Batiste
Jason
Benjamin
Devon
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Benjamin slips in quietly, letting the door fall shut. He moves slowly through the room, feeling his way in the dim. "Trace? It's good to hear you... feeling all right?" In a minute or so he's near the couch, crouching down, his presence and voice coming from nearer you this time. "I was worried, last night."
If your eyes are adjusting, you'd see him bite his lip before answering. The light from a window, and the streetlight beyond it, reflects off shiny dark hazel eyes. "I didn't mean to worry nobody... I worried Batiste too, huh. I'm sorry... But I'm okay, see? I'm fine like I told you.." His arms curl into a loose, defensive self-hug.
You are probably used to the darkness by now, and can see him slowly nod to you, peering through the dim, but more comfortable with the dark. A soft whump sounds that he has seated himself on the floor, and a gentle pressure on once cushion indicates that he leans on it. "Yes, like you told us. Still, it's the job of friends to worry," Ben murmurs.
Trace nods with an attempt at a smile, but it comes out weak and evaporates quickly. "Yeah... yeah, well, I'm sorry." He shifts slowly to lay on his stomach, legs bent and feet dangling up above the arm rest. "Ben...? Ben, tell me about Boston," he demands softly. "Like you said you would." Rested partly on his elbows, he twists the end of one of his braids in idle fingers.
A soft, brief laugh from the darkness, and Ben draws in a long breath. "What do you want to know?" comes his quiet, always gently modulated voice. Just thinking about his hometown accentuates the R-less dialect that years of academia smoothed out. "It's very different from here. Oldeh, mo'h sedate. Everything moves like it's all been planned out in advance. The people, the cahs, even the wind sometimes. But even so, Beauty finds its way in."
Trace smiles again, and this one stays awhile. He folds his arms in front of him and watches you, leaning his cheek against his forearms. "So tell me about that beauty. Like in the art store, and spring green... You painted it so nice for me." A soft chuckle. "It was always snot green before, but I can see spring there now... So go on."
Benjamin tips his head back, calling up the memory and painting it for himself before his eyes, before he paints it for you. "Spring in Bahston is like spring nowhe'h else in the country, fah as I know. The old brick rowhouses ah the same, yeah-round, but Spring doesn't cayeh. Spring breaks on through in the trees outside, tiny little green leaves opening up and lifting up to the sun. It catches you, the sun, when you walk under those trees, through the leaves, and then you see that color."
The blue-haired kid nods peacefully, quiet a log time, wrapping his mind up in a blanket of Boston and spring green. After a moment, a grin touches his lips, and he admits softly, almost whispering, "I like that voice on you... It fits you nicer." He draws an arm away from the fold to nudge you gently and request, "Tell me about winter, and the colors then? Was there snow in Boston? I never did see a real winter..."
The door is opened about four inches, then left ajar. Batiste's voice, softly murmuring, can be heard outside.
Surprised laughter nearby, quiet and tumbling out like a shy brook. "I didn't realize I'd gone back, but I suppose I had." He settles comfortably into the traditional 'pahk the cah in the Hahvahd yahd' upper-class accent. "In the wintah, everything goes quiet. When the snow falls, it mutes everything, and everything goes white 'n silveh. All the branches and the houses get a white outline from the snow, and the icicles spahkle everything around. You get a look at it first thing in the mohning, and it takes youh breath away. Right afteh it's all been painted and waiting just for you."
Trace's eyes are lit now, intense and half-smiling as he watches you. "Does snow really sparkle? People just say that, right? Tryin' ta be poet-y... It don't really. Just powder on the ground, right?" His expression pleads for you to vouch for sparkles. He doesn't even look up at Batiste's voice. "How does it sound when when you step in it? What does Boston smell like in winter?"
From outside, Batiste can be heard to ask, "Jason...?" The door remains ajar, letting in a few street sounds.
Benjamin shakes his head with certainty, so wrapped up in his telling that the voices from outside don't quite filter in. "No, it really does spahkle. When the dew falls in the mohning, it freezes, so theh's ice all over the top of it. And then it spahkles when you walk by." A quiet sigh, reminiscent and gentle, as Ben shifts a bit to lean more heavily against the couch. "If you step on it, fihst theh's a crunch, and then a soht of... whishing sound, depending on how deep it is. You can feel the ice give undeh youh foot for just a second before it crunches." Each question answered, dutifully, in turn, this private invisible showing just for you. "Smells like cold. Its hahd to describe... smells like afteh a rain, but frozen."
Trace looks puzzled for a moment. A Louisiana boy's supposed to paint an image from 'frozen rain'? "Kinda like... like when you hold a glass've ice cubes up to yer face and breath in, and the cold rush like that, all clean...?" he tries hopefully, propping his chin up in one palm.
Jason and Batiste open the front door and step inside.
Benjamin mmms quietly, pondering on that. "Like that... yes. Shahp and newbohn, like the old world's been buried undehneath all that snow, and you'h seeing a brand new world." His face turns a bit, to smile through the darkness fading for his adjusting eyes to Trace. Voice comes soft through the dark room, tinged differently, with an accent he usually smoothes over. "Though I don't suppose you've eveh been so cold as it is in Boston's winteh."
Jean-Batiste is dragged inside by the hand by Jason - though he's dragged only by the virtue of Jason's speed. He wanted to come inside too, after all. He lets out a wearied sigh of relief as the familiar smell and feel of Walker's home surrounds him, a bit of his tension starting to melt away.
Jason comes pulling Batiste in behind him and shuts the door firmly. And then locks the doors. He looks... fierce. Or something. Dried blood crusts his nostrils and around his lips and chin and the fires of an adrenaline rush make his eyes impossibly bright. When he's inside and everything's locked and there's Bat and... He leans back against the wall beside the door and takes deep breaths to come down, one hand clenching and unclenching beside him. But it fails as he suddenly leaps and scurries away from the door, staring at it wide-eyed. He is SO alone in whatever world he's roaming in right now. Or maybe not. A bad trip? What?
Walker opens the front door and steps inside.
Trace is seated on his stomach on the couch, chin propped up against his palm, elbow to the couch cushions as he listens to Ben speak with rapt attention. "Nah... nah, not ever. My ma dragged us up ta Kin'tucky once, and it was kinda chill, but just autumn..." He sighs happily. Spring buds tiny little leaves, snow sparkles.... "I wanna go to Boston," he giggles softly, before dragging his gaze reluctantly over to realize "Oh! Batiste, Jason..." His eyes blink wide, well adjusted to the darkness. "Jason..?!" He sits up a little, his eyes sharp and sober in the darkness.
Ayita opens the front door and steps inside.
Benjamin sits up quickly from his relaxed position next to the couch, starting to get to his feet. "Boys?" The quick turn has dis-adjusted his eyes again and he has to squint through the shadows to make out their entering forms.
Jean-Batiste grabs Jason gently but quickly by the upper arm, half to steady him, half to restrain him. "Jason, it's okay, calm down..." he breathes, trying to sound soothing though the red-haired boy's state is making him jumpy as well. "It's okay, it's just Walker and Ayita, see? It's okay..."
Ayita slips in with one last wary glance over her shoulder, and shuts the door behind her firmly. She eyes Jason a moment, then moves over and murmurs softly to him.
Jason practically darts down the hallway when Walker and Ayita start coming in the door. But, wait... they had to unlock it, which means they belong here. But he's halfway down the hall before he realizes that little detail. No, he's not. Bat grabs him and Jason yelps, like an animal might, and starts yanking away. "Don' let him in! Lemme go!" he squeals.
