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Title: Opportunities

Log Setting: Beight's Motel, the third day.

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Trace

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During the obscenely early hours of morning, long before a healthy amount of sleep was gleaned, Batiste slips quietly out of the motel room and away. He slips out often for a breath of fresh air, or a cigarette and a few quiet thoughts - like he's often teased, he thinks too much. This time, he's gone for about two or three hours. By the time he returns, unlocking the door with as much stealth as possible, morning has struck full-force, sunshine beating at the heavy motel drapes to force in a dusty golden glow.

Trace is still curled on the bed where he fell asleep last night, though his position is comically shifted so that he's nearly a full quarter turned and his toes dangle off one side of the bed. Must have tossed around quite a bit. As per usual, he has an arm draped over his eyes, though they do serve him now if only to shield his eyes from the glow filtering past the dirty drapes.

Jean-Batiste squints against the comparative darkness, stuffing the motel key into his pocket with a quiet jangle. His boots get kicked off carefully into the coat closet - thumpdethump - and he starts to move towards the table. This would be easier if he'd remembered the easels were folded up with their legs sticking out slightly. Stumble-clatter-hophophop. "Ouch, fuck," he whisper-curses, glaring back at the offending piece of art supply, hopping on one foot.

Trace comes awake with a start when you knock the easel over, sitting partially upright with a gasp. He blinks at the dim room and croaks groggily, "...Batiste..?" Knuckling hard at his eyes with one hand, he pushes himself up further with the other, trying to extract himself from the perspiration-damp bedsheets beneath him. "What're'y doin...?" He peers at you as you hop about, eyes confused and drowsy, cracked open just slightly.

"Sorry...didn't mean to wake you up...I'm sorry. I tripped over the easel, I forgot I put it there last night..." Batiste apologizes profusely, hopping his way to the edge of the bed and leaning over to push the easel back into its proper lean against its companion. Next - a stern toe-rubbing given to the offending foot. Ouch. Once he's finished that, he looks back at you and murmurs, "I'm really sorry...how're you feeling?" He looks...well, Batiste-y. Thoughtful, pensive, a little shy. Something's on his mind, as usual.

"Ffff..." Trace lets out a breath through partially pursed lips. "Like hell.." He tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes and crosses his arms tight, gripping either side of his arms just above the elbow. He complains with a grumble and something near a smile, "But... I mean... what're ya doing? Stumbling around.. should be in bed still, doof. S'what bed's're for's mornings and layin' in 'em.." Though he doesn't seem too inclined to lie back down himself.

Jean-Batiste climbs onto the corner of your bed, tucking his legs up beneath him, fingers wrapping around his ankles. He smiles at you a little, crooked and concerned. "You're doing okay," he says - as if he needs to remind you of the fact. "And...well, I couldn't sleep, so I went out for a walk for a while. Got back to my roots." He flutters his eyelashes a couple of times, then rolls his eyes and grins again. "I ran across that Ayita woman again, the one with the dagger, remember her?" Rather hard to forget her, really, but you just woke up and all.

Trace's sleep-blurred eyes clear a little, and he gives a slow nod. "Yeah... yeah, 'course. Go on..?"

"Well..." Batiste glances towards Jason for a second, then looks back to you, lowering his voice just a little. "We talked for a little while. About the mural we did. And...well, she asked me if we did any other work that was more permanent, 'cause..." He pauses here, to remember the words - were they real? a fever dream? - and grin at you. "She says she has a friend who runs a gallery, who might want our pictures. Can you believe that?"

The blue-haired kid just stares blankly for a moment, then it seems to register, and he uncurls his tense arms just slightly. "She said... You mean, like... so work of ours, it's gonna hang up someplace where people look 'n everythin'?" He licks dry lips, and adds softly, "And.. like people who look to buy sometimes, if they like it...?

Jean-Batiste nods so slightly that his braids barely shift against his cheeks. His mouth twitches at one corner, as if he's about to laugh or cry. "Yeah," he replies, barely a whisper.

"If you're pulling my leg, I swear to god, Batiste..." Trace breathes, and then shakes his head. "No. No, I know you better, you mean it. This.. this is too wild," Trace whispers, keeping his eyes locked with yours now. "I mean.. I mean, god, look at so much that's gone right, so much luck.. It scares me, it's not gonna last, but geezus..." A tiny grin stretches on his pale, dry lips. "We gotta pounce on all this while the luck IS good, y'know? Oh god, this is *too* wild..." he repeats. "How can this be true?"

