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Log Title: Castle Dreams

Log setting: In the playground, near dawn.

Log Cast:
Jason
Jean-Batiste
Trace

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Log start on 10-23-98

Jason and Batiste are laying on top of the castle, talking quietly. Jason, of course, looks like he's having a ball with his own private little joke, especially when the other reaches out and touches the top of his head. He lets out a bright little laugh that carries softly across the playground, but his soft words after might not so get so far, "Well, why don'tcha draw yer diary then?"

Trace creeps out from the bushes, peering out blearily, looking for the source of both of your familar voices. "What're you guys *doing* here...?" He calls out with a half-grin, scrubbing at his eyes. "Geezus... was out cold and happy to be there." He's got leaf bits clinging to his tangled blue mop.

Jean-Batiste is stretched out on his side, curled a bit towards Jason, looking confused and fascinated in a sort of dreamy, drowsy way. "But..." he insists, sitting up completely to just -stare- at Jason for a second. At the sound of the crackling, he hides something against his chest - seeing it's Trace, he breaks into a wide, lazy grin and waves at him. "Hey, come hang out...we got a pipe going." Even as he says it, he bows his head to fiddle with a tiny silver pipe and suck in some more smoke.

Trace manages to get himself upright and half trudges, half stumbles on over to the castle. He stands idle at the bottom for a moment, peering up, maybe stalling a bit. "What's in it; hash?"

Jean-Batiste twists over onto his stomach and peers down at Trace, blowing the smoke at him with a loopy grin. "Nah. Just some of the weed I've got left from the west coast. C'mon up anyways, you don't haveta smoke none..." He looks pretty far gone, a hectic, enraptured light shining in his eyes.

Jason props himself up onto his elbows and grins back over his shoulder down to the blue-haired boy. "Dunno, s'sumthin' decent." He giggles and peers past the boy to the bushes. "You found the hidin' place, huh?"

Jason looks almost disappointed at the last, but not quite. He also looks a little relieved about something else. Oh, and loopy too. Definitely loopy.

Jean-Batiste looks over at Jason, offering the pipe back to him, and fixates on the empty air a few inches to his side. He leans back, smiling drowsily to himself as he tunes out for a few seconds.

Jason starts to take a toke, but frowns when nothing happens. With an exasperated sigh, he snags the lighter again and lights it up again, taking a rather long drag. As he holds it in, he quickly waves Trace up so he can join in the little 'out in space' thing going on. Then, finally, he lets the smoke go, sliding back down to lay on his stomach as he does so. After a few moments motionless, he mutters, "Splinters are my friends," sarcastically.

Trace grins big and nods, "You seen it? Well, I moved in now, but if you stayed there sometimes too, you can crash whenever, I don't care..." His slow ramble runs down and halts as he wraps dirty, thin fingers around the ladder rung level to his eyes. Then he slips one foot onto the bottom rung. "Gotta clear out some've the art though, there's pictures everywhere..." He looks up uncertainly for one more moment, before starting up slowly. With the great care of someone who knows full well he's way too fixed to be climbing ladders.

Jason mmphs from his prone position. "S'it good?"

Jean-Batiste starts to giggle softly, hugging his backpack up beneath him to serve as a pillow. He no sooner gets comfortable than he thinks to push up to his knees and reach a hand down to help Trace climb up. Reach down...climb up...it strikes him all as funny, and he starts to laugh again, hand swaying in mid-air as he offers it to Trace.

Jason grins up at Batiste, green eyes still bright despite the fog that sort of hides the sparkle. "Yer not planning ta share the joke, are ya?" He shifts and reaches a hand down to help as well. Hell, he offers two. Cause, well... he's got two. Or something. Jason starts giggling as well. Isn't this grand?

