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Log Title: Overcome and Accept

Log setting: Outside Walker and Ben's new home, then at the Crossroads, afternoon.

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Trace
TooFar

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It's early evening, with a sulky, fitful wind gusting down Bourbon Street. The horizon is still purple and midnight blue, and only the brightest stars show through the streetlight's haze. Quiet scuffings announce Batiste's entrance from further uptown; he walks along the sidewalk, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a half-consumed licorice clove. His ballcap is off, and clipped to a beltloop, bouncing with each step, and his hair blows around his face, ill-concealing a pensive, somewhat distant expression.

Trace is leaning just inside the lip of the alley between some building and the blacksmith shop. See, you're catching him offguard here. He was expecting you'd come out of the house, not walk up to it. Anyway, it's kinda early, but it seems Trace has already done some shopping. He's got some bag with him, the plastic handle twisted around bony knuckles of a nervously clenched hand. One foot taps out a dischordant rhythm against the dirty concrete beneath him. Idly standing. He's off in some daze by this point. He nearly misses you as you pass his little window view of the street, coming from the wrong direction like you do. But he gets his act together and pulls himself off the brick wall, taking up a lean on the outside exterior of the blacksmith place this time. All exposed to the street. Softly, "Hey, Batiste."

Perhaps he wasn't distant, but vacant -- the sound of your voice brings a small but violent start to Batiste's frame, and in the process of turning to look at you, sends his clove bouncing to the sidewalk and rolling away to glow sullenly from a short distance. Tired, reddened eyes widen as they look back at you, and around you. Disbelief, startlement, and wariness. It settlesafter a few seconds, after he hitches in a deep breath and blows it out and starts rubbing at his nape. Another glance around, restless, searching, before he murmurs, "Hey."

Trace tries a shy smile, slightly hesitant as he reads your expression, pressing flatter against the wall. Okay, so he's not a courageous boy. Never was, really. "I, um," he starts, and then clears his throat gently, before mumbling towards the sidewalk, "Caddy's refridgerator is in shock. It's like, actually got some food to keep cold. And... the stuff you brought. I don't understand. Did you save it from the trash?" He looks up at that, eyes youthful in his plain confusion. He shakes it off, braids swaying gently. Well, they're so ratty and frazzled they're nearly dreds at this point. Seems to be letting them go. He was the last to cling to his braids anyway... Seems almost foolish. So the blue ropes sway, and he looks down again and says, "You made it like Christmas. All the food, an' everybody was over an' laughin'. And Jason had his flute back and he played, and my poetry book... It was really great."

Seems like the world around Batiste is in one of only two states, these days -- happy because of him, or unhappy because of him. His mouth quirks in a somewhat bitter expression, as he nods; it'd be nice if he was around for the former, rather than the latter, sometimes. "I'm glad you all had a good time, last night," he murmurs, crushing the dropped clove out underfoot as he says it. And onto another topic he moves -- doesn't want to think much about you and Jason and your newfound friends having a smashing time without him, lest a biting comment sneak out before he can stop it. "I didn't save anything from the trash. Walker and Ben wouldn't throw your guys's things away. They were just boxed up." He rubs his nape again, making the still-damp locks flip around limply, eyes moving restlessly around the block. Always, though, they come back to you. His braids clatter-click as he shakes his hair out of his face. New additions, those, only two or three days old. Since the talk at the castle, in fact. Batiste always was a bit clingy about some things.

Just boxed up. Trace nods again, just the faintest lowering of his chin. But there's confusion in those hazel eyes that lingers, still childlike, like a youth pondering the mysteries of horrible Grown Up things like taxes and divorce. "I still don't understand," he says with plaintive hurt. "They told me so. Told me to my face that they'd thrown everything away. Walker talked like he never wanted to see us again." Maybe he understands better now how you felt being thrown out by your folks. He looks down, flushed a little, and stuffs his free hand down into one pocket. "We looked in the trash first, like Ben said, but it weren't there so.." He shakes his head. Doesn't want to talk about that. A few steps taken away from the wall, and he looks at you, head canted a little. "Thank you for the pressed flowers." That *was* you, right?

