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Log Title: No Excuse

Log setting: Trace’s fort in the playground

Log Cast:
Trace
Jason

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It wasn't until TooFar hurried off that Trace clambered up to brave the mattress and lie next to you silently for awhile. He is still slightly feverish, warm and slightly unpleasant to touch, so he keeps a few inches between himself and you. One hand reaches out to cross the distance and ruffle at your reddish fuzz, a little smile slipping onto pale lips. Glassy eyes search your face. "Missed you," he says softly. "S'been lonely."

Jason had flopped onto his back, arms folded under his head, upon TF's departure. He does /not/ look happy. About anything. Even your fond, ruffling touch was only received with a faint smile that's aimed at the ceiling. Oh, the thoughts are certainly going in his head. Not good thoughts. Really BAD thoughts, actually. And none of them have to do with monsters. At least, not the ones you were talking about. "Yeah, well..." He murmurs softly. "Was lookin' fer ya all last night." After a long stare at that ceiling, he turns his hed slightly and searches your glassy-gaze. That look that you got flashed when you first came in is back. Only it's not leaving again. There's no more afterglow to this kid, cuz he's feeling like he's about to... Well. He's just not feeling well all of a sudden. Damn, monsters musta disturbed him or something.

"Y'were..?" Trace hushes softly, brows lifting a little. Took comfort in that, perhaps. "Wish ya'd found me." Eyes are lowered, and the hand that had ruffled at you now slips down to trace along the smooth block lettering of the DemonBoy shirt, spelling it out across your chest with his fingertips. His breath hitches once, with fear maybe, and he whispers, "I... slipped, Jason." The movements at your chest slowing. He's not meeting your gaze now, even if you're still searching him so intently. How could he? Terrible shame clouds his eyes. Yeah, so it's got him slightly sick now. It's nothing, really. He's endured so much worse than this, lighter than a common flu. That's not the true punishment. It's *this*, this right here, telling you and feeling like scum. "Only a little, a taste. But doan matter, still. I-I'm so sorry, Jason. I jest, I didn't wanna... hide it from you. It seemed worse that way."

He so wishes he didn't know it the moment you came in. It'd almost be better getting the shock all at once instead of knowing deep down and spending the last hour denying it to himself while at the same time speculating just how long you were lying to him. Yet still, Jason can't seem to find his breath. Nothing's going right right now. All his little illusions are crumbling again. Those searching green eyes still stare at you... but that's it. It's like there's nothing behind them for long, still moments. Like Jason's spirit had fled and left this hollow, lifeless shell behind. If only it were so easy... His senses come back with his breath, in a painful rush. "Do you got any on you?" he asks very quietly, almost coldly, still unmoving from when he looked over at you. It's... it's not that he's actually being cold, but... he's gotta protect himself, withdraw, or else... or else something bad might happen. If you look up again, you'll see in his eyes that you've lost something. Something that he was fighting /so/ hard to keep for you during all this hell since leaving Walker's place, during those long nights when you didn't join him in the corner of Caddy's cramped apartment. You lost an essential little piece of his trust.

"No," Trace whispers, voice unsteady with emotion, and shakes his head a little. "No, no... I was so ashamed, Jason, so sorry." And yet he saw that golden piece of trust, saw it fly from your eyes, and says finally, "But I want you to search me anyway. So there's no doubt. Please." He rolls over onto his back now, arms lifting to gesture at the many pockets and then are let to fall above his head where they can't interfere. He lays himself down before you, already at your mercy. "I din' wanna say nothin' with TooFar around. And y'know... I could claim emptiness or sorrow or grief, even my own lifelong... weakness, but it's not -- it's not worth it, claimin' anythin'. There's never a good excuse for somethin' like this." He pulls in a miserable sigh and closes weary eyes. "Jest search me."

This... hurts. It's almost a shock to Jason's system how much it hurts, making this decision. A decision that twists him all up and wrings him out and leaves nothing but that pain behind. Will he search you or not. The redhead turns his head back so that he's staring at the ceiling once again and there's a long silence, with no sign of the internal debate that wars deep within his soul. Not on his face, not in his body, not even in his breathing. Just... silence. But then he slowly sits up and looks at you once again, still without a word. You can't read his eyes, he won't let you. You ca-... The violence with which the emotions twist his face surprises even him, the tears seeming to come from nowhere as he leans over and runs his hands up along the insides of your legs, searching for your kit. He knows he's not going to find anything, but... he has no choice anymore.

A whimper of protest hits his adam's apple and strangles there as you start to cry, as reach for that place, which reveals nothing but flesh and threadbare denim as suspected. The blue-haired boy finally chokes out, "N-no Jason," for he didn't expect that. Thought you'd go for pockets. "I din' shoot it. It was only a taste, I wouldn't..." He looks away quickly, jaw clenched against a sob that heaves his chest once. A cruel nursery rhyme flits through his head, bathroom wall poetry with black-slashed letters. Junkie, junkie, who am I? Kiss the needle, make them cry. Lock her in a hazy shell, and he kept her numb and well. "I'm sorry," he whispers. Everybody slips, Bat had said. And here Jason hadn't wanted to believe that as fiercely as Trace himself. How heartbreaking. "You aren't going to -- t-to forgive me this, are you." One of the raised arms fumbles to wipe at his running nose, and brush away tear rivers. "Even if I swear to you now I ain't ever touchin' it again." A helpless plea "Tell me what to say!"