Walker quietly assesses the current status in his home, one brow furrowing a little at Jason's odd behavior. Oomph. Nope. Not gonna deal. Been dealing all week. Nothing more, here, thank you. Wordlessly he drifts into the kitchen, a quiet breeze in his own home.
Jean-Batiste's fingers start slipping, and he reaches to try and grab Jason in an embrace, backpack skidding off his shoulder and landing with a thump on the floor. "Nobody's coming in, it's okay, Jason. It's okay..." he insists softly, voice fraying a little. He looks up at Ayita as she leans in to murmur to Jason - maybe she can calm him down?
Trace blinkblinks. "But it's his house!" He gets up off the couch to move over to help with wild-eyed Jason, but moves hesitently, knowing Jason could overpower him without any trouble. With a glance to Batiste, he voices what seems like a pretty safe assumption: "How much'd he drop?"
Benjamin bites his lip for a moment, brows coming together at the sudden entrance scene. Last night it was Trace on a bad trip, tonight it's Jason going freaky. But yet his first look is to Batiste, ever the one trying to soothe things. Slowly he rises, hanging back, then moving around past the table into the kitchen, calling Walker's name quietly.
Walker tugs open the fridge, bending with some amount of resistance from the tape over his ribs and more resistance from his back to grab out a wine cooler. The cap's already off by the time he finishes the process of straightening again, bottle lifting to his lips to complete the motion as the door swings shut to cool foodstuffs once more. He looks to Ben as the fellow enters the kitchen, expression as bland as plain cream of wheat.
Benjamin flicks pale fingers at Walker's drink, asking quietly, "Have any more of those?" He sidles up next to Walker, not too close but certainly space-invading, and leaning his rear end against the edge of the counter. "You look tihed."
Jason stares over Bat's shoulder at the door. He can't really pull away, but... the door's closed. So he doesn't need to, right? He suddenly goes slack - not really limp, but, well, the tension's gone. Then, gently, he pulls away and looks up at Batiste and rubs at his nose. "I need a washcloth."
Walker waves the open bottle toward the fridge. "Yeah... bottom shelf. Could ya grab one for Ayita?" He really should have done that but he wasn't thinking. At all. The ability to shift his brain into neutral is a practiced skill he perfected many years ago. He swigs another effervescent drink, idly wondering where he left his pills. Somewhere in the living room, he suspects.
Jean-Batiste looks gratefully at Ayita for a moment - whatever she murmured apparently worked - then releases Jason reluctantly. He sneaks a quick glance to Trace and shrugs helplessly, not knowing what brought on this bout of weirdness. "Go sit down," he murmurs to Jason, trying to nudge him in the direction of the living room. "I'll get you a washcloth." And off he goes, towards the bathroom, rubbing at the back of his neck.
Ayita stays by Jason, eyes gentle, reassuring. "It won't get in, hon," she murmurs. She does seem to believe that something or other may actually be out there... there's nothing in her attitude that would indicate that she's just humouring Jason.
Trace trails after Jason closely, and peers with concerned, bright hazel eyes. "Ya okay?" he murmurs, before pursing his lips. "Was' goin on?" Apparantly since Jason's not thrashing anymore, Trace believes this restores the entirity of his friend's logic. As an afterthough he adds, "Promise I'll believe ya..."
Benjamin moves as instructed, re-opening the fridge and retrieving two wine cooler bottles. Though he doesn't quite vacate Walker's side yet, on the excuse that he has to work at opening the darn bottlecaps that are simply -hell- on one's hands. A sidelong glance at Walker and the soft entreaty, "Go sit down, go rest, and let me wait on you and take cayeh of things." That naughty little Boston accent has set in firmly, probably from the very moment that Trace told him it suited him.
Jason looks up at Ayita and blinkblinks. "What?" he asks, apparently clueless as to what she might be talking about. Okay, where did Jason go? But then there's Trace. He turns and looks at the boy, his eyes going over the other's form. The arms. He can't help but go there. Washcloth forgotten, he takes a step forward and lifts his hand, touching the blue-haired boy's cheek.
Got a convenient hole to crawl into? You can just throw the dirt on over; makes a great blanket... Walker looks at Ben rather blankly for a long, silent moment then nods once and trudges back to the entryway. A slight weave in the hall and he moves on into the living room toward his favorite chair. He grabs up the nearly empty amber prescription bottle as he passes it on the coffee table, wrenching it open before he begins his descent to the cushions.
Ayita blinks, giving Jason an equally puzzled look. She shrugs, though, and steps back again. He does seem to be calmer, after all. Her golden gaze moves back to Walker, now that feathers have been smoothed, and she moves in that direction.
Trace blinks as Jason's fingers touch his cheek, and he flinches just a moment. First an attempt at diversion, he says quickly, "He'll get that cloth'n we'll get you cleaned up... Yer lookin' kinda roughed up." He finally tries to meet Jason's eyes and fails miserably, looking down to mumble softly at his dirty sneakers, "Batiste told you, huh?"
The sound of running water comes from the bathroom, as Batiste takes a few minutes to wash his own face a couple times, envy Irene's tranquil coiling behind the toilet, and watch Mr. Zippy scuttle around in the bathtub.
Benjamin frowns mightily as Walker wandered off, and he pauses in the kitchen, blinking and trying to resolve everything. A few minutes ago he was amid sparkly icicles and the scents of home, and suddenly there's three times the people in the house, Walker's gone silent and distant, Batiste is distraught, and Jason's just plain whacky. It's enough to shut down such a foggy, fuzzy mind, but Ben battles through it bravely. He sets about his tasks. First, the delivery of the wine cooler to Ayita. He presses it into her hand with a wistful glance to Walker, and then moves on past Trace and Jason to seek out the little bathroom, and Batiste.
Ayita touches Ben's hand gently, as he passes her the wine cooler, glancing up at him with a gentle sort of expression, then looks back to Walker, crouching in front of where he's sitting again. "Hey," she murmurs. "You still with us, chere?"
Jason doesn't answer, just keeps his fingers on Trace's cheek, eyes roaming all over the other's face. Then, gently, he tips Trace's head back so he can see the hazel eyes more clearly, so he can look into them. Very softly (and probably /very/ cryptically), he murmurs, "Ya think I'm gonna letcha get 'way from me again?" And then he offers a soft, crooked, and distant smile.
Walker swallows down the bitter pills, washing them down with the berry-flavored alcohol. Codeine and wine coolers: the breakfast of champions. "I'm here," he replies softly as he stuffs the bottle next to an empty Fruitopia bottle shoved in the magazine pocket of his favorite chair. He drags his cigarettes from the concealed pouch under his kilt, sparking one up as he glances over at Jason and Trace with that same detached cast to his eyes. Then back to Ayita for a patently false smile. "Where else would I be?"
Benjamin pushes the door to the bathroom half-closed, lingering in there with Batiste despite the cramped size.
Ayita straightens, and moves to settle on the other end of the couch, facing Walker. "In your own little world, perhaps," she replies. "You were looking rather far away."
Licking his lips under the pressure of such an intense green gaze, Trace protests in a small voice, "Didn't get away, did I? M'fine, and ya didn't have ta worry, none of ya..." Trapped, groping for magic words of escape, "I mean -- I mean, I'm sorry. I'll be more careful...? I.." A soft sigh.
You hear a knock on the door. (from Moss Street -- Bayou St. John)
A woman shouts from somewhere nearby, "Hello..you home?"
