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

Log Title: Chinese

Log setting: Beight’s Motel

Log Cast:
Trace
Jean-Batiste

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

An odd scraping sound can be heard outside the door, like metal scratched against something else metal and attached to the door, either the knob or the key panel.. Trace is trying to juggle the paper bags he carries and get the key in the lock as well. Finally he gets frustrated and just sets the food down, unlocks the door and pushes it open, then picks up the bags again and strides inside with them. "Hey, Batiste! H-" He swiftly goes silent when he sees Jason curled up asleep, grinning a little. The door falls slowly shut behind him on it's own accord.

The motel room is silent when you enter, though you might notice a new disarray that wasn't there when you left for Chinese. On the bed the two of you painted Jason on last night are Jason and Batiste, tangled up like brawling puppies. In fact, considering the thrashed disarray of the bed and the hectic sprawl of braids around Batiste's head, you can imagine Jason having pinned Batiste down, tickled him into submission and then - apparently - curled up against him to fall asleep. Batiste's laying there with Jason in the crook of his arm, looking for all the world like he's not sure if he should dare to get up or not. "Hey..." he calls, grinning weakly with embarassment. He starts to try and worm away from the sleeping redhead without waking him. "I think he just finished another manic fit..." He still looks a bit dazed from it all.

Trace chuckles softly and teases, "Aw, well, glad ya survived it, and without back up..." He sets the bags down on the little coffee table. "I sorta... went wild with it. Didn't know what anybody liked, so I got a bit of lots of things... Kinda weird, I usually don't spend so much on food. But I seen how both of ya eat when ya got the fundage..." He shrugs, grinning faintly. "Besides, the place had really good prices. So I got, uh... fried rice, wanton soup, three egg rolls, potstickers, General Tso's chicken, shrimp lo mein, and vegetable lo mein. The lo mein's my favorite. I think that's it..." He peeks into the bag. "Oh, and crab rangoon. And forks and chopsticks. Even though I'll be damned if I know how to use 'em."

Jean-Batiste slowly, carefully squirms himself free of the sleeping Jason, and tucks a corner of the rumpled bedsheet over him before standing up and straightening out his clothes with a soft chuckle. He looks over at you and smiles appreciatively, nodding at the list of food. "It all sounds -so- good...I'm starved. Besides, we deserve a feast. The mural was great." He moves over to the table aka bar, and starts tidying it off. Jason and Batiste also apparently finished off the last few splashes of Peach Schnapps, for the bottle gets tossed into the trashcan. After clearing a place and pulling two of the chairs up, he starts helping you unpack all the cartons and containers, sighing happily at the scent rising from all the food. "I use to know how to use chopsticks. I think I'm too hungry to try and remember, though." He grins at you.

Slipping onto his chair, the blue-haired kid grins, lifting up the lid to the shrimp lo mein and gazing down into it hungrily. "I'm supposed to still be satisfied from the french toast!" Even though he fed a good quarter of it to Jason? Trace digs through the paper bag and comes up with a fork. "But it smelled really good the whole walk home and, well, like I said... you guys are spoiling me." He jabs a fork at a piece of shrimp and pops it into his mouth, hedonistic enough to go straight for the good stuff. He chews on it cheerfully.

Jean-Batiste reaches over with his fork and steals one of the shrimp as well, before they're all gone. He grins at you as he chews, saying, "Hey. Everyone deserves to be spoiled once in a while, right? It's just...our time." He grins more, and reaches for his eggroll and a packet of plum sauce, completely refusing to think of his statement's corollary - it'll be our time for -bad- things at some time, too. One corner of the eggroll is bitten off, and the plum sauce is carefully squeezed inside, then left propped up against another carton. Marinade? Who knows. Next...the soup. He pulls one of the styrofoam bowls over, grabs a plastic spoon, and digs in.

Trace comments, tapping the top of one of the larger foam boxes, "I hope either you or Jason likes that General Tso stuff. Most people seem to, but not me." He swirls his fork in the lo mein noodles languidly. "'Nother good thing about Chinese is that it keeps a long while... A few days at least. Some gets a little dry, but we can handle that." Trace slips the spool of lo mein into his mouth and pulls the fork away clean. Two noodles still droop from his mouth, and he slurps them up without hesitation. Such refined table manners.

