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Log Title: Crushes

Log setting: Walker’s apartment, downstairs, late evening.

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Walker
Alisynde
Trace
Glass

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"He," Walker supplies helpfully. "Yah, ya right. It was dumb an' I told him he prob'ly didn't want that thin' touchin' him. Gawd knows where it'd been." He shrugs, working further down the spine, seeking out all of those little tight places. "But he wanted ta touch one." He lowers his voice a little as he leans closer to dig at one particularly resistant muscle. "It's not th' worst he's done," the words are laced with a rather naughty giggle.

Jean-Batiste is glad of the correction - he would have thought someone with the name 'Trea' was a she. "Guess he wanted to do it just because...mmn. Because...ow, careful, that's..." Tender, obviously - a little knot of muscles. "Ow, mnn." He twists a little, helping the muscles ease out. "Guess he did it just to be crazy. People do that, sometimes." He laughs softly, and closes his eyes, smiling towards the ceiling. "So what's the worst he's done? D'you know? What was it?" If Walker thinks it's naughty, it must be -bad-.

Walker eases up some on the sore spot, rewarding it with softer touches for being pained. "I know..." He was there for it, for goodness' (or not) sake. However what that deed might be stays undisclosed as a knock from outside distracts the masseuse from both massage and tale. "Be right back... lessee who's a-knockin'." He rises and scoots to the front door, fishnetted feet sliding a little on the polished floor as he peeks out. "It's Ali-girl!" he cheers, tugging the door open wide.

Alisynde opens the front door and steps inside.

"Ali-girl!" Batiste echoes obediently, giggling softly. He would -never- call her such a thing, but Walker made him do it. Honest. He leans against the back of the couch, nuzzling into it drowsily, watching the entry with a lazy, hazy-eyed smile. His shirt is off, scandal of scandals, draped over the arm of the couch.

Alisynde waves. "Heya." She glances over at Jean, then down at the shirt, and the grin on her face stretches even wider. "Hey, Bat-boy. Y'ere naked. What's th' occasion?"

Soft shuffling might be made out, or little creaks perhaps, as barefooted Trace slowly decends the staircase. He clings closely to the rail -- yep, learned his lesson -- but releases it once he reaches the bottom and ambles on into the main room. Scrubbing the last of the sleep from his eyes, one of those over-long naps that leave you feeling extra tired, Trace offers the room in general a content grin. "Mornin..." Then considers. "Evenin'? Whatever."

Walker laughs softly and pushes the door shut, trottling around Ali back into the living room to Bat's side. "I'm givin' him a backrub," he volunteers. "He needed it." So saying he reaches to finish the job in progress, having to bank off briely to shove his thick cape of tiny braids back over his shoulder. Soft as his hair may be unbound it's about as coarse as hemp rope bound so.

Walker’s Desc:
Hello... is that a man or a woman you see? Standing at 5'8, the individual looks to be no more than about 120 pounds. A serpentine mess of thin, unnaturally black braids fall to mid-waist in a tight-woven glossy cloak. At once delicate and chiseled, the exotic face is set with eyes of deep emerald framed with lush, sooty lashes. Pale skin is further paled by the addition of stark black eyeliner layered thick around the intense green eyes; full, pouting lips have been slicked black.

An oversized black t-shirt bearing in bright red the word MISFITS over faded silk-screen punk faces fits loosely over a flat chest. A fishnet shirt is worn beneath, the cuffs of which are bound with a plethora of bracelets and leather wristbands. A kilt of Blackwatch tartan wraps around long, curvy legs that have been sheathed in holey fishnets. A pair of weathered creeper boots complete the bizarre outfit, laced tight over the tattered fishnets.

Walker is decked out in a variety of jewelry ranging from golden hoops in each earlobe flanked by three studs on a side to a tangled noose of cords and chains around his neck rife with pendants of odd sorts. His left brow is pierced twice with steel bars and he also has a silver stud set in the right side of his nose. A steel stud positioned below his lower lip accents the curve of soft skin.

Jean-Batiste actually looks down at himself, to make sure his pants are still on. He must be pretty out of it, or just cosmically gullible. "Just partly naked," he insists, scratching his knee just to make sure the pants really -are- there. "It's...it's Happy Massage Day." He smiles all lazy and wide at Walker, then sighs and closes his eyes, melting into the cushions a bit. He reopens them a sliver as he hears Trace's voice, smiling towards the source of it, "Trace, we're in here..." Like he couldn't notice that himself. "Come siddown..."

Walker glances up, keeping the massage going as he flashes a smile - wired but thoroughly happy - at Trace. "Hey, Trace. S'up?" The smile turns sly as it's directed toward Ali. "Well, I do. So when're ya gonna stawt snatchin'?" Nothing innocent in that leer. Then abruptly the look's gone as he returns his full attention to the base of Bat's spine.

Alisynde chuckles. "If I tell ya, it'll take all the fun out of it." She waves enthusiastically at Trace. "Heya, Trace.."

"Happy massage day...?" Trace repeats with a wondering chuckle, and he moves towards the couch in a slow shuffle and settles himself down on the arm rest that's closest to Batiste. "Nuthin's up. S'why I came downstairs. Everybody was down here..." He shifts his gaze to Ali and gives a shy wave in return. "Hey." He's a very cloudy Trace right now, definitely still waking up.

Jean-Batiste stiffens a little, a wince fleeting across his face then vanishing again. Little knots pepper the base of his spine, thicker the closer to the tailbone Walker gets. "Mmmn," he says, sounding uncertain. The massage is feeling more therapeutic (sp?) than hedonistic right now. "Some siddown..." he repeats to Trace, patting the cushions in front of him - unless Ali's there, already, in which case he gestures to whatever room's left on the couch.

