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Log Title: Lonely Places
Log setting: Upstairs in Walker’s apartment, early morning.
Log Cast:
Trace
Jean-Batiste
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Creak, creak, creak... Trace pads softly across the wooden floor, pacing slowly, restless. Ocassionally he'll glance back at the bed where his friends are tangled, and a tiny smile touches his lips. He looks away, however, moving to lift one of the curtains and peek out into the dim pre-dawn hovering above Moss Street outside. He sighs softly and lets the curtain fall with a soft rustle, creak, creak, creak as he crosses the room. A considering glance at his allocated drawer, where his stash is kept, but he sighs and looks away. Later... Not now. Now he doesn't want to be blanketed in a warm haze. The early morning has not yet brought any humidity to choke the air, and he breaths in slowly, savoring it, noticing it. The wood is cool beneath his bare feet, and for now he is content to feel everything, even the slight melancholy that still lingers, leftover from his dream. No... he doesn't need to be numb right now. Creak, creak, creak... back to one of the fur rugs, settling himself upon it and curling his legs in close, eyes thoughtful and distant.
Last night's drugs and the contentedness a bedful of familiar limbs and faces brings keeps Batiste's slumber as restful as is possible without heavy drugs. Now and again he'll shift restlessly or mumble, but for the most part he's still, breathing deep, face calmer and younger with wakefulness's tensions melted away. The soft creaking of worn floorboards pluck at his mind, though, and by the time you settle on the fur rug, there's a pair of dark, drowsy eyes watching you. "'sup?" he mumbles, pushing himself slowly up to his elbows, languidly shaking pale braids back from his face.
Trace blinks and peers over his shoulder, and eyes long-since accustomed to the dark room shine warmly. "Mornin' Batiste... Nothin's up. Jest woke by accident. I.. didn't mean t'wake you too, m'sorry." He turns more completely now, repositioning himself and drawing his legs up a bit more, curling his thin arms around the denim covering his knees.
"Mmmorning," Batiste agrees, yawning widely. "Must be...s'so quiet." He sprawls out again, melting into the mattress - but only long enough to stretch. The stretching triggers more yawning, and after they pass, he begins the tricky, slow process of climbing out of bed without waking or jostling anyone - most notably Jason, who was likely draped over the both of you if he had his way. "C'n you see my smokes?" he asks as he sits on the edge of Walker's bed, yawning yet again and blinking against the dawn dimness.
Trace pulls himself to his feet and scans the room, finally spotting the pack on a dresser at the other side. He breezes on over and grabs them, then walks on back to present them to you with a tiny smile, perching on the edge of the bed beside you. He's quiet a moment, clasping his hands on his lap in front of him and studying his knitted fingers. Finally, he announces softly, making an effort to get the words past a sudden heavy shyness that has fallen over him, casting his eyes down. "I... finished somethin' I been workin' on awhile. Somethin' you... asked me t'make fer you."
Jean-Batiste murmurs a sleepy, smiling, "Thanks..." as he takes the pack and lights one up. Even the ember seems to glow drowsily instead of its usual demonic orange. He takes a couple drags, blowing the smoke off towards an unoccupied corner, then looks over at you. "Something...?" he echoes, curiousity glimmering in his expression. He cocks his head, frowning thoughtfully at you, trying to think of what it could be. He sounds a little contrite when he asks, "What...what is it?" and hopes not remembering won't offend you. Jean-Batiste murmurs a sleepy, smiling, "Thanks..." as he takes the pack and lights one up. Even the ember seems to glow drowsily instead of its usual demonic orange. He takes a couple drags, blowing the smoke off towards an unoccupied corner, then looks over at you. "Something...?" he echoes, curiousity glimmering in his expression. He cocks his head, frowning thoughtfully at you, trying to think of what it could be. He sounds a little contrite when he asks, "What...what is it?" and hopes not remembering won't offend you.
