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Log Title: Escapes

Log Setting: Upstairs - Walker’s Grey House. It is July 28, 2001, in the evening.

Log Cast:
Trace
Glass
Jean-Batiste
Starlight

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Trace clomps up the steps with no attempt to hide his coming. His braids are more disheveled than usual, frazzly and flopped partly to one side, displaying the shiny jangle of silver studs and hoops that decorate all along the cartilage of one ear. He starts straight for his designated drawer, but stops upon seeing Glass. He creeps more softly now, though it's just an unconcsious gesture born of knowing there's someone sleeping nearby as he moves over to the waterbed and perches on the edge of it, nearby, looking down at you.

Glass looks strangely gaunt, as if he's somehow become considerably thinner in the past two days. His eyelids are pale lavender, soft and moist as the petals of a flower, delicate, strange in contrast to his thick black lashes that cast tiny shadows. One hand has a few short deep scratches in it, covered over with dried blood. His lips are parted, barely, and his breath comes slow and shallow.

Trace sighs softly and decides to intervene. He leans forward a little, putting most of his weight on one hand as he uses the other to reach out and ruffle your hair and then lightly shake your shoulder in an attempt to gently wake you. His eyes flicker to the track marks then back to the wounded hand a few times, but eventually train back to watch your face. "Hey Doug..?" he murmurs softly. "Do ya want somethin' t'eat..? I was gonna fix myself somethin'." Okay, so it wasn't food he me up here to fix, but he's trying to do that elusive Right Thing. "Or I could maybe help yer hand some..? I'll take care of you, if you like." A little smile. "S'what we tend t'do 'round here.."

Glass opens his eyes the instant you touch him. So dark, pools of oil, startling with how pale he looks today. Seems he wasn't asleep half as deeply as it appeared. Muzzily, he blinks, then frowns. Confusion lingers on his face, then something else, like dreadful realization takes over. He lifts his uninjured hand to cover his eyes and says, "Oh. Oh. Trace." Eyes still hidden under his hand he says, "I. I'm fine. I don't need anything." There's a bit of a tremor in his voice.

"Are -- Are you sure..?" Trace murmurs, drawing his hand back and settling it uncertainly on your chest. "What happened? I mean.." Then he drops his eyes, "M'sorry, m'sure s'not my business..."

Glass lowers his hand. He's crying or his eyes are watering, it's hard to tell which. In any case, he doesn't bother to wipe away the moisture, just says, "It's, it's nothing. I just didn't want to wake up, is all." He tries a smile, which comes over pretty weakly. "Don't be sorry."

Trace sighs softly and does something pretty unTrace-like, leaning down gently to wrap skinny arms around the slender barrel of your chest and squeeze once, gently. He just doesn't embrace or show much physical affection outside his 'triangle' typically, but a hug seems sorely needed now. "Can't help it," he murmurs softly. "Shoulda let ya sleep.."

Glass stiffens a little, as if he is suprised at the embrace or it pains him. He bites his lip and closes his eyes against futher tears. After drawing a couple of shakey breaths he murmurs, "Did you really come up for that? Did you know I was here?"

The smaller boy stays where he is and lifts his cheek off your chest, turning to peek up at you through a fall of blue braids and little reddish-blonde feathery lashes. "I... naw, I didn't know..." He might as well admit that right out, since he knows he's such a bad liar anyway. "I came up to... um, I mean, I saw you here, 'n I jest, I was concerned..." He watches your expression and wavers confusedly, as though he's not sure if the hug *is* paining you and maybe he oughta let go. He knows Jason and Batiste's moods and whims, and when it's proper to hug them, but he doesn't know yours... In the end he stays put, just looking up, with the vague lingering feeling that maybe he's still out of line.

Glass puts his arms around you, gingerly. His dark eyes remain closed, though, and he draws breath carefully, as if trying to steady himself. "Wanna skip the food and have a bang?" he asks softly. It's certainly what he wants to do. "I'm not hungry."

Trace's breath catches and he's quiet a moment. Of course it's what he'd wanted to do too, and the thought of having someone to fix *with* is even more appealing, but cor, circumstance does have a way of putting him in the position of bad influence. "If.. if it's what you want," he gulps, and admits hushedly, "S'what I came upstairs to do. Didn't know you were here. But..." He gives a relenting sigh and rests his cheek back down to your chest hesitently, carefully. "Y'sure..?"