Walker lifts a shoulder in a slight shrug, smile fading a little in something a little more real but decidely more dry. "I've usually got at least one foot in m'own world. Makes th' transition back inta easia than comin' all th' way out." It's a partial jest. The knock draws his attention but he just really doesn't feel like getting up now that he's seated. "Do me a favah an' let Ali in, would ya?" He'd know that voice anywhere.
Ayita nods, moving over towards the door, and opening it.
Alisynde opens the front door and steps inside.
Alisynde says quietly, "Hey. 'M not interruptin' anythin', am I? Just felt the need...to be around people."
Jean-Batiste and Benjamin are having conjugal relations with Mr. Zippy in the bathroom. Ha, ha. Seriously though, the door is half-closed and they're speaking quietly.
Trace is standing near the door, gaze locked with Jason's, looking quite uncomfortable and somewhat ashamed beneath the scrutiny.
Walker is tucked into his favorite chair, smoking on a cigarette. "Hey, Ali...S'up?" The soft greeting is delivered with some semblance of happiness to see the woman; he is glad to see her. Glad just isn't quite enough right now to draw any strong reaction from him. "Nah... you're not interruptin'..."
Ayita gives her head a quick sort of shake, wandering back to her place on the couch with Walker. "Not interrupting anything, hon," she replies, quietly.
And Jason and Trace are in the hallway, speaking quietly as well. And, hey, Ayita and Walker were speaking quietly too, probably. It's just /that/ kind of atmosphere. But Jason's eyes suddenly narrow on Trace, becoming that much more intense. ""'M not... Trace. 'M not..." He giggles softly, and, no, he's still not quite here yet. ""Be more careful - that's a good one, Trace... Be more careful. Sure ya are." That's bordering on acidic, those last. But his hand's still against Trace's cheek, like he couldn't pull it away if he tried. He doesn't even /notice/ that he's in the middle of 'public' space.
Alisynde toys with a crumpled piece of paper in her hand. "Not much. Just..." She shrugs. "Needed to be around friends. Couldn't find you, so I figured I'd try here as a last ditch effort." Her thumb roalong the edge of the paper.
"Have a wine coolah... cop a squat," Walker invites blandly, adding a Barbie-doll smile to make her feel more welcome. Come in Ali; bring a little light and levity with you, would ya? Grocery stores just don't deliver that yet. "How's th' place workin' out?"
Alisynde smiles faintly. "Thanks." Light and levity don't seem to be on the menu right this second - maybe a little of our friend alcohol will help. "Oh, it's fine. I..don't think I'm going to actually start using the address instead of the PO box I have, though." She tightens her hand around the paper, crumpling it a bit more. "Coolers in the fridge?"
Ayita, reminded of the cooler in her hand, takes a drink from it, then just settles back into the couch and closes her eyes.
Trace nods a little, reaching up slowly to curl his own slender fingers around Jason's and pull them away gently, squeezing once before releasing completely. "Let's go inside, huh?" he pleads softly. "Ali 'n Ayita's here...'n I'm gonna grab somethin' outta the fridge. M'starvin..." Dodge, dodge, dodge... He retreats a step.
Walker nods, exhaling a sweet plume of smoke. "Yeah... have at," he directs to Ali. Then he looks to Ayita, features gaining just a hint of hopeful puppy-dog-ness. "Hey, Ayita..? You were sayin' somethin' about helpin' me out with m'back..?" There's something he could sure stand to do with. Ayita's hands on his back.
Ayita opens her eyes, and nods. "Sure, hon. I'd love to help." And she would, too. It's simple, really... when dealing with the problems of others, one doesn't have to think about one's own problems.
Alisynde nods, and goes forth to explore the fridge and bring out the treasure contained therein. Or, at the very least, hope there's strawberry daquiri wine coolers.
As always, the best way of getting Jason's attention is to run. He takes a step forward, not giving Trace the space. " "M'really not, ya know." He nods once, eyes taking on an almost unreal edge, like... well, that frightening look insane people get sometimes. Just for example. "'M kinda wonderin' if yer gonna give us up fer it, though. I mean, what's the use holdin' on, if ya are... Ya know, just so I can know, ya know?"
Walker snuffs his cigarette in the ashtray, scooting forward in the chair a bit. "Do I need ta untape 'em?" He asks, not realizing how vague that question is. The wine cooler puts in another appearance for a deep draught before being exiled once more to the pocket on the side of his chair. "An' should I lay down-r somethin'?"
Ayita stands, and points to the couch. "Just take off your shirt, and lays down on yer belly so I can look, okay?"
There's the clink of bottles, and the sound of the fridge door closing. Ali returns, bearing one of the berry coolers. Not what she wanted, but better than nothing. She plops into an open space in a chair-like object, and unscrews the top of the bottle. The crumpled ball of paper's disappeared: her long fingers have wrapped themselves around the bottle, instead. "How y'doing, Walker?"
Walker rises slowly and peels off the layered shirts, exposing his taped, slender torso. Dropping the shirtwad on the floor he trundles over to the couch to perform a slow collapse to the soft cushions. "All right..." he murmurs. It's a fib but uttered so softly that little trace of the untruth shines through the words. He tugs a throw pillow over to support his cheek as he stretches out along the length of the sofa.
From inside the bathroom, Batiste laughs weakly once. A few moments later, the sink starts running again.
Trace's eyes widen, and he stops dead in his back-peddling tracks. In a very young voice, "What...?" He shakes his head a little, tossing braids around in his enthusiasm to refute that. "What? No! No, no... I ain't givin' up nothin'. Not you... an' not that either'." Defense in his eyes, his posture. "Last night, that was just me fuckin' up, okay? That weren't nothin' that happens all the time. Not hardly ever!" His expression pinches slighly and the rest of his words are for Jason alone, as he steps closer and touches his friend's upper arm gently, braving eerie green eyes again.
Ayita kneels next to the couch, settling herself comfortably on the floor, after fetching the leather backpack she carries, which is set down next her. She places her hands lightly on Walker's back, running them down it carefully, as if feeling for damage or some such thing.
Alisynde mms. If you say so. She takes a swig from the bottle and just...sits, either not wanting to press the question or perhaps actually believing the lie.
Jason senses "Trace mumbles with quiet desperation, "Jest'... jest don't let go, okay? Ya... ya don't gotta..""
Walker melts a little under Ayita's fingers; easy to please isn't he? He deliberately tunes out what he can hear of Jason and Trace's conversation - we're back to that 'not dealing' trip again. "How's life for ya, Ali?" He murmurs, thick-lashed eyes drifting shut in anticipation of happy touches. Good thing Ayita's not a chiropractor or he might be in for an ugly surprise.
You sense Jason's eyes suddenly get wet - all that weirdness just disappearing to reveal the pain beneath. It may not just be you, but what he's heard; it's scared him, and not just a little bit. He whispers back, "Cap'n always goes down with his ship, don' he?"
Jason swallows hard and leans forward, closer to Trace, their foreheads almost touching. More whispering, intense.
Alisynde shrugs again. "It's been better. It'll get better." My, we're uncommunicative today, aren't we? She sets the bottle down and pulls out her tobacco pouch and papers. She looks over at Walker and Ayita. "Either of you want a hand-rolled?"
Trace closes his eyes when he whispers back, moving closer to complete it and touch his brow gently to Jason's.
Ayita nods to herself, and begins to untape Walker's back, carefully and with a sort of practiced ease that might indicate she knows what she's doing. She then begins rooting around in her bag for a moment, murmuring, "I think I have some balm in here...."