Trace giggles a little, a very youthful, shy sound. "It, uh... Well, ya kept on tellin' me I was a poet, and we were talkin' bout it, and... ya finally convinced me t'try and put poetry in a picture, and, and if I did, if I made a poem-picture fer you, y'said you'd... keep it always. 'Member?" He lifts his brows a little, a timid, hopeful look... but it fades into another small laugh as he adds, "Even if it really sucked. Which is kinda relieving, you not minding if it sucks. Coz I mean... I mean, I never do stuff like this, and it was really hard, it took me ages pouring over what word to put here, and how to arrange this and that... Words are so *stark*, they just come out and say it, and I dunno... At least with a picture, you can be subtle about what yer sayin', leave some things hidden or left t'be taken as other people want t'see 'em. Words, y'can just read right into a person. It's scary. I could never... do this often. At all." His nervous, stalling ramble grinds to a halt and he just sits, looking back at his hands again.
Jean-Batiste's eyes light up, cigarette bobbing as he grins. He blows out a line of smoke, resting the cigarette-bearing hand against his knee, and reaches out his other hand to tug gently on one of your braids, then hug you one-armed against his shoulder. "Yeah, I remember that..." he murmurs, nodding to you. His grin just keeps growing, all softly brilliant. He's so happy you tried it, so moved - it shows in the velvety softness that shines in his eyes. "It was something new, of course it took some time...I'd love to see it." He looks around, then stands up, offering his hand to help you up as well. "Let's sit somewhere else, I don't want to get disturbed." He looks almost nervous, too - what will it be like? He's certain it will be wonderful, but what if it actually -does- suck? No matter. He grins gently at you.
Trace accepts your hand to help himself up and returns the grin somewhat anxiously. He then moves to the other side of the room, to his canvas bag, pulling out his sketchbook. The page is already torn loose, simply tucked within the sketchbook's pages. He draws it out carefully, skims it over once, and sighs softly. He almost wishes he hadn't mentioned it at all, because now he realizes he could have gotten away with letting it go... But then, considering the effort he put into this, it'd be terribly tragic to just let it hide in his sketchbook for the rest of his days. And he's come this far... He settles the sketchbook back into the canvas bag and pads back over to the bed to sit beside you. He looks at you a moment, holding what -- from afar -- looks to be a colorful, abstract picture. "Well... well, I mean, where do you want to go to read it?" he asks softly.
Jean-Batiste glances at the picture, but only for a moment - he doesn't want to truly look at it until he's comfortable somewhere, and he's got you as reassured as you can be. He looks around, considering, then tightens his fingers around your free hand and murmurs, "Over here," and leads you towards one of the fur rugs, a distance away from the bed. Once there, he sinks down with one leg tucked beneath him, and gently tries to coax you to sit beside him, where he can hug you against his shoulder and you both can look over the poem-picture at the same time. He doesn't ask to look immediately, though - instead, he spends a few moments just hugging you and tweaking playfully at a couple of your more rebellious braids, trying to sneak a smile out of you before asking, "Can I see it?"
Trace nods very shyly, holding the picture close to his chest and tucking his face down close to your shoulder and whispering, "But I'm gonna hide right here in yer flannel, kay? I'm jest, I'm way too embarrassed." Very slowly he hands it over... And despite his words, as you read it, he cannot help but peek out at the poem-picture, and then up at you, as you read it. Then he'll hide again. The entire time, curiousity wars with self-conscious shyness and fear..
All the mysterious, bright marker stains that have appeared on Trace's hands over the past few days might now make more sense. Embelished in marker, with just a hint of black ink here and there, to outline or shadow the occasional shape or shade, the poem-picture is surrounded in swirls of color, sometimes smooth and flowing, other times chaotic dashes. Blues and violets, from dark and rich to wispy pale, tend to dominate the intricate, abstract artwork, gravitating especially towards the words 'lonely' and 'sleep' in slow, gentle currents and curves. In places the tone is melancholy, in others bursting with passion, sparks of yellow and burgandy red emotions errupting from the tranquility, especially at the fourth stanza. And the tiny, bold words -- scripted neatly from a hand that is obviously not accustomed to tidy writing but making a great effort now -- read as follows:
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I'
m not a poet, I only try
And you, I watch you as you sleep
I am full of lonely places
And I think,
So I watch you as you sleep
To fill me up with something lasting
But nothing'
s lasting.
I pour a picture onto a page quick as I can
For my visions are everbright
But always fading.