It's against the law of physics to eat wonton soup quietly, so Batiste isn't about to comment on the volume of your slurpage. (Is that a word?) After finishing about half the bowl, he pauses with a look of mild rapture upon his face and grins over at you again. "Yeah, it will. And we've still got a couple cheeseburgers left, too." A sudden, almost malicious giggle. "Feed the homeless!" He winks at you, then takes another spoonful of soup. "I was thinking about something..." he muses, a little tentatively - change of topic. He glances back at you, as if considering whether he should continue or not.

"Yeah?" Well, okay, let's be fair. Trace's mouth is stuffed with more lo mein noodles, so it comes out more like "Mreh?" He flips open the crab rangoon and takes one of the six, just holds it a moment as he swallows. Then he nibbles at it, watching you curiously over the crab-filled pastry.

Jean-Batiste finishes his wonton soup, and starts on the eggroll. It's a sticky mess because of the plum sauce, but he takes a great glee in consuming it, much like attacking a rack of bbq ribs. Between mouthfuls, he explains, "Well...you know, if we, like, decided to draw once or twice a week, we could make enough to rent a little dive on Bourbon Street, I bet." He munches a bit more, adding softly, "Like...you said, about a home...we could all go in on it together..." Yeah, he's dreaming again.

Trace looks at you for a moment, then lowers his crab rangoon and drops his eyes to it instead. His expression is both dubious and somewhat hopeful -- lips pursed, jaw set, but his eyes distant and dreaming about it. In short, he's feeling teased. Finally he speaks, surprisingly candid. "How 'bout during winter, or even just bad weeks? They happen all'a time. I.. I don't know. I really, really want to, but I'm afraid I'd fall behind. I can't lift wallets like you two, and my sidewalk sketches don't always bring much. Sometimes I hafta pretty much live fix to fix... in the winter it's sometimes days and days between 'em, it's terrible..." He shakes his head faintly, looking very honest and torn. "All this... all this has been *so* great, you just don't know... I just haven't been so happy so often in a long time. But it's like, when things get rough, I'd never be able to keep up with rent. And then I'd just be leechin' off ya both... And I couldn't."

Jean-Batiste nibbles his eggroll only absently as you speak, his attention fixed on you. He nods gently once or twice, dark eyes growing old before their time, wisened with harsh understandings. "I know it'll be tough next winter," he murmurs, licking a bit of plum sauce off his upper lip. "And...I guess I'm just...dreaming, 'cause things have been so good for me, too, these last couple weeks. But..." He frowns gently, then decides against his words, and just looks at you earnestly. "Maybe I'll find a way to afford a place myself, and then you can crash there. Or work towards saving up some...Marco says there are places down on Bourbon that are only a hundred and fifty a month that are -total- dives..." He trails off as he says it, though. A hundred and fifty dollars. "I guess I'm just dreaming a little, yeah?" He smiles crookedly at you.

Trace smiles back, but the expression is distantly melancholy. "I... Yeah, you are, Batiste. M'sorry. It's just... I ain't had one hundred and fifty dollars to my name since, oh, a couple years short of never." He nips at his Rangoon briefly, then continues. "I'm afraid to leech off you both, and I'll just live in my fort." A sudden, faint grin touches his lips. "Tell ya what. A hundred and fifty bucks ever drops down outta the sky or gets put in our cup by accident or somethin', we'll take it as fate and get that dive on Bourbon. Deal?"

Jean-Batiste grins at you, and raises the remains of his eggroll like a fancy champagne flute. "Deal." He munches away, mood brightened a little again, insisting through a mouthful of sprouts and chinese cabbage and whatever else goes in eggrolls, "If I ever get a place, it wouldn't be leeching if you stayed there too, you know. Just remember that, okay? I mean...I've crashed at your place before, right? Same thing, just flipped around." He polishes off the last of his eggroll, and decides the crab rangoon looks too good to resist, picking up one of the remaining pastries and biting in. Too greedy - he opens his mouth, making scalded-tongue noises for a few seconds before he can swallow it down. "Ouch, fuck. That hurt." Of course, he immediately takes another, though smaller, bite. "You know, we could hit a lumber store sometime, rummage through their dumpsters after closing time, and see if they had some scraps of plywood we could add to the roof of your place."

