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Log Title: Meet Jordan

Log setting: Anthony Burgess’s Estate, the day they checked out of the motel.

Log Cast:
Trace
Jean-Batiste
Jordan

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"But what if- But Jason is- So where are-" That's about all Batiste gets out, before he's jogging after you, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes and wondering who knit the little sweaters over all his teeth. Mmm. Mornings. He listens to your explanations, nodding a little, mild wariness settling over his features by the end. "Is he trouble?" he asks you. His hands dig into his pockets, fidgeting there.

Trace giggles a little. "Oh, ah, no. I think even *I* could lick him in a fight, really. That's not it at all. It's just.... um." He slows and parts his hands a little. "You're probably not going to like him. I mean, I don't. He's just... well, he's a prissy little fuck, that's what. Used'ta be on the streets like us, but... well, I guess a john of his actually fell in love with the little shit, and now he's walkin' around like some prince, leechin' off the guy. Now he's like.. he's the type who talks down to you half-unconsciously, and even if he does realize it, he feels ya can't even touch him, so who cares right?" He's frowning a bit now, but shrugs and finally concludes, "But he dresses like a model, and he don't really know I don't like him at all, so... he said if I brought him a surprise, he'd loan me some clothes for us to wear to the party. So we just... gotta put up with him. Free clothes.... s'worth it, right?"

Jean-Batiste bows his head just slightly, musing over that for a few steps. When he looks to you again, a mild malicious light glints in his eyes. He stops slouching, walking taller, throwing his hips into his strides to give him a simpering swagger. Rolling his eyes at you - just so you know he's joking - he flutters his hand to point at a car and says in breathless exasperation, "Oh my -god-. A house like -that-, and they're driving a -Ford-? PuhLEASE. It doesn't even -match-." He drops back down to his normal slouch, and starts to chuckle at himself, noting, "I think I've met a couple prissy little fucks before. It'll be okay." Pause. He glances back to you. "What's the surprise you're bringing him?"

Trace shrugs a little. "Givin' him a dime bag. Not much... But his keeper's been tryin' ta clean him up, least far's junk's concerned, and he's gotta sneak to get it now..." He giggles a little. "Guy actually followed him to Keats' place last time, dragged him out by the ear... it was fuckin' hysterical! And since then he's sorta been, well, "staying home much more to ease Anthony's hot head and let him know his concern is appreciated", which basically means he's grounded."

Jean-Batiste makes a face at you, laughing at the image your words paint in his mind. "How old is he? Geez." He looks down the street, frowning lightly for a moment. "Just as long as that Anthony guy isn't around, I guess. Or he waits for us to leave to get fucked up..." Shrugging off his concerns, he finds his grin and aims it at you. "Well, let's get him his junk, pick out some clothes, and get out of there, then. Easy enough." Or so he hopes.

"Yeah... yeah, it should be easy," Trace agrees, leading you further and further into the rich and exclusive neighborhoods. He grows more silent and outwardly jumpy as the houses get more and more extravagant, feeling terribly out of place. He defensively eyes each car that passes. "It's just up ahead," he mumbles after several long minutes, pointing vaguely.

Jean-Batiste doesn't eye the cars defensively - he stares evenly at the disdainful drivers when they stare back, until they look away. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Richy-Rich, these are the children you warn your honey-pastry children about. His hands keep fidgeting in his pockets, though. "Which one?" he asks, staring nervously at the huge, sprawling mansions surrounding the two of you.

Trace doesn't answer, but just points again and trudges on up the lawn towards an iron gate. When he reaches it, he scans the gate for a moment like he's considering whether he should try to climb it or pick the lock... oh, wait. That's right, he's been invited here. He stands before the entrance shyly for a moment, glancing at you once, and then turning back to the small intercom on the gate. He stabs at the button with one finger.

A cheery voice flutes in through the intercom after perhaps 45 seconds. "He-loo..?"

Trace blushes and looks to Batiste, swallows nervously, and then clears his throat and announces. "It's, uh, it's Trace. You're still alone?"

Jean-Batiste starts looking around for cameras, armed security guards, herds of attack Dobermans that crave the blood of miscreants like him, you know. "That him?" he whispers to Trace.

Trace bobs his head slowly.

"Oh, Trace!" the voice gushes slightly. "Yes, yes, all by my lonesome. Do step in, we'll get you and your friend dolled up."