Jason senses "Trace insists with a sudden, equal fierceness, "M'not goin' down...!" He opens his eyes to peek up with glass-bright eyes, but you're too close to focus on properly. A tiny giggle. "Ain't hit India yet, have we? Can't go down til' then...""
Walker's eyes pop open at the word 'rolled' but drift shut again as he sees Ali was referring to tobacco. "I hear ya, Ali-m'-girl... Let's all hope an' pray that th' shit's finished its roll downhill..." He sighs softly, keeping the intake of breath short so as not to flex his ribcage overmuch while laying on his front. "Balm... balm's good..."
You hear a knock on the door. (from Moss Street -- Bayou St. John)
A small giggle escapes Jason, a genuine, honest-to-God Jason-giggle giggle. His look is all of a sudden back to his 'normal' self, complete with impish smile.
You sense Jason murmur slyly, "Oh, dunno 'bout /that/..." And then a crooked grin. "I'm of a mind that Bat 'n Benji've been hidin' for too long... An, 'sides..."
(Meanwhile, inside the bathroom...)
Jean-Batiste is sitting on the toilet seat, arms folded and braced on his knees, head bowed almost to touch his forearms. His braids are fallen around his head in fuzzled, pale disarray.
Benjamin pushes the door half-closed and comes to crouch before the toilet and you. He pauses long enough for you to feel his presence, before reaching up gentle fingers to your cheek. "Batiste?" he murmurs, soft and tender.
Jean-Batiste glances to you through his braids, a dark and liquid glimmer, before hitching in a breath and sitting up to rub hard at his face. Maybe if he smears the tears around enough, they won't show. "I'm fine, I'm fine..." he tries to insist, reaching again for the washcloth to wipe his face off. "I'm...I just...I needed to..." He sniffs wetly, takes another small, shuddery breath, and wipes his face.
Benjamin's fingers are almost loving as he moves your braids back from your face, tucking them behind your ears and out of the way. "Shhh... don't apologize. It's all right to have to cry, sweetheart. Just let me take cayeh of it, all right? Tell me what you need, I'll take cayeh of you." One hand smooths over your braids, stroking your head gently.
Jean-Batiste closes his eyes when you touch his face, and a couple tears leak out between moisture-matted lashes. He rubs them away cruelly with the edge of his thumb and laughs once, tight and breathless, then wipes his face yet again. "I don't have time to cry," he says, with a sad matter-of-factness. "I just...I don't. I need to go clean up Jason, and make sure Trace is okay..." He looks down at the washcloth, clutching it - half a second later he's hugging you around the neck, cheek against your throat, trembling.
Benjamin wasn't expecting to be clutched at, so he reels for a moment under the suddenness of your tender assault. In only moments, though, his arms wrap around your back, sitting back on his heels for his own support and yours. "Shhhh, it's all right. You need this time for yourself," Ben murmurs, reassuring and soft, touches ever light and half-distant as he himself usually is. Against your cheek pounds the pulse in his neck, fast and strong, skin flushing warm. "You can tell me... you can trust me, I promise."
Jean-Batiste takes in another shaky breath from somewhere near your ear, a soft and gulping sound, and fights to exhale evenly. "He almost died, I almost lost him, and I can't, I just can't, not -yet-..." He stops his words before they can speed up and roll away like a juggernaut, clutching you tighter. "Ben..." It's a soft, spiritless sound, like someone calling up from the bottom of a well. He shudders hard once, fighting back another wave of tears, and sits up to wipe at his face. Another tight, breathless laugh. "Fuck, I don't have the time for this." And then he's standing up, rinsing off the washcloth again.
Benjamin, left bereft after that sweet warmth in his arms, just blinks for a moment or two. Batiste was just here, he knows it, but yet, there he is at the sink as if nothing had happened. Fast shifts in the mood lose him real quick. Hesitantly, after a moment, he rises, and stands behind you, looking at your face in the mirror. "Batiste... I think you -need- the time for this." But then Trace's outburst sounds from the other room, and Ben looks away, knowing where you'll go first.
Jean-Batiste wrings out the washcloth for the third or fourth time, and looks up at himself in the mirror for a second, then up to you. He tangles his fingers around the cloth a second, then turns around so he's squeezed between the counter and you, giving you a crooked, infinitely sad smile. "Yeah, I need the time for it. Just...can't be now. Later." He says it like someone would say 'tomorrow' - something always just out of grasp, eternally tempting. "Later," he repeats, taking a deep breath, trying to make sure his breathing's somewhat even again. "Maybe I'll come by your place, and we can talk?" He tries not to sound too hopeful, tries being the operative word here.
Benjamin looks at you quietly for just a couple of moments, even, the difference in your respective heights being a negligible couple of inches. "You know you're always welcome there," he says softly, and then scoots to the side, out of your way, so that you can rejoin the others.
Jean-Batiste's smile glimmers with a little more strength, tickling his dark eyes with its warmth. "Okay," he murmurs, and watches you watch him for several seconds. As impulsively as the embrace was, he leans forward and brushes a tiny, swift kiss to your cheek, then darts away to open the door and rejoin the chaos of the main floor.
The bathroom door opens again, and Batiste steps out, clutching a damp washcloth in his hands. He's smiling just slightly, weak and a little sad, but determined to be a smile nonetheless.
Another knock at the door. Just when balm is eminent. "Somebody get th' door please?" Walker mumbles, refusing to budge even if Ed McMahon himself was there to hand him a Publisher's Clearing House check. Jason lifts his head and looks around before grinning at Trace. "S'a little gray in here as it is."
Alisynde actually grins as Walker's eyes pop open. "Sorry, Walker. I'm all out of the blessed herb." She rolls herself a cigarette, and puts the pouch away, then lights up.
Trace isn't normal yet, his eyes tear-bright, but he's grinning again, on the edge of a giggle to match Jason's.
Ayita murmurs, "When I'm done here, yeah," to Ali. She drags out a small bottle of some kind cream or other. "Ah. I knew I packed that. Um.. Ali? Can you get it...?" She pours some of the balm into her hands and rubs them together, to warm the cream.
Alisynde pulls herself out of the chair. "I'll get it."
Benjamin follows Batiste out a brief couple of moments later, wine cooler forgotten somewhere on the sink counter behind him. Sluggish, he leans one shoulder on the doorway of the bathroom and surveys the scene. Trace and Jason in their tete-a-tete and Batiste joining, Ayita giving Walker his massage, and look! Ali's here too. Idly he watches the door to see who else will join the fun.
Jean-Batiste calls towards the sitting room after sniffling once, "I've got that Alaskan Thunderfuck that Glass gave me, remember? You think it's been a bad enough night we all deserve it?" He pauses in the hallway, looking towards Trace and Jason, progress momentarily halted. He rubs his reddened eyes - wasn't crying, no sir.
Devon opens the front door and steps inside.
Alisynde unlocks the door, and sticks her head out for a moment, then opens the door fully.
Devon opens the door and steps in after the girl has moved aside. He smiles at he as he enters. "Thanks." He looks around and nods hello to the others he knows.
Mmm... Thunderfuck sounds -gooood- right now. "S'up ta you, Bat... s'yours..." Walker's muffled voice surfaces from the couch he's stretched tummy-down on. He cranes his neck just a little to see who's coming inside. "Hey, Dev... s'up?" Just as muffled, words pulled by the pressure of his cheek against the throw pillow.