Yes, let's not talk about that. Batiste is quiet a while, trying to come up with a statement that's neither too politic nor too opinionated, and finally murmurs, "He probably said it because he was so hurt." A hint of wryly apologetic humour colours his voice as he adds, "I hear people say mean things when they're hurt." He might know a little about that. But just a little. Honest. His expression lightens a little when you mention the flowers, and he nods again. "I, um. Thought maybe you'd like them. The Chinese plum trees bloom in February, back on the coast. Around Martin's place, there's so many of them that they're like snow, all over the sidewalk and in the gutters. Just...handfuls of them, everywhere. It's really beautiful."

"Yeah? Well, um. Maybe..." Batiste falters, considering his next words. "Maybe you'll get to see it sometime." He shrugs weakly, and offers a shaky smile out to you. A curious frown is given to the bag as he accepts it, and opens it to glance inside. "Oh," he says, looking back to you. "I didn't know you guys had it. I just knew Walker had a new one. I figured it must've been broken, or something." He looks around, and takes a deep breath, sighing it out. "You want me to give it back to him? Or you wanted to give it back yourself?" he asks.

"I don't know," Trace says softly. "Jest wanted to get it back to him. What I said when I tole' Jason we should take it was pipe for his pipes, but he's got his recorder back, and... I dunno. I'm not mad at Ben and Walker anymore. I just feel sorry for the hurt we caused each other. I guess Walker hates us or something, but Jason says Ben don't, so that's good." His gaze has found the sidewalk, shoes scuffling at the concrete there. "I'm kinda scared to approach him, but I kinda want to also. I mean, I was freaked out when they moved. I can't fix nothin' if I can't find nobody. But I dunno, is he just gonna chase me away again? Should I give it to him or let you do it?"

Jean-Batiste's mouth twitches once. "Yeah," he agrees. "It's pretty hard to fix things when you can't find who you're supposed to be talking to." He looks at you here for a few seconds, then blows out a sigh and glances away. "I don't know if Ben could hate anyone," Batiste murmurs softly. "But I don't know if you should talk to Walker yet. I mean..." He runs his hand through his hair, glancing back towards #269 for a few seconds. "I think you should. But maybe...well. C'mon." He nods towards the house then pulls a hand from his pocket to beckon to you, and starts moving towards Chez Walker.

Chez Walker. Trace hasn't walked into a place with that title since... God. Since *that* night. The bluecap looks really nervous. I mean, Batiste just got here. Is it safe? Bat has no clue of course. We could be walking into the lion's den here. Lioness? No, coz it's got a golden mane... "Bat," he squeaks softly, but hushes up and follows you without further protest. You'll protect him. Heh, you better. His hands find his pockets, shoulders hunched defensively. Okay. What if they come home? What if they ARE home? You're putting his meager courage to the test here.

But then, did we ever have a key? Ah, but those were the days of unlocked doors, sweet times indeed, in Trace's recollection. It's probably his fault, you know. Probably Ben and Walker have less trust for people in general, now, not aimed solely at he and the fireheart. "Kay," he agrees softly, ducking his head. He seems rather shy around this place, as though it's appropriate to talk in near-whisper even though Ben and Walker don't seem awake or at least inclined to walk in on them any time soon. "Jest keep it in the bag though. Don't want it all crudded up when we give it to him. Bugs and stuff could get in it if you don't wrap it up good." Those pot-fiending bugs, they're a menace, you know. He twists his hands around listlessly, eyes on the plastic-wrapped bong. "We'd given it to Caddy," he admits with a sigh. "Like to make up fer not payin' no rent. I felt so bad to ask fer it back... But she didn't mind. I mean, I traded her for it. I'd been savin' up fer 'nother piercin', but I dunno, this was more important. I found 'nother bong to give Caddy. It were real pretty. Green an' purple swirls in th'stained glass... She liked it."

