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Log Title: Krantz

Log setting: Walker’s house, downstairs.

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Glass
Jason
Trace

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Glass is asleep on the floor. Restlessly for once. He keeps rolling over and muttering in French. His hair's getting long, it's more black than blonde now and is starting to curl a bit at the collar.

Jason's in the kitchen also, sitting on the counter beside the sink, knees drawn up and arms wrapped about his legs, peering over them at Batiste's dutiful scrub. He's wearing another one of Walker's shirts, undoubtedly without the owner's knowledge, and his faded boxers, his own jeans and shirt dangling outside the window on a line. He's been quiet a long time, but, well, there's only so much scrubbing one can handle and /something's/ bound to happen soon. Or else Jason might keel over dead from boredom. from boredom.

Glass mumbles something in his sleep, sounding distressed.

Trace is curled on a chair, drawing idly in his sketch book. He glances over at Glass from time to time, considering, tipping his head to the side slightly to get new angles. Scritch, scritch, scritch... He's just drawing in plain pencil tonight, despite all the new supplies they've recently aquired. A glance up towards the kitchen... Well, he'd consider washing his clothes, but then again, he has nothing to wear in the meantime. It hadn't occured to him to ask Walker for something to wear like Jason did, but now he wishes he'd thought of it too. His clothes really do need it, though -- he hasn't had them *really* cleaned since a night long ago, with a girl named Amy, a few weeks before even meeting those who are now his family... His attention goes back to the sleeping Glass for a few more minutes, putting on final details, a little more shading here and there... Then he scribbles a tiny signature at the bottom and tears out the page, setting it down carefully beside the restlessly dozing Glass before setting the sketchbook itself down near the couch and padding towards the kitchen.

Okay... well... that's enough. Jason squirms on the counter, a prelude to him bouncing off the walls... His thoughts start speeding up as he looks about the kitchen, shifting his knees... Then something crosses his mind that he'd thought about awhile ago. He tilts his head at Batiste and murmurs, "Bat? Yer always talkin' 'bout people, 'n... Was curious..."

Splash. Splurch. Drip. Scrubscrubscrub. Batiste gives up on a patch of charcoal and oil that'll last until the denim itself crumbles to dust and squeezes the jeans in a sinkful of clean water. Once most of the suds are rinsed, he starts wringing the jeans out, struggling with the heavy, unwieldy cloth. As he twists and untwists and gives his jeans the Streetrat Death Lock, he looks towards Jason and murmurs, "Yeah? What is it?" A brief glance away towards the approaching Trace, and a welcoming smile. "You left the picture for him?" he asks.

Glass mumbles something again, the sound soft and pleasant but somehow frightened, like a worried kitten. His hands tremble and he rolls onto his side, twitching. He starts to curl up in a tight little ball, arms in front of his face, fingertips trembling like they're searching the air for some taint of danger.

Trace bobs his head with a little grin. "Yeah... yeah, I just set it there so he 'kin see it when he wakes up." He glances out towards the main room and murmurs, "Wonder what he's dreamin'...? S'nothin' good. But I didn't know if I should wake him... Well, it spilled out into th' picture, anyway." He moves further into the kitchen and considers. Shyly he wonders, "Hey, um... sometime, 'kin I use that shirt of Walker's yer wearin', Jason, and um..." He sighs and looks down. "Dunno, I still got no pants. I guess..." He picks at his shirt. "S'just, my clothes are gross. But I don't got pants to wear if I was gonna wash 'em..." He doesn't seem to have realized that he's interrupted, and just falls silent, glancing towards the fridge, considering... But decides against snacking. He pulls out a chair and settles himself into it.

Jason mumbles, "Looks like he's chasin' rabbits..." as he leans over and peers around the corner behind him down the hall to where Glass sleeps on the living room floor. But then a soft smile to Trace and a quick nodnod. "Yeah, jus' don' tell him I was wearin' it. Dunno how he is 'bout me wearin' his clothes." He tilts his head down and sniffsniffs at the shirt. "He smells good... like m'mom useta." He's silent for a moment, but then he looks back up to Batiste. "Um... Who's Martin? I mean, 'sides yer friend." It's one of those questions that pops up after nagging its owner for a long time. Kinda blunt, really.

Jason starts to tug the shirt over his knees (it practically swallows him as it is), somewhat nervously. After saying he doesn't know how Walker feels about Jason wearing his clothes, stretching it out like that is sure not to make it a favorable feeling.

"I won't tell," Trace promises. At the question, he giggles softly. "Oh, this again..." He leans forward to cross his arms against the table and rests his chin down into the fold, peeking up at the two of you, ready to hear the story again.

Jason tilts his head and blinks sidelong at Trace. "'Gain?" he asks tentatively.

