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Title: Keep Faith

Setting: Outside 269 Bourbon

Log Cast:
Trace
Jean-Batiste
Benjamin

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Trace has taken up watch outside 269, but it's a less viligent watch than it was when he started a few hours ago. Now his attention has wandered, and he's got his chalks out, making little idle doodles around his place on the sidewalk near the grass. Little ghost-wisps, with hints of faces and extended graceful limbs, though it's all left blurry and indistinctly ethereal as if viewed at great speeds or through some fog that may seperate wakefulness from dreams. He's still paying vague attention to any movement near the door of Ben and Walker's home through the corner of his eye, and glancing up now and then. Otherwise his gaze is aimed down at the concrete, scritchscritching with little chalk stubs. These ghosts are done in whites and greys, with the occasional highlight of blue.

The front door of #269 opens and closes with a soft thump-click, revealing one rumple-haired and rumple-clothed streetrat. Well, semi-domesticated streetrat -- he's mostly clean, and he's in un-streetworthy clothes. He pads to the porch-steps, bare feet slapping quietly at the painted wood, then settles down against one of the supports and dangles his legs down the stairs as he lights up a clove. After the first couple drags are contemplated, he looks past the smoke to his surroundings. His head cants as he spots a familiar form engaged in a familiar pastime; he watches for a few seconds before he calls quietly, "Trace?" Couldn't be anyone else, hopefully.

Gosh, caught him in one of those moments when the blue-haired artist had been working on a particular detail. To think, after all that waiting, you might have eluded him after all. But luckily you call out, and he looks up, startled, but blooming a smile at the sight of you. "Hello, Bat." The chalk is tossed into the little pile beside him, and he dusts his hands off on his jeans absently. "Was waitin' f'ya. Din' wanna knock on the door though. Din' know if ya'd be in there, anyway." He's quiet after that, studying you. "Y'been awright?"

Jean-Batiste glances back to the door for a moment, then nods a little and looks back to you. His expression is...murky. Pensive -- of course -- and weary. Resigned, maybe. "Yeah, I was. We had a, um. A wake, I guess. For Mule. His funeral was last night, and Glass is taking it pretty hard." He looks to the door again, mouth pursed, then shrugs his thoughts off and climbs back to his feet. Bare feet carry him across the lawn to you and your patch of concrete, where he settles cross-legged, facing you. "I'm..." Pause, for deep breath, and another drag off his clove. "I been alright, I guess." He'll have Walker's 'I'm fine' down-pat in no time, at this rate. "You? How about you?"

"M'good." That silly question is brushed off. Trace is never quite good, but he's looking better than you, today anyway. Poor rumpled thing. The bluecap reaches out to pet down some of your hair affectionately. "M'sorry bout the other night." You know what he means, right? Sure ya do. "Keepin that from ya like I did... Dunno, it weren't my business. Just like you an' Doug ain't my business, and I kept that from Jason too, so." He sighs and draws his hand away, pulling it back to his lap, plucking at a hole in his jeans absently. "Sorry t'hear about Mule. I din' know him, really. Jest knew he had lotta power in this city. Maybe that's why he intimidated me a lil... But my condolences t'Douglas."

Your apology is met with a tiny, listlessly shrug. "Yeah, well," he murmurs, uncrossing one leg and studying its kneecap once it's stretched out. "Shit happens." He doesn't look up, dark, dulled eyes with their funereal non-expression staying firmly groundbound. His words come slowly, interspersed with deep drags on his clove and carefully-even breaths. "I...guess it's...good. For you guys. That...you found someone so...soon. To, um. To take my place." He scratches his knee, then glances away from you, studying the stripe of sidewalk that vanishes down Bourbon Street. "Mule knew just about everything and everyone," he murmurs, after a while. "Guess it finally caught up to him. I think Glass really loved him, the father he didn't have, or something. I don't know. He'll be okay."