Jason wipes at his eyes real quick-like as well and peers over Trace's shoulder at Bat and Ben, then gets this half-glad, half-disappointed smile as they come out of the bathroom. Damn, he /did/ wanna barge in. Oh well, he just grins and slides his arm around Trace's shoulders. All better now. And there's the promise of the 'blessed herb' as Ali put it. Mmm.
Benjamin is leaning, half-slumped, against the doorway into the bathroom. He watches, quietly, wrapped in his own thoughts and contemplations, taking a few moments to consider the new, unfamiliar entrant.
"Oh, you..." Trace smiles a little, peering at the newcomer. "You were at Walker's show, weren'tchya? That's where I seen ya..." He leans into Jason a little and giggles.
Ayita glances up at the door, and offers a slight smile. She's kneeling on the floor by the couch, next to Walker. She looks back to him, and places her hands on his back, lightly rubbing the balm into it.
Devon shrugs at Walker and replies, "Not much. Thought I'd stop by and see whats going on." He moves over to a free spot on a couch and sits.
Jason turns around to peer at the newcomer. Geez. We got the numbers for a party, just no music or good-feelings - yet. He leans his head against Trace's and smirks. "You bring any offerin's?" Ie: food, weed, strippers.
Jean-Batiste looks like his eyes were recently watering due to dust, cat hair, pollen, or a freak alignment of Aquarius with Pluto. Yeah. "Dev, hey..." he murmurs towards Devon, offering a weak smile to him before heading towards Trace and Jason. "Let's get you cleaned up, huh?" he says to Jason, managing a passably light tone.
Well, there's really no *free* spot on the couch, thanks to Walker's sprawl. The closest thing to it is the small area near his booted feet. If one was willing to take said feet in their lap, there would be plenty of room for sitting. "What's goin' on..." he repeats lazily, Ayita's ministrations rendering him rather sluggish. "Nothin's goin' on..." A -whole- lot of nothing judging from the marked air of muted tension and darkness scenting the house. It's a dead man's party...
Let's see here. Ben ranges his attention around the room, the thought of a party and of intense drug usage giving him a half-wistful look. That look is drawn to Batiste, fading into a near sorrow while the young man cleans up his friends. Too much contemplation of that threatens to tug Ben down even further, and so he tears his gaze away, moving across the room, back toward the kitchen.
Oh yeah, he's a mess. Jason keeps forgetting that. At mention of cleaning, Jason touches a hand to his nose, then winces a bit. Oh, /now/ it's getting sore. "Um... okay," he says lamely.
Kitchen. Kitchen sounds grand to Trace, who hasn't eaten today, and just had oreos and the last half-portion of spaghetti yesterday. With a glance at Ben and his destination, all this comes back to Trace full force and he murmurs, "Hey Walker? What kin' I get outta yer fridge?" He idly scuffles at the carpet.
"Trace, you want to grab Walker's bong and fill it for me?" Batiste asks his blue-haired friend hopefully. "The baggie's in my backpack, it should be near the top..." And then, to his red-haired friend, "C'mon, sit down in the living room and I'll clean you up and get some ice for your nose." He gently tugs on Jason's forearm, trying to coax him along.
Devon lifts walkers feet and slips onto the couch under them. He lays back and makes himself comfortable.
Ayita continues her gently ministrations on Walker's back, head bowed slightly as she works, fingers rubbing the balm slowly into his skin and muscles. She doesn't press hard, though, well-aware of his injuries, but rather maintains just the right ammount of pressure.
Alisynde plops back down into the chair, rather closed expression lightening at the mention of Thunderfuck. She calls to Trace, "I got an apple if you want it. Couldn't eat two."
Jason lets his arm drop away from Trace, cause he needs food and, well, Bat's about to assault him with a washcloth. He heaves a sigh and nods, allowing himself to be dragged to the living room. Except for the whole 'soreness' issue, he's not about to stop someone from ministering to him. Well, not one of his friends.
Benjamin pauses in the kitchen, taking his cue from the conversation outside. He takes ice from the freezer and sets it aside with a towel and a plastic bag for wrapping them in. Several edible items come next, set out on the counter for Trace's picking once he gets back there. And then, quietly, Ben moves for the door. With any luck he can just slip out without anyone realizing he'd gone.
Well... so much for food. Trace nods dutifully at Batiste and says to Ali, "Sure! In a sec... Hang on." He trots off in search of a device that will inevitably make him MORE hungry...
Walker's muffled voice rises in volume to reach Ben's ears, also rising slightly in pitch. "Whatevva's not strong enough ta pull ya in." Considering the fact that the thing has had some time to fester once again, that is a warning post. His voice drifts off into a blissful sigh; shitty evening or no, he can't help but see heaven having his back rubbed gently by a beautiful woman. Can you fault him? "Somebody wanna put in some tunes?"
Benjamin opens the front door and steps outside.
Benjamin has left.
Alisynde reaches in a pocket and pulls out that crumpled wad of paper. She gives it a very dark look, then stuffs it back in and pulls out the apple. She polishes it on her sleeve, and waits for Trace to claim it. Meanwhile..."What sort of tunes is everyone in the mood for?"
Jean-Batiste pages: What Glass gave Batiste, by the way, is...let me see if I can remember his exact words. A fluffy green bud, about four and a half inches long, covered in fine red hairs. It's in a baggie near the top of his backpack.
Devon shrugs and remains quiet. Sitting there watching and listening to everyone else. The comfort of sitting down in on a soft couch right now occuping his mind.
Jean-Batiste waits until Jason's situated on a patch of carpet, and then sinks down crosslegged beside him. With one forefinger wrapped in warm washcloth, he starts to carefully clean the blood off Jason's nose - best to start there, before it gets even -more- tender. "I can't believe you let that guy hit you..." he murmurs, grinning at Jason just a little. Half chiding, half admiring. It takes something to be able to giggle in the face of someone about to hit you. Usually two somethings made of brass, in fact.
Walker looks lazily to the willing volunteer DJ. "Cake might be cool... or maybe th' Lost Highway soundtrack..." That much communication seems to drain him and the deep green eyes slide shut again. Oh, warmth and melt. If Walker could purr like a kitten he would.
Alisynde nods, getting up to play DJ. As she does so, her eyes slide over to Jason, and she winces, then offers a sympathetic smile. "Hope that guy screwed up his hand while doing so. Serve him right.."
Trace stoops to pick up the bong carefully and lug it out into hall, in search of Batiste's backpack. It's spotted quickly enough, and he crouches down next to it, sitting mostly on his heels as he sets the glass bong down carefully. So. Hmm. Time for a crash course in bong packing. He decides he's going to fill it out here, rather than out in front of the others, who all seemed to assume he knew how to do this... save himself some humiliation. (Gonna be one of those guys who get lost and can't ask for directions when he grows up, yep.) He looks at it for a moment, then carefully reaches for the Sacred Backpack, flattered that he's been entrusted with this task. Good to his unspoken word, he dives straight for the plastic bag containing the thunderfuck stuff and closes it right up once he's got it. Back to looking at the bong. Hmm. Ah, poor kid -- only truly versed in hard drugs.
Jason jerks his head back at the first touch, wrinkling his nose - which makes it all hurt even more. He mutters under his breath as Bat starts cleaning in earnest, "Wull, I wouldn've gotten such a great look outta him without the blood, ya know.." He then giggles softly. "I mean, c'mon, he looked so cute rollin 'round on the floor like that..." He tilts his head to peer around Bat's hand at Alisynde and smirks. "Actually, he hurt his nads, don't ask me how. It was like Twister."
