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Log Title: Dreams
Setting: Walker’s house.
Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Trace
Benjamin
Walker
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It takes about thirty seconds, but then the door opens, and there's Batiste, leaning out to see who knocked, rubbing pale braids out of his face as he does. He's smiling a little, lightening the melancholy cast that had settled over his features.
"S'just me," Trace smiles when he sees you, shifting the canvas back hanging off one shoulder. "Kin' I come in, or is somethin' up?"
Jean-Batiste's face brightens up a bit more - he steps back, holding the door for you, eagerly beckoning you inside. "Yeah, of course. Get in here already." He grins at you.
You open the door and step inside.
Grey House - 1st Floor
Benjamin sits, when you come in, on the couch, his legs drawn up to his chest and eyes closed. His face is pale, except pink spots on his cheeks where he's flushed.
Footsteps on the stairs echo soft in the hall as Walker makes his way back down toward the living room. His hair is still damp from the shower, looking - impossibly - darker than normal with the wet.
Jean-Batiste beckons Trace in with an eager, impatient gesture and steadily brightening features, then closes the door once the blue-haired boy is inside. "About time you got here..." he murmurs to his friend, grinning.
Trace wanders in, giving a vague wave to Walker and Ben, then pulls an open bag of oreos out of his canvas bag and sets them down on the black coffee table. "Anyone who wants 'em kin have some. Someone left 'em at Keats, and he hates oreos. Good timing that I got'em." He plucks one out of the flimsy plastic tray and finds himself a seat on one of the chairs, settling himself comfortably. "So what's goin' on?"
Benjamin blinks his eyes open, his coloring returning slowly to normal. He tucks his feet under him (with shoes still on, bad form!). "Hey, Trace. Good shower, Walker?" Small talk, nice 'n easy. Yeah, that's the ticket.
Walker pauses near the doorway to the living room to smile a greeting to Trace. "Hey... s'- Oreos!" The greeting's cut short at the sight of the cookies. He redirects his course toward the Oreos with a grin. "I'll take a few..." He glances into the living room where Ben's seated, giving a little nod. "Any showa's a great showa unless there's no hot watta."
Jean-Batiste trails after Trace, still grinning. "Oreos? Sure...you like the frosting in the middle?" His steps slow for a moment, as he gives Ben a momentarily uncertain look, fingers twitching together nervously. They settle again a second later as he sinks down cross-legged by the cookie tray and nabs one, trying to twist it apart like they do in the commercials.
Benjamin arranges his hair with dainty fingers, giving the cookies a momentary glance. No no, they'll ruin his girlish figure! "Ought to have some milk to go with those, properly," he comments.
Trace giggles. 'Well, who *doesn't* like the frosting, that's the best part!" He licks at his already seperated cookie languidly. He wasn't able to part it perfectly, and there's white stuck to both brown-black disks. "When I was little, use'ta just open 'em and lick the cream off, 'n throw away the rest.." A grinning glance to Ben. "Milk's gross."
Walker grabs a handful of the cookies and returns to his abandoned chair. He doesn't attempt to pry the Oreos apart; not a licker, this one. His cookies get treated to a very slow, meticulous nibbling. "Chocolate milk's yummy," he inserts around nibbles. "Strawberry milk's a crime against nature. So what's been shakin', Trace?"
Jean-Batiste twists the Oreo open, frowning mildly at it when it doesn't separate perfectly. He pops the half with the least amount of frosting into his mouth, chewing with relish, then says to Trace, "-I- don't like the frosting. Or those Double Stuff Oreos?" He makes a face. "They're too sweet. I figure we can work out an arrangement, here." With an innocent grin, he lobs an Oreo gently at Ben.
Whap. Blink. Ben tilts his head down to his chest, where there's a dash of cookie, and an oreo in his lap. Now, that is very odd. It couldn't have just flown over here itself, could it. He picks up the cookie and examines it, glancing warily at the other three over the top.