Okay, something you just said upset Trace. His eyes narrow, but he just looks down at the concrete, and doesn't say anything at first. Listens to you talk about Mule, but his thoughts aren't on that man at all anymore. He glances back up and mumbles finally, "Fuck you if you think TooFar's some replacement f'you. You totally not know me now or somethin? God. I barely fuckin' know TooFar compared t'you. Maybe Jason's findin' comfort in him, but that'd don't got shit t'do with me, and I fuckin' warned you about draggin' my thoughts, my opinions, an' my heart into yer n'his shit. TooFar don't mean dick to me, alright? Vaguely a friend, but he wouldn't stick up fer me fer nothin', don' take no loyalties, don' take *nuthin* serious... He ain't nothin' compared t'you in my heart. So fuckin' take that back. Now." He seems quite serious, that'd you'd dare trivialize his feelings for you.

"So... you want me to live with you instead?" Trace murmurs with confusion. "I couldn't be 'round you that long. You ain't clean. I'd go nuts. And sides that... Jason doan' got the support system y'got right now. He doan' got Walker, an' Ben, an' Douglas, an' Nelson, an' Julien, an' Ali t'hold him an' tell him things is alright. He's got me. He can't even get that from TooFar, Batiste.. I tole ya. He jest ain't serious. Him and *Jason* ain't serious, it's a passing fling, ain't nothin' like what you had with him. They doan' love each other. They's fuckin' around." Okay, we're getting off track here. He sighs and centers himself, staring down at where his hands have wrapped gently around one of his sneakers. "Dunno. Not sure what you want from me. Well, you want me t'alienate Jason, I guess. Yeah, I left with him, coz Walker an' Ben jest wanna ferget about me. They get all upset if I even come around. I ain't welcome, okay? So where'm I poseta go? Live with you an' Marco, round alla shit that goes on round there? Yeah, THAT'd be good f'me. Or live with Doug? So he kin glare at me alla time? He doan' make me feel too welcome neither. I'm not sure what you want me t'do here, Bat. Should I have followed you yesterday at the Crossroads? I woulda, if you'd asked me to. I kinda thought you was mad at me too, though. S'why I came t'poligize t'day."

Jean-Batiste shakes his head a little, and looks up at you. "I know you can't live with me right now. I'd...I'd stay at the apartment all the time, if it meant you'd come by more, though." He'd live solely in the kitchen, likely, to avoid looking at Jason's drawings, but he'd do it. "But...I understand that. I know it's a shitty situation. I mean, I know in my head. But...I just want to steal you away sometimes, you know? So...so Jason would see that you're willing to turn your back on -him-, for -me-, sometimes." He makes a face, and rubs his heel against the concrete. Streetrat pumice-stones, or something. "And that puts you right in the middle, like some kind of possession of ours, and it's shitty as fuck for you. And I still want to do it, sometimes. Lots of times." Does admitting he's jealous and petty count for anything? "I, um. I had a couple ideas, though. Of how we could maybe make things a bit better, between you and Glass and I. And maybe Ben and Walker, too." He glances up at you, to see if he should share them or not.

From #269's front stoop, the front and security doors are opened, admitting a Ben armed with iced tea and a large, hardbound book into the fresh evening air.

Jean-Batiste sits on the edge of #269's lawn, legs stretched out in front of him, facing Trace. He's rubbing his neck in a fretful-tense way, looking at the bluecap with a sort of sad, hopeful expression.

From #269's front stoop, Benjamin steps a little further out onto the porch, lifting his head to blink out at the two young men on his lawn, attention first drawn to the smaller, blue-haired one. He shrinks back against the door frame a little, clutching his book to his chest. Saying nothing, making hardly any move lest he bring attention to himself.

Valentine shuffles down the street, oblivious to the approaching storm, even as the wind picking up blows her hair and dress this way and that. She's on autopilot again. Maybe she went out for a walk and took a wrong turn somewhere? Anyhow, she's just walking along absently, without a care in the world 'cause her mind ain't even /in/ this world. It's somewhere lightyears and galaxies away, if the vacant expression on her face is any judge whatsoever.