Jean-Batiste groans softly, and looks back down the street. "Brother..." he mumbles under his breath. 'Dolled up'? He giggles once, imagining the butler dressed like what's-his-face Frankenfurter. 'Feather boa with your tea, suh?'

It's a surprisingly youthful voice, despite the annoying word choice and tone usually associated with the upper crust or the flaming homosexual. Well, lucky day for the two of you, we just hit both right on the nose.

Trace hides his face in his hands a moment, trying not to giggle. He gives Batiste a very amused glance, but murmurs very softly, out of range of the intercom, "Shh, don't let him hear you. Just... we get through this, smile pretty, and make off with nice clothes." He leans back into the intercom and says, "Yeah, uh... thanks. I really appreciate this."

The gates creak softly and swing open.

Trace starts past the gate with caution, glancing around at the alien surroundings. He eyes the huge windows, the beautiful brickwork and well-tended gardens.... Keeping strictly to the pathway, he slowly makes his way to the door, staying close to Batiste the entire time.

After making sure there aren't any cameras pointing at his face, Batiste leans in close to you and rolls his eyes. "Quick. Practice your fake smile!" He grins at you in such a plastered-on manner he makes himself laugh. "This better be some -great- clothes..." he murmurs, seeming quite happy to stick beside you, too. Maybe the both of you could subdue a Doberman. Yeah, right. He looks back out over the yard once the door is reached, letting you ring the bell, rap the doorknocker, or whatever rich people do with their doors.

A few minutes after the buzzer is pushed, the elegant oak door opens, miraculously, not by a doorman but Jordan McKennit himself. He is a pretty boy, to be sure. Not handsome. There’s nothing at all rugged about him. In fact, he’s all smooth curves and feminine swagger. Black hair has been pinned up in two spots atop his head, teased up and vaguely kin to pigtails. He wears white, loosely flowing slacks of a silky polyester, slippers, and a top that’s filmy white and quite see-through, and flamboyantly lined at the hem, low neck, and large fan-out wrists with white boa feather piping. His skin is pale, though his light blue eyes are lined darkly, lashes thick with mascara. Full lips are slick with burgandy. He takes in the both of you for a moment, but then spreads into a welcoming smile that is perhaps just as fake as Jean's. "Welcome, both of you! I usually have someone who gets the doors, but I sent him off to fetch me cigarettes, so we won't be disturbed at all." i.e. I managed to get my jailer out of the house. "Come in, come in..." He steps aside.

Trace looks at the boy's outfit dubiously. "Uh... uh, hi Jordan." He recalls Batiste's words on the porch suddenly and *ding!* there's his smile again. "So, uh.... how's it going?"

Jean-Batiste's plastic smile, in truth, doesn't last very long. It drops to a more natural shy grin, eyes meeting Jordan's for only a second before slipping away. "Hey..." he murmurs, sticking close to Trace and following him inside the mansion, reminding himself -not to gawk-.

Jordan's eyes fall on Jean-Batiste and his smile changes slightly. He practically dimples. "Oh... Trace, tell me this is the surprise you brought me, and you can /have/ the clothes.." His eyes dance with rich amusement.

The blue haired artist gacks and steps forward, shaking his head. "No, no, no.... He's straight, we're both straight, okay? Geez. You know what your surprise is, anyway." He purses his lips. This may *not* be easy, after all. But he's determined to look nice at Walker's party.

Jean-Batiste's cheeks aren't turning pink. It's...an allergic reaction to the proximity of so much money. Honest. He mumbles something unintelligible and chuckles weakly, digging his hands deeper into his pockets. Smile. Remember to smile. The shy grin returns, crooked at one corner.

Jordan giggles softly. "I figured, but you know, a boy can dream." He waves an airy hand and turns, white gauze flaring out briefly, as he starts towards a set of double doors. "Come, this way and just up the stairs is my bedroom. It's darling. I don't sleep there, but my clothes do."

As the rich boy turns and starts away, Trace follows slowly, but not before casting a glance Batiste-wards and rolling his eyes. He whispers something out of the corner of his mouth. You whisper "Sorry about this.... And I promise he has better clothes than... than that white thing. I totally promise." to Jean-Batiste.