Trace brightens at that. "Yeah? Well, we gotta keep the plastic too so rain don't get on my pictures. But that'd be cool..." He goes back to the lo mein, swirling, slurping. Between mouthfuls he points out, "And about your crashing at my place, well -- yeah, I guess I can see that. I really liked having you come 'round, actually. Gets too quiet way out there at night sometimes. with just crickets and hoot owls. I'm more used to cities lately."

Jean-Batiste nods to you, temporarily muted by a mouthful of crab rangoon. After swallowing, he says, "Oh, definately. But..." He stops, thinking for a second. "We'll have to go by a hardware store before our money runs out, and do renovations to the fort." He grins winningly at you. "You can buy plastic sheeting at hardware stores for, like, a buck a yard, for covering your carpet when you're painting, but it'd be great for waterproofing the fort. Better than garbage bags, that's for sure. Like, four bucks, and that'd be enough to cover the entire thing. Maybe even try and find a couple extra blankets, or something. Chez Trace's." He chuckles at that - his expression softens, and he murmurs, "It's been good to have a place to crash. Really good. I'm glad you were drawing on the sidewalk that night."

Trace grins a little, affectionate and embarrassed too. "Well.... well, then I guess I'm glad that crazy crow swooped by and held you there long enough t'notice." He lowers his eyes to his lo mein, swirling up onto his fork what's going to be a very large mouthful if he attempts it all at once.

Jean-Batiste laughs a little, nodding at you as he polishes off the last flaky bits of pastry. "Yeah...what a crazy night. Oh!" He blinks a couple of times, then a crazy grin spreads across his face. "Remember that Gwen girl, the one straight out of the bayou? I talked to her the other day, and she said she'd sell me a whole bottle of moonshine for ten bucks. I just have to have a bottle to put it in. -And-..." He draws it out, growing mischievous. "She said I could go with her, to check out the place. The stills and all, I guess. Want to come along? It might be cool."

Trace blinks a little. "Uh.. Yeah! That'd be cool, so long as nobody's gonna want me to drink that stuff. Dodgin' gators n' all sounds fun though, and so's a still..." He giggles a little. "She's not gonna have big beefy brothers that like to kick around skinny blue haired freaks for fun, right?"

Jean-Batiste giggles for a moment, then tries to drop his voice really low. "Hey, Bubba, you 'membah whuh we do tah blue haired freaks 'round heah?" He laughs more, muffling it in his hand to keep from waking Jason. "I'll ask and make sure, but I'm sure it'll be cool." He wrinkles his nose in mild and completely false disappointment. "She says there aren't any gators around where she lives." Thoughtful pause. He tries to mimic Gwen's accent. "We ain' lived in thuh swamp fer gen'rations by buildin' on no nestin' grounds."

Trace snickers. "But I *wanna* dodge gators! Else where's the excitement in it?" He doesn't seem entirely serious at all, turning some attention towards scraping up the last of his lo mein. He pops another shrimp in his mouth and savors it for a moment. Then, "Did you ever count how muc h we took in from the mural? I sti ll don't know... Wouldn't count it in front of all those people. All I know is the fifteen ya gave me for Chinese, and here's the change from that.." He fishes a single and a handful of change from his pocket and sets it on the coffee table.

Jean-Batiste might be somewhat sensible with money, but he's also very quick to count it and keep close tabs on it. Pickpockets look out for eachother, perhaps. "Yeah, I did," he says. "It came out to..." He pauses, grin spreading across his face like sunlight. "Fifty three dollars and thirteen cents." Dark eyes roll heavenward. "Someone gave us three pennies. Bastards." He laughs, shrugging it off - it was still -fifty- dollars. "So...fifteen for food, that's thirty-eight...split that, and it's..." He squints. Math. Erf. "Twelve bucks each. Unless we want to get the room another night."

