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Title: Porch Awakening

Setting: The porch of the abandonned house on Moss Street.

Log Cast:
Trace
Jean-Batiste

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It's a familiar place. He knows the long shadows that creep in through the pretty willow tree. Trace is asleep still, curled on the porch swing with his cheek to the wooden slats and his braids tossed about. His expression had been a gentle flinch that disrupted puffy yet sleep-smoothed features. Yet these friendly shadows that caress angled features, they are welcome, sheilding him from this unforgiving sunlight that insists on tugging at his slumber. One hand is curled up near his slightly parted lips and wedged at his side, the other dangling down, fingertips nearly brushing the concrete of the porch.

Jean-Batiste hasn't been back to this part of town in a while. Only once, since the talk atop the castle. The playground is too full of ghosts, too many fresh and painful memories. The old house is less painful to approach. Maybe it's because everything happened here while he was gone, and he was detached from it all. It almost looks the same as it used to. Almost. