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Log Title: First Night Kicking

Log setting: Lafitte's Apartment #1

Log Cast:
Jason
Jean-Batiste
Trace

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Yeah, it wasn't the pleasant walk through the Vieux Carre that it usually is. In fact, it seemed tediously long, like a journey between two distant places. Comfortable Chez Walker with its Christmas tree and presents and the hidden stash of needles and junk is left behind and the door in the hallway swings open to this empty, barren apartment, already tainted with the promise of a Hell beyond comprehension. Jason unlocks the door and swings it open, then silently ushers the both of you in. It may not be readily apparent, but Jason's been busy the past few days - the reason for his complete lack of money, despite his stepped up work on Bourbon. The bedroom's windows have been taped up with black trashbags, letting none of the outside light in. A single lamp sits in the corner there, but the pile of blankets has grown into two. Several of Walker's linens are amongst the masses. As well, there's a couple of buckets tucked discreetly in another corner. The kitchen area has two of those styrofoam coolers and sandwich stuff lays on the counter beside them. A single chair has been swiped from one of the alleyways behind a bar and is draped with a blanket, beside which a small radio and the PSX that Trace got Jason sit. Things have been set up for the long haul... Time to enter the crucible.

Jean-Batiste caught up to the two of you about two-thirds of the way to the apartments. Barely winded. Bastard. All that jogging and situps have been good for something, it seems. He's restless and seeming a bit distanced from the both of you, his smiles nervous-twitchy. He pauses at the doorway, glancing to Jason - he almost cracks a 'Into the abyss...' joke. Almost. Hits too close to home, though. He pulls off his cap, rubs his hand through butter-blond hair, and steps inside, eyeing up the blackened windows. Definately doesn't do much for the ambience.

No, it certainly wasn't a pleasant trip for the bluecap. There's a strain on his face, a telltale sheen on his skin, but he's trying so hard to be a good soldier. He makes the walk silently, and doesn't complain about his steadily less comfortable condition. Upon finally reaching the apartment, he's cramped and cranky, and the first thing on his mind is those sheets. Just wants to lay down. So he heads into the room somewhat blindly and aims for them, but stops upon seeing two piles instead of one. What's this...? His eyes lift, finally taking in the window, and then the buckets, and he turns to Batiste and then Jason with open surprise and a little confusion. "What.... did you..?"

Jason slips in behind the both of you and shuts the door quietly as the both of you look about the apartment. The strain is there on his face as well - his stomach's in knots right now as the butterflies hold a full-fledged rebellion down there. But he gives you both a brave little smile, one hand digging into a jacket pocket. "Merry Christmas," he quips softly, trying on a brave smile. A deep breath. Have to do this while you're both here, watching... He slips his foot back and toes at something that wasn't on the door yesterday - a latch, screwed, however inexpertly, firmly to the door. He wets lips that have suddenly gone dry, green eyes going between the both of you. And then, he pulls out the padlock that was in his pocket and kneels, flipping the latch shut over the loop screwed to the doorjamb and securing it with the lock. The quiet click seems to almost echo in the darkened apartment. Another deep breath, and the redhead is up again, lower lip caught in his front teeth. "Gotta live through winter to see the spring," he whispers. Though it sounds as if he was trying to reassure himself the most here.

What...did Batiste -what-? He shares that look of wary-blank confusion with Trace, then turns it on Jason. He almost says something to the redhead. Almost. He reconsiders at the last minute, and picks dead skin off his bottom lip, instead. A couple more steps are taken into the apartment - was it always this small? - and he turns to look back at the door. The now-padlocked door. Yep. The apartment's -definately- smaller. He chuckles weakly at Jason's comment, stuffing his hands into his pockets, and wades into the living room, pacing the room out, eyes skittering everywhere, restless.

A padlock. Holy shit. Trace stares at it, then shoots Batiste a glance full of confusion and panic. Doesn't that intimidate you just a little bit, blood brother..? A padlock, a jail cell. Then a fleeting glance to the Keeper before pacing on into the main room and depositing himself in a heap on the blankets. A good deal of his discomfort is psychological at this point. Truthfully, he's been worse off before with less protest. The day he met Jason, for instance. It'd been nearly two days then. But maybe he's just been spoiled since then, too. It's been much easier to use this past year... That mural money sure was helpful, and Batiste's generousity, and never having to pay for food anymore... All of it's been so enabling. He kicks the blankets around and shoves at them, arranging them with frustration as though they're the reason he's so uncomfortable right now.