Trace blinks his eyes wide. A forkful of spun noodles en route to his mouth hits his chin, and he scrubs at the grease streak with the back of his hand. "Fifty dollars? We made fifty dollars? I mean, are you sure?" He shakes himself out of that. Of course they did, if Batiste said so. "Oh, wow, that's... that's great!" He grins so broadly. "Wow. Okay. So, um, if you're asking me, I vote we stay another night. I mean, I'm set with food and other stuff, so I want that worse'n twelve bucks." He gets the bundle of noodles into his mouth correctly this time.

Jean-Batiste grins right back at you, almost ferociously. "I had to count it three times to make sure, but someone gave us twenty bucks, can you believe that? We raked it in." He dishes some fried rice up, and heaps a small amount of General Tso's chicken over it, then digs in with a fork. Heathen. "Yeah, I think we should stay another night, too. As long as you're sure you're set with everything?" He sure knows -he's- not wanting to give up Streetkid Wonderland before he has to.

Trace nods, "Yeah, yeah... I'll hafta draw tomorrow though, at least a little bit. Runnin' a little low... nuff' for tonight and tomorrow, though, even if I shared with you. And well, 'sides that it's nice to know you got money in your pocket. Feel a bit safer somehow." He shrugs. "Hey, if we get ousted after that last night, ya wanna come both come to the fort? Two'd fit on the mattress, and I could take the floor maybe. The best for the guests, and all that." He grins. "Gotta shove a buncha pictures outta the way, though... Dunno, think we could fit?"

Jean-Batiste looks a little guilty for a moment, fidgeting with his fork, then nods. "Okay. As long as you're sure you've got enough..." He reminds himself about half a dozen times that you reassured him he didn't owe you anything for sharing with him, then starts eating again, the guilty expression easing up. He looks up at you when you invite him out to the fort, and just -grins-. "Oh, gee, I don't know. Come out to the -fort-? With -you-?" He laughs brightly, squinting up his eyes at you for a second. "Definately. That'll be great. But I'll sleep on the floor. We just have to hunt around for another blanket for me, and then the floor will be fine. You're not sleeping on the floor in your own place. Geez," he playfully scolds you. "Sure, we can all fit. Maybe if we find s'more plywood, we can build an add-on." He giggles. "With a hot-tub." More laughter.

"And a fireplace and... and an island kitchen an' everything!" Trace adds with a snicker. "Yeah. Okay, cept I still get the floor," he insists. "There's more mattress space than floor space anyway, and yer the biggest of us..." He smirks and mock-challenges, "So... so you kin' take the bed and like it, and if not, we'll just hav'ta settle it outside." He giggles brightly, his toughboy sneer (which looked pitiful in the first place) instantly collapsing.

"And a butler, to serve cheeseburgers on a silver platter," Batiste finishes far too solemnly, immediately breaking into laughter. He devours a bit more fried rice and spicy chicken, then tilts his head a bit and gives you a -look-. "If I'm the biggest, then I ought to sleep on the floor, so there's room for -both- of you on the mattress..." he counters. He's really got the martyr thing down fairly well. "It's your place, you shouldn't be the one to sleep on the floor, Trace. That just wouldn't be right." He lifts his chin, and tries to look pompous. It fails as badly as your toughboy sneer did.

Trace flicks a wedge of green pepper at you in defiance. "If you'n me slept on the mattress fine that one night, then you'n Jason won't have no problem with it either! I won't have you squished up on my floor, coz you'll be my *guest*, and there'll be towels down for me anyway..." He grins. "If you really feel so bad about it, I'll take the pillow, okay? I'm pretty spoiled about my pillow."

Jean-Batiste laughs, bringing his hands up in time to get pelted in the palm by the green pepper instead of his cheek. He catches it, and pops it into his mouth, chewing noisily. After swallowing, he sighs and grins at the same time, and admits defeat. "Okay, okay. You get the pillow, though. -And- we look for a bigger mattress, and some blankets. Deal?" He seems to be filling up - he's polishing off the last bit of rice and chicken only for the sake of cleaning his plate, by the looks of it.