"Nothin' much." Trace shrugs, working apart his second cookie. "So what, you wanna split 'em and you take the cleaner halves and I'll take the creamy ones?" He did a better job of this latest cookie and hands over the barren cookie to Batiste. Then, to Walker with a grin, "And I still think milk's gross, even mixed with chocolate or strawberry. It's like... who came up with that, anyway? What primitive guy turned to his buddy and says, 'Hey Grug. See that pink thing hangin' down off that cow? I think I'm gonna go tug on that thing and drink what comes out...." He giggles.
Mmm... Double-Stuf. One of Walker's faves. He looks up from his barely-bitten first cookie to peer at Trace and just starts laughing. Oh, the visual! Oh, the gutter-mind! "I'm not even gonna touch that one..." he murmurs as he begins to nibble again. "Too easy."
Trace blushes visably and wrinkles his nose, "Aw, gross Walker... I mean, they're *cows*..." He shakes his head. No. Whatever the milk inventor was thinking, Trace is sure he wasn't thinking *that*.
Jean-Batiste casually stuffs the entire Oreo wafer into his mouth and chews noisily. He didn't hear a thing. Nope. Crunchcrunchcrunch. He reaches for another Oreo, twisting it apart imperfectly, handing the sweeter side to Trace. He grins and says, "You know Walker, always got his mind in the gutter..." He looks -so- angelic. Honest. He adds a few seconds later, still careful not to look at Ben and give away the answer to the Airborne Oreo Mystery, "I figure we can start the mural tonight, how about you?"
Trace licks at the creamy side of the cookie he was just handed, his tongue all white now. "Sure thing. So the primer doesn't need a second coat or nothin'?" He glances at the stairs. Or did Batiste do that last night while he was out running amok with Jason?
Walker nods sagely. "A-course I do. There's no comfier place in th' world ta be. An' if ya stay there it prevents painful falls inta th' gutta lata." Wisdom to live by. The cookie he holds still looks relatively untouched even though it's paid several visits ot his lips. Maybe he's just threatening to eat it.
Trace can't speak just yet because his mouth is full of cookies. No threatening from him; he's packing them away rather efficiently. He gets down off the chair to sit a little closer to the cookies, as well as to pass the non-frosted halves to Batiste more easily.
Walker finally takes the plunge and actually eats the rest of his first Oreo. How daring! "I had some freaky dreams last night..." he comments idly as the memory filters in again. "Y'all were in it an'... it was just... strange." No better way to describe the lingering impressions, particularly considering that he can't remember te majority of the content.
Jean-Batiste frowns thoughtfully at his Oreo as he twists another one open and hands the frosting-est side over to Trace. "Well...another coat of primer -would- be good..." he admits. "If you don't mind waiting a little longer for it to dry? It'll make it all easier to paint..." He trails off, munching a bit of his cookie, then looks up at Walker. "Really, you dreamt of us?" He smiles shyly, not sure whether he should be flattered or worried. "D'you remember it? Dreaming of the next housewarming party?" He grins.
Trace looks up with curiousity and agrees, nibbling in a circle around his oreo, removing the entire circumference that is just plain cookie and not covered by frosting, he murmurs once his mouth is freed for a moment, "Please, tell us 'bout it!"
And it's back to nibbling as Walker lifts a second cookie. "Don' really rememba most-a it. We were in some place..." Don't you just hate those dreams where you don't know where you are but you think you do? "An' we were all hangin' out. Me an' y'all... Ali was there an' so was Jason. Don' rememba Ben bein' there. But anyway. There was all these pipes an' nozzles an' whatnot; kinda like th' inside of a water supply plant. All indirect lights an' shit. We were havin' fun. I rememba that much. But I couldn't tell ya why we were there-r what we were doin' that was so fun."
Trace blinks a little. "Well.... okay." He giggles and snaps two more oreos apart, holding the cleaner side out for Batiste, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "Open wide!" he smiles brightly.