Under your cheek his chest falls as he sighs. Relief. Doug draws another breath and murmurs, "Yeah, I'm sure. It's what I was gonna do, anyway. Before I went to sleep I decided, when I wake up I'm gonna fix myself." He smiles a little, "It'd be nice to have company. You want what I got?"

"A-alright," Trace nods, because his stash is pretty low right now after all. Licking his lips and squeezing once more before shifting to sit partially upright, he looks down at you. "But in return, y'don't get t'fix yerself. I'll get ya..." Because that's one of the nicest feelings he knows, having someone else affectionately tying you off and sinking it for you. "Will ya let me?"

Glass smiles, his eyes drying now. The expression is wan, but more genuine, "Yeah. I love that. You want me to hit you?" He struggles to sit up, but the waterbed has got the best of him for now and he mostly just struggles, not getting far. "My shit's in my coat," he says.

"I'm hard t'get," Trace admits as he clambers off the bed and stoops to rifle through your coat. "M'veins suck lately. Hard t'hit, specially if I jest fixed you... Oughtn't worry, s'okay. Y'kin jest melt, n' I'll follow ya soon 'nuff, trust me..." He comes up with a little packet of white (I assume it's white, yes? Glass always seems to have really good dope on him) and then sits on the edge of the bed. "This stuff y'don't gotta fire 'r clean first..?" he wonders, running his thumb over it gently.

Glass stops his thrashing about when you clamber off the bed. He says, "I bet I can hit you. I can hit anybody," and rolls over onto one shoulder to watch you, "Yeah. You don't have to do anything." The powder is in a little glass vial, inside a baggie with a syringe in it. It's white, and sparkly, and it looks soft and cold and sweet.

"S'talent," Trace grins smirkishly as he takes out the little vial and then gets up to cross the room, open his drawer, and take out the old water bottle and a spoon. "I can't hit shit after I'm gone... My fingers lose all their bones 'jest like the rest've me." A little giggle as he shuts the drawer with an annoying, scraping screech (he got stuck with the noisy drawer) and then ambles on back and sets the stuff on the floor before offering you a hand. "Here, let's sit on the floor. Waterbeds ain't no good fer keepin' yer hand steady."

Glass is wearing a pair of dark blue cotton boxers. He laughs a little. "You're right about that." He scoots over to the edge of the bed, since that's easier than sitting up. When he slides off he bumps his head against the wooden side and scowls. Without thinking about it he reaches up to rub the spot with his injured hand, then frowns again and moves his hand away gingerly. Sore.

Trace notes your frown. Well... temporarily he can fix that, anyway, rather certain it won't be trifling you soon. He tugs up the leg of his jeans and gets the tie and spike free from it's usual spot, and sets them down to start working on the mix quickly and efficiently. "Half each from a full spoon..?" he suggests, glancing up at you.

Trace blinks and swings his gaze towards the stairs startledly before you have an answer, as he catches the sound of light footfalls ascending. Fuck, what if it's Jason...

Glass nods, watching you. "There," he says, "That should be enough. Be careful. It's strong. You should probably take more of it than me. I've only been doing it again a couple of days." He tenses a little as you look away. Whatever it was, he doesn't hear it but he can sense your apprehension and he's worried now.

Starlight comes upstairs.

Starlight’s Desc:
No more glitter. No more lace. Raw beauty. This young boy? has his black hair chopped to rest upon narrow shoulders. He holds in his face, the images of anger and regret. No more the feminine gesture, this kid pushes through with unabashed resentment and strength. This, all the colours. And in his mind, so much power. Dark eyes, midnight, remain, mostly, little slits and always critical. Impress me. His skin, pale. Tight against blushed cheeks, but somehow remains rounded in feature. Exotic colouring. Deep brown brows and lashes on light, accent and contrast with the purpetual blood tint of his lips. Naked fresh.

Today Star is wearing a pair of jeans. Simple. Not too tight, and they have that dirty, stained, well-worn look to them. The one that makes you never wanna get rid of 'em? Heavy boots, black, cover his feet and a black t-shirt that has 'Definately Male' in white letters on the front, covers his chest. The jeans too long, the shirt too big. And under, against the skin of his upper torso, is a white thermal top. Covers his arms.

