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Log Title: Out
Log setting: Walker’s house
Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Trace
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Home sweet home. Even though it was -his- idea to go out for a walk, Batiste seems mighty relieved to be home again. He closes the door behind the two of you, makes sure it's secure, then leans against it for a moment, just smiling slightly at you. He looks a bit odd - something in his eyes, maybe. Intensely thoughtful, almost scrutinous. He reaches out and tousles one of your braids, without saying a word.
Trace is feeling pretty haggard by the time he gets back to Walker's place, but tries to shrug it off and grope for distractions. He talks excessively for much of the beginning home, rambling on about how weird that girl was, to take pictures of them out of no where, and how odd that old man was, and where did Jason go anyway? More about Jordan and Ben, some about Ayita and her gallery, and where's Ayita been lately anyway? On and on... But by the time he's nearing Moss st itself, he's getting quieter. Once inside the home, with the doors locked, he's just as glad for it as you. He rubs at the moisture on the back of his neck, unsticking braids. At your ruffling his braids, he smiles a little, but stays quiet. Leans into it a little.
Jean-Batiste's ruffling switches to a gentle petting. Soothing, or so he hopes for. He just leans there, returning your faint almost-smile with one of his own, petting sweat-damp braids, for several minutes before he asks, "How long since you fixed? You're looking a little rough." He hesitates, glancing around as if eavesdroppers might suddenly appear, and asks, "Did you cut back again?" Another thought suddenly flashes into his brain, and he asks, "You're not out, are you?"
"Yeah," Trace mumbles, looking down at his toes with a flush, then up at you. "Yeah, m'out." In his near-black eyes war anxiousness and stubbornness. Because this is the worst thing, of *course* he has money. What's he been doing all this time, after all? "But I can't, I mean, the money's for..." A soft sigh, and he shakes his head. "D'wanna dig deeper." His lips purse. Almost plaintive.
And MommyBat gives way to SuperBat...maybe. Because the little accountant that lives in his head and is partially responsible for the pensive looks that are normal for him don't just tally groceries and utilities when he's coming up with the bills. There's a little category listed there for junk, too. He steps forward, and wraps you up in a loose, warm hug for a second, murmuring near your temple, "I have some. You can use it. C'mon." He squeezes tighter for a second, then releases you, fingers reaching for yours to lead you to the staircase.
Trace holds on tight while Batiste's in hugging range, and at the murmured miracle, he pulls back and his eyes blink wide. "Y-you mean..." Clammy fingers clutch at yours eagerly, and he squeezes and murmurs, wetting his lips carefully before speaking, "Mean y'have some money I kin use, 'r...?" Hopeful, intent eyes snag yours as he glances over, the beginnings of a smile brushing the corners of his mouth.
Jean-Batiste looks back at you, giving you a crooked grin. "I -always- have money you can use," he murmurs. "You know that. But you wouldn't let me give you any." He backsteps to the base of the spiral staircase, then gives you another braid-tousling. Just a very brief one, because he knows, for good or ill, your thoughts are likely thoroughly coloured by the junkmonster right now. "I have some junk," he murmurs, turning as he starts to climb the stairs. "I still snort a little, sometimes." But it's not a habit. And he can quit whenever he wants.
Oh, it clearly didn't have to be brief, because once he's over his surprised relief-rush, Trace leaps up a few steps to squash you in an awkward, tense-limbed hug from behind. "Thank you..." He breathes. "Thank you, thank you." And then he releases you. Upstairs, yes. He trails after you up the stairs and murmurs wonderingly, "Why didn't ya tell me...? Why not do it together?" He doesn't understand the concept of not wanting someone to fix with. Alone, it's so... lonely sometimes. With someone else, it becomes normal. It can even become a giggling mini-party, or a matter of kind whispers and intimacy. But alone, it's easier to feel shame. Feed your head, Alice.
You head up the steep stairs.
Upstairs - Grey House
Jean-Batiste, ever a sucker for hugs, turns around mid-step and wraps you up again, smiling faintly down at you. "You're welcome," he murmurs. "I promised I'd take care of you, remember? Doesn't mean I can keep a steady supply of white flowing, or nothing..." Like -that- would be at all conducive to your eventual kicking. "...but I don't want to see you in a pinch, neither." He kisses the crown of your head and adds, "My money is your money. All of it. Remember that, okay?" He tousles your braids, then draws back and continues the rest of the way up the stairs. As he steps, he murmurs, "Because...because I just do it, sometimes. Just...I don't know. It's not the same as when we share. I don't know how to explain it." He steps onto the landing, and reaches for you again, restless, greedy for more contact.