Jason looks between the both of you... and then to the one window that remains uncovered. All it shows is a brick wall, but... He takes a deep breath. Okay, he's not the one that's gonna be doing the serious jonesing here. He's just gonna be the one locked in the tiny apartment with the two who ARE. Oh man... Okay, well, shit. Gotta play nurse anyway, might as well start now. Fingers rustle at some plastic bags inside his jacket as he looks from the pacing Bat to the blanket-pushing Trace. "I, uh, might have a couple valium... 'N..." Water. Gonna need plenty of water here. He slips past Batiste to the sink and pulls out a plastic pitcher and a couple of tumblers swiped from Walker's place, filling them all up. "Or couple a' joints..." Dancer, Prancer, and some friends they didn't know they had yet. He ferries one of the tumblers into the bedroom and kneels down next to Trace, giving the bluecap a questioning look. Y'gotta help here while yer still coherant.

Jean-Batiste was actually doing quite good at staying -just- this side of panic, thankyouverymuch. But Jason's actions and words are tweaking him gently towards that line. He follows after Jason, hands fidgeting madly in his pockets, head ducked a little to watch the two of you through his hair. He takes a deep breath, glances around the apartment again. It -wasn't- this small before. A glance at the padlock, then at Jason. Where's he keeping the key? Talk about the least lascivious undressing-with-eyes Batiste is ever likely to do. He watches. And waits. And waits. And then, out of no where, he clarifies this one little tiny detail that's niggling at him. "I'm not kicking. We're doing this together, for Trace, right?" Please say yes. Yes is the answer we're oh-so-hoping for.

"'Couple' Valium ain't gonna get me through tonight," Trace mumbles testily. A sort of odd glance up when Jason extends the glass to him, clearly wondering how this is going to do him any good. But looking up at the fireheart's face, his eyes soften and he blows out a sigh. Because this isn't Jason's fault at all, and he *is* still coherant and can realize this. "Thanks. For all this," he says softly. "Didn't know you'd gone to all this trouble..." He takes the glass, plucking it gently from the redhead's fingers. But Batiste's words make him glance back startledly. Blinkblink. He came right out and said it..? Huh. Trace smirks a little. Now he'll surely be kicking too, though he might've had a chance if he'd kept his mouth shut. He just shakes his head a little, giving Bat a look. He had, after all, warned him.

Jason passes off the glass with a tiny smile to the bluecap. Oh, he'll be going through a lot more trouble soon enough. All of you will... Like Bat will. Right now. Jason just stares over his shoulder at the blond boy for a long moment. No, he couldn't have heard that right, right? He slowly stands up again, green eyes lancing Batiste in place. Now, replay that in the head: 'I'm not kicking...' "The /hell/ yer not!" Jason suddenly snaps, eyes narrowing. "Y'know what we said!" And then the thought suddenly strikes him. "Wait... are you packin?" A step towards Batiste, fire in the green eyes. "Jesus fuckin' christ, Bat, how's he supposed ta kick with you shootin' up?" Another step. "What the fuck were ya thinkin?" Dammit, this isn't supposed to be happening already... Jason forces himself to take a deep breath, advancing on Batiste more. Very, /very/ calmly, he holds out his hand and says softly, "Give it ta me. Alla it. Now. Jus' don' even think a' not doin' it, Bat." He swallows then, eyes softening. He's scared, scared shitless. "Please."

"Batiste... Batiste doesn't shoot," Trace points out in defense of the blonde boy. But must meekly add, "That much. Jest with me, when I ask him to." A look to the blonde boy. *Is* he carrying? And his first wicked thought, please god, let him be carrying. Let him find some way out of this interrogation with a some intact and safely hidden, even just a dab, *anything*. Because Trace knows exactly how hard it is for Bat to deny him anything, and he's certain he could get the boy to share. But -- that was just the first wicked thought. And he scrambles to push it away quickly. No. We're quitting. We're going to be free. "Even so, he oughtn't bring shit in here," he finally murmurs, not quiet convincingly.

Jean-Batiste takes a step back from those blazing green eyes - backpedals, really - and stumbles once over his own boots before lurching to a halt. His shoulders straighten defensively, stubbornly, even as his head ducks a little. Jason's never like this with him. With Star - and maybe others? - sure, but he's always so much quieter with Batiste. "I'm not!" he repeats, a defensive blurt. Okay, maybe he's panicking just a -little-. He tries logic, desperately earnest: "You can do this by yourself. Not...not both of us. You can't." He is very, -very- sure of this. "Do you...you don't know how bad we'll be. And there'll only be you to bear it." See? He really -is- not kicking for Jason's sake. Doesn't that make the fireheart feel good? He stares at the outstretched hand for several seconds, then fidgets his hands in his pockets again, repeating, "Jason, you can't do it by yourself..." It's logic, honest it is. And if he's packing - -if- he's packing - he won't be sharing it. Any of it. Cause if, -if- he brought any, he only brought a little. Virtually none at all. No sharing, even with the bluecap. And there's -his- first wicked thought of the night.