The sound of #269's door opening and closing draws Batiste's attention for a moment, and he glances to the porch, and the book- and iced-tea-toting Ben. He smiles a little, and raises his hand in a silent wave. Whoops. Sorry, Ben, if attention's been called on you now. Can a smile be translated as 'It's okay, it's alright'? Batiste's does, if this is possible. He looks back to Trace, nibbling his bottom lip for a few seconds. "Glass misses you. He does. I...know he's angry at you, sometimes, because he's protective of me and all, but..." Deep breath. "I want the three of us to do something, sometime. Go out to the lake and go canoeing, or sit around and make s'mores. Just...anything, and just the three of us. I think if we do that, he'll see that you still want to be with us, you know? That you haven't forgotten us." He looks hopefully to Trace. Is that fair? Or fair-er, at least?

Trace blinks, glancing back to the door of 269. Indeed, the whole of his attention had been on Batiste, to the point where he'd been oblivious to much else, but now he glances at Ben and smiles hesitently, flinchingly, like he expects to be told to leave. Sidewalk's technically private property, but still, that worry is there. A tentative hand is lifted to wave. He looks back to Batiste and says softly, "Oh, Bat... I ain't fergotten anybody. I'm... I'm the only one who doan' WANNA ferget. Everybody I talked to, Walker, Jason, they're ALL like scairt t'dwell inna past, but it's all I kin do these days. Y'know how many times I walked by the house on Moss street? Every fuckin day.." He sighs softly. "I can't ferget. I can't stop wonderin' if y'all are havin' fun, or what's goin' on with everybody, even if I'm not 'llowed t'be a parta y'all no more."

From #269's front stoop, Benjamin closes his eyes briefly, and sets his hand on the doorknob again. He should be righteously angry, shouldn't he? Ready to tell whoever whose fault everything was, and who allowed what, right? But instead, he's just tired, and maybe a little bit guilty. All right, a lot guilty. Blame still weighs heavily on him, tugging down the corners of his mouth, creating little lines where his face used to be smooth. Quietly he puses the door back open, turning to step back into the house. But for a few moments, the security door and its iron bars are all that separates him from the outdoors.

Jean-Batiste nibbles his bottom lip, stripping more dead skin from it, and watches Ben move back towards the door, and the safety waiting on the other side. What should he do? What's he supposed to say? He takes a deep breath, then calls to wards the ex-professor, "Hey, Ben. I'll be in, in a little while." But right now he's With Trace, see? A package deal of sorts, in which to have one, you have to include the other. And it'd be wrong for him to hop up and abandon the bluecap. He'll have to hope staying put doesn't upset Ben too much -- and if it does, amends can be made later.

Yeah, sucks to be torn like that, don't it Bat? Cept yer lucky... I'm willing to bet Trace and Ben are much more mature and less petty about these things than Jason or *especially* you could ever be, even on their most insecure day. Trace hitches a breath as the door snicks shut again and glances away, blinking. Looks like he's gonna cry, really. "See..?" he finally whispers, letting his accent get away from him a little. "Couln' even wave r'nuthin. M'uh strangah t'them now. Doan' nobody know how tah sep'rate good mem'ries from th'bad 'uns..? It tears me up, Batiste. Lotta... good times what's gettin no heed, jest gettin tossed t'the winds coz they think that'll bring'um comfort..." A shuddery sigh and he tried to pull himself together, closing his eyes a moment and then glancing up reluctantly. "But yeah. Yeah, I'll go see ya guys sometime, you'n Doug."

Jean-Batiste would take your bet on -you- being more mature about such uncomfortable moments. As far as Ben...well. He's learning Walker's knack of 'I'm upset, but I'm going to pretend I'm not upset until you knock me down and throttle it out of me' pretty handily. He sighs a little, face pursed with frustration. Dangit. How's he supposed to make you believe they might be willing to try and make amends when they go and do stuff like that? Sigh. He moves over, closer to you, and reaches out to tentatively pet rope-braids. "It's hard, sometimes, that's all," he murmurs. "You think of the good memories, and it hurts because they're gone. And...and I think maybe Ben's torn. I think he misses you a lot, and he doesn't know what to do, 'cause Walker's still upset about things." Equal opportunity torn-feelings, see? He pets your hair again, then murmurs, "Love ya. We'll put things right as we can, you'll see. It's just gonna take time. And we can start with Glass, 'cause I think that might be the best place to start."