Pierced. Ring in his right eyebrow. Ring in the right side of his lip. Other adornments include a hemp-string necklace with a little black stone in the center and lastly a silver band on his right thumb.

Glass is sitting on the floor, leaning against the waterbed. He's wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. Trace is beside him, something in his hands.

Starlight comes up the stairs, quietly, and steps up to the door. He tilts his head, peering inside the room, but doesn't enter. Upon seeing the two of you, he says, "Hey." Cautious eyes move to Trace and stay there for a few moments. Kid wets his lips and by default licks at his ring. Explanation. "I was 'posta meet Walker here?" Almost apologetic.

Trace is seated on the floor near the foot of the waterbed with Glass, spoon in one hand and a vial of white powder in the other. He looks up at Starlight at first with an expression of a kid who just got caught blazing up in his bedroom or something, but relief spills all over his expression when he sees it's just Starlight. "Thank god," he murmurs under his breath, but looks the kid over with some small amount of puzzlement because he's never seen Star dressed or poised that way. "Walker..." He licks his lips and flickers his gaze to Glass uncertainly. "Walker's not here." Where is he? Who knows. "Um. Is there something.." But he says it with the tone of someone who's really thinking 'please, let it be nothing I can help you with,' because he's awfully eager to get on with what he's up to.

Glass looks at Starlight, seeming relieved to see who it is. He shakes his head at the child's question. "I don't know where Walker is," he murmurs, "When was he supposed to meet you?"

From downstairs, the door can be heard opening and closing, followed by quiet footsteps trailing into the kitchen.

Back to smooth efficiency, as Trace pulls some water into his spike and squirts a proper amount into the spoon, swirling it about with the needle tip and then wiping the end on his jeans. He doesn't even measure the millimeters, of course, and goes about the task with the definite fluidity and speed of a seasoned junkie. "Where's yer pick..?" he murmurs to his friend.

Glass picks up the plastic bag with the syringe inside and fidgets with it a little, extracting the spike from the plastic. He hands it to Trace and murmurs, "Here..." He smiles faintly, asks again, "You sure you don't want me to hit you?"

Starlight's lips part and it might seem like he was going to respond to the questions asked, but boy does that look good. The kid steps back a little, turning as if to leave, as if /having/ to leave, but pauses and looks back. Can't help it. He blinks and looks hungry. "I, he was posta talk to me and my girlfriend but she's real sick and she couldn't come and I just said I would come over in a couple hours, when he was," he's rambling, not even looking at either of you. Dark orbs on the sweetness before him.

Trace sets down his own spike, a nice non-disposable and well-loved syringe with a detachable head, and takes up Glass' to carefully fill it. They're using something really pure right now, obviously, because it doesn't even require a cook first. No candles or lighters to be seen, nope. He pulls up the mix from the spoon and smiles faintly without looking up, his gaze firmly settled on the clear liquid creeping up into the barrel. "Alright. If ya really wanna, and think ya kin get it... But you still go first." He jumps a little at Batiste's call, but manages not to spill. Precious stuff, this, and his hand's probably the most steady and still part of him right now. Batiste, Batiste... yes, he's allowed to catch him at this. Just a glance to Glass before calling, "Up here...!"

Glass' glance flickers from the spoon to Starlight and back again. He starts a little at the sound from downstairs and looks to the stairwell, then back to Star, "Want some shit?" he asks softly. Trace speaks and Glass smiles, "Okay. You'll just have to give me a little bit to taste it. But I can hit you. Even all fucked up, I bet. Easier than you can backhand it, anyway."

Starlight jumps a bit as JB's voice comes from behind and steps into the room more. Paranoid. He nods at Glass' words, but stays against the wall. Little fiend. He watches, intently, even as he's reaching into his pocket for smokes. Yep, Star has ciggies. Flips open the box, fingers a stick and puts it to his lips. So tempting. Gets fire and inhales, deeply. Isn't running away this time.

Glass catches Star's nod and turns his attention back to the small dark-haired kid. He murmurs, "So come sit down. You got works?" He leans further back against the bed, obviously Star is not formost on his mind right now, since his glace goes back to Trace and his fixings.

Jean-Batiste comes upstairs.