Trace grins, though it's more shown in the eyes since his mouth is hidden by his arms still. He muffledly explains with a tiny shrug, "'Asked him the same thing not long ago."

Jason ohs a little, lowering his eyes, then quickly says to Batiste before he can start, "Sorry..." Seems a little nervous all of a sudden.

Glass comes awake with a start and a cry, "Krantz!" He skitters backward a few feet and slams into the coffee-table, hard enough to knock it over and send a loaded ashtray, a few scraps of paper and an empty glass tumbling onto the carpet. He sits there, wide eyed and panting.

Jean-Batiste's attention strays to the living room, and he picks some dead skin off his bottom lip as he watches Glass huddle up and shiver. He frowns down at the floor , sighing once, then suddenly shucks his/Walker's shirt off over his head and tosses it towards Trace. "Toss me your shirt, I'll wash it," he murmurs. He leans back against the counter, eyeing up the living room for a second again, then rubs self-consciously at his cheek as he turns his eyes back to Jason. "Martin's the guy who cleaned me up, back on the coast. I'd probably be dead if it wasn't for him..." He stalls there, not sure which way to proceed. "I stayed with him a while, before I came back here. What d'you want to know about him?" He shrugs easily, smiling faintly at Jason. "I don't know-" He stops short at Glass's sudden exclamation, eyes flaring wide with shock and worry, and starts for the living room.

Jason's brows furrow. He already knew this much. He starts to ask something else, looking very iffy about it, but Glass's exclamation and the crash cuts him off as well. He blinks and looks back over his shoulder towards the hall. "Um, Glass?" he calls.

Trace trails after his blonde friend, peeking in around the corner cautiously. "He okay...?" the boy murmurs, biting his lip and then moving fully into the living room and surveying the damages. "Doug, what happened..?" He walks over and stoops to pick up the fallen glass and set it back on the coffee-table before turning confused eyes to Glass.

Glass stares at the three of you with blank terror for a moment, then licks dry lips. He shivers a little and says in a broken whisper, "I. I. It's okay. Really."

Jean-Batiste edges towards Glass, somewhere between unnerved and uncertain. "Okay," he replies softly, offering Glass a hand up despite his insistence of okay-ness. "D'you want a drink or anything? Did you hurt yourself?" If he can get Glass to his feet, he gives him a tight hug for several seconds - he knows it's what feels best after he's had a nightmare of his own.

Jason slides off the counter and follows his two friends, the shirt dangling down past his knees almost. He peers around the corner into the living room, chewing his lip lightly. He looks to Trace and asks softly, "He alright?"

Glass gets to his feet and leans shivering into Batiste's hug. He murmurs, "Yeah, I want water. Something." He withdraws from the hug, hunching his shoulders and dropping his hands to his side even if Batiste continues to hold on. "I'm sorry. I made a mess."

Trace nods faintly, picking up the ashtray with care -- but not the butts, yuck, someone else can do that. His helpfulness only goes so far. After a quick glance to be certain his sketch of Glass was not splashed with water or cigarette ash, he carries the two fallen objects back towards the kitchen, murmuring to Jason, "Bad dream." He continues on in to set both the glass and ashtray by the sink and then dusts off his hands on his jeans.

"You like chocolate? There's some Godiva left from when I made the cheesecake, a shot of it might help you calm down..." Batiste escorts Glass into the kitchen, keeping a hand on Glass's shoulder as he does. He'll break out the dustbuster and clean up the cigarette butts later. "Sit down, I'll find you something to drink..." he murmurs, pulling out a chair for Glass before moving off in the direction of the fridge.

Glass looks back at the butts guiltily as he lets himself be led into the kitchen. He murmurs, "Water, please, M'sieur." A pause, and a fuddled frown, "What's godiva?" He sits in the offered chair, hugs himself for a moment, then puts his hands on the table, trying to relax.

Jason watches everyone go past him once again to the kitchen, then heaves a sigh and trots after them again. He grumbles as he climbs back onto the counter and draws his knees up, figuring everyone'll end up wandering upstairs or something as soon as he's settle. But he watches Glass, curiously. Krantz? Must be one big rabbit.

Glass looks over at Jason and tries an apologetic smile. Pretty much a failure, but it's a try. He murmurs, "Uh. Hi. How you doing?"

Trace stands and watches Batiste bustle about to get Glass a drink, and can't think of anything else left to do, so he clambers up onto the counter to take a seat near Jason, letting his legs dangle down.

"Godiva is chocolate liqueur," Batiste explains softly as he fills up a glass with cold water and drops two ice cubes in. He reaches his hand out, stroking Jason's shin for a moment, smiling at him, then turns and carries the water over to Glass, setting it down near his hands on the table. "Who's Krantz?" he asks gently.