Trace ohs, and languidly leans back to let himself slide off the arm rest and into the cushions -- which actually lands him partly sprawled over Batiste, and he giggles and struggles himself upright so he doesn't end up with a squarshed best friend.

Walker works more gently as the knots keep coming, but there's only so gentle a massage can get before its worthless for more than a tender stroke. "Ya all kindsa stiff, Batty," he clucks softly. "Ya shoulda gotten yaself a backrub long before now." He works with what he can, but even Walker has been known to admit defeat before. If only to himself in a shady spot somewhere well away from where ears can hear.

Alisynde isn't sitting on the cushions in front of Jean, no. She's just gone and plunked herself on the floor. She grins at the sleepy blue-haired boy. "Well. It's good t'see ya."

Walker leans back into the couch, flexing his fingers a little. Maybe he'll stealth-backrub Bat tomorrow and try to work out more of those kinks. Can a person stealth backrub? He's not sure... slowly, his attention wandering - as it's prone to do when one has been up for over forty hours straight - the sounds of activity in the living room drift away on a gentle, warm black tide. The sleep he claimed not to need has stealthed -him-.

Alisynde glances over, ready to say something to Walker, but simply smiles as he falls asleep. "Someone's tired," she murmurs.

Alisynde’s Desc:
A loosely plaited braid of pale blonde hair swings down to the slender waist of this woman: a few tendrils have worked their way loose, framing her face. Wide-set hazel eyes are hidden behind a truly odd pair of glasses: silver rimmed Lennon specs with one lens tinted red and the other blue. The rest of her face is pleasant enough, but unremarkable - save for a lone dimple that appears when she smiles.

Dark blue flowers scatter across the paler blue of this halter-top, the front and straps made out of lace that matches those flowers. A multi-colored ribbon skirt swirls about her legs: tightly woven to just above her knees, then loose to her ankles. Over this is a lighter, summerweight vest in pale cream: knee length with the requisite many pockets. A hemp choker - with a brass tree as the centerpiece - is worn around her neck. And not unsurprisingly, there are a pair of leather sandals covering her feet - the selfsame pair that seems to be worn year-round.

Jean-Batiste glances back over his shoulder as the massage stops, then stays stopped, and smiles fondly at the sleeping master of the house. "He's been partying with Zombie for three days straight..." he murmurs in answer. "Zombie was here for about five minutes, and just -that- tired me out. Don't know how he did it." He looks over towards Ali, murmuring, "So how have you-" And finds himself with a lapful of sprawled, giggling Trace, not looking unhappy or squarshed at all by this. "Help," he says, totally unconvincingly, then giggles very softly as well.

Trace manages to find himself a patch of couch *not* already occupied this time as he sits up and giggles at his friend, reaching out to ruffle blonde braids happily. "Sorry." He settles back into the couch, leaning his shoulder to Batiste's, and stretches one leg out to wiggle toes at Ali. No reason for this. Just being silly.

Alisynde smirks. "Nope. Fend for yourself, Bat-man."

Jean-Batiste counter-leans into Trace, smiling lazy and contented. Bliss. "Some help -you- are..." he pretends to sulk at Ali, then grins immediately afterwards. "So how are you?" he gets out properly this time. "What have you been up to?"

Alisynde says, "Oh, about 5'9"...."

Alisynde settles into a more comfortable position on the floor. "Or, in other words, not much. The promised date hasn't materialized yet, there was no money to be had the Fourth of July weekend, and it's getting into that lovely time of the year where the sidewalks melt. How about you guys?"

"Mm, melting sidewalks," Trace chuckles with lighthearted sarcasm. "But isn't that everyone's favorite time've year?" He yawns and lets his lids droop a little, but continues, sort of answering her question. "Things are fine with me now."

"Oh, yeah. Nothing like ninety degrees, ninety percent humidity, and no wind at -all-, bring me some more of -that-..." Batiste grumbles affectionately, giving Trace a sound braid-tickling for his words. He gives Ali an uncertain, sympathetic look next. "He hasn't taken you out on the date, yet?" A frown starts to appear, protective in a petulant, little-brother way.

"Who, the Batte guy?" Trace wonders softly, glancing from Batiste to Ali, then grinning a little and clarifying, "The guy you talked about. How confusin', his name bein' just like yer nickname." Jean-Batiste giggles softly and murmurs even more softly, "Batte-man."

Alisynde shakes her head. "Haven't seen him. S'no big deal." There's just the slightest slump to her shoulders as she says this. Perhaps it's a bigger deal than she's letting on.

Jean-Batiste frowns even more protectively when Ali's shoulders start to wilt. "You sure you don't want to sit up here with us?" he asks tentatively. "You look like you'd like a hug." With just a little petulance, he adds, "If he doesn't take you on the best date you've ever had, Ali, I'll...hire someone to beat him up for you." God knows muscle-man Batiste couldn't do it , himself.

Trace considers this and amends, "Naw, since he hasn't already, Ali oughta find a better boy who'll take her f'awesome dates when she 'spects it, not wait weeks and ages." He's all for turning her away from the Batte-man! And after what he heard about the guy today, beating him up..? Even better! He grins a little, but keeps it to himself.

Alisynde says, "Of /course/ I want to sit up there with you. I just didn't want to get in the way of the massquishy." She gets to her feet and climbs onto to the couch, nestling up next to both of you as much as she can. "Thanks, Jean. It's a sweet thought. I've been avoided before, though. I'll live. She smiles at Trace. "It'd be easier if I didn't have this damned crush on him.""