Trace latches onto Batiste's hand gratefully, then blinks at Jason for a moment, before grabbing at the two he offers ... though to be perfectly honest, taking both hands off the rungs probably wasn't a good idea. He very nearly tumbles back. If he'd been just a little heavier, he might have taken one or two of you falling down with him. But he's a total shrimp of a fifteen year old, and you're both anchoring him up... In the end he manages to get one leg up onto the top platform of the castle, then the next, and gives you both a triumphant grin. "Thanks for, uh... giving me a hand." He giggles then. My, drugs make really bad puns funny!

Jean-Batiste looks over at Jason, and just -stares- again, eyes wide with crazily shining amazement - then he looks up at Trace as he puns triumphantly - and slumps into his backpack in a riotous fit of helpless, hapless giggles. "Oh, god..." he mumbles, shoulders shaking. "Trace, I am...oh, geez. I am tripping -so- hard...oh, god..." Yep. He's gone. His hand hangs limply off the edge of the castle, twitching now and again with his laughter.

The pun elicits a bright giggle from Jason, but, well, Jean-Batiste losing it makes Jason lose it too. Like that private joke just keeps getting funnier and funnier. He rolls onto his side and wraps his arms around himself as he giggles uncontrollably, sniffling and wiping at his eyes. This really /is/ too much.. and he loves it.

Trace smiles and asks curiously, "What're you seeing? Anything like, uh... y'know, that night?" He finds himself a nice little corner on the platform, curling his arms around his legs, which are tucked tight against his chest. His eyes have pupils like pinpoints. He doesn't join in on the laughter just now, but smiles tranquilly.

Jean-Batiste is laughing too hard to be coherent, though he -tries- to explain to Trace. Something about heads blowing up and atomic gumbo with beaks and ohmyGOD, his -tail- and it's all so -real-...the laughter finally stops, but only because it starts shaking hard coughs out of him. Even as he splutters with them, the laughter tries to trickle out, though all he says is a chant of, "Ow...ow..."

Trace giggles a little now, at that response. "I dreamed about her, y'know. The violet girl?" He shifts his gaze languidly to Jason and fills him in. "We met this voodoo lady, I call her the violet girl... She danced for us and, um, took us out in the woods and.... hmm, we tripped on her shrooms and stuff." He grins back to Batiste. "Anyway, it's like I had this dream while I was on a nod, and it was like when she killed that chicken except, she uh, had no top on. And she had really nice tits, but uh.. I mean, she was killing this chicken! So it was like there's blood runnin' down her front... And they were still really nice, but uh, bloody and... it was weird," he concludes with a grin.

This chant just makes it harder for Jason to stop laughing. Because, for some reason, there is nothing funnier than a friend laughing so hard that they hurt themselves. He doesn't stop convulsing for, oh, a good minute or more, even rolling around a little bit before taking several /long/ deep breaths to control himself. Looking up to Trace (whom he rolled next to), he grins crookedly, panting. "You see fucked-up shit... s'what I like 'bout ya."

"Yeah.... I'd draw 'em for ya, but she's a lady, and my mama taught me better'n that..." Trace giggles a little as he looks down at Jason, but nothing like the convulsions poor Batiste is having.

Jean-Batiste twists his head around a little to look at Trace as he wipes the laughter-tears from his eyes and tries to get his breathing back under control. "Ow," he moans repeatedly, holding his hand against his breastbone and pressing down hard. Finally, he sinks back on his side, shuffling around a bit so he's curled towards the both of you. "Wow, you dreamt that?" Duh. He gets a sly glint in his eye, and teases Trace, asking, "Did she still lick the chicken's neck, like before?" He giggles a moment, then forces it away, sitting up a bit and looking around for something. "Shit, where's my pipe?"

Jason sprawls there, his hair (now /quite/ loose from the not-so-effective ribbon) spreading out beneath him like a halo. Staring up at the early-morning stars that still linger just before sunrise, he addresses neither of you in particular, "You both dream fucked-up shit 'n I dunno why you don't share." His hand flops onto the boards and points in some random direction. "Yer pipe's over there."