Jean-Batiste nods a little to you when you mention keeping the bong in the bag, as he crouches down. "Yeah, of course," he murmurs, and leans forward a bit to wrap the bong up carefully in the bag and tuck it away where it can't be seen. He steps back, considers where he placed it, then crouches down again to make a few adjustments. There. That'll do. He straightens, dusting grass off his knees, and looks to you. "You...want to go somewhere?" he murmurs. "Go grab something to eat at Crossroads, or something? My treat."

Trace looks at you, and there's a moment of conflict, lips pursing as he weighs the offer against what he really wants and his convictions. Because you know, he was mad at you. As stated, he didn't agree with your actions and the reasoning you gave him on the rooftop. It pissed him off. Or maybe his idealistic triangle was never as strong as he imagined it. It couldn't stand up to things like mistrust or silence or evasions. But he'd put a lot of faith in it, and it *hurts* to lose something you believed it. But it doesn't mean he doesn't miss you. You haven't hurt him at all since your return excepting that nasty loyalty stunt you tried to pull on the castle, and he's resolved that in his head. And you just keep being sweet, with the flowers, and the magic return of their collective stuff and his poetry book, and all the groceries, and you're just doing a pretty good job of wearing down his grudge and his hesitance. So finally he smiles just a little, with some uncertainty, but it's a smile and he nods once. Smile waning to a grin he mumbles, "Thought you hated the Crossroads. Fulla spooks, right?" But let's go. He's already taken a step, and another.

Nasty and utterly -failed- loyalty stunt. Or utterly successful, depending on which side you look at it from. Batiste can only be so strong, though -- you're here, you're talking to him, and that'll have to be enough for now. The rest can be worked on later. Where he was afraid to catch the Jason-butterly in his hand for fear of breaking its wings, the Trace-butterfly stung him for trying. He'll try the open-handed approach, now, admire that it's temporarily settled there, and deal with the fluttering-away when it comes. "Yeah, well," he murmurs, slouching his hands back into his pockets and heading for the sidewalk. "It's still got the best pepper shrimp in town, and the freaks don't seem to be there much, anymore. And Ali's in love with that Batte guy, so I guess he can't be all that bad." Time hazes out even demon-dog memories, after all. He walks in silence for a half-block or so, glancing over to you every few steps, then murmurs, "Caddy seems pretty cool. She wants me to help teach her how to cook a little." He grins suddenly, crooked and bemused, and adds, "Star's sweet on her sister, huh?"

Trace wasn't a butterfly though; he was this kid who was pissed at you, which is different, but he's getting over it slowly. The bluecap was never good at grudges anyway. "Yeah, I guess he likes her a little," he agrees with an indifferent shrug. "It's fucked up, though. He don't love her. He loves some other girl. He was all gushing over her, right? Totally drooling all over her, and I'm like 'yeah okay, that's cute', but then Carly all comes up and he's holding her hand and shit and now he's all into HER, and it just pisses me off. I dunno. Poor Carly, you know? She's gotta find out he ain't all as into her as this other girl, and I just feel bad for her, s'all." He looks up and thinks to add, "And that would totally rock, if you could teach Caddy too cook some, Bat. We eat, like... total crap over there." He grins. Doesn't seem to mind total crap. But you know, it's not good for growing girls.

"Star wanted to give Carly some X, I think," Batiste murmurs. "She asked Caddy what it was, when we were out for breakfast yesterday. She told her that it'd make her eyes pop out and her insides bleed." Soft chuckle. "At least the bad stuff I told her was true." Just, you know. Neatly left out the -good- parts. "I'm glad she's got people to look out for her, though. I think Star...well. I think he's just lived a little too hard to be good for Carly. Needs someone who's toughened up a bit, or at least has a bit of attitude, too. Someone who'll bite back a bit. If he's really interested in her, that's cool, but...well. You know." You said the same things, basically, after all. After a few steps, he smiles again. "Going to start with grilled cheese and scrambled eggs and stuff, I figure. And wacky cake." His smile twitches as he chuckles, glancing to you then away, down the street. "Kinda funny, I guess, that now you're eating and I can't cook for you anymore." He chuckles again, very softly, and abruptly reaches for his cloves, dredging one out and lighting it up in a plume of smoke.