Jean-Batiste's cookie devouring slows down considerably as he listens intently to Walker's description of the dream. He nods, agreeing, "Yeah, when you're somewhere totally strange but for some reason it all seems so normal..." His eyebrows lift up a bit as he says, "Ben wasn't there?" That seems curious, to him. He muses over it a bit, then grins at Walker and says, "So now we just need to figure out what it means when you dream about pipes and water and everything, huh?"
Jean-Batiste looks back at Trace and grins widely at him before leaning forward and opening his mouth. "Aaaah..." he says, like an obedient kid at the doctor's office.
Trace giggles and pops the entire cookie into Batiste's mouth. "I get too many fucked up dreams to wanna try'n learn to analyze 'em. Like once I dreamed there was this box've kittens, right? And someone had a gun to my head and was forcin' me to bury 'em alive... It sucked." He looks up, thinking 'great... now they won't let me play with the cat once we get one.'
Walker chuckles, scraping a little of the white junk from the side of his cookie to lick up. "I know what Freud says about watta... but Freud was a perv with an Oedipal complex." Back to more nibbling. "Don' know what he'd say about pipes. Not sure I want ta. Dreams're just idle entertainment for your brain when you're passed out. Keeps your mind occupied..." He looks over at Trace as he nips a few more crumbs from the cookie, expression waxing contemplative. After a few moments: "Have eitha of y'all evva died in your dreams?"
Jean-Batiste's eyes widen a little at Trace, a sort of mildly horrified empathy that ends up a bit comical around a whole mouthful of cookie. After swallowing, he says, "Oh, geez. That must have been terrible, Trace." He licks some dark cookie crumbs off the corners of his mouth, then around his teeth, looking fairly pleased with life again. He nibbles his bottom lip for a second, looking up at Walker, then shrugs casually and says, "Yeah. All the time. It's...well, it's what I dream about, usually."
Trace nods faintly at Walker, but then looks to Batiste, much more interested in his dreams than volunteering some of his own. "How... how d'ya go, mostly?" he asks softly, toying with his half-cookie, the one that had been linked with the part he just fed to Batiste.
Walker looks to Bat, equally curious if not more. Dreams have long fascinated him despite his breezy dismissal of the matter. Idle entertainment or not, they are quite telling about the mind behind them. Freud just missed the boat. "Yeah..?" He encourages.
Jean-Batiste nods a little, scratching at the edge of one fingernail where the black polish has started to flake away. "Yeah, it's...kinda morbid, I guess. It's why I don't sleep so well, sometimes." He looks between the two of you, considering his words. "Well...sometimes I dream of stuff I've seen on the street, only instead of seeing it, it's happening to me, you know? But...usually, it's me leaning up against the sink and looking in the mirror, and seeing myself...you know. Like...decay. Shrivel up and wither and stuff." He shrugs gently, reaching for another cookie to fidget with. "Or sometimes I'll be on a hospital bed, and the doctors all come in, only they're in black instead of green, and they start operating on me without any anaesthetic."
Trace shrinks a little where he sits, his shudder running up his spine before flinching in his face. God... He scoots closer to press one cheek to Batiste's shoulder and curl an arm about his back, a small hug. He speaks with soft sympathy, "I seen ya, sometimes, tossin' an' mumblin... Never could understand a word of it, though. Next time... Next time, you wan' me to shake you awake?"
Walker's face ripples through a variety of emotions, from thoughtfulness to sympathy to leeriness at the last. "That would be a bitch." He gives a small shiver, remembering a Millineium episode he saw once. "Hospitals... places-a death an' pain. I guess a lotta people have nightmares about 'em. I nevva have, thank gawd." He polishes off the second Oreo, leaving the others to contemplate their future fate while he has a cigarette.
Jean-Batiste shrugs gently, leaning into Trace and giving him a small, grateful smile and a returned one-armed embrace. "It's a little freaky, yeah," he agrees, sounding somewhat casual. He turns to look sidelong at Trace and nods to him. "Yeah, if...if you want. I hope I never wake you up, or anything...don't mean to be so restless when I sleep..."