Wow, this could turn into quite a junk party... Trace nods faintly at the truth in Glass' words with a little wry grin. "Prolly right... I'm not so good at getting it with my left. Real hard t'keep it steady..." He pushes some back out into the spoon, since Glass said he didn't want that much, and then works out bubbles. Tap, tap. On his knees now, he only gives Starlight a little glance, surprised that he actually stayed, and tries a smile but there's something just faintly disheartened in it, like smiling at someone you don't think you can trust anymore. He scoots up close to Glass and reaches for his tie, handing the boy his own needle before carefully looping the the thin length of rubber around the boy's arm with shy affection.

Jean-Batiste slowly climbs the stairs, chin tipped up so he can peer into the upstairs as soon as possible - Trace's hesitation set off warning alarms in him, perhaps. He pauses on the third-to-last step, and peers in towards the room. The pause turns to a full-out halt. Blink. Blink.

Starlight shakes his head and moves to Glass, kneeling down. To the distracted Trace, "Hi." Peace? Takes a drag off his ciggie and exhales away from the surge. "I don't got anything, cause I ain't been doin'," he says, not at all quiet like he usually is. He frowns a little at Trace's expression, apparently catching something there, but then his attention is re-captured by the act. Familiar?

Glass watches Trace with soft intensity. "Hm," he says in response to Starlight, but he doesn't look at the boy. "You can use mine, if you're willi ng to." He moves his arm a little to allow Trace to tie him off more easily. His glance flickers to Batiste and he offers a faint and apologetic smile. The expression is gone in an instant and his attention is once again locked on Trace.

"Well, okay, good, coz I'm sorry but I don't share spikes with practically anybody." And then Trace glances up and somewhat nervously at Batiste, but gives him a smile, because of course he's the one exception. "Hey..." He greets softly, and ducks his head, because circumstances have again forced him into the role of bad influence. He gives the tourniquet a sharp yank and tuck to keep it in place and then gently rubs at Glass' ditch.

Glass adds, "Use mine -after- me." He stretches his arm out under Trace's touch, straightening it to stretch the soft skin of his inner elbow taut and better reveal the blue highways of his viens. "And keep it."

Jean-Batiste's already-dark eyes darken even more, hooding over into a blank, unreadable dullness. He looks at Glass until Glass looks away, then glances to Trace, who looks away as well. He licks his bottom lip and opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. "'scuse me," he murmurs, and turns, carefully climbing back down the staircase.

Starlight looks from Trace to Glass, and then up to Bat. Pensive. The child actually seems sober, for the most part. And he stands up. "I'll, uh, go'n get'uh rig'n come back, or something," he mutters. Back to quiet. Eyes move to Trace again and he just seems weirded out or whatever. "I mean, wouldn't wanna take yer shit, man."

Glass turns his glance back to Starlight and shakes his head, "I can get another." He looks up towards the stairwell and watches Batiste, a flicker of pain and guilt crossing his features. He doesn't say anything.

Trace's head snaps back up at Batiste's retreat and he calls, "Bat, wait!" He gives Glass a very apologetic glance, one that says 'you know I hate putting this off as much as you'. "I'll be *right* back. Hang on." He scrambles quickly to his feet and dashes for the steps, descending four steps and calling again, "Wait a sec!"

Glass sighs. He looks at the loaded syringe, and at his arm.

Jean-Batiste's steps slow. He takes a step, then another, then stops completely and sighs, shoulders bowing under some invisible burden. He turns slightly, looking up the stairs towards his blue-haired friend, and blinks slowly. "I can't watch this," he says simply. He shakes his head, looking somehow much older than his years. "I'll...be downstairs, or outside, or something."

Trace bites his lip and glances back up towards the top of the stairs before training his gaze on Batiste and murmuring, "Y'mad at me? It was, it was one of those times when he jest woulda anyway... I-I didn't want 'im to be lonely."

Jean-Batiste's mouth twitches at the corner, and he swallows hard, turning to continue climbing down. "I know he would have done it anyways." He waves a little, towards the top of the stairs. "No, I'm not mad. I just can't be up here right now. Just...stay with him. I'll come back later."

Starlight glances down at Glass and shakes his head. "Nah, man, really, it's cool. I can get another, or catch you guys later." He's scared. Contrast to his attitude. "Just enjoy yer ride, man." And a smile. Really. He smiled. "But thanks, I mean, it's cool of you." Soon Glass will be in The Perfect Place, but apparently Star has had second thoughts. Wicked nasty stuff. As Trace moves to the door, Star heads that way too.