Trace snorts softly. "Screw attitude, she needs a boy who's gonna love her more than he loves some other chick. I dunno. Not my business I guess." His steps fall into an easy pace beside you, just slightly faster to make up for your longer legs. "I did eat f'you," he protests with a little smile. "Ate yer mushrooms an' yer chicken stuff an' everything.. I'd eat f'you even when I didn't wanna coz I knew it meant a lot to you." Not that he needs any motivation now. Boy's a bottomless pit.

Crossroads. Nothing wrong with this place. Honest. Uh-huh. The pepper shrimp must -really- be something to keep Batiste coming back here. He glances sidelong to you when you comment about Carly needing someone who's going to love her more than anyone else, and considers a comment, then just shrugs a little and says, "Huh," instead. Food. Food's a safe topic, mostly. He glances to you, smiling wistful-sad, and agrees, "Yeah. It did. It...felt good whenever I could get you to eat something. Even if you never ate your vegetables." He heads for a corner table, and drops down into the chair that lets him look out towards t he street.

"I ate an apple the other day, Bat," Trace announces proudly as he slips into his booth. "A whole one. This guy, he was sellin' em and there weren't nothin' else f'cheap an' I was hungry. And a pear! I ate a whole pear, too. Picked it off a tree." He grins happy. Okay, so they're fruits, not veggies, but give him some credit! He's getting closer. Let's not tell Bat about the twinkies or the potato chip sandwich.

Jean-Batiste will make not a word of protest if all you ever eat are fruits and not vegetables -- the former are more nutritious, anyways, he thinks. "I'm glad," he murmurs, smiling across the table at you. "Really glad. I bet you shoot up like a weed, any time now. Probably end up taller than me." His grin goes a little quirky for a second, the light faltering in his eyes -- a heartbeat later it's returned, determinedly. "That'd be a little funny, wouldn't it? You being tall er than me." He reconsiders his words, then says, "Well. Not so funny. When I draw you, I usually draw yo u tall." He looks up to the waitress when she arrives, and murmurs, "Cafe au lait for me, and whatever he wants for him," and gestures a little to you.

"You draw me tall..?" Trace says, slightly baffled but also perhaps flattered that you always pictured him stronger and healthier than his current state. Well, cept for the little angel curled up on the bed. Sad image, that. So *that's* the one you show him, gee thanks. Heh. "But yeah, I been eatin' lots more. Like three times a day, if I can. S'weird, who'da thunk it." He giggles. "Pluslike I'm a total pothead now so I get munchies alla time. It's a lot f'my poor stomach to deal with, along with no junk and all. It's always rumblin' at me." Makes one wonder how long those groceries will LAST.

"Yeah, yeah. Get whatever you want," Batiste murmurs, gesturing a little with his clove-bearing hand and smiling again at you. "My treat. Whatever." He glances back to the server and adds, "Pepper shrimp for me, too. Thanks." Might as well get all the ordering out of the way at once. Once you've confirmed (or changed) your order, and the server's gone, he leans forward against the table a little, arms folded, and just...watches you for a while. Not anything really scrutinous or spooky. Just a sort of reacquaintance for his eyes. "Yeah," he murmurs, "I draw you tall. Like...like how I think you might look, in a couple or three years. I don't know why, but it always comes out like that, when I draw you. Sort of tall and...elegant, sort of. All carefree and wild...but gentle, too. I don't know. I should show you, sometime, I guess."