Jason asked nicely. Really. He pleaded. As much as got down on his knees. But... contrary to what's being said, he knows exactly what he's gotten himself into. And he /has/ to be strong. That means no backing down. The hand isn't pulled back, the eyes are hard as ice again. He resumes his advance on Batiste, intending fully to back him into a corner if need be. "Don' tell me I don' know how fuckin' /bad/ it'll be, Bat. Don' tell me what I can 'n /can't/ handle." He's trying hard not to be hostile, not to sneer, but it's a struggle. He's feeling very betrayed here. He knew this behavior would show up later on, when the last vestiges of junk were evaporated and there was nothing to fill that gigantic gaping, needy hole in the both of you. But now? "Jus' give it ta me, Bat, 'fore I kick you out." Yes. Kick you out. "We all gotta be strong, 'else we ain' ever gonna be free...." He's going to try reasonable /one/ more time. "When he's clean, 'n yer not... How easy it gonna be fer him ta slip 'gain? Give it ta me, Bat." Because I /know/ you have it.

Trace sips at his drink calmly in comparison to the both of you, watching. This is a spectator sport, really. He doesn't want to be in the middle of it. He'll just add his little worthless comments from the sidelines. "He really don't shoot on his own, though, Jason. Honest. Jest' snorts, y'know? So anyway, y'won't find no needles on him." Like that matters in the slightest. Trace is just running his mouth, as he watches you both. His gaze leaves the two boys only once, as he takes the corner of one blanket and rubs it against his face and neck, getting the sweat off. Then his hazel gaze is right back on the both of you intently. He's not sticking up for Batiste any longer. Kind of interesting, really. Why's he flipping out so bad? This is awfully bizarre. What's the big deal? Just get rid of the shit. Or tell Jason you don't got any. Sheesh. If it were *him* in Bat's place, with a nice little bag burning a hole in his pocket, he could see the dilemma, but the confusion in his glassy eyes as he watches Batiste remains.

Jason advances, and Batiste retreats. Jason advances more, and Batiste retreats more. Finally, when Batiste finds himself with his shoulderblade against the doorway between kitchen and living room, he rallies, straightening a little. A wide-eyed blink. Kick him out? -That- gives him pause - actually, it's more like a plunging stab-and-half-twist to the heart. Kick him -out-? "I'm not kicking," he repeats. "We, I...can't. Not together. Jason, it's too much, you can't do it..." he repeats. Don't you understand? If the fireheart can't do it, then Batiste doesn't even have to try. One pocket shifts a little, as his hand fidgets with something small, turning it over and over in his fingers. He looks down at the floor, refusing to meet Jason's eyes, swallowing repeatedly. Security blankets don't have to be big. Or even actual blankets, for that matter.

Okay, /that/ was the limit. Panic can only be used as an excuse so much. Jason snarls, "/Not/ gonna kick? You think I /can't/ handle this? The extended hand suddenly shoots out and slender fingers wrap around Batiste's wrist - the hand that was stuffed in the pocket - and then yanks on it. "Give it ta me or ya see /exactly/ what kinda kickn' I can do!" The firey green eyes fix on Batiste's. "Don' you fuck this up, Bat. Been holdin' shit tagether /without/ you fer the past months 'n you gonna see what I can do 'lone. If ya don' do the kickin'..." He shakes his head, eyes frozen in place. "Don' you see? Don' you fuckin' /see/, Bat?"

"C'mon, Bat. Jes' give it to him. If he says he's strong 'nuff, he is." First wicked thought or no, this whole exchange is really starting to lift hairs on the back of Trace's neck. And he's all kinds of confused. "If he is, it's fer the best, y'know? Jest get it all over with at once." It's a somewhat hopeful suggestion, but he's growing steadily more puzzled and concerned. What gives? Batiste is seriously flipping out for a kid with such a tiny habit. And that's when it starts to occur to him. Because either Bat's gone temporarily insane and for some nutty reason *wants* to put Jason through all this grief early on, or Bat's kick is gonna be more difficult than he imagined. His brows hitch as he looks at the older boy, and he licks his lips before asking softly, "How often, Bat?" Maybe he won't be heard, with all the distraction and Jason's shouting. He sits, skinny arms huddled around his midsection protectively, and looks on with dark, troubled eyes.

Jean-Batiste's eyes flare, panic shifting to anger. Batiste's got a temper of his own, once it's triggered - he steps forward at Jason, as his hand is pulled out of his pocket, and shoves hard at the redhead, trying to push him back. Between the two actions, something small and cellophane-shimmery arcs towards the floor and lands a couple feet away with an unsatisfyingly small *phut*. Security blankets aren't known for their impressive landings. "Or what?" he shout-growls back. "You'll beat the crap out of me? Fuck you. You want it that bad, -have- it!" He tries to jerk his arm free, eyes glaring and bright - if he manages to, he storms off the (again) unsatisfyingly short dis tance to the living room. He can't even glare out the window - it's covered in black plastic. No answer to Trace, but it's one of those awful, heavy, all-but-answer non-answers. How often? Too often.

Jason doesn't even watch the thing fly, his eyes fixed on Batiste's. He's not gonna back down from the staredown. He's not going to say anything either. Those betrayed, angry eyes should say it all. He lets the larger boy go, and stares at the back of his head as he stalks off. And then, finally, he says in a low, cold voice, "If I find anymore, yer out fer good." So this better be all of it. He turns and goes to where the goods landed and scoops it up with an angry swipe, then heads to the bathroom. This wasn't supposed to start now. It wasn't. Not like this. There's the sound of the toilet's lid as it's yanked open. Oh, god... What if he /isn't/ strong enough? Silence. What if he breaks? What if /It/ breaks? More silence. And then a crinkle of celophane and a plop of something going into the toilet. Jason takes a deep shuddering breath, then flushes. He's in there a long time after the water stops running. But then, finally, he comes back out again, expression carefully neutral. "I bought a couple sketchbooks," he says softly. "Jus'... if ya wanna draw what you see..."

"Beat the crap out of you...? He--" Trace nearly says it. He's very nearly moody and thoughtless enough to say it. He wasn't gonna kick your ass, he was gonna leave you, you idiot. Instead he sighs and rakes both hands through his braids with frustration. This is a mess. They're not a full half hour into it, and it's already a disaster. How in the world are they going to survive a week and a half of this madness? "I wanna draw," the boy says softly. "Sometime. Thank you." He gives the blankets under him a final, unenthusiastic shove and flops down. Doesn't move. Gears are turning though. His gaze drifts off and lands on the far wall somewhere. With his cheek down against his arm, and when he speaks, his voice is soft and distracted. "What I see may not be pretty. Z'at okay..?" Now his eyes break out of the trance to seek Jason's.

Th-whump! The sound of peevish-seething streetrat hitting the ground, around the corner from where Trace lays. It's a nice spot - makes it hard, if not impossible, for the redhead to watch them both at the same time. Knees up, arms wrapped 'round, glare directed at the floor. Not happy at all, nope. Come along, help Jason out. Kick afterwards, so it was one at a time, so he wasn't miserable for his birthday. (God apparently has a thing against his birthdays.) And all of it just went down the toilet. Batiste'll just sit in here and be very irritable for a while, thankyouverymuch.

You'll thank what's left of me when it's over. Orrrrr... something. Jason sighs softly. WHY is this happening? Someone's missing a very essential element to this whole thing - and Jason has no idea how that came about. Not that he knows /much/ about what's up with Bat anymore. Well, things will either get better... or worse. Either way, there's a padlock on the door and no one's going anywhere. Jason takes a deep, steadying breath, and the gives Trace a weak little smile. "Have I /ever/ asked you to draw only pretty things?" he asks softly. Apparently Trace is forgetting the very first picture that he drew for Jason - the one that caught Jason's attention so firmly and made him come back. He also seems to have missed the fact that those ugly, nasty pictures Trace draws and crumples up aren't lost. Actually, Jason has a rather large stash of smoothed-out images of distress. Truth is more important than icing... The smile twitches a little stronger to the bluecap, and then Jason turns and gets the chair, dragging it to the doorway. Talking with Bat's prolly a lost cause right now, so, he's just gonna sit with the both of you, quietly. In case anything's needed or something.

Trace didn't forget. In fact, he was echoing the comment he made for that first picture, chained to the sidewalk. He returns the weak smile, and his gaze lingers on their Keeper for a few moments longer than necessary before he rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. Gonna be a looonnng night. He's fairly certain this is going to be his last night of sound sleep. Not even sound, but sleep anyway. And tomorrow will be insanity. Yup. He almost giggles, a tired, mirthless laugh. He'll be consumed with nerves and need tomorrow morning. An odd thought, really, contemplating the monster you're soon to become. Dr. Jekyll was probably lucky he got no warning. So he makes the attempt not to think about it. He makes the attempt not to think about how nice a good, strong hit would be right now, or at the very least a mouthful of Valium. Gonna be strong as long as it's in his power, such a short time... So he turns his thoughts from all these things, and clings desperately to magic forests beneath Christmas Trees, to Grace, to India, and it's about that time, drifting through dusty gold sand dunes on an incense trail toward wonder, that he finally meets sleep's embrace.

Epilogue:
Jean-Batiste stays in his stubborn huddle in the kitchen and eventually drifts off, forehead rested against his knees. Jason waits 'till the both boys are in some semblance of sleep, then he falls asleep on the chair with the blanket around him.

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