Trace nods and says with soft honesty, "I never will mind, I promise." He grins faintly, brushing a blonde braid away from dark eyes. "I sleep too much anyway."
Walker pulls on his cigarette, exhaling slowly. Sleep - those little slices of death... Poe must've dreamt that way too. "I've nevva had dreams like that. When I've died in m'dreams, it's always somethin' that could happen but I've nevva seen. Ya know? Like... like gettin' m'throat cut. Nevva seen that happen ta somebody; nevva had it happen. But I dream it real vivid. Like, I can feel it when it happens. Sometimes it wakes me up..." ANd sometimes it doesn't which leaves just a long black space; no dreams after that. He gives his head a shake, drying hair tugging behind his back. "Nevva bothas me though. I don' have nightmares."
Jean-Batiste grins back at Trace, bumping shoulders with his friend again. "Yeah, you do. You're just getting in my share of sleep too, though, that's all." He shakes his head gently, so braids slap against Trace's fingers, and murmurs softly and simply, "Thanks." He glances up at Walker, eyebrows raised, and says, "You dream about getting your throat cut, but it's not a nightmare? That's...wow. That's weird." He grins a little and teasingly says, "Hear that, Walker? You're weird." Definately not an insult, that word.
Walker shrugs a shoulder. Apparently being defined as weird doesn't bother him in the least. "Nah. Death don' scare me. I find it kinda interestin' ta dream about dyin'. Drownin'... pumped full-a bullets... run ovva... fallin' off a mountain... dreamt 'em all. Had m'first when I was somethin' like eight. When I woke up an' realized I wasn't dead, it was like... I don' know. It was like havin' one-a those near-death experiences," he grins. He knows how cheesy that sounds but can't frame it any better. "Th' shit that scares me isn't about me."
Jean-Batiste frowns in concentration, trying to imagine dreaming of those things and walking up relieved instead of haunted. He rubs his knuckles against his cheek and slowly shakes his head, deciding, "I...can't imagine dreaming like that. I mean...being able to just leave it behind like that. It's really cool that you can do that." He lowers his voice dramatically and intones, "You have a powerful mind, Walker," then grins at him.
Walker rolls his eyes, a grin touching down on his dark lips. "I have a twisted mind. It took lotsa effort ta bend it that way, too," he winks. Then in a less jocular tone: "I don' leave it behind. I try ta rememba alla m'dreams an' learn somethin' from them when they're somethin' that can be learned from. But ya just gotta keep somethin' in mind when ya wake up from a dream ya don' like." Another drag from his cigarette inserts a poignant pause. "It's all just a dream. Just think-a it like a movie that sometimes has people ya know starrin' in it. That's all it is."
Trace grins slightly, nervously. "Dreamin' bout death scares me plenty. Like the future hauntin' ya, or somethin'. I ain't ready to go yet.." He shrugs. "Never dreamt' bout fallin' off a mountain or nothin. S'like that wouldn't hit home, y'know? It'd be stuff like gettin' killed on the street, by a mugger or somethin', or my ma findin' me, or doin' it myself..." He shrugs a little, setting the half-cookie back into the trey for later. No appetite for it anymore. "I guess I oughta try'n think like you do, Walker... S'just a dream, y'know? Just yer mind keepin' busy. Well, at least one good thing 'bout dreams is they give ya some neat, vivid ideas for pictures..."
It's all just dreams. Batiste reminds himself that a few dozen times, then nods to each of you, slow and thoughtful. "Yeah..." he murmurs. "I'll have to try telling myself that more, see if it helps." Then he smiles at Trace, nodding more energetically. "Yeah...some of my best pictures are things I've remembered from dreams. It's too bad, maybe, that you can't dream while you're awake, you know? Get your brain to share all those pictures with you, while you can remember them completely..."