"Crushes," Trace informs Ali, tapping at her nose, "totally suck. Know what happened last time I had a crush?"

Bliss. Puppypile on the couch. Batiste cuddles up to the both of you as best he can, and insists, "Sure, you'll live, but...it sucks. They shouldn't be able to treat you like that." He lifts his chin determinedly and says, "Trace and I will find you another guy with a pretty accent, then you can forget about Batte." He grins, and stops there, to listen to Trace's story of crushes gone wrong.

Alisynde mock-nips at that finger tapping her nose. "No. What happened?"

Trace grins embarrassedly and explains, "It turned out to be a boy. Can you believe it? And she didn't even... I mean HE didn't tell me! It was so weird. People shouldn't mess with people's heads like that. But anyway, I'm totally over that." Quothe Romeo, 'Rosaline who?' "But all crushes suck. Like before that, she just disappeared. And before that, she walked the streets. And before that was back home and she was too popular to know who I was, but it just goes *on* and on and on, so I'll think I'll have given up before I'm old as you. Hope so anyway." He grins at her.

Alisynde hmphs. "You're making me sound postively ancient, oh he-who-has-had-more-experience-in-crushes-than-you-can-shake-a-stick-at."

Trace smirks a little and hmphs back. "Crush don't mean they like you back. What kinda 'sperience is that? Just dreamin'."

Alisynde says, "Well. If Batte hadn't liked me back, he wouldn't have been the one to ask me on a date. Would've he?"

Jean-Batiste isn't one to disagree often with Trace, but he ventures a tentative one here. "Crushes aren't -always- sucky. Sometimes they're fun." But then he has to admit, "They can be really bad, too, though. I guess." He doesn't have any bad experiences with crushes, oh no. Honest. He sucks on his bottom lip for a second, then shrugs. "Sometimes guys like to just know someone else likes them, and then don't ever do anything about it. But..." He stops uncertainly.

Alisynde prompts, "But.."

Jean-Batiste fidgets a little, and reluctantly finishes, "But he seems like the kind of guy that would rather insult someone, than lead them on, you know? So...that's probably not what he did."

Trace nods at Ali, "Well, see? Ya were lucky then." Well, no. Crushes on boys who are mean to Batiste suck, even if they ask you on dates. So he's about to find a gentle way to point this out, but Batiste does this rather well himself, and he nods a little. He pokes at his friend and grins, more interested in something he said earlier. "Hey... Tell me about a crush that didn't suck? You don't gotta. But it'd be cool if ya'd give me some hope here." His eyes verge on puppy pleading, whuh-oh...

Alisynde starts to say hotly, "Insult.." but she breaks off, and chews on her lip a little. "Well. Could be."

Jean-Batiste laughs softly and shakes his head, looking bashfully towards his lap. "But...it was with a guy, Trace. You...sure you want to hear about it? I mean..." He trails off, peeking up at his friend, then looks uncertainly at Ali. "Um. I didn't...mean to upset you..." he mumbles contritely. "It was...sorta...trying to encourage you. It'll work out, if he's a good guy."

Alisynde shakes her head. "Not upset. I'm just doubting myself, really." She smiles at Jean. "Please. Tell us about the crush."

Trace purses his lips. How to explain that he's only bothered when the guy in question is Jason? No, that just can't be said. "That doesn't bother me," he insists finally. "You should know that. Daniel tole' me 'bout his rompin' about all the time." He giggles a little. "Well, he danced gentle 'round the sex stuff. Unless he was tryin' ta make me squirm. But I guess... I guess I got this theory, y'know? He taught it to me. I guess it's just loving is loving, you know? And it's beautiful. N'matter the form. Y'know?" He blushes a little. Not the manliest thing to say, but honest anyway. He looks down at his hands.

Jean-Batiste looks from one of you to the other, then nods shyly, and fidgets with his own hands, mirroring Trace imperfectly. "Well...well, okay. It was...back when I was on the coast, pretty new, and this group of kids sort of took me in, you know? Anyways, one of them, his name was Darren, and he was really tall with a sort of floppy haircut that was short at the back, and these really bright blue eyes, and...he was just so cool." He smiles a little, wistful and sad. "He was sort of friendly and crazy...rough and tumble, you know? But he was always nice, and he always knew when you were feeling bad...and I just had the -worst- crush on him. I mean...everyone knew. He'd grin at me, and I couldn't even talk, I'd just go totally red, it was so bad. I'd just sit there, and know I was blushing, and my heart was going ninety in my chest... He always pretended not to notice, so I thought he didn't, right? But then later, when he was moving away, we had this big party for him, and during it, he snuck up on me, and just...um. Kissed me, really hard. I thought I was going to faint. It was so great."

Alisynde grins and does a little happy shrug - you know, the kind where you draw your shoulders up to the bottom of your head in sheer glee - and says, "That sounds really wonderful, Jean."

Trace's chin drops down into his palm as the tale of Darren starts to unfold, and at the conclusion he's just grinning really big at his friend, picturing it, and you can just tell he's fighting off the urge to go 'awwwwww!' He finally just chuckles softly and murmurs, "Wow. You are lucky. I think that's the worst, when you like them so much, and then just... never notice." He sighs with his smile still lingering, and squeezes his blonde friend's shoulder. After a moment, it occurs to him to ask, "I bet you've drawn him, haven't you? 'Kin I see? I know ya don't usually like t'share yer pictures, but it sounds like that'd be a happy safe one, and it'd be cool to see how you saw him. Y'know...?" It's a hesitant but hopeful request. "Just.. go on an' tell me to fuck off if ya still don't wanna though," he grins. "I'd understand."