Trace laughs, "Naw, I'll tell ya what she licked." So much for mama's teachings. But then he just laughs again and shakes his head a little. When Batiste realizes he's lost his pipe, he sits up a bit. "Don't lose it 'fore I even get one hit," he complains through the perma-grin.

Jean-Batiste gets up on hands and knees, and starts to grope around over the planks in the darkness, trying to locate the little bit of silver. "It's around here somewhere..." he promises, patting around. He stops to look back at Trace, giving him a drowsy, wicked grin. "Shit, I never dream like that when -I- nod out. So you gonna draw it sometime? Bet she'd even sign the picture for you, she was weird like that."

Jason sniffles, still staring up at the pre-dawn sky, his gaze unfocused, but seeming like he's watching some kind of show going on. "Oh, I see, all ideas of drawin' /me/ flee yer heads when this chick shows up..." He then suddenly giggles. "Would it help if I licked some chicken?" His eyes flicker up to Trace and he suddenly loses it again, though on a much, much smaller scale. Just uncontrollable giggles.

Trace rubs at his nose, and doesn't seem too inclined to get up and help you look for the pipe. "Nah... I mean, who knows with girls? She'd prolly get pissed, and man, I don't need no voodoo girls mad at me. I'd be scared to go to sleep... No thanks. I'll draw somethin' safer." He suddenly giggles. "Like Jason, with his hair all mussed like that and his eyes full 'o those stars up there..."

Jean-Batiste makes a soft sound of triumph as he locates the pipe, curling his fingers possessively around it. He sits back on his heels, and quickly sets to tapping it against the edge of the ladder, cleaning it out a bit before refilling it with new weed from a tiny little ziploc. He lights it up, and takes the first hit, then crawls over to Trace and presents him with cheap Bic lighter and little silver pipe. "S'good," he promises in a pothead croak, trying to hold the smoke in.

Trace giggles a little at your croak, and takes the pipe into his fingers. "So is this laced, or did ya drop it earlier? Just wonderin' if I'm gonna be seein' shit..." He brings the pipe to his lips and pulls deeply, before handing it back with a tiny 'here' that lets the tiniest wisp of smoke escape before he purses his lips tight again.

Jason actually flushes a little (ya know, he's been doing that since this drawing thing started) and smiles lopsidedly, eyelids drooping slightly. "'N chicken. Stars 'n chicken 'n..." His brows furrow as Batiste appears over him to hand off the pipe, then another small giggle escapes. "'N I'm wonderin' if I get another hit 'a that stuff 'for s'gone..."

Jean-Batiste breathes out towards the fading predawn stars, toking again - greedy, greedy - before offering it to Jason. He giggles for a moment as he hands the lighter and pipe over, then comments in mock slyness to Trace as he exhales, "You should see how much he blushes when you say you wanna draw him..." Oh, yeah, Batiste. Like -you- don't blush when the wind changes.

Trace giggles at 'stars 'n chicken'..... it lets a lot of the smoke go, to his own disappointment, even if he couldn't have held it much longer anyway.. "Chicken and stars!" he announces with a raspy giggle. "Like that soup. You guys ever had that as a kid?"

Jean-Batiste nods wildly, shaking his ballcap, already loosened from previous giggling fits, right off his shoulders. It bounces as he grabs for it, and lands on the ground far below. He sighs, leaning over a little to stare down at it. "Shit," he mumbles. Instead of going after it, he shakes his stringy hair out, then tries to tuck it behind his ears. "Oh, yeah. And chicken and rice, too. With lots of crackers..." He trails off, mouth watering. Mmm. Munchies. His stomach grumbles once, reminding him he has a bellyful of atomic gumbo to digest yet.

Trace giggles, still fascinated with the memory. "It was like chicken and noodle, but so much better, it was stars... And you dig in and your spoon is full of stars. Ohh..." He giggles again, because it sounds like a drug referance.