Restless always, lips and fingers twitching,
I press my cheek down to your chest
So slowly,
Holding my breath,
Wishing I could sooth you.
And try through colors, dreams, and heroin dazes
Even with these words I try
To fill me up with something lasting
But nothing
Except maybe you?
I would offer you my pulse
Should you bid it.
Because you too are everbright,
But still right here, with a promise
That you won
And tell myself you
Close my eyes and slow my heart
Ready to try again
To fill the lonely places
Inside me.
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Jean-Batiste handles the paper with a care bordering on reverence, carefully adjusting it so he can hold you with one arm and support the picture with the other. He has to hold it up near his chest to see it in the dimness. He leans into you a moment, pressing a kiss to your braids, then turns his attention down to the picture. He studies the colours first, the lazy swirls giving way to wilder whorls and emphatic splotches, but the words tug him in, and he reads. His face is relaxed at first, serene, eyes moving from word to word, following the placement and shape of the stanzas as well as the rhythm of the poetry. A smile smudges one corner of his mouth - he looks to you, hugging you softly, encouragingly - then continues to read. It's about halfway through the poem that his expression falters, some sudden emotion striking him like a physical blow. You can feel him shiver, and watch the paper waver in his hands before he swallows hard and continues to read. It's a struggle to read through to the end of the poem, involving much blinking of tear-matted lashes and shaky breaths forced past a hummingbird fluttering beneath his breastbone. When he reaches the end, he just stares at the poem-picture as a whole a few moments longer, then makes a small, wet sound in the back of his throat. The poem is very, very carefully set down beside him, and he turns to you, grabbing you up in this shaking, ferocious hug, cheek against your throat, tears melting into your braids.
Trace blinks for a moment, startled at first by the hug, but soon his slender arms curl around you and he holds you fiercely close. One hand remains encircled, fingers pressing tightly to your back, the other moving up to smooth his hands over your braids gently, then tangling up in them and just clinging. "I... I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to.." he whispers, but falls silent, just holding tight for a long, long time. Finally, he asks very softly in a small voice, "You'll keep it always?"
Jean-Batiste just clings to you for a long while, not saying anything. Finally, he gulps in a wet breath, sniffles shakily, and draws back to rub at his reddened eyes and tear-streaked face with apologetic emb arrassment. "No, no, d-don't 'pologize," he insists, looking up imploringly at you as soon as he's cleared enough moisture out of his eyes to see you clearly. He grasps one of your hands, tangling his fingers around it, and w hispers, "Always. I promise, I promise with all my heart. No matter what happens..." His breath jumps in his chest again, and he laughs breathlessly, looking down at your hand. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to cry, it just...oh, Trace." He sighs, and - of course - starts getting a little teary-eyed again. "It's wonderful. It's perfect, it's magic. I'll buy a medicine bottle and roll it up so it'll fit inside, and it'll always be with me, that way." He smiles up at you, squeezing your hand again. "I love you. You just...you just remember that, okay?" He ducks his head, wiping his eyes again, smiling despite the residual tears.
At your reaction, and now your words, Trace's own hazel eyes flood and he looks up a little and blinks several times so that no tears fall to betray him further. "I-I'm so glad you liked it, I was scared... scared to show you. I never done anything like that before." He sniffles and squeezes your hand, glancing down at it, and then giving you a tiny, warm smile. "I.. I'll remember. I love you too." His free hand reaches up to delicately brush away a few tears, and he rises just a little to just barely kiss a salty cheek, a feather-touch, before settling back a little, onto his heels and smile up at you.
"It's incredible. Seriously. I...I've never gotten anything like it before, ever. It's so wonderful..." Batiste repeats those feelings with various synonyms, interspersed with much sniffling. He finally gets his breathing back under control, and makes sure his face and hands are dry before he releases your hand and picks up the poem again. He only looks at it for a moment before turning his attention to you and saying, "We'll go tomorrow, and buy a medicine bottle for me to keep it in. D'you..." He considers, glancing towards the bed for a moment. "Should I hide it until then? D'you think it'll upset Jason?"