Trace does change that order, actually.. Holds the waiter up a good bit when he realizes this is more than just drinks and maybe a snack, but you're getting *shrimp*, and he's going to sit here very jealous if he doesn't get some too. And a bowl of gumbo (atomic, naturally.) No, make it a cup. Let's not tax Bat's expenses here. Okay, now he's done, and the waiter's really peeved at all the changes and additions, but he goes away. Trace fiddles with his forks (ooh, we get two. Fancy place.) As you finally speak, he looks up and smiles. "I wanna see."

Far be it for Batiste to deny you what you want -- especially when it's tearing the shells off poor, defenseless, deliciously buttery-peppery shrimp. "I'll, um. I'll show you, sometime," he promises softly. "My favourite one..." He trails off, and shrugs a little. "I drew it after your birthday party." When was that, a century ago? Maybe only fifty years? "I'll bring my sketchbook out, sometime. Most of my stuff is at Glass's right now." Soft chuckle. "I'm sleeping on an air mattress right now, too. Gonna paint a mural at his place, I think, if Shay's cool with it, and all."

Yes, indeed. The shrimp have no escape from hungry wildmen; they're quite doomed. Trace props his chin up with his hands, elbows on the table with no display of manners whatsoever, but his expression goes thoughtful at your words. "My birth day, huh?" A fond memory. He can't even be squeemish about it now. Just a part of his history, and a lovely part. "Shame our own mural won' never get done," he says softly. "I had a dream me 'an Jason bought the house. Somehow. Dunno, like we won the lottery or something, that wasn't the point. But it drives me nuts that someone else gonna live there in our house. I was so sad to see it with that sold sign there. I yanked it out a couple times. Someone kept puttin' it back though." He sighs softly. "Guess it was stupid. Sign or not, someone'd get it. But I dunno.. In my dream, I was layin' out fresh carpet over where we got the paint on it. And Ayita had this bed for us, right? Seriously, not even in the dream, she wants me to have this big fuckin' bed. We totally have no room for it though. It wouldn't even fit in Caddy's livin' room I bet, or like it'd take up ever bit of space. I was thinkin' of how we'd take the bed apart and lug it upstairs where the waterbed was..." He pulls in a breath and rubs at one temple gently. "Guess I shouldn't dream stuff like that."

Drinks are returned, hot chocolate with whipped cream for you, and cafe au lait for Batiste. He stirs in about half a packet of sugar, then drinks down a bit of it, fingers staying curled around the mug as he listens to you speak. The more words that spill out, the duller his eyes shine, and the more his gaze focusses on his coffee-mug instead of you. He turns the mug around, three or four times, stalling, then slowly takes another drink and clears his throat before he murmurs, "Yeah. Well. You got to dream about something." A twitchy, brittle smile touches the corner of his mouth, and he glances off towards the hedgerow, as if the leaves were in sudden need of being counted.

"I'm sorry," Trace says softly, realizing rather quickly after his short reverie that he upset you. He looks down at the table with embarrassment. "I jest.. I dunno, jest stuff I think about, I guess," he murmurs, reaching to sweep blue ropes out of his eyes, tuck them shyly behind one ear. More defense in his posture now, less openness. He'll have to watch his words more closely, it seems. "It's lonelier at Caddy's then you think." One hand sneaks out to touch yours briefly, where it covers the mug. "Well, last night was a little better."

"I just wish...that..." The words are said carefully, meticulously so, as if Batiste was talking about some abstract concept and nothing even remotely personal to him. It's far from perfect, though -- you know him too well for that. The strain's there, the effort to try and keep the words calm and collected. Mustn't get upset. Mustn't. "That there was still room for me." He looks back at you, smiling that twitchy, brittle smile again. "That's all. It's just..." He looks down, and picks up his clove, shaking off a cylinder of ash before he drags heavily on it. "Hard," he continues smokily. "To hear all your plans from the outside instead of the inside. To hear about things I'm not a part of anymore."