Jean-Batiste doesn't look away from you either, his dark eyes wide and shining from within. A gallery. A -gallery-. Artists, -real- artists, have pictures in galleries. As the grin starts to spread across your face, its mirror blossoms on his, spreading quicker and fuller. "I swear, Trace, I -swear- it...I had to ask her twice to make sure I heard it right. I told her I'd talk to you about it, and we'd get back to her, but..." He doesn't even bother finishing - he just knew that your reaction was going to be this way. "I don't know why things are going so well. And I know it can't last, too, but...I think we just deserved some good luck for a while, you know? I really do. Fate, or karma, or something. Maybe it's our fifteen minutes of fame."

Jean-Batiste gestures a little towards the piles of art supplies. "And now we can make something permanent. And show it to Ayita, and she can take it to her friend at the gallery, and..." He stops, suddenly breathless, heart racing in his throat. He just grins crazily at you.

"Oh no, we... we're gonna make this last longer'n fifteen minutes. Least' a half-hour." He giggles a little. Maybe he feels physically like hell, but suddenly his heart is soaring with possibilites and inconceivable prospects. "Oh, god..." He just can't help it, he leans forward and catches you in a quick, fierce hug that's released just a few heatbeats after it began. "How's this happening?" he asks with feverish, intense eyes. "Oh, these pictures, they've gotta be something. Something magic, Batiste. We gotta blow 'em all away, we can't dare waste this..!"

Jean-Batiste laughs softly, a warm little gust of air, and hugs you back just as fiercely while he can, grinning at you with a manic, hectic glitter in his own eyes. "I don't -know- how it's happening, I just know that it -is-...it's just..." He laughs softly, and shakes his head. "It's just happening. And we can't waste it, you're right. We've gotta keep creating magic." He reaches out and squeezes your shoulder for just a second. "We can do it. I know we can."

Trace nods his head eagerly, "Yeah... Yeah, we'll be real artists. And then, we'll draw on the sidewalk and pictures of it'll show up in art magazines... and then, then they'll rip the concrete out just to put the concrete on display!" He laughs with glee at the idea, even if he knows he's stretching it a bit. It feels *good* to stretch it out, because you do that with dreams, and that's what this still feels like. His laughter brings a healthy color to his pale, slick cheeks. "This is all I ever wanted! What's happening, all this... A place, and the two of you to share it with, and for people to look at me and never again go, oh look, he's begging but at least he entertains... to really, truly be an artist... That's it, right there!"

There's no real way to describe Batiste's smile and do it justice. It's one of those shining-eyed, quietly radiant smiles that's like a dog-ear on a much loved book, a place to look back on later and think, 'Remember this? This was really good, right here...' and remember again and again. "It's just...so perfect. So...good, so right. Like everything's falling into place." His radiant smile suddenly changes back to a manic grin, and he adds, "And then you'll leave me in the dust, when you finally admit to being a -poet-, too..."

"Oh, stop!" Trace grins, tugging at a handful of braids to drag you closer and insist. "I'm not a poet, alright?! I hate to write things down! It never comes out right in words, except little teeny phrases maybe scrawled into the picture..." He giggles and releases your braids. "So nobody's gonna leave anybody be--" He stops abruptly, and there's a sudden change in his sunny expression. He glances over, to the other bed and the boy sprawled there. Then back to you concernedly. "Jason..."

"Ow-ow-ow..." Batiste insists, though not out of any real pain - it's just something you're supposed to say when someone else grabs your hair. He flops over towards you onto his side, head propped in his hand, and grins up at you. "Even if you hate writing things down, you're -still- a poet. You're so good with words. Your poetry just goes into your art, that's all." His grin abruptly pauses as well - he looks over at Jason, and sighs softly but deeply. "We'll find him a new instrument," he says decisively, looking back to you.

"Something...something good. Even if it has to wait until we've done Walker's mural. And next time we draw, we'll let him start the music first, and then we'll draw whatever the music tells us to. So people see it's the three of us, not just two. I think...he just feels like he's not as important, or something, maybe? I know it's silly, but...maybe we just need to remind him, somehow. Do something special for him."

"Next time we draw in Jackson Square," Trace vows, "It's him, and we'll draw as background. Let 'im know, too, he'll love it. We'll tell him he'll be... like our conductor, and we'll draw what we take from his music." He yawns and curls his arms around himself again, still grinning, and trying not to let his cramps eat at his sudden incredibly good spirits. It's not a difficult task. "Real artists, Batiste." He still just glows. "Hold on tight, the world's spinnin' faster suddenly..." The boy laughs again. "And I plan to ride this 'long as I can!"

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