As foolish as it was, Jason fervently wanted to believe you the one exception from the 'everybody slips' rule. Cuz, really, it is a rule. Cuz everyone does. Jason sees them everyday actually. People who came out of prison clean and, within hours even, were shooting up. Even seen a couple fall from the 'respectable' lives they somehow salvaged. And he knew that, really, when it came down to it, himself alone wasn't much of a deterrant. But still, he believed. That's why it hurts so much as he starts to feel your pockets. Because he /wasn't/ enough. Shaking, yet gentle fingers prod the pouches up to your knees, but that's about as far as he can bring himself to go before the shaking and the tears just get too much. He can't see, he can't touch... and you're crying and it hurts because there /isn't/ anything you can say, as much as he wants there to be. "If-f..." he whispers, a tear dripping off his chin to fall on your leg. "If I f-fergive you th-th..." He swallows hard, green eyes unable to find yours, then continues with his voice temporarily under control. "If I fergive you this, then I'll hafta next time. 'N the time after that." It's resentment that forces him to say that... But it's also the truth as his heart sees it. You don't know what a situation you've put him in here... Because he /wants/ to cry and hold you and forgive you everything, but he /can't/. He /has/ to be the bad guy. Just like that week in the apartment. And he hates it with a passion.

Trace breaks down into sobs at your words, at your own collapse, and his arms curl up around his face to muffle it. Stays like that a few moments, but finally when he can unwind the slender arms and get words past his clenched and gasping throat he pleads, "You c-cain't do that t'me, Jason. That's.... that's what they did tuh us, Walker'n Ben... Tossed us out on one mistake. Please, doan' lose all faith in me, please. Jason, yer faith's what's carried me this far. Ah'm lost without you, swear t'God ah am...Y'cain't.." He goes incomprehsible after that, turning his face away towards the tunnel exit. Finally, whispered, "Ah slipped, but ah ain't fallen. Ah still wanna be yers."

Jason looks away at that comparison to Ben and Walker, the line of his jaw hardening. With your last words, he could compare you to Batiste. Because you knew how he'd react, but you still did it - even though you /seem/ like you were planning on telling him when you saw him. But he won't do that to you, he doesn't want to make this even worse. "All those nights ya was gone an' I stayed up thinkin' ya was shootin' up..." He shakes his head, wiping harshly at his cheeks with the back of his hand. "What'm I supposed ta think if I don' know where the fuck ya are?" Not only the bad guy, but a controlling Nazi babysitter at that. The boy still shivers, even though he's trying to get himself back together. Don't you see that he /wants/ to forgive you? But how can he?

Okay, there's some big differences between Trace and Batiste. If there weren't, Trace's arguement would have been more along the lines of 'well, I have this theory about being 'clean' and doing some junk now and then, and besides, the only real problem here was that you found out.' And you know, he probably would have tried to cover it up for months and months, rather than telling you the first moment you both were alone. But, anyway. "So shackle me," Trace whispers. "Do whatever the fuck you want. Jest don't give up on me as lost." A desperate hand reaches out timidly to reach you, brush at your salt-streaked cheeks, his hazel eyes full of plea and clingy tears. "I ain't ready fer my freedom. I ain't strong 'nuff. No more me not comin' home without you knowin' why, okay? An no more you goin' way."

Okay, yeah, there's also that little problem: that it really does take two to make this work. Once Jason had reasoned away his fears of you not coming 'home,' he'd started staying out all night (or for several nights) himself, just because he'd be stuck somewhere or something and didn't feel like staying awake (before he'd always planned to make it back). But now he has to curtail that freedom to keep an eye on you. But... "When did I ever say I thought you was lost, Trace?" he suddenly asks fiercely, fingers of one hand digging into his own arm. Harsh, tear-bright eyes flash on you for an instant, almost challenging. The tears come again just as suddenly as the look, but this time he finally allows himself to touch you, fingers stroking your cheek. That's when his face just shatters and he falls against you, gathering you up in his arms and sobbing softly with his cheek pressed against yours, tears mingling with yours. "/Why?/" he gasps softly into your ear as he holds you tightly to him. "Just... /why?/" And all he can think about is if he only /found/ you last night. If only he'd been there... This is his fault.

"There is no why," Trace whimpers softly, but there's no strength in his voice at all and he's too close to tears again. With an effort, the emotion is pulled back in. He pets at you, nuzzles with wet cheeks, needy and scared at the thought of losing you to the point that he needs the tactile reassurance. As he gathers his breath and courage, finally the boy continues, with more steadiness, but no less plea. "There is no why. There is no thought, in a moment like that. It's all... need and disease. It's a disease, Jason. I couldn't think of things like guilt and shame and love and trust, not til' after, after I'd failed. It's not like... you didn't love me enough, or I didn't love you enough. It ain't about that. And s'how it's gonna be when I fuck up and get myself in a... a situation. It's gonna be like that, so all I kin' do is... is be careful not to be in a situation. To understand I can't handle it yet, and that someday'll come when I... when I *can*, but it's not here yet and til' then I need to watch myself, and let myself be watched, to not fuck up again and be safe." He goes silent after that, and this time thoughts of his own unbathed aroma or your own passion's scent cannot keep him from clinging to you, even in sleep.

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