"O..okay," Trace agrees softly, his voice vulnerable as he nods. Hazel eyes are averted down to the wispy ghost-shapes now. "But it'll be hard there, coz I dunno if he'll ever forgive my friendship with Jason. I mean... You don't like that I'm his friend. And Jason doan' like when I go off to hang with you. But y'all are way more allowing than I think Doug'll ever be. He's jest... He's unreasonable about it, when this involves him *less* than any'a us three. But I guess they been clashin' long before this, and it's jest gotten sharper than ever." Another weary sigh. It's never going to end. Nothing's ever going to be easy or fluid when all his relationships, they've all become like golden oasis', yet stretched between lie these rocky cragmires, and you've got to be so careful picking your way across. Awfully easy to get hurt, leaving one to reach the other, no matter WHICH direction he goes.

"No," Batiste disagrees softly. "It's not that I don't like you're friends with Jason. What I don't like, and what hurts, is when it feels like you're friends with Jason at the expense of everything and everyone else." A balancing of the scales is what Batiste seeks, apparently. Lord knows what exactly he's weighing on each side, though. "That he's more important than anything else, that you'll turn your back on anyone for his sake. And that's what's hurt Glass, too. That's the way he feels about what's happened." He keeps petting your hair for a while, then lets his hand fall, resting against your leg. He rubs at a fresh chalk-smudge there, speaking to it as he continues. "That's why I think it'll help things, if you and I do something with him together. 'Cause he'll see that's not the case. And if he still treats you bad, then I'll yell at him myself. I know you're trying to make amends, that you're really -trying-. And if they're not willing to try, too, then I'll give 'em hell for it."

Trace looks up, his eyes very serious, grave almost. He says with a very quiet deliberation, "Nothin I done has been so Jason'd stay my friend. Or even jest t'please him. If it seems like I caused hurt to Doug, t'Walker, r'ta Ben, it's coz *I* was hurt. It's coz *I* was lashing out. If I left you it's coz I din' believe in what you was tellin' me, or I needed to get away from a painful conversation. Cling t'him at the expense'a others? God. Only way I kin' see that applyin' is with Doug here. Dunno if he'll be my friend so long as I'm also friends with Jason. An' it's kinda fucked up. By every right my friendship with him shouldn' have nothin to do with Jason! They're two seperate things, or at least they always were..." He looks down and grumbles to himself, "All my friendships is seperate things, lately. None connectin' no more.." He shakes his head gently, braids swaying. "I done what I done fer my own reasons. I live where I live coz there's not many places I'm welcome no more, if ya think 'bout it... All I got t'go on f'shelter is my fort and Caddy's kindness."

Jean-Batiste looks down at his knee, scratching it a little. "No, your friendship with him shouldn't have anything to do with Jason. But I think, in his eyes, he saw you turn your back on him along with everyone else, and to him, you did it for Jason. So." Deep breath. He's going to stay determined and focussed, here, and not get bogged down in the mess of assumptions and misunderstandings. "Since it's not true, and you didn't mean it to seem that way, we can fix it. All we need to do is show him you still want to be friends, still want to hang out with him. And if he starts getting along better with you again, then maybe you and him can do something together sometime, just the two of you. That'd mean a lot to him, I think." He touches your face for a moment, then runs his hand down to your shoulder, squeezing it. "We'll fix it up. You'll see. Just...gotta keep faith, I guess." Says he of no faith. He smiles at you a little, brave and encouraging, then reaches for a piece of chalk, and gives a nod to the sidewalk. "C'mon," he murmurs. "Draw with me. It's been forever since we have."

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