"How we gonna find a bigger mattress?" Trace laughs in protest. "Plus gettin' it in there without rippin' the fort to pieces?" He tosses aside the foam box that used to contain shrimp lo mein. All that's left in it now is the onions and a couple of the larger pieces of pepper that he managed to avoid. "Oh, okay, okay... We'll *look* for a bigger mattress. And blankets. I'd love some nice blankets, actually. So... Deal."

"Hey! Don't throw out the green pepper..." Batiste shoots you a mock-dirty look and scoops the green pepper into the General Tso's chicken container. The onions can go rot, however. Grinning slyly at you, as if he just won some long and protracted argument, he says, "Deal. We can look for a cot mattress, one of those kinds you can roll up and carry with you, you know? And lay it out over the rest of the fort...and I know where we can get some cheap blankets, I bet." He cleans the rest of his plate off, seeming radiantly happy. "It'll be great," he murmurs, though what 'it' he's referring to is unknown.

Trace grins. "Yeah. That does sound really cool." Batiste's words almost make it sound as though their staying would be semi-permanent... which suits Trace just fine, actually. It may not be a motel room, but at least street life would be less lonesome. He snatches up another crab rangoon. "Hey... I was wonderin'.. I mean, I'm still kinda, I donno, weird about the idea, but I was wonderin... If we hit a bad time, do you think your friend Marco could, ah -- hook me up with some work? I mean, have you thought about that ever, as a way to make some cash?" He seems both nervous and a little intrigued by the idea. "Don't want nothin' permanent or binding, mind ya. S'just hard times come sometimes." He rolls his shoulders. "The guy I know, he don't hire. His boss don't let him. And I don't ever see his boss." He nibbles at the crab rangoon as he watches you for a response.

Jean-Batiste pauses mid-motion in pushing back his empty plate and gives you - maybe - the oddest look he's given you yet. It's sad and relieved and haunted and hopeful, all at once. He looks down at the plate, clearing his throat very gently, then takes his sweet time to lean back in his chair and turn his eyes back to you. "How do you mean?" he asks carefully. "You mean..." He stops, deciding to wait for your answer and not toss up any suggestions. His fingers knit together in his lap, twitching and fidgeting, eyes gone dark and a bit blank - he's not upset, just thinking very hard about something.

Trace looks slightly frustrated, and a little more jumpy at your careful reaction. "W-well..." he starts softly, urging, "I mean.. I mean, you know what I mean! Gettin' on the game... You know." He runs a hand through his blue braids self consciously, and concludes with a good deal of nervous sarcasm, "What other kinda work would a guy like Marco be offerin'? Tossin' newspapers? I mean, c'mon..."

Jean-Batiste laughs softly and a little bitterly. He looks up at you, smiling lopsidedly. "He needs runners, sometimes, but not very steady or nothing. I do that for him, sometimes. We could go by sometime, and hang with him for a bit, if you wanted, so you could get to know him a bit. He doesn't deal too much, though. He's a prostitute." His mouth pinches up - he starts chewing the inside of his cheek.

"Oh..!" Trace blinks once, then drops his eyes to his lap. "I..." He blushes. "Tell ya a secret. I nearly did somethin' like that once... I-I mean, he only wanted me to jerk off, promised he wouldn't touch me, and it was fifty dollars and I nearly said yes..." That last all comes out in one very fast, shameful rush. He shudders a little. "I was real hungry and I didn't know much about the streets yet and... I nearly did. But I got scared, I didn't do it. And now... I mean, hell, we made fifty dollars tonight, right? An' doin' what I love best in the whole world. I... I don't think I'll ever even consider it again. I... I'm not going to say, y'know, Marco is sick or wrong for what he's doing, but..." He shakes his head again, and promises himself and you, "I'm not ever gonna."

Jean-Batiste chuckles once, almost too softly to be heard, then sighs quietly to himself. "I promise I won't tell no one," he murmurs, raising his eyes from his knotted fingers to your face. "It's...a lot of money, for anything like that. Marco makes a lot of money, doing it. It's...not something you want to do, though. Like you said. You can make money doing what you love best." He folds his arms on the table, stretching back a bit with a soft groan. "We can still go by, sometime, and ask about running for him, though."