You hear a knock on the door. (from Moss Street -- Bayou St. John)

Jean-Batiste shakes his head a little, smiling at rememberance of that heart-stopping kiss. "I grinned all night," he murmurs. "My face hurt the next morning. He told me, 'I'm going to miss how you look at me'. It was...it was really good." He blinks, looking like he's about to cry for a moment, out of no where, then he's smiling again, reminiscence pushed back from the point of painfulness. He nods to Trace, murmuring, "Yeah, I've got a couple pictures of him. I...think there's a safe one. You want me to go see?" He looks up at the sound of the knock, then starts to get to his feet. "I'll get it..." he murmurs.

"Of course, if you will!" Trace smiles, then points out with a quirked smile, "And I meant safe like you wouldn't mind showing it... Not like it's not a safe picture if yer kissing him or something." He peers after Batiste as he starts for the door, curious. "Y'don't still have it all locked up, do ya?" Because hovering over every knock on that door, until this mess is cleared up anyway, is going to be the hopeful thought of 'Maybe it's Jason?'

Alisynde says, "If you don't mind sharing, Jean, I'd love to see it as well." She looks over to the door, eyebrows knit together. "Wonder which one that is?""

Glass stands in the doorway. He smiles at the Batiste that is half hiding behind the door and murmurs, "Hi. You gonna let me in?"

Jean-Batiste's cautious look fades as soon as he sees it's Glass, and he moves to quickly open the door and beckon him in. As soon as the young man's inside, he closes the door just as quickly behind him. "Yeah, c'mon in, of course I'd let you in..." Called towards the living room: "It's Glass..." Well, duh. Whatever's got his eyes hazy must also have his brains addled.

Alisynde calls over cheerfully, "Hail, Lord Douglas!"

Glass grins at Alisynde and takes a deep sweeping bow, "My Noble Droog."

Alisynde oohs. "I've been enobled!"

Jean-Batiste ought to, of course, pinch Glass's butt while he's bowing, but he doesn't, because he's Batiste, and not someone impish like Walker. "Go on in and sit down...I'll be right back." He smiles at Glass for a moment, then heads for the spiral staircase, carefully climbing it towards the second floor of the house. Trace is on the couch, and wiggles fingers at Glass in a wave once he's in view. "Hiya Third Beast. What's goin' on?" And a glance at Batiste. Oh good! he still gets to see the picture. He was afraid that Glass' arrival might have distracted everyone from that.

Glass, ignorant of his narrow escape from butt-pinching, steps into the living room and sits down on the floor, leaning against the couch. He draws his knees up and starts to unlace his boots, saying to Trace, "Oh, nothing much. I got seventy dollars today." He smiles a cat that got the cream smile.

Alisynde says, "Damn! Better than I did..."

Glass nods to Ali, "Well, I can't do it every day."

Trace blinks. "Yeah? Wow..." He grins with appreciation, and prompts, "Couldn't'a gotten all that from sparechangin'." He tugs his legs up onto the couch and crosses them, still barefoot but otherwise dressed.

Glass shakes his head to Trace, "Naw. Spare-changing's too impersonal. You gotta get them to talk to you before you make any real money being a bum."

Alisynde tucks a spare piece of hair behind her ear. "I bet, if you wanted t'get that amount every day, Glass, y'could do so." She nods at his next words. "Or just impress th'hell outta them."

Trace nods a little. "Makes sense. S'like... when ya make yer money with sidewalk sketches, y'always get a tip if ya, like, take the time to stop 'n draw someone... y'know? Or someone's kid. S'kinda the same thing, I guess. Gotta get personal, if it's cash yer aimin' for."

Alisynde says, "That's one of the great things about magic. There's so much of it that can be close and personal. If mildly stressful for a few moments on the vic..er, assistant's end."

Glass looks at Alisynde, "Naw. I couldn't do it every day. It's luck." He laughs a little, "And I don't impress anybody but lawyers." He withdraws a box of cigarettes from inside his jacket and tosses it down. Walker's brand. He drops a red and white box on top of that one; 'Nat Sherman Cigarettellos.' Another, this one white and green, 'Springwater. Vanilla Aroma.' Glass changes hands and reaches into the other inner pocket of his expensive raincoat. Another cigarette box, this one white, 'English Ovals'. He murmurs, "So I figured I'd pay you back all the smokes I've been bumming." He tosses down another pack, labled simply, 'Nat Sherman,' with a picture on it that indicates that the cigarettes within have assorted bright coloured papers. "I kinda went buck wild." He looks at Trace, "Yeah, it's like that. You gotta make them relate to you some."

Trace giggles, lifting his brows as Glass tosses all the packs of cloves onto the coffee table. "Man! Wow." He grins up at Glass and murmurs amusedly, "Huh, wish I'd loaned ya more stuff. M'sure Walker'n Batiste'll be so happy to see that, though." Walker, by the way, is currently crashed out on the end of the couch, having been up for three days straight. We could probably get a mosh pit started in here and he wouldn't awaken, so for now he's just part of the furniture.

Alisynde stares, as a virtual rain of cigarettes is pulled from Glass's jacket, like rabbits from a top hat. Her eyes go wide and somewhat glassy, as she murmurs, "Manna from Heaven..." The glassy look fades, and she looks back up at the others. "Buck wild, indeed.."

Glass laughs!

Glass grins brightly at Trace, "Loan me something, then."

