~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Log Title: Brutal Morning

Log setting: The boys have stayed at some cheap motel. It's dawn, Sunday, January 27th, 2002, around 6:15am. Fair weather clouds glow pink in the southeast, catching the rays of the rising sun while the earth remains in shadow.

Log Cast:
Jason
Trace

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Morning. Or at least it was last time Jason checked. He didn't really want to get up, though. Last night seemed like some horrible, horrible dream and waking up would only prove it not so. With his eyes closed, maybe he could pretend that reality was the dream and his dreams, however unsettling, were reality. It might even work too, if it weren't for bodily functions. Late in the morning, he finally cracks his eyes open and lifts his head from where his face had burrowed into the back of your neck. Light filters in through the stained, once-cream-colored curtains and illuminates the empty bed across the room. Clock, ugly print of flowers on the wall, TV set. At least it had free HBO and porn. It took Serpico on at 2am for him to fall asleep finally. Anyhow, it's all dreadfully clear that he's indeed where he is. And he has to piss. At least you're here with him. Being alone would be the worst. He gently pries the arm you've used as a pillow out from beneath you and pulls away, trying not to wake you. Slipping out from beneath the covers, he trudges the short distance to the bathroom, arms wrapped about his bare torso for warmth. Place doesn't even have decent heating. Guess that's what you get for under thirty bucks. The door clicks quietly behind him, there's a flush, and then the water running in the sink for a long, otherwise silent time.

Well, it's not the Ritz, but it's not an oil drum either. Trace didn't even make it to Serpico. He drifted off during Party of Five, finally allowing you to change the station. While he was more alert and conscious at the start of the show, it was quite firmly announced that the channel would not be changed, since while the show admittedly sucked, someday Jennifer Love Hewitt was going to forget the age difference and come to New Orleans for him and wonder where he'd been all her life. But now Ms. Hewitt has long since been replaced with the quiet drone of today's weather. (It might rain later, suprise, suprise.) The slightest frown creases his sleep-smooth expression as his Jason-shaped pillow escapes, and he stirs just a little and gropes with bleary blindness for more covers. The blankets here are thin as possible, and so once they're found they still don't do much good, but he wraps himself up in a floral caccoon anyhow. Gonna get up and take your nice cuddlywarm self with you? Fine, he'll turn blanket hog.

Jason comes out after long minutes, looking like he just soaked his face or something. It doesn't do him any good though, as his fair skin has gone all pastey-pale. The boy's emotions affect his physical well-being directly apparently. As if you didn't know this already, really. He pads out and clicks off the TV set, not really interested in hearing about the clouds overhead. He turns and leans back against the dresser atop which the TV rests, eyes going to the lump of blankets with blue braids. Okay. Maybe he can do this... A deep breath, and he pushes away from the dresser, heading to the window. There's a rattle of curtains as he draws one aside slightly, bathing his face in cold grey light. Outside, the street's wet, but it's not raining. A few people wander past. A car drives by, dull thumping sounds of bass following it. Nothing he didn't expect. Yet something seems missing. Like a picture that's supposed to be in color, but only comes out in brown tones. A glance back over his shoulder, once more to you. A spot of color, warmth? He blinks and peers closer. But, no, it's gone again.

Often alarm clocks blare harsh music to pull morning victems into reluctant awakeness, but it is the final, pure silence that nags at Trace's thoughts until his pale lashes flutter gently against paler cheeks. The chill of the room, in spite of the blankets wrapped all around him, already had him veering inevitably towards consciousness. One hand fumbles free of the fabric wrappings and rubs at his face, scrubbing away sleep clumily. "Mrrzzmph..." Incoherant mumblings sound vaguly like a greeting. "J'sn." He doesn't sit up yet, just turns a little so his head is off the lumpy pillow (far insuperior to the one he slept on), curled up inside all those blankets from the armpits and below, peering at you with heavy lids. "Time'zit?"

Jason had gone back to staring out the window, but at the sounds of your waking, he looks over his shoulder to you. "Hmmn?" He lets the curtain fall again and pads back over, hands clinging to opposite bony shoulders. "S'like..." Um, oh yeah, the clock. He looks to the thing. "Um, nine-sumthin'." And then he adds, unecessarily, "S'cold." He settles on the edge of the bed with a little shiver, not letting go of himself. "Think we could get some breakfast? Mean, like... real breakfast? Like at a diner?" Switching back to a life where every penny, literally, counts is easy. It's the being able to live that life after being somewhat comfortable that's hard. "'N mebbe we could..." He shrugs. "Guess go to the square? Dunno..."