Jason grunts some kind of response to Trace's question as he fi gures out the complexities of toking while prone without burning one's fingertips. After a a couple of non-tries and a soft yelp, he finally gets it right and takes the smoke in, then offers the pipe and lighter to Trace. He's looking quite comfy here, though,, you know how it is when you're nice and high and surrounded by comfy people.

Trace takes the pipe and lighter, putting it to his lips and fumbling with the lighter a bit. Finally it catches, and the flames lick the crumbled green-brown leaves and crackle once, softly. After his (final, he decides) toke, he passes it all back to Jean-Batiste. He's still holding his breath, and looks pretty determined by his tight grin that no one's going to get him to giggle til he's good and ready.

Jason sees that determined look and can't help but giggle at it. So fierce, it's funny, that's what it is. He rolls over onto his stomach and props himself up on his elbows facing Trace, close enough that his chin is almost resting on the younger boy's knees. "So serious," he giggles. "S'like yer gonna 'splode."

Jean-Batiste leans towards Jason, peering at his fingers. "You okay?" he asks, worry tinging his voice for a moment. As Jason leans back and looks content again, Batiste settles back as well, watching Trace taking a hit, then accepting the lighter and pipe. "It'd really suck if you laughed right now," he comments, flashing a wicked grin. "I mean, like, smoke'd come outta your nose, and think of the face you'd make..." Another winning grin - c'mon, laugh, you know you want to. He chuckles once, then takes a shorter hit, swaying as he does. Moderation, you know.

Jason starts giggling harder, of course. How is he not supposed to with Batiste making the commentary here.

Trace sputters a brief, "Shut up, you!" his lips scarecely parting, and only for a heartbeat. trying very hard now to hold out. He cups a hand over his mouth, eyes dancing bright.

Jean-Batiste's doing a good job of holding the smoke in, looking all casual and lazy as a cat in an opium den, when suddenly, he blinks, and swats at his face. Maybe a cricket jumped up and hit him? He laughs out loud - and, of course, starts to gulp and choke on the acrid smoke pouring out of his mouth. Spluttering, hacking, laughing all at once, he rolls over fetal and looks at Jason with a contorted grin, like it was -his- fault, somehow.

Trace laughs, Jean-Batiste's cricket mishap being his final downfall... The smoke trickles out from between his fingers, still cupping his mouth as he gives in to his mirth.

Jason /completely/ dies at that point, collapsing so that his forehead falls against Trace's knee, though not hard enough to hurt. He flops over onto his side and wraps his arms around himself as if to keep his gut from popping out as he laughs harder. Tears stream down his cheeks as people choke on smoke everywhere. "Ow...ow...it hurts..." Batiste moans through his choking, coughing laughter. He ends up sprawled semi-fetal, cheek against the rough wooden planks, still twitching with scratchy coughs as he rubs hard at his breastbone to try and sweet-talk his lungs into cooperating.

Trace laughs into his hand, eyes clenched shut, and leans down a bit when his side starts to protest. He gets a faceful of red hair before him when he finally opens his eyes, and blinks down, then over at Jason, then giggles some more.

Jason ends up sprawled out on his back between the two of you, gasping desperately for some air. "Please!" he whimpers. "No more!" He runs his hands through his hair, his /tangled/ hair and groans-giggles, whining, "I'm gonna /hate/ life tomorrow... night."

Trace has calmed down a bit, slowly straightening himself up and watching Jason tug at his hair. "Tomorrow..." He cranes his neck around and scans the surroundings below. "Hey, uh..." he laughs again. "How're we gettin' *down*?

Jason grins up at Trace, well, more smirks really, and says dryly, "Didn' mark ya as the type ta have problems figurin' that out..."