"Uh..." Trace considers this, blank for a moment. He pats himself down, but nope, he's just a poor street rat and everything on him right now is either useless -- a confusing, folded note in his pocket, a battered, very old looking matchbook, and a piece of chalk -- or bad for him, like the spike and tie in it's usual place tied at his calf under his jeans. So he just gives Glass a helpless shrug. "I, uh. I could search my packs upstairs? But... I mean, what do you want?" he giggles a little. Kind of like a game, this.

Glass laughs, a sunny pleasant sound. He teases Trace, "Well, if you wish you'd loaned me something so I'd pay you back the same, the question is, what do -you- want?" There is no touch of meanness or even reproach in his voice.

Alisynde is quiet as she watches the banter between the two.

"Ohhhh..." Trace nods once more, as Glass clarifies the rules of this game. He purses his lips, thinking it over carefully, and then centers his hazel gaze on Glass again and murmurs, "Well.... Can you do anything, like draw, or write... or anything?" he finally wonders with a grin. "Ya could loan me some've that t'see. That'd be somethin'..."

Lo and behold! Batiste finally returns, bearing - dum-dah-dum! - the precious sketchbook. He's walking very slowly, looking at one of the pictures as he descends the spiralling steps, barely glancing up to navigate into the living room. He closes the sketchbook before nearing any of you, and stops short, peering curiously at the multicoloured packs of cigarettes decorating the coffee table.

Trace giggles and offers an explanation to Batiste: "The Clove Fairy visited while you was gone."

Glass looks at Trace, a touch bewildered, "I take pictures. You can see some if you like. But that's not what I meant, it's, hmm. Loan me your shirt and I'll give you a new one back. If we're following the rule of the cigarettes." He looks up at the returning Batiste and smiles, "Well, they're not all cloves."

Jean-Batiste steps up to Glass and drapes an arm comfortably around his shoulders, leaning loosely into him. "Wow...it must have cost a lot, though." He frowns briefly, worriedly, then lets fascination take over again. So many colours, so many kinds he's never tried, or even heard of! He slaps his sketchbook against his hip as he tries to decide which kind to try first. Kid at Christmas time.

Trace blinks and touches his t-shirt with surprise. "I..." He grins a little. "Really?" It's true, his greyish t-shirt is in very bad shape. It's a concert t, it seems, but the letters are so cracked and faded to the point of being pretty much incomprehensible, and it's just filthy and stained and worn very thin in general. "Do, do you want me to loan it to you now?" He wonders, one hand tugging at the hem skittishly as he casts a glance to Batiste. Well, *he's* half naked, so maybe he shouldn't be embarrassed either. At the correction he chuckles, "Well, I don't smoke, so how'm I supposed t'know what brands 'r what?"

Alisynde says slowly, "So you need a shirt loaned to you, Glass?" She plucks at her halter-top and looks quite amused.

Glass laughs, seeming quite delighted at this turn of events. "Yeah. I'm only wearing one shirt." He plucks at the front of his purple-blue silk one.

Glass looks up at Batiste and says absently, an afterthought, "Yeah, it cost some. But I made some money today."

Trace swings a surreptitiuous glance at Ali. Taking off her halter top? Wha? But he blushes and trains his gaze back to Glass. Anyway. "So... I don't get it, you wanna trade, or do you mean a different one...?" He scritches at his braids bashfully.

Glass slips his arm around Batiste and looks back at Trace, "Sure, if you wanna trade. Or I can just wear yours over mine."

Alisynde lets her hand fall, and simply grins.

Trace bites his lip. "I can't wear purple silk," he says softly, then widens his eyes and realizes that came out entirely wrong, not what he meant at all. "I mean, no, I meant like..." His smile is shy. "Pretty, delicate shirt like that... I'd tear it up in a few weeks, y'know? Wouldn't last me at all. I... I need a shirt I 'kin climb fences in, and paint in, and scrounge around with, y'know? Here, you jest take mine, 'n you pay me back when you like." He plucks at it bashfully. "And y'don't gotta wear it. It's gross, I know. Needs.. washin' n stuff. Jest... here. Take it. Y'kin pay back whenever. Will that work?"

Eww! Eww! Naked girls! Batiste tries not to look relieved that Ali isn't getting nekkid, and just grins down at the cigarettes, wondering about Trace's reaction to the same fact. "Mmn," he says undecidedly, letting out a languid sigh. He rests his cheek on Glass's shoulder for a moment, then slips free, crouching by the coffee table to give the cigarettes a more scrutinous look. "Maybe..." he murmurs, reaching for the multicoloured Sherman pack, starting to open it curiously.

Alisynde blinks, and whips her head over to look at Trace. "You don't like purple?" She seems really rather worried, for some reason.

Trace grins. "Course I do. Purple's a magic color. The shirt I picked out for Hell was purple mostly, 'member? That's not it at all! It's just, silk I'd ruin too fast, y'know?"

Glass smiles at Trace, "Cool. Thanks." He glances back at Batiste as the other leans forward to inspect the cigarettes. The Sherman pack opens like little cigar box once the plastic's off it, and the cigarettes inside are long and indeed flamboyantly coloured. Red and blue and yellow and pink and purple and green ones, each with a gold-tone filter.

Glass looks back to Trace, "Probably not, if you didn't wear it to paint. It's pretty tough." He plucks at the front of his shirt, "Shay gave me a bunch like this one."

"I'd still be better with jest cotton 'r something," Trace admits. "This one's lasted ages." He plucks at the hem of his shirt again, and glances at Batiste... Well... He starts to pull it up a little, but finally blushes and looks very torn. At last he blurts, "Here, I'll get a shirt of Walker's to wear 'til y'bring me another one, okay?" His expression is pinched a little with worry. He can't bring himself to take his shirt off in front of the two of them. "Walker won't mind, I know he won't. Just... Hold on, okay?"