Trace urges himself up off the mattress slowly, arms bracing to support a sitting position. "Some... waffles'd be good?" he suggests quietly. "With lil' squares a butter meltin' on 'em. An' syrup. An' strawberries." Well, maybe the strawberries is going too far. He gives a sleepy half-smile and tosses his braids about briefly, recalling the words. "Jest eggs an' toast would be fine though, if we're short on cash. I don't got none on me. If we really, really gotta, I bet Ligeia would give me cash, since I wouldn't let her give me the other two-thousand after I finished her paintin'." He jerks a shrug, and seems more awake already. The room's chill and the even colder reality of last night has swiftly brought an alertness to his hazel eyes. "Tell ya what. After the breakfast I'll go drawin' in the square, an' you do yer thing to snag some wallets." His eyes search your face. We can do this. Right? We still know how to make it on our own.

Jason nods a little at your words, eyes on the blanket near your hands. "Got.. twenny-sumthin' left. But I think Wal... I think we deserve some waffles. Pancakes, 'least." Yeah, we can still do this. Right? He lifts his eyes to yours. Deep, Irish green they are. But with none of the fire you nicknamed him for. "Y'know, I always thought..." But then he shakes his head and lowers his eyes again with a little smile. "Le's jus' get dressed 'n outta here, huh? Think the roaches're gettin' mad we're in their bed." He thumps the bed with his hand, then pushes to his feet again and goes to retrieve his shirts and jacket from where they're crumpled up next to the bathroom door.

"Sure thing," Trace agrees obediently. He's wearing just his jeans and the pentagram necklace, the silver pendant cool on his skin. Now the boy glances about for his shirt. Finally looking straight down reveals it, dropped right at the foot of the bed. He snatches it up and pulls the greenish-brown shirt over his head, blue braids springing out once free of the cotton confines. "Gonna be Mardi Gras soon," he mumbles as he clambers off the bed. There's nothing to gather up really except Dove, since he didn't see any need to unpack his canvas bag at all last night. While pacing about the room hunting for the kitten, he continues in soft tones, "It'll be easy pickins f'you, an' plenty tourists fer me t'woo towards my donation cup." Ah-ha. Dove had been exploring the empty closet, but now she is scooped up into the bluecap's arms. "Prolly oughta sneak back into Walker's sometime. Get y'stuff. We could sell the PSX I bet, if you wanted. And you gotta get yer instruments. Bet if we worked as a team sometime, we could really draw folks in." And then he adds with a shy shrug, "An' sides, I really like to draw that way. I miss it." Dove is carefully tucked away in the canvas bag, with the flap left open so she can peek out.

Jason puts his layers on, dragging the tattered green 'Wiccans do it Skyclad' shirt over his head and then shrugging into his flannel and jacket. Makes him seem not so scrawny and has lots of places to hide things, that's why he wears all that all the time. He flops down in the middle of the floor and pulls on his disintigrating boots, nodding to you a couple of times as you speak. "Yeah, Mardi Gras been good to me..." Walker's house gets a little face from him, but he nods to that too. "Mebbe in a couple days, huh? 'Less you think they'll move our shit?" Brows furrow. "Maybe tanight 'r sumthin, dunno. We'll figger it out." Just not now. He makes a growly-face at the kitten as she's tucked away, murmuring, "Y'better leave the fleas where ya found 'em, monster." He clambers to his feet and grabs the key from the nightstand. "Ready?" he asks of you quietly. Time to face the big bad world, the familiar old enemy.

"Yeah," Trace nods uncertainly, and passes the bag on over to you. "Definitely. Look, lets stop by the apartment first so I 'kin drop off this stupid paintin' first, eh?" He hefts it up with a sigh. "Well, s'not a stupid painting, but I don't like draggin' it everywhere. God, wish they'd done it on some plain ole' paper or somethin', so's I could roll it up. Who paints on wood, anyway?" His grumblings don't hold anything stronger than weariness, really. He waits for you to get the door open, and offers a drudged smile that tries for hopeful and falls decidedly short. But there is some vague optimism in him. He's making the attempt.

Back to the Roleplay Log Archive