Trace nods shakenly, "Yeah.. yeah." He abandons his crab rangoon momentarily, however, and gets up, moves back to his canvas bag to rifle through it anxiously. "I understand if he don't want me to, though. He doesn't know me... gots no reason to trust me at all." He comes up with a small packet and carries it back to the table, sprinkling some of the brownish, grainy-fine crystals onto his palm. He's about to snort it, but pauses to look at you -- then the packet -- and offer, "Kin' have some if ya want it..."

"I'd vouch for you," comes Batiste's voice as you're rummaging through your canvas bag. "And even if he wasn't cool with it, we could do it together, and split the money. Safer that way, too. We'll go talk to him, okay? See what he says." He watches the packet, watches the granules powder into your palm, then blinks and looks away, as if he'd been caught staring at a dirty magazine. A single peek back, and hesitation. "Just a little, as long as it's okay?" He slowly holds out his hand.

Trace hands it over easily, then takes his pseudo fix, bringing his face close to his palm, taking it bare. He licks his palm once afterwards and grimaces just faintly at the taste. It makes him reach quickly for the remains of his crab rangoon. "Sorry, I don't got a straw or anything..." He makes a noise that's half clearing his throat, and half a cough in the back of his throat. "Don't usually take it that way, but I got a deal..." He giggles a little and first rubs at his nose with one hand, then takes a bite of the pastry with the other. Through a mouthful, he giggles a little and explains, "Makes my nose run."

Jean-Batiste shakes out a tiny amount into his palm, and seems about to hand it back, then shakes out just a touch more. There. That's better. The first amount wasn't even worth taking. Honest. He passes the bag back, then considers the grainy powder with (comparatively) no nervousness whatsoever another second before snorting it. He tips his head back, shaking it sharply before sniffling again and pinching his nose. Straightening up, he grimace-grins back at you and rubs his nose, sounding a little stuffed-up. "D'you ever try coke?" he asks you. "Bet there'll be some at that Church party."

Trace grins. "Naw. I actually never been to a party like this, and shit, like I could afford coke ever in this lifetime. If it's offered, I'll try it. Might be my only chance, after all! But not after that, coz if I start likin' it too much... Well, no way I could score more." He reaches for the packet again, knowing he'll be unsatisfied just from that first pinch. "How about you..?" he wonders with a curious glance before dropping his eyes to sift out more onto his palm.

Jean-Batiste watches you shake out more into your palm, then sniffles quietly and licks his bottom lip. "Mmm..." he comments, distracted - he leans back in his hair, and starts pushing his braids back from his face, stroking them into some indecipherable pattern. "Yeah, a couple of times. It's pretty wild, especially if you're X'ing at the same time." He smiles a little, reminiscent and fond. "There was some good times, out on the coast."

Trace grins a little. "Ex is... I dunno, kinda cool, but you start wanting to hug everybody and it all goes kinda too fast. And you have to do a lot to get back down again." He takes his second pinch, but he's actually kind of sloppy about it, and sputters another small cough or two in the back of his throat. He sniffles, and rubs at his nose somewhat embarrassedly. Even if he hadn't told you so, it's fairly obvious that he's not quite used to taking it this way. There's just none of the smoothness that his movements betray when he's cooking up.

Trace tosses the packet down on the table, between the two of you, not sure if you're going to want more than that. "I guess coke'll be kinda like that, too," he realizes. "Oh well, I'll still try it. Anything once, y'know?"

Whereas Batiste didn't gulp and fidget and fret at all, when he was snorting. What a pair, the two of you. "Careful..." he murmurs, grinning lazily at you. He rubs his nose again absently, looking down at the packet. "That's good junk..." he murmurs. Aw, what the hell - symmetrical snorting, and all. He picks up the packet again, and taps out another pinch, before pushing it back towards you determinedly. If snorting could be graceful, Batiste could make it look that way. "Mmm," he says definitively, as he looks back at you, knuckling his nose and giving you a Cheshire Cat grin. "I think we should either all X together, or none of us should at all, at the party, you know? It'll be more fun that way, I think. I wonder what'll be going on there, this time." His eyes get a glazed, thoughtful cast.