Glass blinks at Batiste. "Who? Here?" He frowns. Obviously he knows the name. What he doesn't know is how Batiste knows it.

Jason smiles softly to Batiste as he passes with the touch, then leans in to Trace, eyes going back to Glass. And, oh, hey, Bat asked the magic question that was on his mind. He sort of leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, peering. His legs kick back and forth idly.

Jean-Batiste looks back at Jason and Trace for a moment, a bit confused, himself. "I...don't think so?" he replies, eyes returning to Glass. "It's...what you shouted, just as you woke up. You don't remember?" He leans forward against one of the empty chair's backrests.

Trace bites his lip and nods faintly to Glass, shifting a little so he can offer a little more bony shoulder for Jason to lean against. "Ya shouted it, I guess, just before ya bumped that stuff over..." He wonders softly, "Was it a very bad dream? Ya was makin' little noises..." He glances down at his lap. "Guess I shoulda woke ya up."

Glass blinks, murmurs, "I shouted? I don't remember. He was a boy I knew, before I came here." He smiles a little. After a pause, he adds, "I must have been dreaming about him, huh? I just was all the sudden awake and scared."

Jason furrows his brows, then smiles slightly. "A boy, or a /boy/?" he asks quietly. You know, there's an important distinction.

Glass blinks at Jason. "Um, what do you mean? He was my friend."

Jean-Batiste nods a little, chewing his lip thoughtfully. "I...guess so. You were curled up, sort of, and then you shouted that, and sat up, sort of." He's silent a moment, then ventures, "You knew him...where you worked?" He immediately adds, "If you don't want to talk about it, sorry..."

Glass nods, murmurs, "Yes. And then after, when I was just selling junk." He looks at his hands. Jason looks to Trace, brows furrowed, whispering, "Where'd he work?" softly.

Trace turns all this over in his mind, still keeping his gaze trained to the denim of is jeans. Finally he peeks over at Jason through blue braids and murmurs softly, "He, ah. He... he'd gotten himself in a ring. Y'know, on the game..." He blushes a little and murmurs, "Bad scene.." With pursed lips, he looks back to Glass and finally after a moment murmurs, "Is... I mean, d'ya know where he is t'this day? He alright..?"

Glass shakes his head, and murmurs, "No. He died." He smiles a bit, shrugs. "It was a long time ago now. I don't have anything to remember them by." He looks at the three of you, "You know, I was supposed to go back?"

Jason ohhhhs softly and nodnods, a light going on. His eyes go back to Glass, though with a subtley different look behind them. Looking on in a new light.

Jean-Batiste knits his fingers together, dragging his teeth thoughtfully over his bottom lip. "Oh..." is all he can think to say, at first, looking at Glass with soft-eyed sympathy. "But...I'm glad you didn't go back. You would have got back into things, if you had, wouldn't have you? You might have been dead now, too."

Glass murmurs, "He died because it was cold." He looks around at the three, blonde, red, blue. A little shrug and he asks, "You don't really want me to talk about this, do you? You must have been talking about something nicer before I woke up?" He takes a long drink of the water.

"I'm glad too..." Trace chimes in softly. "Woulda been nuts t'go back." He lifts his shoulders in a light shrug at Doug's words and smiles faintly, murmuring, "I don't mind. Diggin' inta yer past or Batiste's... still scroungin' about 'n being nosy, I guess. So go on.."

Jason giggles softly and nods to Trace's assessment. As long as he gets to do /some/ digging today, he's happy. He pulls his knees up beneath Walker's shirt again and rests his chin on them, though still remains leaning against the smaller Trace. "What was he like? He cool?" he asks softly. He could be asking how he died or whatnot, but... Well. It's like wakes. You're supposed to know the good things too.

Glass blinks at Trace. Appearantly he hadn't anticipated anyone suggesting he go on. He bites his lip and regards the blue haired boy for a while, biting his lip. He starts again, tenatively, "He was at Maurice's before me, and he left before me. But I met him again. There were like four of us. We hung out together. To be safe. And one night we didn't think it would be so cold, and we got heroin instead of a room. We went to this burned out resturant. And when we woke up he was dead." He looks around, shrugs very faintly, and looks down at his hands, "That's all."

Trace shudders and his eyes cloud at the tale, a dull sorrow for a boy he didn't know, and an end that could have been his, had he only lived somewhere colder. "I..." he begins, more squeak than voice, and finally leans in closer to Jason and gives a brief, needful nuzzle, closing his eyes just for a moment. Then he opens them slowly and peeks out at Glass with sympathy. "And he was yer friend. I'm sorry..."

Glass nods to Trace. His gentle smile accepts the sympathy with gratitude. He seems about to say something, but doesn't.

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