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Log Title: Mr. Jones
Log setting: Walker’s house
Log Cast:
Walker
Ben
Trace
Jean-Batiste
Ain
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The windows that can be have been opened to let in autumn's cool breath. The house is clean; cleaner than it's been in ages. Someone's been busy. The droopy cardboard box is no longer under the table, replaced instead by a fuzzy catbed tucked neatly by the television, filled to brimming with four playful and fluffy kittens. Godiva currently is curled away from her busy brood, sharing the throne with Walker who is apparently engrossed in some magazine or other propped on his lap. The light scent of musk clings to the breeze that drifts through the parted curtains in the living room, mingling with the spicey smoke of the raven-haired fellow's cigarette.
"...shoulders are -killing- me..." comes Batiste's voice as the front door opens. Despite the complaint, he sounds cheery and teasing. Sandals scuff against the floor, carrying him into the entry - velcro rips as he crouches and pulls the sandals off. "Remind me how uncomfortable it is to sleep up there, the next time we do it for old times' sake?" The crooked grin is easily audible in his voice, and of course visible to Trace.
"I'll try," Trace murmurs around a faint grin as he follows his friend on inside, "but I think we're doomed t'forget. I mean, so it makes yer back'n shoulders stiff the next morning, but sleepin' in castles is cool. An' yer safe from, um. Y'know, raidin' barbarians an' trolls an' stuff, at least." He continues on down the hall and peeks into the living room, calling out, "Anyone 'round? An' any of Tien's pizza left?"
Walker stuffs the magazine quickly into the pocket of the chair as the sound of voices alert him that he and Godiva (who cares not for magazines save to lay upon) are no longer alone. "Hey," he calls from the throne. "Ain't no pizza left but there's a whole... Um. I think it might be lasagna but it might be veal in th' refridge. Put it there last night so it's still good." Too bad Zachary wasn't able to stay and eat the meal since it was ordered for him but it would certainly not go to waste in Walker's refrigerator. Giving a tiny stretch he sits up a bit to grind out his cigarette, only now noticing how much cat hair is now clinging to the wool of his kilt. Bother. Grey doesn't go well with black, green and purple. "Whatcha been up ta?"
Jean-Batiste looks around the ground floor of the house as he steps into the living-room doorway, lips slightly pursed. So clean. Not -his- work, and surely not all Ben's, either. He smiles, though, and crouches down to hold out a hand for Godiva, who's come stalking all regal-like towards the newcomers. Scritch-worship me. You know you want to. "Been out talking a little, and crashed in the playground for a while..." he murmurs, looking up from the mamakitty though his fingers don't stop scritching. "How about you?" He makes a bit of a face at himself - small talk seems so -wrong-, sometimes.
Ain opens the front door and steps inside.
Ain has arrived.
Ain almost -falls- through the door, only the woodcreak of the saggy porch giving anyone enough warning not to jump out of their skin. In the hallway, he flattens himself against the wall for a second like wolves are after him, and yes, he's even panting slightly, ribs striping damp t-shirt.
How 'bout you. Hm. Well, that's a very interesting question. Walker launches a warm smile - genuine enough - and begins the pointless task of plucking cat hairs from his kilt. "Well..." Might as well go light. "Been workin' on costumes f'Halloween..." That's pretty mundane. And completely looking past the more largely glaring current happenings of the last, oh.. month. Ahem. And there's another commotion at the door; louder than Trace and Bat's entrance. "Who's it?" he calls toward the entry from his position in one of the easy chairs in the living room, not able quite to see from his vantage.
A weak voice,husky-hitching, watered down by humid rain and...something else perhaps? calls back "It's only Ain...."
Indeed, the clean room is something to marvel at. Last time Trace saw it, there was chocolate cake stamped down into the carpet, and smeared on the wall where he'd tried to throw a chunk at Jason and missed. But all that's gone now... Even so, it's not so much a marvel as the fact that there's lasagna in the fridge! So he's already inching back towards the kitchen, but stops when he hears the door open. He looks to Walker briefly, a shrug, then peers back towards the hall he just left. "Hi Ain..." An uncertain greeting, confused by the lackluster in Ain's call. Not that the boy's ever really bright and cheery, but even so, it's a gut feeling.
"Mmn," Batiste replies to Walker, watching the master of the house rather scrutinously. That's pretty mundane, all right. "Yeah?" he murmurs, not wanting to toss the topic totally over his shoulder, not sure how to press to a more meaningful topic. "You-" The sudden arrival of Ain stops him short - still in the living room doorway, he turns to look at the gothboy, expression draining away to something bitter and grey. No surprise, none at all. He's sure he knows where Ain's been, and why he's in such a state, it would seem.