"S'all broken," Trace says softly. "S'more like... there's still a family, but me an' Jason's been cut out. Things go on almost normal with them, cept we're not there. Not so normal f'you... But you should be glad you got them still." His eyes stay down on the woodwork of the table. "They're good people. I miss 'em. You should be... glad they still love you. I know you feel you lost a lot, an' you did, but you gotta understand for awhile I lost everybody but Jason! And I guess I knew that when I came back I'd have you. And it's very hard to stay mad at you, coz you let me know you still love me with your flowers and little things like the groceries and yer blue bead in your hair..." He licks his lips. "Jason doesn't need you to love him any more. His mourning for you's done. But I still need you, Bat.. Even if things is still tense right now, I still need you." His eyes are bright, but lips still and pursed as he looks at you with some some bravery now. Takes courage to admit such things.

Jean-Batiste shakes his head, and says very softly, but with utmost conviction, "You and Jason cut yourselves out, Trace." He looks up at you, just for a moment, a sad, steady look. "And if you think things are anything close to normal anymore...well. You're really wrong. And I really don't know how glad you think I can feel for anything, with the two of you gone. Walker and Ben are the most important things to eachother. I know they love me, too, but it's not the same." He looks away for a moment, and sucks hard on his clove, ember flaring wildly. After he blows the smoke away, he looks back. "And I really don't want to think about how Jason can just pick up and move on, neither. That's a pretty fucking insubstantial mourning period. You'd figure if he was so in love with me, he'd wait for my corpse to cool. It's-" Thankfully, the bitter-barbed rant is curtailed by the return of the server, with food. He looks up and mumbles a thanks as the cast iron tray is slid before him, then stares down at the shrimp. "I love you," he murmurs. "And I need you, too. And it's really fucking lonely without you."

"I know," Trace whispers, "But I didn't understand how things was. And I'm not mad anymore. I dunno, I jest wish I could see Walker sometimes an' talk to him, coz he's gotta know I never did stop loving him, and Jason neither, and it was just a whole lotta hurt and misunderstandings and overreactions. Just a big mess, Batiste!" His eyes have a quietly desperate light. "We had somethin' really good goin'. I understand if we can't ever share the same roof no more. We broke that trust. But it kills me that we can't even talk, can't look at each other! How can you go from love to that so quickly? It's jest fucked up!" He shakes his head. "I'm not angry anymore. And I just feel cold when I look at what happened." He looks to you, hands flexing together nervously as he adds, "About Jason. Y'know, I shouldn't even speak f'him. But anyway, maybe it is fucked up that he got over hurtin' for ya. Maybe he never did, an' he's just hidin' in, coverin' it up to look strong. I don't know, I don't read his brain. But you know, that's not got nothin' to do with you an' me. I'm sick'a bein' 'tween you two's broken love affair. I never belonged there, Batiste."

And TooFar wanders in, some little streetwaif in a weird jacket. He's usually seen chainsmoking, and this time is no exception. He doesn't walk too deeply into the cafe, since it's generally a bit upscale to be feeding street kids. But hey, he's curious to see waht it's like in here.

Jean-Batiste sits with Trace, shoulders set in that I'm-not-tense-but-really-I-am sort of stiffness. A plate of pepper shrimp sits in front of him, still steaming and untouched, and he drags on his clove like it personally insulted him and needs to be turned to cinders as soon as possible. He leans back a bit, mouth pursed at something Trace said, then murmurs, "If you didn't want to be in between, why'd you leave with him over this all? I don't understand."

"Batiste," Trace says with soft patience, picking up one of the pretty golden-buttery shrimps. Damn, is he hungry. But ah, this is important stuff we're talking about here, so he bids his time. Soooon, my pretties. "I wasn't gonna stay with Ben and Walker. That was when I thought they did bad stuff, y'know?" Yeah, you know, the Bad Stuff. Let's not go into that in great detail, okay? Trace is sorry he ever thought it. Anyway. "I was upset at them. I needed to get away and clear my head. But I was jest waiting for you to come back.. Don'tchya member how I was when you first got back, Bat? Did I act like I'd chosen my sides already? I didn't. I wanted t'hear yer story. S'why I was so insistant f'you t'come with us to the roof and not run away that day on Mardi Gras..." He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. "You act like I immediately made my decision, but I wasn't mad at you til' you went off on the roof like you did..." He flinches a little. That whole night, lets just zap it from memory, okay?