Glass lifts his head to watch Starlight go. He sighs heavily and looks back down at his arm. His arm. Center of his world for so many years.

Trace gives Star a little nod of silent farewell, quite used to the boy running off by now. He figures he's seen more of the kid's back, than anything. But soon he's turned back to Batiste, intently, and surges forward to wrap the boy in a quick hug. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry," he insists, still holding to the feeling that he's disappointed his blonde friend somehow. "Wish you'd stay. I'd give you half my share. If it was my last hit in the world, I still would." He sighs pensively, but he's already backing up steps. Needs to get back in there, and quickly.

Starlight stands in the way of the door before Trace re-enters.
Starlight is, for clarification, looking out toward the stairs/Trace.

Jean-Batiste sighs quietly and gives Trace a quick hug back, drawing away after only a few seconds to continue down the stairs. Very carefully, very deliberately, he says, "I know you would. But I don't want to fix right now. Go help Glass feel better." He swallows again, coughs, and trots down the final few steps, heading for the kitchen.

Jean-Batiste heads down the steep stairs.

Trace watches Batiste disappear 'round the corner of the spiral steps, but then scrambles to take his advice and get himself back upstairs. In most any other situation, it'd be pretty much a given that he'd follow and try to make things right, but... yeah. There's some very fine white waiting upstairs, after all, and who is he to disobey an order from Batiste...? He hurries back up the steps but skids to a stop when he sees Star standing in the way. "Uh, hi," he mumbles with urgency threading through his voice.

Starlight doesn't seem to want to keep Trace from Glass, so makes this quick. Stormy eyes settle on the older boy and his voice so quiet as he speaks, "Never said thanks, before. So thanks." Sincerity. And he steps aside, moving around Trace to go down the stairs. Who knows if the blue hair guy'll even remember it, considering where he's about to go. He whispers to himself, 'yer never around when I really need you.'

Glass just stays where he is, silently contemplating his own veins.

Trace bobs his head once. "It-it's okay," he acknowledges softly. Yes, he remembers well, despite his impatience. "Hope if I'm in that spot, someone'll be there to do me the same favor." A wry chuckle. "Junk karma." To not being around, he just shrugs a little. Can't be everywhere... Then he's hurrying past and scrambling to take his place beside Glass. "M'sorry about that," he apologizes with great sincerity.

Glass smiles at Trace and murmurs, "It's okay. You had to do it." He frowns faintly, "He all right? He just. Didn't wanna see me, right?"

Starlight pauses as the boy speaks to him and says, "I would." And he continues down the steps. Talk about willpower. And very quiet, "Please be careful."

Starlight heads down the steep stairs.

Trace bites his lip. "No, no... He's not mad at you." He takes back the needle from Glass when he thinks he sees a promising spot to hit, and sets it against the older boy's skin. "He... he doesn't wanna fix. And I think he's blaming himself. But he always does that, for everything. We'll worry about it... later," he murmurs. Indeed, the needle slides in and he flickers up to check your expression, then back to the barrel as he gently pulls back the plunger a little and hope for blood. At such a moment, on the cliff's edge of falling into bliss, is it possible to be trifled with anything else..?

Glass murmurs, "He shouldn't. It's not his fault. I'll talk t-." He breaks off when he feels the needle slip under the skin and looks down to watch the little red flower of blood bloom within the barrel of the syringe. Looks like the poppy that's the source of the drug. Pretty. His eyelids fall and he draws breath as you slide the plunger forward. A long sigh of pleasure. His face goes slack and tranquil.

Trace smiles sweetly, lighting up to see the peace fall over your expression as he draws out the needle. "There... Nice?" He runs a hand up your arm, tugs away the tie gently, then continues reaching up to gently touch your cheek.

Glass draws a breath, very slowly, a smile dawning over his face as slowly as a sunrise. "Mmmm, yessss. Ssoo niiice." He stays like that for a few moments, his head leaning loosely back against the bed, your spike held loosely in his hand.

Trace smiles a moment longer, vicariously enjoying your serenity and pleasure because it just looks to him like so many weights just lifted off of you, and he helped. Plus... That will be him in a moment too. The anticipation rush is always a very nice high of it's own. He delicately plucks his spike from your loose fingers and pulls up his own share from the spoon, bent just right of course, so it can rest flatly on the floor like that without spilling it's contents. He loads his spike and places it back in your fingertips, giving you another glance and a grin, before picking up his tie.