Trace considers, grinning back at you. "Well... yeah, okay. Well, wait. What can you mix with X? I know ya shouldn't drink on it, but you know me, that's no problem... But anything else?" He really doesn't know much about ups or synthetics at all, and turns glassy hazel eyes to you curiously in hopes that you and your knowledge gathered from this mysterious coast could enlighten him somewhat.

Jean-Batiste's brows crease in the faintest hint of a frown for a second, then melt away into languid relaxation again. "We should stick together, though," he says seriously. "It's a freaky place." Oh, right. Topic's changed. He slowly blinks out of his thoughts and settles into yours. "Well, I used to drop acid and X together..." A sly grin smears across his face. "That's fun, but...well, it's -really- trippy. With coke, it sharpens you up a bit, so you're not so dreamy." He leans forward, propping his chin on his folded arms, peering thoughtfully at you. "Probably, you shouldn't do too much of anything you're not used to, so you don't get fucked up."

Trace chuckles and leans forward over the tabletop, waving you closer. Conspiratorially, he whispers, "Batiste, m'gonna tell ya 'nother secret. I kinda... well, like to get fucked up." He sits back again and just grins broadly at you. "Like, a lot." He waves a hand in dismissal, "So don't worry. Taken care of myself so far.I just won't mix ups with downs too much. Oughta keep ever'thin' fine."

Jean-Batiste leans towards you, grinning all co-conspirator like. Being a lit tle more boneless than usual, he leans too far, gently bumps his forehead against yours, and leans back a touch, laughing soundlessly. He listens to you while he rubs his forehead, and makes a sound of mild exasperation. "I meant -bad- fucked up, not -good- fucked up," he mumbles, grinning crookedly at you. "And I -know- you can take care of yourself, I just..." He shrugs languidly. "Wanna help, you know? We have fun together, I just don't want you gettin' hurt."

Trace giggles a little and rubs at his head too, then his nose some more. He even wrinkles it up a bit, coz it *itches*. "Oh... well, I'm not gonna get hurt. I'm just gonna have fun. But... okay, we get there and I'll listen to ya." He smiles up at you and murmurs, "Mm. Mine's kickin' in nice now..." He giggles a little. "But yeah... yeah." (Trace's 'yeahs' always seem to come in pairs.) He smiles up at you dreamily. "We have fun. And we can watch each other's back."

"S'good junk," Batiste agrees, turning his face to rest his cheek down on his folded arms. Melting, meeelting... He giggles very faintly, and notes, "We can watch eachother's backs when we're not both fucked up." He grins lopsidedly at you, one side of his face apparently perkier than the other. "You go ahead and try what you want, there, jus'...be careful. I mean, the kinda people that go there...one second they're smilin' at you, the next they've got whips and branding irons out, you know? It's a freaky place."

Trace blinks. "Well... well, I'll tell 'em... not to do that stuff," he decides logically. He sniffles and sinks down in his chair a bit. After a moment still, he bats at his nose once more and giggles, "Oh, how can people do it like this all'a time? It *tickles* my nose to death!"

Jean-Batiste waves his arm languidly in your direction. "Tip your head back, and sniff a couple of times, then sniff harder, way back in your throat. It oughtta help." He pinches his nose a couple of times, then adds, "And then pinch your nose a couple of times." He grins muzzily at you, and rubs his nose again - talking about itchy noses has made his that way, too.

Trace tries to do as you say... He has to sit up a little once more to do it, but he tilts back his head and gives a violent sniff; too violent, probably. "Ow..!" he comments and just laughs, pinching at his nose a little. "Oh, I'll be vine," he decides, then releases his nose and remembers, "Oh... we have fourtune cookies!" He leans over slowly, more tumbling forward and catching himself on the table top, then gropes for the bag and fetches the two plastic-wrapped cookies out. He tosses you yours -- missing, of course. It bounces off the edge of your chair and lands at your feet.