Alisynde laughs. "No shit? I would've liked to see that. Never heard of that particular reaction before." She pops the Lost Highway soundtrack in, then looks down at the apple in her hand. Hm. Where'd Trace get off to, anyway? She wanders off, looking for him. Kitchen..? No. Hallway..ah. There he is. She moves over to him, clearing her throat so he's not startled...then gives him and the bong a long look, and leans down to whisper something.
Alisynde whispers "You look a little lost. Need some help?"
"Jason Shin to Goth Nuts," Batiste murmurs, as if calling Twister directions, giving Jason a disbelieving grin. His mood has lifted a little, not quite as wan, or at least he's concealing it better. He cleans as carefully as he can, finishing around Jason's nose before moving on to cheeks, chin, and throat.
Jason could probably do this cleaning by himself, but, hey. He just tilts his head back with a faint, crooked smile as Bat wipes the remains of the blood away, giggling softly at the memory of the gothboy doubling over. He leans over against Bat and rests his head on the other's shoulder. Might as well be comfy while he's being cleaned-up.
Trace looks up as Ali approaches, looking terribly embarrassed at first and fumbling quickly with the bag as though he were about to do packing type things with the contents within. "Er, ah.. I was just... Took me a moment to find it? It was all... buried under shit, and..." He giggles a little and finally sighs and leans closer to murmur softly to her.
The word 'Twister' drifts into Walker's conciousness; his mind reflexively bounces back to a conversation had a bit ago involving Twister and cooking oil. Smirk. As flexible as ever, his high-and-low personality is on a gentle - if lewd - upswing again. "Ooo.." He coos softly to both Ayita's work and a notion. His muzzy words surface semi-dewy: "Ali..? Could ya do me an extra favah an burn some incense oil up there on th' mantle?" Pretty please hangs unspoken.
Alisynde calls back to Walker, "In a minute.." She smiles gently to Trace, and offers out the apple.
You whisper "Okay, okaaay... I don't know what I'm doing. There, I said it. Can you help me? And like, uh, don't tell nobody? They think I kin' do this shit, but I never really bothered much with pot..." to Alisynde.
Alisynde nods at the murmur, and quietly murmurs something in return.
Trace beams and snatches at the apple, taking an eager, hungry huge bite that leaves his jaw hurting a few moments afterwards. He lets Ali take over, munching at the fruit and watching closely so he won't be stuck in this position again. Now that he's hanging out with all these potsmokers, it seems like useful knowledge.
Alisynde whispers "It's okay. Here..first you make sure the screen is all cleaned out, then you..." Ali proceeds to give you a lesson on how to pack a bong, making sure you do it yourself, so as to get the knowledge."
"You feeling better?" Batiste asks in a soft voice of Jason, as he finishes cleaning the last of the dried blood off his friend's face. "Want me to get you that ice for your nose?" While Jason's being comfy and all, he'll just hug him back loosely around the neck, and play with a couple long, flame-coloured braids.
Ayita continues her work on Walker's back, not saying anything, though the perceptive (and the undistracted, which does sort of exclude a lot of folks) will notice her lips are moving slightly.
Alisynde makes some motions with her hands, hands sketching out the appropriate movements.
Walker relaxes back into the gentle ebb and flow of gentle, wonderful fingers and a really mellow high. The mystery of life is at the couch. He mutters to Ayita, "... a lot,..." he murmurs into the pillow. "You're a dream an' a half..."
Jason mms and closes his eyes a little. Yes, he's feeling a /lot/ better. But he just asks innocently, "Better than what?" Just to be a pain in the ass. "Why don'tcha wait 'til Trace gets back. Needa have /someone/ ta lean 'gainst while yer away..." He giggles softly. Yes, that's the extent of Bat's usefulness.
Gee, they sure are taking a long time out there, aren't they?! Trace sets down his apple to get stepped through it, and clumsily gets the bong set up with Ali's help. Finally, once he's got the Ali stamp of bong-packing approval, he comes out and holds it up a little (tah-dah!) before sheepishly walking further into the room and setting it down in front of the couch.
"Hey, it's -your- nose," Batiste murmurs in reply to Jason, seeming more than content to stay here and play lazily with long red braids for a while. As Trace walks in, he grins up at him and beckons him over. "Hey, it's -my- Alaskan Thunderfuck, I get the first toke." He nods decisively. Yes. That's the rule, isn't it? Alisynde drifts out after, and lights the incense oil as she was asked, then flops back in her seat. "That's th' rule."
Walker smiles distantly, one arm drifting up to curl around the pillow. Mm... everyone should have a dose of Ayita right now, he decides. She's definitely good for what ails. A waft of sweet burning oil reaches him, tugging the smile more dreamy.
Trace steps away, spreading his hands a little. "Go ahead! *I* need something to eat first." An apple's well and good, but he's thinking more along the lines of meat and bread.. stuff that settles a bit heavier in your stomach. "I'll be back out..." He heads towards the kitchen.
[Alisynde heads home.]
Jason sniffles, wincing a bit as he does so, and bats wide eyes up at Batiste. "You all would still love me even if it grew all huge and red 'n purple anyway, wouldn' ya?" He rests his chin on Bat's shoulder, eyes going to that bong. Mmm. Bong.
Ayita smiles a little, clearly enjoying Walker's reaction to the backrub, which at this point is more for relaxation than therapy. She inhales the drifting scent of incense, smile growing a little more. "What is it?" she inquires.
"Even if it was bigger, redder, and uglier than that Einstone guy on Tex Avery Cartoons," Batiste promises solemnly to Jason. Wow. That's some real love happening there. He starts untwining himself from Jason and climbs to his feet, murmuring, "I'll get the bong..." Maybe they can each have two or three hits before anyone else realizes they're not sharing. While he's retrieving the bong, he looks into the kitchen, watching Trace for a few seconds with an unreadable expression.
Walker murmurs something into the pillow then stirs a little. He mutters to Ayita, "S'Midsumma..... it... th' Faire..." He sighs warmly, not even bothered by the fine strands of black hair that are beginning to sift over his face.
Jason gives Bat a pouty look as the older boy gets up... and topples over onto his side. See? He really /did/ need someone to lean against. Oh well. He occupies himself by poking at his nose. Ooh, tender. Poke. Ow. Poke. Ow.
Trace's eyes widen when he sees that someone -- Benjamin, of course, he realizes after a moment -- has taken the time to sort out the edible possibilities and lay them out on the counter for him. Touched, he runs his fingers along the rim of one of the plates. He blinks and looks up when he sees Batiste out of the corner of his eye, watching him. "Hey, c'mere," he says softly after a moment.
Walker gives another buttery sigh. He can't possibly relax any more or he'd be unconcious. He mutters to Ayita, "Did... tell... ya were..." And on the heels of that smudgy murmur: "An' Bat's gonna design me up a fall wardrobe." The dreamy smile pulls more into the realm of grin at the thought.
Uh-oh. Walker's going to start mentioning Batiste in the same breath as Klein and Versace again. To avoid being nearby enough to field any questions, he hurries into the kitchen, bong in hand. "Yeah...?" he asks Trace as he nears, pausing a foot or two away. "Need some help with something...?"
Hey, the bong! Jason scrambles to his feet and scurries after Batiste into the kitchen. And Trace is here too! With food. Bong, food, friends, Jason's life is complete. He gives a broad, satisfied smile. Earlier tonight? It didn't happen.