Batiste is five foot nine and looks to be in his mid to late teens, with a lithe, long-limbed runner's frame fading to bony edges in neglect. Long, little-boy lashes ring dark Auschwitz eyes set in a pale, smooth young face. Brittle straw-blond hair has been gathered into narrow, stringy braids that bat his cheeks, an inch of dark roots showing at the scalp. He speaks with a very soft, shy voice, glancing only rarely to whomever he addresses.

A plain black T-shirt is tucked into torn-kneed jeans kept up on narrow hips only with the help of a belt. Worn over the T-shirt are a couple flannel shirts, the bottommost red plaid, the topmost green plaid. During the day, one is often knotted around his waist. His braids are usually tucked up under a faded Saints ballcap, making him look even younger. A small button on the cap reads 'O God, Please Save Me From Your Followers'. On his feet are a pair of old, heavily scuffed black boots. (+Details.)

Jean-Batiste shakes his head gently and whispers back, "S'okay. Long as I don't have to wear..." He can't even describe it. "-That-." He giggles soundlessly, then picks up the pace, trailing after Jordan. "This is a great place..." he murmurs in a louder voice.

"Anthony might let me redo some of it," is Jordan's only comment as he leads the both of you on up the stairs. Then down through a hallway and into the second room to the left. He opens the door and steps through, leaving you both to trail behind him. "In here, in here...The closet to the right. The other's all just shoes and accessories. But." He stops and turns, instead of opening the closet, leaning against it and arching his back slightly, hands clasped behind him in a posture that tries to imitate prim. "First. So you have my surprise?"

Trace follows dutifully up the stairs and down the hall, ogling freely when Jordan's back is turned. Once into the room, Trace grinds to a halt when the prissy rentboy stops and confronts him. "Oh... Uh." He flushes a little and digs into one pocket, coming up with a small plastic bag, almost all that remains of his stash. "Dime bag. Will it do? I mean, I... I don't have much."

Jean-Batiste looks around the room, drawing his hands out of his pockets to pull his ballcap off and clip it around one of his beltloops. He pushes the braids back away from his face, mirroring Trace's earlier gesture, then gives Jordan a hopeful, winsome smile. He couldn't -really- say no to Trace, could he?

Jordan smiles, all cool blue eyes and teeth. "Of course you don't, hon. Thought that counts, right?" He snatches away the bag and studies it; after a moment a small frown creases the smooth skin between his thin brows. "This is awfully coarse..." Then it occurs to him what the problem might be. "How're you supposed to take this?"

"Uh... um... Mainline?" Trace murmurs, somewhat meekly. "I didn't bring anything you could fix with. Don't you have your own works?" He does have his own syringe with him, actually, tied to his leg with the tourniquet in its usual spot. But he'll be damned if he shares it with a rich whore like Jordan.

Jean-Batiste takes a few steps towards the windows, quietly grinding his teeth behind his smile. Aww. He's protective of Trace. Well, okay - and Jordan's irritating him. He entertains the concept that Jordan's sugar daddy keeps his mouth too full to talk, to be able to tolerate him, and his smile returns.

Jordan blinks twice, then looks from the heroin to Trace, smiling blithely. "Oh, hon, I can't do needles. Have you ever seen me use one? Oh, no, no....I mean, it's /so/, well, trash junkie." His eyes flicker down to Trace's own track marks, and he laughs airily and touches a hand to the feathers at his chest. "No offense."

"None taken," Trace manages through gritted teeth, but he's bristling and it's more than obvious. Just as he once said, he keeps his heart painted on his face. "So... wait, I've got..." he fishes into his other pocket this time, and comes up with the tiny, nearly depleated packet that entertained Batiste and him just last night. "This then...?" It's practically a growl.

Jean-Batiste looks back over his shoulder, then turns to cross back to Trace's side, reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder for just a second. "Hey," he says gently, trying to soothe the hackles back down. "If he doesn't like it, he doesn't like it. We can try someone else, right?" He glances coolly to Jordan.

Jordan exchanges the larger dime bag for the smaller packet, studying it carefully. At Batiste's comment, he looks up and lifts a brow. "Oh, no, this will do fine. It's not much, but like you said..." He shifts his shoulders in what could just barely pass as a shrug. "But this will do. That other stuff would've torn the shit out of my poor nose!" Another bright laugh. He tucks the packet away into the pocket of his white slacks. "Anyhow, the clothes are in here." He tugs the door open and gives a wave of flourish, inviting you both inside. It's a very large closet, and could fit the entire wardrobe of five or six average men easily. Colors bright and vivid, of every shade, line the racks. Glitter and shimmer assult your eyes from certain loud garments. Materials from soft royal purple silk to shiny black vinyl... "What's mine is yours, darlings."