Glass opens his eyes when you take the syringe from his fingers. His dark eyes are warm and distant and velvety soft. "Hey..." he manages, and then you've set the thing back in his hands. Oh. He leans forward to push fold the right sleeve of your t-shirt up with languid precise movements, then takes the tie from your hand. Once the tie is secured and pulled tight over your thin upper arm he runs his hand down over the marked up skin, feeling for a likely spot. His gaze follows his hand, a slow soft touch that is almost as tangible.

Trace's chest rises and falls more quickly and deeply as his sweet excitement builds. He murmurs breathlessly as you hunt his ditch, "See what I mean...?" Such elusive little veins under so many scars and totalled tracks. But he doesn't look nervous, trusting your expertise with optimism. His hazel eyes are lit, so bright and intense, hungrily watching the needle.

Glass places the syringe between his teeth so he can stretch out your arm with one hand. He finds a likely patch of skin and with two fingers on his free hand delivers to it a series of short sharp slap. Stings a little. A moment later he slips the needle in between two old tracks with an ease that is almost grace. Pulls back. Flower of blood, yes. He releases your wrist, trusting you to be still so he can pull the tie loose. Once the pressure is off the clear liquid flows into your veins eagerly, he barely has to press the plunger.

Glass pulls the needle clear and rubs the spot a very little as he leans back again.

It takes a moment to hit him. Trace draws in a breath and holds it, looking at you, grateful, eager, lustful for the oncoming rush. And after those few suspended seconds it does, and his eyelids flutter as the ecstasy washes over him slow and warm, knocking him back, so that he leans partly against the wooden frame of the waterbed, part against your shoulder, and breathes, 'O god.."

Glass laughs a little and lets his head loll against the waterbed, "Ss good shit, huh? Man, I'm gonna run out of this shit and be back to the brown." This terrible news doesn't seem to bother him all that much. With one arm he pats your back.

Trace settles against your shoulder. Mm, comfortable. "Yeah... yeah, m'useta brown," he slurs softly, closing his eyes. "Gotta cook it, pull it up outta cotten t'get the shit out... This is nice. This is sooo nice."

Glass pets your back and shoulder in a slow absent movement. "Mm," he says, "You gonna nod?"

"I dunno..." Trace nuzzles his cheek to your shoulder lazily and considers his options. "I think I'm gonna... sit. And just... love this," he finally decides. "If I nod, or don't... whatever." His lids stay at halfmast, with glassy slit eyes that seem all hazel and no black.

Glass nods very slightly and says, "I should, maybe. Talk to Batiste." He pauses for an eternity, then, "Or maybe not." He rests his chin atop your head, not the pointy end but the curve of the underside. "It's, mm. Better for you," he changes the subject, "White. It's clean, hm?"

Glass says nothing more, though. His hand slides down off your back, limp. He breaths slowly and shallowly, leaning on you leaning on him, warm and lax.

"Yeah... yeah, it is," Trace agrees softly. He'd nod to back up that agreement, but is head is pinned down currently, so he just grins. 'It's great..." He chews on his lip and lets his gaze drift up towards the ceiling. "God... I dunno how I can give this up. I just..." Is he talking to you, or actually God? Maybe just himself. "I just... shit. Nothing touches this kinda... pleasure, y'know? Nothing comes close.." Apparantly he was talking to you, because he looks over as best he can and smiles faintly when he gets no response except the peaceful breathing of a nodded Glass. "Night, Doug..." he murmurs fondly.

Glass lifts his head, freeing you, and slumps back again. His eyes open to half mast and he looks at you through warm haze. He doesn't speak, just smiles a soft contented smile and lets his head fall forward again, eyelids dropping closed.

Epilogue:
Batiste can be found passed out on Walker's couch, dead drunk. There's an empty glass tumbler beside the couch, and sitting on the cupboard in the kitchen are a bottle of vodka, peach schnapps, and the jug of orange juice.

Fifteen minutes or so later, Trace manages to get downstairs without killing himself or even aquiring head wounds! He's found curled up next to the oblivious Batiste, who for once, it seems, slept quite deeply. Despite the distress you'd expect from Trace, finding such a scene, he looks pretty serene curled next to the older artist.