Jean-Batiste grins down at Jason, zoning out yet again as he stares down at the mess of red hair puddled on the wood. He impulsively reaches for some of it, trying to fingercomb the tangles from it. He stops, hair resting limp in his fingers, as he looks up at Trace and grins more. "Um...jump and hope for the best? Maybe there's a slide over at the other end..? Or some sand?"

Trace giggles and decides, looking down, "I'm just gunna FLOAT..." He gets up clumsily, with effort. "I'm gunna...." He grins. "Well, watch!"

Jason doesn't protest any help with the hair thing, that's for sure. "A slide? /Sand?/ In a playground? What kind of perv are you?" He giggles briefly at this (probably the only one, but, hey, everyone's the best comedian when they're high). "Can't be too far... ten, twenty feet?"

Jason uh-ohs and looks over to Batiste. "I smell blood already..."

"It's fifty," Trace assures Jason from over his shoulder, then looking down eagerly. "A hundred."

Jean-Batiste shakes his head earnestly at the both of you. "It's not -that- far..." he insists, and leans over to look down. He looks for a long time. o O (Maybe it -is- that far.)

Jason giggles softly to himself, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but falls will surely kill me."

"It's not, it's not, it's just a hundred..." Trace laughs. He brings his feet to the edge, letting the toes of his old sneakers hang off.

Jean-Batiste leans back in, and starts fingercombing Jason's hair again. Soon as he's worked the tangles out of a small bit, he starts to absently braid it together, fingers working as if by habit. "We could just crash up here..? Wind'll get cold, though..." He looks towards Trace, laughs once, then starts to cough again.

Jason looks up to Batiste with raised eyebrows, still just laying there. "Think I should stop 'im?"

Trace looks back at Jean-Batiste curiously and then stretches out a hand. "No... Float WITH me, c'mere. It's easy."

Wile definitely not minding the fingercombing, Jason actually enjoys the braiding part. He lets his eyes close a little more and murmurs skyward (though aimed more towards the potential mess Trace seems to be planning), "Jus' needa stay warm... Floatin' sucks."

"Does not," Trace mumbles, but sighs and steps away from the edge, back to the two of you. He pouts a little. "My hair don't braid, it's like... like one big dreadlock in most places."

Trace�s Desc:
This boy is filthy. That's the first thing that might occur to you, by the slickness to his skin, the tattered clothes and matted, unkempt hair. Dyed blue, it constantly falls in his eyes and the color is growing out, revealing his natural dirty-blonde at the roots. His large hazel eyes are widely set in that slender, angled face, and make his youth strikingly obvious. He's got a multitude of piercings, up and down both ears, and slender silver hoop through the nose.

He's garbed in baggy, tattered jeans and a threadbare, stained, and faded concert t-shirt. It leaves his arms bare, revealing ugly, bruise-black track marks on his inner forearms. All in all, he looks fragile, dangerously skinny, and ultimately lost.

Jean-Batiste considers Trace's hand, then stuffs his pipe and lighter into a pocket before setting down the braided lock of Jason's hair, patting it once, and moving over to take Trace's hand...too late. There's slow-motion druggedness for you. He sits back on his heels and says, "Oh." He thinks a moment. "Well, we could find somewhere for you to grab a shower and all?"

Trace giggles. "Rain is my showers." He drops down to his knees and sits back on his heels. "Nicest kind."

Jason giggles softly at the 'one, big dreadlock' thing. That's funny stuff, can't you tell? And these people changing each other's minds. That's funny too, so he spares some giggles for that. He murmurs, "That mean you get nekkid in the rain?" Ooh, look, another giggle.

Trace wrinkles his nose. "No!" And then laughs, "Rain is my washin' machine too."

Jean-Batiste glances over at Jason, flushing mildly and scowling at him for causing the reaction. -All- Jason's fault. Yes. Looking back to Trace, he starts to sprawl out towards the floor again, commenting, "We could do another mural tomorrow...and rake in enough money to, you know, crash in a motel room for a night. I mean, like...think about it. A shower, and television, and somewhere to crash safe for a night. Wouldn't that be cool?" He seems completely oblivious to any seedy connotations his offer might have.