Trace stashes away the dime bag, still upset by Jorden's 'trash junkie' comment, but also somewhat grateful to have only lost the tiny bag of finer junk and still have the dime in his po ssession. He glances at Batiste, then steps closer, peering in.... His eyes go wide. "Oh..." Even if he wouldn't be caught dead in half of this stuff, there's plenty that's more than suitable for the Church party, and besides, these bright colors and bold fabrics appeal to the artist in him, which has started to step back and look at the whole mess of expensive club-goers clothes as simply one big collage strung together for his viewing enjoyment. He shakes himself out of that, however, and looks over at Batiste in slight amazement.

Jean-Batiste smiles sunnily at Jordan when he accepts the second packet. "As long as you're sure," he murmurs blithely. Far be it for them to force it upon the poor dear and his precious nose. His mouth purses into a lopsided moue as he chews at the inside of his cheek. Temper, temper. Once he's calm again, he follows Trace towards the wardrobe and can't help but gawk. How many thousands of dollars are in this room? he wonders to himself. "Wow..." he agrees. It can't hurt to stroke Jordan's ego a -little-. Greatly daring, he steps in further than Trace, and starts eyeing up the rows of shirts.

Jordan smiles fondly at his collection and the praise it is bringing him now. "It's all mostly brand new... I kinda have this thing, I don't always want to wear a thing twice, ya know? Sometimes you have some event you're attending, and you see just the /perfect/ ensamble, but it's only perfect for that one night and afterwards it's just.. Oh, blah." He chuckles and looks the two of you over. "Boys, I, oh, just have to ask..." Boys. As though he could /possibly/ be more than a year older than Jean-Batiste. "What /are/ you trying to say with those frightful braids?" He smirks. "Do take them out for the party?"

Trace had pulled out a pair of shiny vinyl pants, slick and black... They make him think of killer whale skin. He runs his fingers over them gently, then blinks and looks up. He coldly insists, "The braids stay."

Jean-Batiste stays a bit calmer than Trace, but has to draw in a slow, deep breath to do so. "I like my braids," he murmurs evenly, looking back with that same cool stare at Jordan, holding it there for a second or two before returning his attention to the rows upon rows of clothing. He smiles over at Trace, asking him, "How crazy do you want to dress for the party? Is there something you've always wanted to wear?"

Jordan flutters his hands up defensively and grins, "All right, all right... Keep your braids in. I was only trying to help." He watches Jean-Batiste closely and murmurs, "The tops will be fine, but my pants aren't going to fit you. You're closer to Anthony's size." His pale blue eyes suddenly light up, painted lips turning upwards slightly in a pleased expression. "Oh... oh, I know a look that would be splendid on you, I believe."

Trace giggles. "I have my heart set on these pants. They're so... weird, and perfect." Whaleskin. He can actually picture Jordan ordering the illegal slaughter of whales just to get a sleek set of pants he'll wear once. "I don't know about the top yet. Nothing that screams 'I'm a flaming faggot,' but still a little wild." He gives a soft smile and glances at Jordan. "No offense."

Jean-Batiste clears his throat a couple of times, looking determinedly at the clothes in front of him. He will not laugh. He will -not laugh-. He has to bite hard at his lip for a second, but he keeps to his mental promise, gets himself back under control, and looks back to Jordan. "Really, you do? What would you recommend? There's so much to choose from..." Stroke, stroke. Keep Jordan and Trace away from eachother's throats long enough for Trace to find an outfit, and then he doesn't mind leaving.

Jordan blinks, and then offers the blue-haired trash junkie street scum a too-sweet smile. "Oh.... none taken." His eyes are predatory. Then he turns to Jean-Batiste, and like a switch has been turned, he is coy and smiling once again. "I'll just go get you what I have in mind, handsome. It will be perfect, I do believe." He struts out of the room with a walk that's all fluttering feathers and hips.

Trace grumbles once Jordan is well out of hearing range, "Oh, now I really hate him. I hate him more than ever! *God*..." He scans the racks with irritation and tears a shirt from the hanger. It's long-sleeved, a bright chartruese green, and made of incredibly soft crushed velvet. "This'll do. Let's hope what he brings back looks somewhat decent and we can get OUT of here..."