Trace blinks as Jason follows, and he remembers that everyone's waiting for that bong and his timing is way off... "I just..." Quick, Trace, think of something. "How do you heat this up?" He picks up a random piece of foil and unwraps it... The last slice of pound cake. Heat up pound cake? "Er, wait, this wasn't the one..." He skims the counter hurriedly. "This, uh.. this left over soft taco. I mean, should I keep the plastic wrap on? To, y'know, keep the heat in or something?" Cue the innocent smile.
Mmm... music, good scents, good high (could be better but Ayita's more than covered that base), good tunes... life on the couch is sweet. It would be sweeter if Walker could smoke and drink without having to move. But Ayita's touch is far too soothing and needed to stir for cravings.
Jason isn't stupid. He blinks a little bit, and the smile falls. Oh, a /private/ conversation. Without Jason. "Eh, oops. Sorry." He gives a small smile, then backs out the door. He'll wait for the bong. He trots into the living room again and flops down on his piece of carpet.
Ayita glances up from where she /still/ works on Walker's back, apparently possessed of untiring hands, and smiles gently in Jason's direction as he returns.
Walker's lips part in a rather pleased smile; the backrub's a thing of legend, truly. He mutters to Ayita, "... an angel..." Upon consideration he believes he might could smoke a cigarette if he was handed one.
Jean-Batiste looks from Trace's awkward fumblings with the food, to Jason as he backs away, and sighs a little, looking tired again. He rubs his itchy eyes and nods to Trace, murmuring, "Yeah, just...thirty seconds on high, maybe fourty-five seconds, that'll be enough to heat it up. Leave the plastic on so it doesn't dry out..." He glances back to the living room, then looks down at the bong, frowning at it. He locates his cheap Bic lighter but doesn't light up, just fidgets with both items.
Trace grins a little. "Thanks, Batiste. Go on.. They're waitin'. I'll be out soon." He nudges gently, affectionately, towards the living room before turning back to the food layed out for him.
Sleepy eyes slide open to do a scan for cigarettes, finding Jason first. The red-head earns a dreamy smile and a muzzy-hopeful look. "Jason..?" Walker murmurs lazily. "Could ya hand me one-a m'smokes? Please?" He'd flutter some lashes for boosted strength but he's having trouble keeping them open without the added difficulty.
Jean-Batiste looks back towards the living room when Trace nudges him in that direction. He hesitates, and turns back to Trace, sneaking a brief, tight hug, cheek against Trace's shoulder. "Okay..." he murmurs, and slips away back to the living room, calling, "I'll get them, Jason, it's okay..." He hands the unlit bong and lighter down to Jason, giving him the honour of the first toke.
Walker can't help but throw in: "An' an ashtray?" Next thing you know he'll be asking someone to smoke it for him. He'll hold off asking for his wine cooler for now; too much massage going on to disturb his recline for a drink.
Jason starts to get up again for the cigarettes, but he gets a bong instead. He looks down at the items in his hands, then up to Batiste. His brows furrow a little, and then he shrugs and lets out a small sound. Flick, light, toke. He takes a deep one, and holds it for a bit. He looks about for anyone else who-oh, hey, this shit /is/ strong. He blinks a little, then lets the smoke go before he giggles it out his nose. Oh well.
Trace keeps himself busy in the kitchen. The microwave blips on and off, cabinets open and close in search of plates and cups, drawers slide and slam again on a silverware quest. Then it's quiet in there for a little while as he shuffles about and hopes people will be stoned enough by the time he gets out that they might not notice how he fumbles with smoking a bong. There's a *reason* he's always requested Batiste's pipe, y'know. He pokes at some leftover KFC mashed potatos with a fork, arranging them *just so* on his plate. Now for the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches... He starts preparing a veritable feast, since he figures that with the activities going on in the living room, soon enough he won't be the only one who's hungry.
Mmm. A hit off that bong would -really- make the experience on the couch a truly complete thing. The sound of the burbles from the resin-coated fishbowl bong brings a soft purse to Walker's merry lips, lazy emerald eyes finding Jason again. "Share a hit..?" He tries for a winning smile that comes across as languid.
Jean-Batiste locates Walker's cigarettes, and even lights it up for him. He's not kind enough to smoke the entire cigarette for him, though, and so crouches down to hand it off to him with a faint grin. He slides the ashtray into a nearby spot on the floor, then moves over to sit cross-legged beside Jason. He shuffles closer, hesitates before snuggling up directly against his red-haired friend, and tentatively reaches for the bong, instead. He pauses when Walker asks for a hit, and just folds his hands in his lap, waiting silently.
Jason actually gives Batiste a sort of sidelong glance as the kid with the blond braids flops down next to him and snuggles up. Blink. He takes a real quick burbling toke, then offers it to Batiste. It's his weed anyhow, Walker can wait for a second, he's got a cigarette. He leans over and murmurs, "That was a quick talk... where's Trace?"
Walker bonelessly lifts the cigarette, the arm drawing it to his lips the only mobile thing about him save his slowly shifting expressions. Waiting is rather easy to do when time seems suspended. His eyes slide shut once more, the effort of keeping them open simply too much.
Jean-Batiste fidgets more at the sidelong glance Jason gives him, and edges back a little, twisting his fingers up and scratching flakes of silver and jet black off his nails. He glances up at Jason through his braids for a second as he takes the bong, then looks off towards the flashing lights on the stereo as he takes a hurtingly deep hit. "Told me t'come back," he says airlessly, handing the bong and lighter back, closing his eyes while he holds the smoke in.
Ayita is lost in her own little world, or something. At length, her hands still on Walker's back, and she rests her head against his shoulder, smiling a little.
Walker's vision of heaven hath widened further. A half-snuggled Ayita is the perfect compliment to a wonderful backrub completed. "Thanks," he mumbles for about the third time now. "I really needed that."
Trace finally emerges from the kitchen, balancing three platters at once, one held by each hand with his forearms and slender chest keeping the third balanced by the rims. Atop the platters is an array of food, any of which might be good seperately, but might be a little disturbing the way he has them haplessly grouped. Some chocolate pudding and the very last three oreos by a taco. Mashed potatos and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches crowd for space. Some grapes and baby carrots are piled up alongside the left over garlic bread from Batiste's Italian meal of a week prior. It's quite an... interesting spread. One might wonder if there's any food left in Walker's poor fridge at all. To top it all off, the apple Ali gave him is held firmly in his teeth, blocking his grin.
Jason ohs and nods to Batiste. A little Blankly. Mm, giggly numbness. He smirks slightly and looks away to the stereo too. Hey, yeah, those lights are really cool. You know, Walker needs a fire. Why don't we tell people that? "Walker, where's the fireplace?" he murmurs, just as he goes boneless and falls back onto his back, now staring at the ceiling. Whoah. Scene change.
Ayita hops up, spotting Trace, and relieves him of one of the platters, ruffling his hair gently with the free hand. She carries the plate back to where people seem to be congrated and sets it down, then resettles on the floor by the couch again.
Walker opens his eyes again with some effort, peering over in Jason's direction and blessedly missing Trace's banquet for now. "S'on th' wall... Where else would it be..?" A grin touches his lips as he makes the laborous effort to push himself upright.
Ayita peers. Hm. Free couch space. She moves, slipping from the floor onto the couch, and tucks her legs up beneath her. Ah. Much better.