Jean-Batiste crows softly with delight, leaning forward to show off the rainbow-coloured cigarettes. "Look at these, there's even-" He stops when he notices Trace's pinched expression, and goes over the recent conversation to try and figure out what caused it. "You...want me to go get it for you?" he offers, not at all sure that will fix the current discomfort. Glass laughs, "Aww, Trace. Forget it, you can loan it to me later, okay? I don't wanna make you uncomfortable, I was just playing."

Alisynde starts to look relieved, but it switches back to worry at Trace's obvious uncomfortable words.

"No!" is the violent reaction to Batiste's suggestion, and then Trace sighs and looks embarrassed now too. "No, no, s'okay.." he mumbles, and hugs himself, debating. "I'll just... Before you leave, I'll duck upstairs and grab one of Walker's, and bring it down to you." It's one thing to be able to immediately jump into a pool and hide everything, but close scrutiny... Nope, he can't deal with that. And doesn't want to. It's a good night, after all. He ambles over to Batiste and smiles a little. "Hey... Those look so cool. Will you save me a blue one, for next time we X? I never seen colored ones."

[Alisynde’s player goes home. This takes place sometime off-camera, but she wasn’t here to play it out, so who knows. ]

Jean-Batiste admires the cigarettes a bit more, turning them over and over in his fingers. They're almost pretty enough you could believe they won't give you lung cancer. Or at least give you a -pretty- cancer. "We should save this whole pack for when we X," he decides. "They're too pretty to just...smoke, you know?" He sets them aside, carefully closing the pack, and tries to decide on a second choice. "We need to go shopping sometime," he murmurs. "We all need new clothes, something cooler for summer. Sandals and shorts and shirts. And swimming trunks," he adds, grinning up at Glass.

Glass laughs, "Smoke 'em. We can get more. Besides, they'll just go stale. Or you'll smoke them when you run out of the regular ones." He grins and nods, "Yeah, swimming trunks."

Trace grins a little. "Well, maybe we plan ta X sooner 'n they'll go stale?" But really, he hadn't even known cigarettes did go stale in the first place. "But I suppose we could buy more, yeah..." Though he's dubious about it. Responsible Batiste would never spend their money on a zillion cloves and cigarettes like Glass did tonight, he figures. He settles back down on his original perch, the arm rest of the couch, and asks softly of Batiste, "So... kin' I see that one picture?" A little grin.

Jean-Batiste looks back at Glass. "Well..." he murmurs, still uncertain. He picks up the multicoloured pack again, then goes ahead and draws one out. But he takes his least favourite colour - the pink one - so the nicer colours are saved for later. After lighting up and tasting curiously, then exhaling, he smiles shyly at Trace and murmurs, "Sure. Just...it's..." Blush. "It's a dirty picture, sort of. So...so you're warned, okay?" While he's blushing, he might as well try and get all the embarrassing parts out, so he turns to Glass and asks softly, "D'you...want to see, too? It's...a picture of an old friend, someone I used to have a really big crush on."

Glass nods to Batiste, "Sure, I want to see it. You do such pretty drawings, how could I not?" He takes Batiste's pink-cigarette bearing hand and lifts it so he can take a drag from the cigarette without taking it from the younger boy's fingers.

"Er... Er, okay," Trace giggles a little. "I'm allowed to blush if I hafta, right?" Then he nods faintly at Glass' words. "Yeah... Yeah, Doug's right. S'like, it's yer art, so it'll be pretty no matter what." He inches closer, trying to get a sneak peak. Hee. Bat porn.

Yes, Bat porn, with great big, huge, extended...wings. Er. Ah. Yeah. Anyways. Batiste smiles back shyly at Glass, obediently holding his hand up so Glass can drag from his cigarette, then taking a lungful of his own. He leaves the cigarette dangling between his lips as he moves a couple of steps towards the couch and starts flipping through the sketchbook again for the right page, book barely opened at all, so very private-going-on-paranoid with anyone seeing the wrong picture at the wrong time. He finally locates the picture and opens the sketchbook wider, slipping his thumb in to mark his page as he gets comfy on the couch next to Trace, leaving plenty of room for Glass to sit on the other side of him. "It's not, like...smut, or nothing," promises Batiste, blushing a little - it's a radiant sort of blush, rather than shameful, though. "You won't have to look at a -penis-, or nothing." Brief giggling. Penis is such a funny word. A maladjusted woman must have come up with the word, or something.

Glass takes his place at Batiste's side, shoulders touching. He laughs softly, "What if I want to?"

Jean-Batiste grins over at Glass, blushing a little more. He bumps shoulders with him, and mumbles. "There's other pictures for that." He can't say any more, without risking that fire-engine-red blush he was talking about earlier, so instead turns his attention down to the sketchbook, and opens the sketchbook up, carefully arranging it so the both of you can see the charcoal picture there. He brushes over it once, very lightly, but it doesn't smudge - fixative's been used on this one, definately.

Trace grins and bites his lip before pointing out delicately, "Pictures like that're private. I could handle it, of course.. Well, I mean, it'd be weird, y'know? Like it'd be weird for Bat to see like a picture fulla boobs 'r something outta my sketchbook. Not that my sketchbook's fulla boobs." Oh, geez. He giggles. Okay, that wasn't as delicate as he'd meant to keep it, starting out. "But it's okay to wanna keep pictures private." But not this one aparantly, since Batiste'sgiven the go ahead and he leans forward eagerly to gaze down at the picture.