Trace comes when you reach for him, because right now you're his savior, his faithful, loving protector who's going to rescue him from junkmonsters and sickness this time. Such a real, tangible thing to be frightened of... But now it'll be okay. He chatters gratefully once in your arms again, with little care to how pitiful his words sound. "Batiste, thank you... I was so not looking forward to tonight, woulda been sooo sick... it'd been nearly two whole days, I can't handle two days..." He sighs with relief and nestles his chin down agaisnt your neck as he hugs tight.
"You're welcome. You're welcome," Batiste murmurs, rearranging his arms around your shoulders and holding you close. He rests his head against yours, and smiles at the distant walls. Content. He lingers there selfishly for a long while, before reluctantly disentangling and heading for his backpack. "Get everything set up?" he asks you, as he crouches down and starts to rummage through the pack's contents. "I'll share some with you. I could..." No, he can't bring himself to say he could -use- some. "It'd be nice to share with you. It's been a long time since we have." Ah. There. A little tiny baggie, with a little tiny amount left inside, rather reminiscent of the 'brown sugar' the two of you shared for the first time, back in the fort.
"Alright," Trace nods, and he's grinning now, grinning broadly. "Alright, we'll share. I'd really like that too." He darts about the room gathering all the necessities. A fond, lamenting sigh for his nearly defeated candle, the very same one he bought from the mini-mart that first night they stayed in the motel. But there's enough candle left for tonight's purposes, and several more to come, if they aren't silly enough to leave it burning tonight. Soon he's got his works resting on the floor beside him, and fumbles with the lighter. It's decided to be difficult, this plastic bic. But finally the shriveled black wick catches. He reaches for the spoon, fidgeting, and runs his finger and thumb along the curve before murmuring, "How much we doin'..?"
Jean-Batiste crosses over to you and settles down cross-legged beside you, knees and shoulders bumping, and hands the baggie over. A pretty pitiful amount left - a little snort here, and a touch there, and just a little to get him through the morning will whittle reserves down pretty quick. Enough for the both of you, if you empty it completely -and- Batiste doesn't take his full share. Which he of course will refuse to do. "Is that enough?" he murmurs. "I only want half of what you take, though. Will that leave enough for you?" He smiles down at the candle for a second, blowing gently at it to make the flame dance, then murmurs to you, "We can snuggle up, and I can do you, then myself, and just lay around and talk after. I'd like that a lot."
Trace does calculations in his head as he looks at the little packet, weighing it. Split it three ways, give Bat one of the three... maybe the kid was rotten at highschool math, but junk math is different. 1/32? That's all he wants? And 1/16 for him, one spoon. And that totals Batiste's stash. God... He looks at the packet. On a binge night, like the night of the Evil Staircase, or last week with Glass, he could finish off this much brown on his own. But this doesn't have to be a night about getting stoned, it can just be about getting well and content... He looks up at you, torn, and murmurs, "That sounds... really good, the talking, and... yeah. Yeah." He nods, but adds softly, "Sure ya wanna do it this way? I could go half with you and be fine..." He says it uncertainly, and chews at his lip.
"No," Batiste replies, his murmur completely certain to try and quell your uncertainty. "You take what you need, and I'll take the rest. Just leave me enough to feel it, okay?" Sprawled out, content and lazy and warm, junk melting his bones from the inside out, with an equally content friend nearby to tangle up with and chatter dreamily...if that was the sort of image you could taste, Batiste's mouth would be watering like a St. Bernard's. He grins a little, and playfully nudges your shoulder. "So, c'mon. Hurry up." He's not antsy, per se, but a little nervous. Shy's a better way to describe it, maybe.
It doesn't take long. When Trace sets up, it's always neat and efficient, even with anxiously trembling hands, able to steady them when it matters. He cooks up a mix out of the whole bag, and filters carefully, this being street brown. "Easier to pull out what ya need, shoot, pull again, and shoot," he explains quietly, parting with junkie words of wisdom for no apparant reason, because he starts to draw up his share himself very carefully. "Stoppin' a plunger half-way on its way going down is harder... " He doesn't quite give himself a full spoon. He *does* want Bat to feel it. What fun would that be, otherwise? Doing junk, it's full of moments of selfishness, hiding parts of your stash, nipping from friends shamelessly. But another part of having a bloodbrother is rising above all that... "There. That's 'nuff for me." He strikes out the air and hands over the syringe to you carefully before tugging up his right sleeve. "Alright," he breathes, as though reassuring himself.