"Ya can dream while you're awake," Walker giggles as he tamps his cigarette out. "It just takes more effort or th' help-a somethin' like peyote. Wakin' dreams can be loads-a fun, dependin'." He settles back again, pulling both legs into the chair to keep him company.
Trace giggles. "Yeah... Yeah, Walker's right, *I* sure know how to dream when I'm awake... I do it all the time! It's plenty more fun." He smiles broadly, drawing his legs up and curling thin arms around his shins, fingers hooking together loosely. "Get some great pictures from that too..."
Jean-Batiste grins and shakes his head. "No, that's tripping, that's different..." Isn't it? Batiste figures it is, at least. He's curious about it though, so he looks at the both of you and asks, "Well...how d'you dream when you're awake, then? I mean..." He shakes his head, not having the words for it. "How? What do you do?"
Walker tips his head a little, smiling. "If ya'd evva taken peyote, ya wouldn't have ta ask that. An' vivid daydreams can be brought on by borin' bus rides an' wishin' real hard for somethin'." A shrug and one of the remaining Oreos is lifted from the arm of the chair to eat a nibbling demise. "I prefa peyote ta boredom, though."
Trace shrugs a little. "I never taken peyote. And I just... well, it's somethin' I could always do, slip inta dreamin. 'Specially when I don't wanna think 'bout things, or I'm someplace I don't wanna be... Or when I really get into a muse, s'like I'm dreamin' sometime then. Ya'd have ta shake me to break me out've it, it's so strong sometimes. I mean, 'course it's easier when ya got some artificial help -- which reminds me, my stash is lookin' pretty nice after this mornin's purchases --" He grins big. "And yer free to partake. But... I don't always need that help to dream awake." He smiles, a soft mysterious expression that also looks slighly... confused. "And y'know... somethin' else that's helped me lately. I don't quite get that, though."
Jean-Batiste frowns gently at Walker, shaking his head. "I've heard it's really cool, but that it makes you sick when you take it, no matter how good it is. I...I don't know, maybe I'll try it sometime, but acid doesn't make me sick." He looks over at Trace, smiling faintly as he listens to the first part of his friend's words - then grins bigger at the second. "What'd you get?" he asks, leaning in towards Trace and eyeing him up as if he'll have baggies secreted all over his person. He nudges his friend's ribs gently, ticklishly, then offers a tentative idea. "Maybe...karma, you know? Or maybe because you're feeling safer, there's part of your mind that's not worrying about that anymore, so it's focussed on drawing, too?"
Walker nods as he munches, ignoring the phantom pungent flavor of peyote his mind conjures easily with the aid of the cookie. "Peyote makes most folks sicker'n a dog; not evrabody but most. Did me. But what a helluva trip!" His eyes stray to the gargoyles near the window, then shakes his head, looking back to both of you.
"Well, the last thing I meant s'not drugs," Trace murmurs shyly as he reaches for his canvas bag and starts to rummage through it. "It's... well, Jason, I think. Just that look he gets sometimes, when he asks me to go on about somethin'... And it's just in his eyes, somethin' there, and I say all this stuff and go on..." After the vague ramble, he just falls silent and shrugs, because it's still a mystery to him too. "Anyway." He pulls several small plastic bags out of the canvas satchel, as well as a piece of foil. Of the first plastic bag: "This here's just some brown.. I decided not to splurge twice, y'know? That other shit's expensive... But it's a good amount. A good couple days at least, maybe a week if I'm good." He moves on to the next bag, enjoying playing Vanna White with his stash. “This is just a few hits of acid. He says it's kinda strong.. Dunno. It'll prolly freak me out, I'm usually sensitive with the stuff. Gotta find the right environment for it, y'know?" He smiles sunnily at Batiste. "I was thinkin've you when I got it, since you seem to like the stuff a lot. An' I trust trippin' more if yer there too." He sets down the bag with the tiny paper bits and reaches for the foil, unfolding it carefully. "And this is just some tar. Not good fer much more'n chasing, but Keats practically gave it t'me, plus a new pipe fer it. Wait, that's in the bag somewhere.." He digs back into the satchel and comes up with a tiny glass tube, setting that with the rest of the stuff. "Not bad, huh? Just fifty bucks, all of it. I couldn' believe it. Keats was in a good mood're somethin'."