Jean-Batiste waits for Jordan to simper out of the room, then crosses back over to you and gives you a sudden one-armed hug. "It's okay," he promises. After shooting a theatrically dirty look towards the door, he adds, "Can we roll him for his wallet on the way out?" He winks defiantly at you, then releases your shoulders. "Do you really want that?" he asks, indicating the shirt. It's asked in genuine curiousity. "I saw something else that I thought would look cool on you..."

Trace shrugs a little. "I just grabbed at the first decent thing I saw. You got a better suggestion, by all means..." He looks around. "Damn... Look at all this just sittin' here. While people on the streets're cold. Life's kinda fucked." He shakes his head. "I'd be all for liftin' his wallet, but I doubt he's carryin' one. Prolly carries a purse. With feathers onnit." He drudges a grin.

Before Batiste can get a chance to make his suggestion, Jordan returns, a bundle clothes tucked over one arm and a top hat in the other. He tosses them down on the bed and motions Jean-Batiste over with a smile. "Come here, come here... You'll be so suave." He places the top hat on your head, and has to stand on tip-toe to get it there. Then he takes a long black and very elegant trench coat, demanding, "Hold that right there a second." Then he lifts a white blouse. It is a rather elegant outfit, to be honest. Left on the bed are dark grey slacks. "I even have a cane, and that's just top it off, and some shoes... Not quite a trendy gothic look, but definitely a little sinister, this... What do you think? No? If you're looking for glamour punk, this won't work..." He nibbles at his inner lip, waiting for Jean-Batiste's judgement.

-Top hat?!- Batiste wonders to himself. People still wear top hats?! He whisper-hisses to Trace as he steps past him, "The silk shirt, right next to the leopard-print, look at it!" then moves obediently over to the bed to be indundated with Jordan's fashion sense. Adjusting the top hat with the tips of his fingers, as if worried he'll soil it, he glances around for a mirror. No time to look, though - Jordan's pushing more clothes on him. He holds up the trench coat, glancing down at it, then the blouse and slacks... "Cane?" he echoes, blinking a couple of times. "No, I think I like this, I think it'll be great. The coat's beautiful." Well, probably not the right word to use, but so it goes.

Hanging next to -something- made out of leopard-printed lame is a poet's blouse of creamy white silk, all deep sleeves and ruffles. Well, Batiste -does- insist Trace is a poet at heart...

Trace blinks, pulling out the white top for closer examination. "But... but you think this'd go with the pants I picked?" he worries. He looks over at Batiste and widens his eyes a little. "Oh... You look, um." He grins, and says with honesty, "That hat looks cool. I like it the whole outfit, I guess... Makes me think of... well... the Artful Dodger." He grins and shrugs. "But you said you wanted somethin' wilder."

"Who does it make him look like?" Jordan asks blankly, then shrugs off the curiousity with disinterest. He laughs softly when he turns his attention to the two articles of clothing Trace holds.. "That shirt and those pants...? No, dear. Ultra mod and Rennaisance do not mix, or at least, not in this case. Either take full leather pants - duller, you know, than those shiny things, - or stick with a top that's all plastic and glitter. With your hair... I suggest the latter."

Jean-Batiste glances down, under pretense of examining the lapels of the trenchcoat, and grinds his teeth a little. After gnawing the edge of his tongue for several seconds, he can look up and manage to appear only slightly miffed. "Mmm..." he replies indistinctly, then reaches to gather up the pants. "No, this'll be great. Have you got something we can carry it all in to keep it clean?"

Trace wars for a moment then puts the poet shirt back. "Just a little more glam, but not too much. How about..." He tugs a dark violet top from the rack, which seems to shift to a dark tourquois blue color in the spots where light hits it at the right angle. "Do you like this, Batiste?" He doesn't ask the rich boy for his opinion.

"Oh, well, accessories are in the other closet! I'll get you a simple bag from there." Jordan ducks out of the closet, and into the one beside it, rummaging about for a moment before returning and handing Batiste a nice, fold up bag to keep the clothes in. "This should work." He drops it on the bed.

Jean-Batiste starts folding up the clothes and neatly bundling them into the folding bag, leaving the top hat on his head. He glances back at Trace and nods a little, a weak smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, that's pretty..." he murmurs, voice a bit flat. He looks like he just wants to get out, and get home.

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