The picture's been pored over - this much is obvious. Very careful lines, lingeringly adjusted, the shading worked on until eyes seem to shine with moisture, skin glows with living sheen. The setting is a rumpled, cramped single bed, covered with mismatched sheets. Two teenaged boys lay atop it, in various stages of undress, one on his back, sprawled imploringly towards the other, who lays half atop, half to the side. The point of view is from the head of the bed, as if Batiste was sitting right there, watching it all. The bottommost boy's T-shirt is smeared up over his chest by a wandering hand, exposing his indrawn stomach - carefully detailed, it all but shivers. His jeans are unbelted and unbuttoned as well, pushed open but not yet pushed down. The topmost boy is where the true detail of the picture is. In his late teen years, he's forever caught a split-second after a long, teasing kiss, still licking the taste of the other boy's mouth off his bottom lip, his grin pure anti-innocence and desire. He looks straight out at you between an artful, trendy mop of short blond hair, shameless and frank, as if to say, 'I wish this was -you-.'

Jean-Batiste gestures shyly to the grinning boy out of the pair - quite unnecessarily, likely - and murmurs, "That's Darren."

Glass looks at the picture a long time, slipping an arm around Batiste's shoulder as he does so. "See, like I said, very pretty," he says, smiling. The drawing is given a few more moments of scruitiny, "Darren. When did you do this?"

Trace studies the picture thoughtfully, and nods. "It is... you're *such* a good artist, Batiste." He grins a little. "Wow. Just, you can tell how much you liked him, just by how you drew it..." A little giggle. "And that one boy's tummy too, huh, but just not so much as Darren," he accuses impishly, peeking up. His ha zel gaze drops back to the picture again, and he absently brushes some braids away and finally murmurs, "Thanks, Batiste. I know how you hate to show your pictures. But I jest, I'm really glad you did. I love yer art, an' more I jest love all it has to say, y'know?" He giggles and noogies at blonde braids, playfully an d pretty gentle -- not a scalp-searing noogie. "Peekin' inta my Batty's brain... pokin' at what's inside... heh."

Jean-Batiste looks down at the picture again, very lightly tracing the line along the now-named Darren's cheek. "I like this picture," he murmurs. "I drew it after a party about...about a year ago? No, more than that, a year and a half, almost...wow." He blinks, feeling a little old for a moment. "Long time," he murmurs. "I had this incredible crush on him, I mean, like, a -crippling- crush, it was -so- bad...I think it's why the picture turned out so good. All the emotion." He laughs, ducking his head against the gentle noogie'ing, shaking his braids around in protest. "Hey, I only liked his stomach because Darren made it go like that..." He blushes as he admits it, and tries to justify it all by saying, "It was a really big crush."

Glass leans forward to look at Trace around Batiste. He nods, "Yeah. All that." Leaning back again, he gives Batiste's shoulders a squeeze, then runs his hand up over the boy's neck and head. His hand brushes against Trace's as he ruffles the blonde braids a bit and rises, saying, "He's pretty. Dunno if he's worth a crush, but pretty." He glances back down at the drawing as he speaks, then looks up again, from Batiste's face to Trace's, then back, "I've got to go, guys. I'll see you around, okay?" With that he starts steps into his boots and starts to head to the door, leaving them unlaced.

Trace puzzles at the abrupt departure, but nods faintly and murmurs, "Bye, Doug...." He wiggles his fingers a little, and looks over to Batiste to murmur, "I don't agree with 'im. I bet... there was stuff about him, like more 'n pretty, y'know? Ya ya don't crush hard over just pretty." He grins.

Jean-Batiste looks up as Glass stands, confused and a little self-conscious, fingers creeping towards the edge of the sketchbook to start and draw it closed once more. "You...? Oh, um. Okay...see you soon?" He looks down at the picture, then back to Glass, vaguely guilty, now. "Don't...trip over your shoelaces..." he adds weakly.

"That was cool," Trace smiles, watching the door where Glass disappeared. "Doug was happy, y'know? Like the whole time, just all laughter 'n smilin'.. Whatever it is, I hope it lasts for 'im. I really do." He looks away from the door and over at your sketchbook again. "Thanks again. I'm glad you weren't embarrassed t'show me." He scritches at his chin a moment, then peeks up at you and grins shyly. "You... wanna see a picture I drew of a crush? It's, I mean, it's not so good as yours at all. It's like I drew it when I was thirteen or something. In the cafeteria at lunch period. Didn't spend the time on it you did, coz I.. I couldn't take my pencil home, so I just did it at the lunch table one day." He shrugs embarrassedly.

Jean-Batiste plays mystery man for a while, and admits, "I think I know part of why he's happy. At least, I hope I do. But I'll tell you after I see your picture. I want to see your picture first." He looks down at the picture of Darren for a moment longer, smiling bittersweetly at it again, then carefully closes the sketchbook and sets it aside. "He -was- more than just pretty. I mean...yeah, he was -so- handsome, just, God, but...just being around him, he was so alive and eager about everything. Like...like imagine your dream girl, Trace, with Jason's energy and Walker's sense of humour, and Ben's gentleness. Like...he was that incredible."