Jean-Batiste exhales like a little thunderfuck, er, thundercloud, and opens his eyes to look at Trace as he arrives. He chuckles softly, watching him juggle the three plates around, then neatly reaches over and steals the bong back for a second hit. Someone hasn't watched enough Sesame Street and isn't sharing nicely, it seems. He sits with the bong on his knee, eyes closed again as he holds the smoke in.
Trace trails after her towards the gathering, setting the plates down on the coffee table. Once he's free of them, he takes the apple out of his mouth and beams appreciatively at Ayita, admitting, "I'd been near droppin' one... thanks!" He scurries back into the kitchen very briefly, just to grab a fruitopia and a fistful of silverware, before settling down by the coffee table and starting in on mashed potatos.
Walker scoots closer to leech Ayita's bodyheat since she's now seated next to him. Too late he notices how long the ash on his cigarette has grown, trying to reach the ashtray only to lose it to the carpet halfway. Oh, well. And speaking of sharing... "Bat..?" The smile is heard even in his voice.
Ayita flashes a warm smile at Trace. "No problem, hon. Carryin' three's a hard trick to learn. Trust me, I know." She seems quite content to have her bodyheat stolen, and snuggles up against Walker.
"Mmf," Trace comments to Ayita, fork poised above mashed potatos. But soon he's through with those for now, and instead reaches for the taco.
"Coming..." Batiste murmurs once he's exhaled, climbing to his feet before he remembers to open his eyes. He sways gently as he reacquaints himself with life at the upright level, then ambles languidly over to the couch and settles down against the edge of the coffee table, offering the bong and lighter to Walker. While he loiters there, he enviously eyes up the spread of food in front of Trace, and filches a baby carrot, chewing it noisily.
Trace sets the half-eaten taco down and grins up at Batiste, leaning back to get upside-down vision. "Go ahead, if you want some; I brought lots, so everyone could have some if they wanted..." (See, *he* knows how to share)
Walker takes the accoutrements and happily sparks up, inhaling deeply pungent-sweet smoke. His eyes cast sleepy but utterly sincere gratitude to the blond over the pressed lip smile. He holds it then to Ayita almost questioningly, not having ever gotten stoned with the woman before. Ewk. Then he sees the melded heaps that are Trace's supper, feeling a fit of queasiness kick in. He probably should have eaten something when he took his pills but after seeing that, food is not an option.
Jason just lays there, contemplating the difference between carpet and ceiling. Or something. Only a muffled giggle now and again and a little wriggling back and forth calls any attention to him.
Ayita's reaction to being offered the bong is somewhat at odds with her calm acceptanc e of the rest of you enjoying it. She shakes her head almost frantically, and pulls away, eyeing the thing as if it was an instrument of torture.
Jean-Batiste smiles at Trace for a while, a faint and lazy expression, then reaches for one of the Oreos and twists it apart, leaving the frosting half for Trace. The -better- side, the one without the nasty frosting, is then dunked in the chocolate pudding and devoured with contentment. He looks back at Jason, grin going crooked, and murmurs, "You comfortable down there, Jason?"
Walker blinks a bit at Ayita's reaction and moves the waterpipe away quickly toward the coffeetable for whoever may take it next. He holds his hit, leaning away from her a little as though to keep any minute amount of smoke from him away from her. When he finally exhales, there's nothing to show for it by way of telling smoke. He cuddles back up, eyes searching her face gently and hoping that she doesn't slip out from under him.
Jason turns his head and smirks up at Batiste, murmuring, "Your mama." He lets out another giggle, rolling onto his side, back away to everyone, one hand going up to tangle through his hair. Ooh, those lights again.
Ayita doesn't move, just closes her eyes and leans up against Walker without so much as a word to explain her odd behaviour. An arm is wrapped loosely around his waist.
Jean-Batiste chuckles weakly at Jason's reply, then looks down at the bong, chewing on his bottom lip. Oh, brother. He's going melancholy again. He picks up the bong and turns it around in his hands a couple of times, then asks it, "Jason, you want another hit?" before he fires it up for himself. Another deep hit, making sure those jealous little thingamajigs at the base of his lungs get some of the smoke, too.
Jason sings out, "Pooooor Benji," and then sits up abruptly. Mistake. He wobbles and almost topples over again from the headrush, but averts that by grabbing Batiste's arm with one hand. Reaching for the bong with the other, he murmurs, presumably to Bat's question, "No, but gimme one anyhow." Big, beaming grin.
Walker seems to find Ayita's demeanor comforting rather than curious at this point; who's he to question others' rapid swings in behavior? He melds fairly easily into her side - not quite as comfy-close as he'd like to be thanks to the tape at his ribs keeping his body semi-solid. "Mmm..." Whups. He thought that just a little too hard; it vocalized. Oh, well. Ayita deserves it. She's wonderful and she smells great, too. He lifts the cigarette, pulling on it gently as he settles into to full-blown, drugged-up snuggle mode.
Trace looks from the bong to his lovely food platters to the bong again. Well... let's do this, then. And nothing hides intimidation like being so eager that you reach over, whap Jason's hand, and go, "Greedy, all of you!" with a big grin.
Ayita is quite calm again, snuggled up at Walker's side. Oy. Talk about mood swings. Ah, well. At least the attack a bad mood was incredibly brief. She's back to being warm and cuddly now.
Jean-Batiste smiles a little at Jason as he hands the bong over, then turns his head and exhales at Trace. Well, there's not a lot of smoke, but it's the thought that counts, right. "Well, you were busy eating..." he murmurs, shifting from a smile to a grin. He settles down on the floor, somewhere vaguely between Trace and Jason, tucking himself up into a neat cross-legged position again.
Jason blinks at the whap. Where'd that come from. But then he just gives Trace that big, crooked grin. "You keep Bat, I jus' want the bong," he murmurs, fingers still wriggling for the prize. And when he gets it, he sticks his tongue out at Trace and takes this monster hit. Might as well get more than enough now instead of finding out there's none left later because jerks like him bong-hogged. Still holding it in, he holds it out to Trace. Yup, his eyes are all dialated and foggy. Soon he'll be about as rigid as a beanie-baby.
Wow... Thunderfuck -is- good shit. The stoney toke Walker culled surely is helped along by the other influences of the evening but that was a good hit. The soft warmness of Ayita is better than his waterbed could ever be and he's now having trouble keeping those eyelids open again.
Jean-Batiste frowns down at his hands for a second, then reaches over to pick up the washcloth he used to clean Jason up. "Be right back..." he murmurs, and pushes himself upright again, heading for the bathroom with a boneless sort of grace. Maybe his feet aren't touching the ground anymore.
Trace *should* have asked Ali about this in the hallway too, he now realizes. Well, at least Batiste will miss this. He sets down his fork and tentatively reaches for it, trying for 'way casual'. Okay. Wait, lighter. A hand darts out to snatch that up. Now... hmm. Don't hesitate too long. Just think of it like a giant chaser pipe. One that takes up your whole mouth. His laugh at the thought is much more in the eyes as he presses the glass barrel to his lips, sparks the lighter, and tries to imitate what, on the sly, he's been watching Walker, Batiste, and recently Jason accomplish... no big thing. Okay, at first, but the little non-smoker isn't used to such a large rush of smoke hitting his lungs at once, more accustomed to paper joints and pipes. As the bong burbles, he's okay at first, but after a moment he has to pull away and stave off choking with a few, embarrassedly silent coughs before setting the thing down. Lost all his smoke, too... good one, Trace.
Jason blinks at Trace, who just /screams/ 'this is my first bong hit!' Then topples over giggling. Oh, /that's/ right, Jason, be supportive.
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