Jason makes a small snort, absently inspecting Batiste's handiwork with the braid. "S'the best way ta shower in the rain, though..."

Jason murmurs, "That'd be cool..." absently... then brightens immediately and digs into his coat to pull out a couple of wallets. "Gotta count the loot!" He pauses, then glances between the two of you. "'Couse, ya both still owe me a mural." He grins broadly, lopsidedly.

Trace oohs. Money talk. But he's gone and spent his. "Yeah... we'll make another mural, and you can play this time..." He decides it's time to lay down, and proceeds to do so, curling up on the hard boards and looking up at the both of you.

Jean-Batiste did a decent job of turning a lock of Jason's hair into a neat red plait. Maybe he used to braid his own hair, or something. Looking down at the little braid, he seems troubled for a moment - a quick glance at Trace, and he murmurs, "Well, whatever. I mean, we don't have to. I figured it'd be cooler to fix somewhere where it'd be safe to nod out, that's all." He flashes a brief grin, distracted, then nods to Jason.

Trace nodnods, "Yeah, but we can fix at my place anytime you want..." His response is broken by a big yawn. "Even so, it's a good idea. A bed, wow. And... oh, and a TV and cable and stuff."

Jason's already sprawled out on the boards, so Batiste is the only one really upright at the moment. That yawn infects him and he does so as well, curling his tongue a little. "Mm, dunno, s'kinda comfy up here right now..." Well, it's not, but he doesn't have any better ideas. "Mebbe tomorrow...?"

Trace rubs at his eyes. "Didn' he mean tomorrow? I thought he was talkin' like after the mural we'd get a hotel. I'm broke right now..."

Jason giggles softly and tosses one of the wallets to Trace (well, his direction anyway). "Here, got this fer ya. Happy birthday."

Jean-Batiste stays cross-legged for now, distracting himself by braiding more of Jason's hair into a little plait. "Well, uh...I still got money, now, I mean...I didn't spend it on much, yet. But...yeah, why don't we do it tomorrow?" He shivers, and tugs on his flannel shirts a bit, still seeming a bit zoned out.

Trace grins brightly, clutching his hands over the leather wallet when it strikes his stomach, pinning it there. "Oh hey, wow..." He unfolds it to peer inside. Hmm, bills. Cool. But he has no head for counting right now, and just tucks it back in a pocket.

Trace rolls over so his cheek is to the wooden planks, tugging his legs up closer. "You think nobody'll bother us if we sleep here, right?" It's not much of a real worry, just a sleepy thing to say.

Jason's eyes are all the way closed now. He's tired, high, and someone's playing with his hair. Can't really stay conscious through all of that, now can he? He just mumbles, "Whole lotta kids, but they're easy ta sleep through..."

Trace chuckles, curling an arm up to shield his eyes, fingers twining into some hair around the back of his head to keep it there while he sleeps. So that rising sun won't bother him once he's out.

Jean-Batiste nods a little, though neither of you can see it. "Yeah..." he murmurs. "It'll be okay. I don't sleep well, I'll wake up if anyone comes snooping around, no worries." He pats down a second little tail, starting on a third. "It'll be okay," he repeats drowsily, mostly to himself.

"Oughta draw a sign down there..." Trace mumbles, only part coherant. "...It'll say 'hi kiddies.... go the fuck away please.."

Jason mumbles something to Batiste (though God only knows what the hell it is he says), then makes a snorting-snicker sound at Trace's idea. Jason's gone bye-bye. Not asleep, but not awake.

Trace drifts off himself shortly after, curled up on the wood floor.

Jean-Batiste has reached that sort of lethargic brooding state that comes along with highs, sometimes. So while he sits and muses and ponders, his fingers keep adding to the mass of little red plaits. One here, one there, one just about everywhere.

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