From downstairs, the door opens and soft rustling is heard from the hall.
Hiding parts of your stash, nipping from friends shamelessly, beating on eachother for that last fix...it's worse than throwing one steak down into a pack of starving dogs, really. Batiste just nods a little to your words, eyes upon the needle as it's carefully filled. He considers the remaining amount, then nods again. "Okay," he murmurs, shuffling over to snuggle into your side with extreme care. He wraps his arms around you, and quickly ties off your arm, checking the tension half a dozen times before he's willing to trust it. He looks down at your arm, then to the needle's tip, and licks his bottom lip. "This might take a couple tries..." he murmurs, as if you wouldn't know. As gentle as if you were made of blown glass, he supports your arm and starts trying to find a good vein hidden amongst the pinpricks and track-marks. "There? There? How about-no. There?"
Trace is huddled next to Batiste, as the older boy carefully searches up and down Trace's marked, scarred right arm for a good vein to sink the needle into. The boy doesn't look well at all, worse off than he was when Walker left with Ben to go dancing. A blend of stomach-fluttering anticipation and frustration that locks his jaw up tight and clenched. So far at each little, ultra-careful experimental prick Trace has given a single, sharp shake of his head. No... no, not there.... He reaches up and rests a gentle hand on Batiste's, halting him for a moment and then touching a spot further down. "Here, try 'round here... All that up there's collapsed.. Cashed." He watches the needle's point carefully, but at someone's entrance downstairs, he stiffens, sitting up a little startled and nearly jabs himself with it most likely. Intent as Trace is on this little ritual taking place, he parcels away most of his attention and listens... Walker, he decides. Whew. Could have been much worse; could have been Jason. Not that he has superior hearing or anything of the sort, but he's lived here long enough to know that Jason typically makes much *less* noise than Walker. Plus, the stereo almost instantly flips on. A glance to Batiste that easily reads 'Please, *please* continue... "There. Try there." He jabs at a promising spot. See the desperate wildman Trace hunt the elusive vein...
Batiste shifts a little, very carefully, and adjusts you in the circle of his arm before continuing. He lets out quiet, soft sighs with each failed attempt, but impatience never seems to collect in his hand or motions. "No? Okay... How about-okay." And so it goes, until you halt him and guide him down to a more probable site. He draws the needle back sharply when you jump, whispering, "Whoa, hey!" The same tense, waiting silence as you - is it Jason? Is it? Relief softens his limbs as the stereo comes on, and he turns his attention back to you. Finally, far further down your arm than he wishes he had to be, the needle slips in somewhere welcoming. At last. He looks up sidelong to your face for confirmation before pushing the plunger and gently sliding the needle out, one finger against your forearm where the blood beads up. Takes care of everything but having the actual high for you...or at least he tries.
Trace's breath gently hitches and he holds it the entire time, as the gold-brown mix is pushed out of the barrel and into his arm. He tugs quickly at the tourniquet and waits, an eternity of six or seven seconds... Then he lets out the held breath and and breathes in another, deeply, a slow gasp as he rocks back against you. He tips his head back and breathes, "Ohh.." Rapt. Not so much the amount, but of course if you wait until you're sick for it, it's going to feel so good... He closes his eyes and whimpers, "Batiste. Oh, I love you. Thank you." He curls against you, turning a little to duck his head and burrow, slow nuzzles. A nudge with his nose, and he murmurs, "Mmmnn... Go on. Catch up with me."
Batiste sets the needle down for a moment, and draws his finger off the needle-prick, popping it into his mouth to clean it off as he usually does. Reflex. A few seconds later, he just chuckles softly and slowly draws you into a deep, slow embrace, chin against your shoulder. One of those lazy hugs where getting into it is as fun as recieving the actual embrace. "Feels good?" he murmurs, smiling. He just snuggles with you for a few long moments, then untwines only enough to turn his attention to drawing the remaining junk into the needle. He ties himself off awkwardly, and spends a few moment poking his arm before slipping the needle in and shooting himself up. The needle gets pushed off to the side, the tourniquet tossed there as well, and then he's back to enjoy the languid, melting embrace. He shivers once, mumbling, "Mmmnuh," but is otherwise silent for several minutes.