Jean-Batiste leeeans over to pick up the fortune cookie, and overbalances, topping out of his chair in slow motion. He lands in a heap, giggling softly, holding his plastic-wrapped cookie aloft in triumph. Rather than standing up - altogether too much work - he stays there, fumbling with the wrapper for a small eternity before getting it open and tossing it aside. He breaks the cookie in half and crunches on the fortune-less half while pulling it out to read. "Whaf's yourfs fay?" he asks as he chews.

Trace giggles. "Batiste, you every play that one game... when you were younger, with fourtune cookies? Ya just add the words 'in yer underpants' after the fourtune and it always comes out really funny." He fumbles with the wrapper for awhile before finally getting frustrated with it and ripping a corner off with his teeth. He spits it away, 'ptoo', and it flutters down. He doesn't bother with the notion of actually eating the cookie part. Just crumbles it carelessly in his hand, retrieves the fourtune as cookie crumbs fall all over the floor and table, reading his aloud. "So like... Mine says "Your true priorities become clear through the help of a friend.. in your underpants." He giggles.

Jean-Batiste's already-dreamy face gets even dreamier as he crunches the fortune cookie. Guess he's got a thing for almond cookies. He mumbles something to that effect, popping the rest of the cookie into his mouth as he fumbles with the fortune, dropping it twice. He giggles, nodding rapidly to you. "Yeah! Yeah! Only we did it, saying 'in bed'." He props his feet up on his chair, and listens to your fortune, breaking out in hysterical though mostly-silent laughter. "Oh, ho!" he giggles. "Maybe...you're gonna meet...some leatherbabe at the party..." His turn. He finally gets the fortune right side up, and starts to read aloud. "You are skilled at...oh, geez." He looks at you in mournful humour for a second, then finishes. "You are skilled at making new friends...in your underpants."

Trace laughs and starts to rise, but just ends up toppling off his chair. He seems to be perfectly happy with the prospect of remaining there, too, and just giggles up at you. "Haha... You're so *good* at gettin' t'know that buddy in yer underpants...!"

Jean-Batiste, still giggling, wriggles his shoulders into the carpet and sighs contentedly. He'd -like- the remains of your fortune cookie, but it's -waaay- up there, and you're down on the floor now, too. Turning his face to grin at you, he says, "Hey. And I'm -skilled- at it, too." He raspberries you. Thbt.

Trace giggles. "Well, I'll just take the fourtune cookie's word on that, mmkay?" He ponders climbing back up into his chair. "Wow. These... they kinda... make these tables pretty big," he notes, reaching up a hand half-heartedly and dropping it again. "But I kinda think I like it here, like I could maybe sleep here tonight. Y'know? And we can wake up, and hey, there's our chinese breakfast!" he rationalizes. "So convenient, see?"

Jean-Batiste nods languidly, and reaches up to fumble with the bedsheets drooping off the edge of the bed. He pulls down the slippery, faux-quilted bedspread, piling it over him like an altar to cheap motels everywhere. "Mmm..." he giggles beneath it, before starting to push it around, nudging some of it towards you. "Yeah, I think I'll just lay here, too...yeah." He toes one of the chairs away by a whole two inches, and collapses back into a boneless sprawl.

Trace gets a sudden idea. "I want Jason's fourtune cookie. I wanna see what *he* gets to do in his underpants, and you could have it to eat..." But... the same dilemma. Way up on the table. He sighs futilely and mumurs, "Well, tomorrow we can see. I..." He yawns lazily and tugs the blanket around him a little closer. "We'll go look for some blankets tomorrow, just like this one, okay? And.... wood. For our brand new house, and it'll be perfect when were done." He grins and closes his eyes. "Well, minus the butlers and hot tub and stuff, perfect then."

"Mmm..." Batiste agrees, stretching in a very lazy manner. "Yeah. Blankets and a new roof, and a mattress so we can all crash there, and...mmm. It'll be perfect." He finishes stretching, and doesn't bother to draw his arms back, laying there in a long, gangly line. He turns his face to smile drowsily at you, eyelids barely opened, then lets them flutter shut the rest of the way.

Back to the Roleplay Log Archive