"Hey, Ain..." Walker greets, abandoning the task of hair-plucking in favor of another cigarette and a curious glance toward the hall. "S'up?" Although it's his normal greeting, there's a curious note to it that drives it more into the realm of a true question. Smoke lit he pushes up out of the easy chair to cross the floor, angling for the hall and eventually the kitchen but first a peep at Ain.
Ain takes a few halting steps down the hall, grey eyes fuzzy as those balls of lint you find under the bed. He's even more unsteady than usual, the rain has streaked his kohl to watery black down hollow cheeks. But is it raining out there today? He doesn't seem to notice that Bat is looking at him like he just killed the boy's pet, either he's on something or he's lost part of his brain. "Uh...hi..." he near-whispers to the room at large, head down, hunching his way towards the bathroom.
Trace blinkblinks at Ain, leaning against the wall and peering at him as though assessing the damages. Sigh. Everything's going wrong around here lately; all his friends are freaking out and breaking down. He shakes his head slightly, braids swinging, and picks himself up into a full stand reluctantly and pads on over to Walker. "Ain's messed up'r somethin'," he murmurs. Messanger boy to the queen.
It never rains but it pours returning family members, doesn't it? Just a few minutes behind Ain (and Trace?), it would seem, the door opens to admit a nice dry Ben. Perhaps fall is the end of monsoon season for New Orleans? At least, it's been dry for a full day now. "Hullooo?" his voice drifts, quiet from the hall.
Walker watches the Ain trudge, not quite certain to make of the situation. He seems - apart from being dampish and rather sluggish - fit enough. For Ain, that is. He nips at his lip. Might as well give this a try. "Ya awright, Ain?" He can't -not- ask. He looks mostly okay but if a guy needs something, you know... He pulls on his cigarette, drifting closer to the kitchen side of the hall to deposit his ash in the plastic ashtray on the counter there. And the door opens, depositing Ben. Full house. Maybe he'll have to stoke another fire tonight; it's certainly cooling down enought ot warrant one. Almost. He sends a smile Ben's way, tilting a little to lean against the kitchen doorjamb for the now.
Jean-Batiste leans a shoulder into the doorway, watching Ain hurry off to the bathroom. His mouth pinches up again, and he gets that hard, bright look to his eyes again - Trace would remember it from last night, possibly, should he look Batiste's way. "I wonder," he muses, completely -too- calmly, "if she's going to fuck Jason up next. Or maybe Glass." He looks towards a patch of kitchen floor, staring hard at it, stripping dead skin off his bottom lip with sharp, tense bites.
Ain nods, quick bump of chin-to-chest as he passes Walker, but even that motion, changing his perspective as it must, is enough to stumble him slightly. He catches himself on the doorframe, bony shoulder connecting with a ghastly little crunch of bone on wood, but doesn't even seem to register pain. A minute later and he's darted clumsily into the bathroom, the door pushed shut far less gently than his usual demeanour allows. Unmistakeable sounds then, muffled by the closed door, true, but loud enough for everyone to know...gothboy's losing his lunch. Not that anyone's actually seen him eat many lunches.
Benjamin's turns a warm smile on Walker as well, quite naturally gravitating toward the man's position. Yet at the same time, Ain is trudging off to the darker recesses of the house, Trace looks nervous, and Batiste is downright tense. Maybe discomfort gets passed between family members alternately. "I think Ain made his own choice, though I don't presume to speak for him." Instead of a hello, apparently. He moves to Walker's side, sliding both arms around the man's waist comfortably.
Trace has been playing the old game of trying to get himself into the kitchen and get some food into himself before giving into the junk creature, but as always, it gets more difficult as things get darker and busier and in general harder to deal with. He wipes at his brow and sighs Batiste-wards, "You don't know if it's coz'a *her*..." But his words hold no certainty. Okay. Now get into the kitchen, boy. And he makes a step for it, and just then Ain's muffled, ill sounds reach him and he aborts the movement, slumping against the wall. Who's going to be hungry after that? So... this wall's good. Hang out here til' things go sane again. Ben gets a hopeful half-smile, as he looks over at the older man. Here to cheer up Walker, cure Ain?
"Who she?" The question springs from Walker's dark lips like bread from a toaster at Bat's comment. Everyone else seems to know what 'she' so he wants to know. Fair, yes? Ben's arms around his midsection's a comforting balance to the icky sick sounds from the back bathroom; poor Ain. Never a happy experience, praying to the porcelain gawd. Clearing his throat softly he decides it's up to him to draw attention off the... distraction. Nobody ever wants a bunch of folks standing around listening to their misery. But what to say? Um.. "Y'all gonna need help with Halloween costumes..?" A nice try. Back to that convenient subject; holidays make great excuses for many things.