Walker's brows threaten to reach his hairline when he hears the price. "Fifty??" He blinks and openly gapes for just a moment. "Damn... that's too cool. Wish my supplias were so givin'." Boy, does he ever, with the way he goes through drugs. He presses his lips together briefly then finishes of the mouse-nipped cookie. What would be the outcome of heavy narcotics combined with codeine? He should probably look that up in his Big Book.
Batiste fidgets with his Oreo a little, finally popping it into his mouth and crunching it studiously. "Oh," he says, when Trace explains about Jason, and glances down as he licks dark crumbs off his mouth. After swallowing down the cookie he looks up again, paying attention to all the goodies Trace lays out in front of him. He brightens up again when Trace pulls out the acid, grinning slyly at his friend. "We can do some of the mural on it, how's that? I think that'd be -so- great...we'll be able to paint Jason's music for real, then." He gapes as well, when he hears the price. "-Fifty-?" Then he goes dubious. A dealer in a good mood? More likely he's trying to pull something over on him. Hmm... He eyes up all the drugs again, considering, then decides to shrug it off for now. "That's a great deal, Trace." He picks up the pipe, rolling the glass tube around in his fingers.
Trace bobs his head, "It was! It was weird.. We were talkin', like *actually* talkin, not 'bout business or nothin'... He's got a girl now. He says come by Thursday and maybe I can meet her. Says she used'ta do porno flicks, and she's really pretty.." He giggles at the thought. Porno babes. "And I was tellin' him a little 'bout all the good stuff what's been happin' lately, and how we got that place that used t'be Marco's, and things were doing really good fer me. He just said I deserved to celebrate, is all. And he'd give me it fer fifty if I promised t'keep him in mind any time I needed ta celebrate. And that was it." Walker chuckles. "Hell, for that price, *I'll* keep him in mind." Moving aside the last cookie and the ashtray he slides up to his feet and drifts across the room to the hall. Why did his aunt have to have a house with stairs? Probably because she wasn't counting on the fact that her nephew would have a weird enough life to have back troubles while he was young. "Be right back," he calls softly as he starts up, hand gripping the rail.
Jean-Batiste's eyes widen as he stares at Trace. Porno babes? "Geez. You and him are getting along like nobody's business," he teases his friend, bumping shoulders with him again. "Should we invite 'em to our housewarming party?" He giggles at that, obviously joking. No need to get -too- chummy with the man. "I wonder if they look the same off camera as they do on camera..." he muses thoughtfully, then laughs again, smiling affectionately at Trace. "You deserve to celebrate. Things are going good." He turns to watch Walker head for the stairs, calling, "Be careful..." as he goes.
The gentle creaking of the ceiling overhead marks Walker's path upstairs followed by a long period of silence.
Trace picks up the tiny bag with the acid and fingers in thoughtfully. "When we do the mural, I'm just takin' half. Keats said it was strong... And I dunno. It usually hits me hard.." He sets it back in the satchel, then the other one. The foil gets wadded back up carefully, and is put away along with the pipe. He picks up the satchel and says, "I'm gonna take a shower, okay? And maybe rest a little, before we start the mural. Coz once we get started on it, I ain't gonna probably wanna stop for nothin'. Better eat before we start too," he adds as an afterthought. "See ya later, okay?"
Jean-Batiste blinks out of whatever thoughts he was thinking and nods to Trace, looking up as the blue-haired boy stands. "Yeah, you bet. Get all charged up and everything ready, and then we'll start." He smiles, thoughtful and distracted. "See you later."