Trace grins. "Welll... MY dream girl'd have you in her too. Like maybe... she'd watch over me." His gentle eyes brighten with something more impish as he stands up and starts for the stairs, quipping over his shoulder, "But I guess I'd settle for a girl who had yer tits!" His laugh trails up the stairs with him. He's gone just a moment, retrieving the sketchbook from where he'd left it when they'd used a page to write the two notes to themselves for the muddles times after forgetting. Then he's thumping back down the stairs with bare feet, his sketchbook cradeled carefully. He reclaims a spot on the couch beside you, close enough for his shoulder to brush yours reassuringly. He's not nearly so careful about hiding his pictures -- perhaps just for one or two, but you might get the feeling that he's hiding them more from himself than you, like he's just not in the moodto see them right now, because he averts his own eyes quickly for those. For the most part, it's just glimpses of faces, some possible recognized -- flashes of bright red hair and green eyes, or blonde around sad, dark eyes, surely clear in their subject matter -- but he breezes through all these quickly. Not protective, no... but a picture for a picture is fair, right? So he doesn't offer more.

Jean-Batiste's laughter drifts up the stairs with you, soft and amused and...well, flattered, because Batiste always gets that way with anything praise-like that comes from you. "She better not have prettier tits than me!" he orders. "But she can cook better, because girls are just better at that." There, see? Isn't he generous? Once you've returned, he leans in comfortably against you, arm draped along the back of the couch and against your shoulders, and watches casually as you flip pages. He catches familiar-looking glimpses, but doesn't ask, and doesn't look too hard - after all, fair -is- fair.

This is a picture that's just stuffed into the sketchbook, slightly battered and torn at one corner, with ridges at the top that hint it was probably torn out of a different, spiral-backed sketchbook and carried around quite a bit before being placed into this one. The medium is simple #2 pencil. Trace takes it out gingerly once he locates the sketch, and studies it for a few long, self-conscious momemts before heaving a sigh and handing it over.

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A young girl, probably twelve or thirteen years old, is shown in this pencil sketch. Each stroke is gentle, rendered carefully as possible, but there's a sense of rush to it. Even still, he's had enough time to give it plenty of shading, and do it some small amount of justice. The girl sits at a table, her dark hair pulled back into a pony tail with a limp ribbon. A juice box is held to her lips with one slender hand, the straw at her thin lips. She's not a ravishing beauty, just a school girl at lunch time. He managed to capture the laughter in her dark eyes as she peers over the table at someone beyond the page's scope, a light, mirthful flush shaded into her cheeks. She wears a pristine white blouse, and little heart earrings dangle from tiny earlobes. Very feminine, very sweet... But tragically, she *must* be one of the school's elite. A tiny, predominantly poor, somewhat redneck town like Jarreaux just doesn't have many girls like this. But there's a kindness written all over her face, in her laughing eyes, and Trace has clearly seen more in her than just a snob. Or has dreamed more. Does it matter? Well beneath the drawing, in a hand that is decidedly Trace's, but an earlier version -- less scrawled and more recently subjected to the critical eye of educators -- is written the following short passage:

"How I feel, it's very true and sad
And hopeful, just like me
But it's one of those things I could never tell
I'll carve it in a tree.."

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Jean-Batiste handles the paper like the first page of some great manuscript, careful to hold it at the edges to keep from soiling it at all. Doesn't matter that his hands are clean, it's the thought, and the habit, that counts. He leans into you a little more, a warm, reassuring weight, and tips his head just slightly as he looks down at the picture. He looks at it for three or four minutes, not saying anything at all, eyes full of gentle intensity, then turns a soft, admiring smile to you. "It's beautiful," he says earnestly. "-She's- beautiful. What was her name?" He gestures towards her face, though doesn't touch the paper. "You did her eyes so well. Were they your favourite thing about her?" He rereads the wistful words at the bottom, and murmurs, "I -still- say you're a poet, too. It's wonderful." And he hugs you, grinning into your braids.

"Julie," Trace admits in a hushed voice, peeking down at the picture. "Julie Vandershaf. She only spoke to me four times, all through junior high." He leans his cheek to your shoulder gently and continues, "She sat next to me in art class. And she was very quiet all through it... Always quiet, when she wasn't with her friends. But I liked to think that I could just read her eyes, and it was enough, you know? Sometimes she'd look over at my drawings. And I could jest... tell. When she liked 'em. Even if she never said so.." He lets out a breath and chuckles. "I guess it was dumb. I don't think she knew my name, even." He nuzzles your shoulder, and when the hug comes, he falls into it willingly and grins too. "M'not," he insists muffledly, as he alwaws will at poet accusatio ns. "It's so short, it's just... some words I stuck there. I just sometimes have words stuck in my pictures in places, just if they sneak in my head, and they fit, y'know? But that... it ain't poetry. Poetry haze like stanzas, and, y'know, the syllables all fit better or something. My English teacher said so." He peeks up and finally relents just a little to admit, "I guess what I wrote ya that one time was poetry. It had stanzas. But I don't usually write like that. It's too hard."

"Julie," Batiste echoes, like a magic word. "It's a pretty name." He listens to the stories of junior high, and even manages to get a fond, reminiscent smile at them - even if his own experiences weren't much like that, he saw others around him who went through the same thing, and he can empathize, no matter what. "Poetry isn't all long and neat. Like...like Haiku. Japanese poetry. It's only three lines long, and it's only allowed to be twenty-two syllables. Or twenty-there, I can't remember. But it's super short. It doesn't have to all be organized, there's lots of poets that write free poetry." It's not quite the right term, but English classes ended a long time ago. A fiercer hug, then, as he says, "What you wrote me was...was perfect. The best poem in the whole world. Ever." So saieth Batiste. He adds quickly, as soon as you squirm or look like you're about to speak up, "No disagreeing." He gives the picture back after a final study, and shifts around to lean in against you, both arms looped around your shoulders to draw you against him, head half-pillowed by the back of the couch, half-pillowed against you. Comfy, cozy. The sort of sprawl you could spend hours in, quiet and content, just thinking.

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