Trace's eyes widen a little with surprise and concern, as he considers. "Well... I mean, I didn't even think of it! I mean.. I mean, I love him too, but he never asked me to write a poem for him, and I usually don't write 'em in the first place so I didn't, but... I don't know... My poem to him would be different too, if I were gonna write 'im one." He shakes his head, troubled. "I don't want to create somethin' else that'll make 'im say two 'an two 'an two... I *hate* it when he says that. Should, should I write 'im something? I dunno, what if it don't come out as good, or if, like... well, it's like... I'm close to him in certain ways, like the paths our brains travel, and how we see the world sometimes... But I can't be close to him like I can you sometimes, like I gotta catch 'im in those rare times when he's serious 'else it's all tickles and teasing, y'know...?" He bites his lip. "But I don't know if he'd be hurt by that or somethin', even if I think it's real true... I just dunno..!"
Jean-Batiste thinks on that a long while, gazing down thoughtfully at the poem. He hugs you quickly and murmurs, "Be right back..." and quickly moves to tuck your poem-picture away in his sketchbook, resealing the backpack when he's done. He settles down beside you again, arms linked around your shoulders to draw you into a warm, comfortable lean, and lingers in silence for a while before sharing his thoughts with you. "I think...I think if you made him a poem just like mine, he'd just think that you were doing it to make us 'even', you know? Maybe what you could do is...you could make him something special, too. Not the same, but still special, you know? Like...maybe a little pendant, we could get some Fimo clay, you could make something he could wear as a necklace, a little fox's head or a pawprint or something like that? Because, well..." He chews his cheek for a second, then continues. "Two and two and two is what a triangle is made up of. Three things coming together into one. It's just...like he doesn't see that it all comes together, all he sees are the pieces. As long as he knows that you want to make something special for him too...as long as he doesn't think you're doing it just for me...maybe he'll start to see things different. What d'you think?"
Trace smiles, the concern melting off his face. "Oh, yes! That'd be perfect, yeah... Yeah, I'll think up something. And it *wouldn't* be jest' because'a this. I do wanna give him something special now." He tips his head to one side a little and giggles, "But, uh... why a fox head?" He just snickers a little, as though you had confused him entirely, picking something like that out of the blue. "It'd probably be nicer like.. a flame, y'know? Or something like that... For his fireheart. I dunno... There's a lot I could do. But yer right, it's gotta be perfect, and he's gotta know it's all fer him. Coz it *will* be." His eyes are musing, eager, already turning over possiblities in his head.
Jean-Batiste squints at you oddly for a second, then grins again, looking all giddy with his eyes still shiny from tears. "A fox because of the picture I drew, I guess...doesn't he just seem that way to you, sometimes? When he snuggles up to us, he even sort of growls or purrs or something, you know?" He shrugs easily, then his eyes fly wide, lit up with your inspiration. "Oh, -yeah-! That's definately better, Trace." He hugs you tightly, nodding eagerly to you. "If you want to do it out of clay, I'll show you where to pick some up. It comes in all kinds of colours, and you just bake it in the oven instead of needing a kiln, it's great stuff." He snuggles you a little, closing his eyes again, content.
Trace gives a big, jaw-splitting yawn and nuzzles against you and agrees muffledly, "Okay.. that sounds perfect. Twist up some orange, yellow, and red in a little flame... I hope he'd like somethin' like that." He rubs at his eyes a little before pressing his cheek back close to you again. "You wanna... get back to bed? It's still not even dawn yet, and I'm suddenly kinda tired again... if ya think ya *could* get back t'sleep. If not, s'cool, I'll stay up with ya..." He peeks up at you with smiling hazel eyes.
Jean-Batiste thinks on that a few moments, silent, then nods against your shoulder. "Yeah, I think I could get back to sleep for a while." He grins - you can feel his cheek curve - and adds, "Long as you promise to snuggle." He clambers back up to his feet, stifling a yawn as he helps you up, then looks towards his backpack with a soft, reverent smile. Over to the waterbed, where he carefully clambers between the sprawling limbs and finds a spot big enough to fit the two of you, fluffing up a pillow cleverly filched from Walker. He waits until you're comfortable, then drapes his arms over you, listening to the sound of your breathing as he drifts back off to sleep.
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