Trace is still a moment too, so warm and wrapped in sudden comfort. Cramps melt away so quickly. His shoulders had been often hunched, muscles flexed and rigid with most movement, but now he sags against you and lets all tension melt away. Silent, just slow, peaceful breathing... You might even mistake him for sleeping, but after a moment he shifts and reaches up to wrap clumsy fingers around soft blonde braids and then continue on down so that the almost grip becomes more a caress with the back of his hand, against your cheek, and he cranes his head to look up at you and smile. Sparkly hazel eyes. They're not swallowed up by junk-hungry black pupils any longer... "You feel good?" he murmurs, fond but uncertain too. "Didn't leave ya too little...?"
Batiste makes some quiet, pleased sound, and nuzzles into your braid-petting hand with a drowsy grin. He doesn't open his eyes again until you crane your head and look up at him, then smiles down serenely at you. "Mmmn?" he wonders. "Oh. Yeah. I feel just fine. Promise." He grins down knowingly at you, and squirms one hand free to beep the tip of your nose. "Didn't want to dose myself out all the way, anyways. This is..." He stretches just a little, to remind himself of the melty limbs that are his legs, sighing deeply. "Great." He rubs his cheek against yours, trying to snuggle even closer. "Blood brother," he mumbles happily, content.
"Blood brother..." Trace says the word like he's trying it out to be certain it still fits. Yes... A relieved sigh. Bitterness over past sacrelidge must have melted away right with all his cramps and tension. He curls in close to you, clinging as tight as possible for one who's only got jelly for bones at the moment. "Hey Batiste," he wonders muffledly, unwilling to move away from your added warmth. "Tell me... 'bout yer first time. Was it amazing..?" Then a slow giggle as he clarifies, "N' I don't mean sex."'.
Batiste giggles softly with you, giving your cheek a little nudge. "Good. 'Cause you probably wouldn't wanna hear 'bout my first time of that." He grins softly, and drops back into a long silence, musings distracted and swirled around by the junksong. "First time I shot up, it was...heh." He chuckles quietly. "It was pretty bad, actually. It was at this party at a friend of Marco's, only about a month after I got kicked out. I was really drunk, and I went into the bathroom, and there was this guy in there, just about to fix, right? He asked me if I wanted some, and I figured what the hell, so I said sure. And it was just really bad shit, I guess. I was -so- sick..." He shakes his head a little, remembering. "Pins and needles, puking, everything. Marco had to carry me home. I wouldn't touch it again until Marco scored some white and made me try it again, so I could see how good it could be." Good friends share their addictions, see? He muses again for a long while, then wonders, "Why? What was it like for you? Was it really good?"
Through the fuzzywarm psychologicical blanket he's wrapped up in, Trace still seems to listen intently, sitting up a little to watch you. Just the slightest concern in his eyes, but it barely touches him. His every-expressionate face is smooth, unruffled, as he says softly, "Promise me you won't ever fix again when you're real drunk? Please? You could die that way, Batiste. You could choke on yer sick an' die..." He touches your face, the tinest sad smile. "Everybody gets sick the first time. Didn't the guy tell ya? Sometimes the second time too. Dunno. Didn't matter to me, I was prepared for gettin' sick.... It was still good. Hunched over the toilet an' it still felt really, really good..." He shakes his head a little. "I chased my first. Nipped it off the guy I was livin' with... Friend 'a mine. He's back in town, y'know. I just.. I wanted to try it an' he wouldn't let me. He was always smart about things... Always chased. Always kept two or three days between, or sometimes he'd drop a whole week..." A little shake of his head, the slightest frown. "Well, that's all changed now, but back when I crashed at his place, that's how he did it." He settles back against you. "He wasn't as mad as I thought he'd be when he finally caught me. After awhile, he even started scorin' it for me. He was good t'me."'.
Batiste chuckles softly, guiltily. "Nah. He didn't tell me 'cause I lied, I told him I'd done it before. Marco kicked his ass, I guess. I don't remember too much of it. But...yeah. I promise. I won't do that again." He smiles at you a little, and reaches up to touch your hand, fingers twining with yours. He holds them together, against his chest, while he listens to you speak, nodding a little near the end. "He's hooked now, too?" he asks you, though it's not really much of a question. It happens to most everyone, after all. He hugs you a bit closer and murmurs, "I'm glad he took care of you."
Trace nods gently, still a faint touch of sadness tugging at the corners of his lips, around his brow... "I guess so. I dunno. Maybe it's Keri's fault." He meets your eyes to explain, "You met her before. The one with pink hair? That's his girl now, I guess... I don't think she likes me." A shrug. It doesn't bother him. He squeezes your hand gently, and his thumb traces against your skin, absent, thoughtful.
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