There's nothing tense about TooFar, he's a relaxed bundle of feathers. He spots Trace, at least, and works his way over, pretending like he was supposed to be meeting him here. If only to keep the cafe staff off his back, "Hey man, what's up?" And Bat is grinned at, provided with a friendly nod. He really isn't sure what y'all talkin' 'bout, but you guys sure look sort of serious. The perkigoth is just the thing you need, then.

"Went off on the roof..." Batiste says it slowly, almost wonderingly, giving Trace a confused 'Did you just -say- that?' look. But then the blue-haired one is flinching -- and, damn it all, making a fair bit of sense with what he says -- and the bitter anger drifts away on buttery steam. He reaches forward, to touch one of Trace's ratty braids, indulging in his much-neglected duty of braid-tousling, drawing back at the sound of TooFar's voice. He glances over, giving the boy a slightly cool once-over. "Hey," he greets, offering, "Have a sit?" he waves to the other chair at the corner table they sit at.

Trace looks over to see... TooFar. Uh. Kid just gives the boy this odd look before shooting a glance to Batiste. But hey, TooFar's his friend, and finally he clears his throat and nods. "Yeah. Uh, siddown. Look, I got atomic gumbo, try it." He pushes the bowl towards the vacant chair that TooFar's gonna apparantly soon occupy. Another look to TooFar, but this time it's more suspicious. Kinda 'what are you up to..?' But he smooths it away and begins to attack his shrimp. Munchchompmrfcrunch. Y'know, isn't it a good idea to take the shells off? Who knows, maybe nobody ever explained that to Trace. He just pops them in by the handful. Seems to be enjoying them, too.

TooFar senses "Trace gives you a look that is indeed odd, going just a bit pale. It's like he assumed you two would just live in different universes now or something. Y'know, now that It happened, or whatever."

TooFar thinks he will take that seat, thanks, and does so with little cerimony. A grin, and the ashtray is shifted so it's in his easy reach, but not out of Bat's. It's easy enough, Trace isn't smoking. Time to share, JB. The waif pulls his foot off the floor, planting it on the chair so he can hug his knee to his chest. He glances from one person to the other, drawing off a lungful of nicotine be fore resting the cigarette in the now-convenient ashtray, "Aww, thanks man," TooFar smiles, grabbing a spoon and starting on the gumbo. Doesn't seem in the mood for much conversation. Need to work on the calorie intake. Never turn down free food.

Jean-Batiste learned a long while ago to not question Trace's eating habits. Mumbletwitchpineapplecreamcheesesundaeshudder. Ahem. Anyways. -He- peels his shrimp, and stacks their poor little legged carapaces off to the side before mopping them through the peppery butter and popping them in his mouth. They're not very neat to eat, but most of the best things in life are messy, one way or the other, aren't they? He thinks a while, trying to come up with a new topic, and decides on: "So d'you know that Nadine chick that well, or does she just do your piercings for you?"

Aww come on Bat, the little shrimpy legs are the best part! Heh. Trace looks up from his munching and swallows hard. Ack, that scratched at his throat a little. He coughs softly and sucks at a buttery finger before nodding, "Yeah, really. I mean.. We don't hang out or nothin'. She's cool, though. I mean, she's Grace's friend." Which makes her cool? He rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "She gives me piercins' f'cheap." A nod to TooFar. "He's gonna get a hoop up high on his ear, or maybe his brow done, soon. I was gonna get more stuff too, but I spent my money on that bong." He chuckles. Ah well. Out of context it probably looks like an odd priority, but he doesn't explain.