Thankfully, Batiste isn't one of those sympathetic vomiters. Hell, thankfully -nobody- nearby is. He looks towards the door, plucking at one corner of his bottom lip until it starts to ooze blood - that's enough of a sting to make him stop. While he's sucking the blood away, he looks at Walker, eyebrows slightly raised. You need him to say? "That Ligeia woman. Seems to me everyone she deals with ends up breaking down, puking, or pissing themself." He looks between Walker and Ben, a little tiredly - he's not up to pretending everything is lace-trimmed and hunky-dory - and wanders into the kitchen under the pretense of finding something to drink.
Ever on the alert for signs of discomfort, Ben takes a peek down the hall at the guest bathroom, compassionate dark eyes softening. Poor thing. He squeezes Walker's middle gently, pressing a brief kiss to the smooth cheek. Perhaps, at least between these two, things -are- hunky-dory? Closer to that than stressed and bleak, that's for certain. "I'll go see if Ain's all right," he offers, stepping away only reluctantly. Been away from Walker for hours, after all. But a few more minutes can't hurt too much. Pausing to step out of his shoes, he moves down the hall toward the bathroom door. Soft knock.
Eventually, the gut-twisting noises quiet down to the occasional watery choke, still muffled-audible, but subdued. The trickle of water, louder.
Oh. Well. Reality check. Walker blinks, glancing briefly at Ben as if the man might have Walker's thoughts stored in his hair or something. A brief nod to his suggestion then his attention's back on Bat, distractedly tap-tapping his cigarette against the ashtray's edge. Wait a second... Ain's involved with Ligeia? Fine brows dip down a smidge. "What's he doin' hangin' around with her?" Doesn't quite know the deal there so 'hanging' will have to suffice. Not that Bat would necessarily know but it never hurts to ask..?
Benjamin calls softly, at the bathroom door, "Ain? You all right? I can get you some Pepto if you want." Pink settling goo always does the trick for him, at least. Let him help? He's practically chomping at the bit to help. Not to mention maybe have a moment or two of quiet, warning conversation with the watery goth.
Trace unplasters himself from the wall and follows Batiste on into the kitchen slowly. He just loiters about for a momemt. Opens the fridge. Ick, lasagna. It's all mushy, and there's that kinda liquid stuff at the bottom of the container from the refridgeration. Ain's sounds of being sick replay in his mind. He wrinkles his nose and closes the container. He paws through the foodstuffs, his hand lingering on a very old tub of marshmallow creme in the back of the fridge. Very nearly takes it out, but reconsiders wisely. That's been in there HOW long? Bat got it for him months and months ago... He doesn't think to throw it out though, just closes the fridge. Bleh. Food sucks. He sighs and looks to Batiste, murmuring with defeat, "I'll be back, okay? Goin' upstairs a sec." He locks an entirely fickle pleading gaze on Batiste. Don't ask me to stay. Wait, ask me. Take care of me. Nevermind, I need to get out of here. Please understand. He glances skittishly out towards the living room.
Jean-Batiste pulls out the water-jug, and pours himself a glass, drinking down half of it before he puts it down. He lightly hip-checks the fridgedoor shut and looks to Trace as he waffles and starts skittering away. Before he goes too far, he reaches out, catching a couple braids and a bony shoulder for a squeeze-rub. "See you in a bit," he murmurs, watching the blue-haired boy move away with dark, flat eyes. Once the hurried footsteps sound on the staircase, he looks back to Walker and murmurs, "I thought maybe you would know why he's there, actually." He shrugs a little, restlessness tightening up his motions, making them edgy and too-taut. "That Tiens guy stopped by, the other night. Said something about him being part of her harem."
Baby-Niagara noise as the toilet flushes, made louder by the tension in the air, disruptive. Porcelain-plastic mutter of someone sitting on the lid, then a click as the doorlock unsnicks itself.
Trace drudges up a grateful smile for Batiste and then ducks his head and hurries out of the kitchen, past the others, head low as he makes no excuse for his abrupt retreat and meets no gazes. Thump, thump, thump up the steps, and then soft creaks of the old house's second story floorboards as the youth pads about upstairs. Then just silence.
Benjamin turns the handle carefully, pushing the bathroom door open a hair. Whew. He pauses for a couple of moments and lets the distinctive aroma dissipate, then slides through. Precious little room in there for two, but he and Ain manage. The door is open just enough to muffle their conversation.
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