Well, the featherwaif really hasn't seen Trace eat very often, and while the previous examples were on the far side of odd, this... this causes him to pause in the middle of his gumbo, spoon levitating there inbetween bowl and mouth for a moment. From his expression, he looks on the verge of something something like 'yer s'posed t'shell 'em, dude' but decides against it. He tries to be different, so who is he to question? "Yeah," he agrees, when Trace mentions piercings, but that's all he says before getting back to his soup.

Grace. Mmn. If twists of mouth could make sounds all on their own, that's the sound Batiste's mouth would make. "Well, um." He shells another shrimp, plotting out how to word his next couple sentences. Softly, so it doesn't carry further than the table, he continues: "Glass heard she's a real cokehead." Pause. Glance at Trace. Glass's word is supposed to carry extra weight, or something, maybe. "So, you might want to be careful around her. Walk out looking like a pincushion, or something. Just, you know. Something to keep in mind." He shrugs a little, then continues. "I was thinking about getting a tragus. If you wanted, we could go together? I can spring for it, as long as you don't want 24k gold or nothing."

There's no reaction at all from TooFar, who's just scraping the last of the gumbo out of the bowl with his spoon, making sure none escape. Maybe he just wasn't paying attention when Bat brought up Gracie's chemical recreational practices. "Who's Glass?" he instead wonders out loud in that soft alto voice, lighting up a fresh smoke to replace the one that burned out while he was eating. Skyblue eyes lift over to Trace. Yer gonna tell me who Glass is, right?

Click. That's the sound of Trace putting his fork down. Why had he picked it up in the first place? Not like you need a fork for shrimp, or even if he was going to reclaim the gumbo. Maybe it was this instinctive urge to stab things that cut on his plum-haired goddess, the beautiful and sparkling love of his life. Who knows. Maybe he's just playing with the silverware. But anyway, it's set down, coz Trace loves you, Bat. Honest he do. So he's not gonna stab you today or anything. He looks over and smiles, explaining with weary patience, "Grace does painkillers. Good stuff, about as good as junk. She doan' gimme none now that I'm clean, though. Trust me, I asked her once. So don't worry. Anyway, I never heard nothin' bout no coke. Who cares? Grace has her shit t'gether." Yeah, but that's what Trace used to say about Batiste, too. Still got things together, blood brother? Hypocrite. But that's okay, because Trace has forgiven you for much worse, so. "Glass is Doug." Yeah, that explains things to TooFar. "He wanted to kick my ass before, but we're cool now. Sorta." Okay, a little better.

Jean-Batiste has it together, all right. Same as he did before. Just, you know. Has the sniffles once in a while. Nothing he can't quit whenever he wants, though, right? Right. Same as before. And he's not hypocritical, neither. There's just...lots of exceptions to things. Yeah. He listens to Trace's words with a mildly weary patience as he defends Grace. You can almost hear the mantra running inside his head. 'I will not slam her. I will not slam her. I...' Just more proof to him that Club Breast really -does- rot your brain. At the end of it all, he shakes his head gently at Trace and murmurs, "I meant Nadine's a cokehead, not Grace. And she likes pushing it on people, so. Just...watch yourself, okay?" He doesn't want Trace ending up as Nadine and Flagg's squeaky toy.

"I thought Naddie was on painkiller's too," TooFar idly remarks, cigarette held idly between the fingers of the hand not wrapped around the knee kept against his chest. He rolls his shoulders in a gentle manner, tilting his head effeminately as he smiles. He could be wrong, of course, but he doesn't appear to much care if he is. As for vices, the teen just sucks back those coffinnails, like he was storing up nicotine for winter. Everyone at that house is on something anyway. On several things. Some might suspect TooFar to be on lithium, but that hasn't been proved.

Epilogue: It is assumed that the three talk of more trivial things for the remainder of the meal, all the while Bat giving TooFar cold glares as the perkigoth acts inexplicably smug, and then they go their seperate ways.

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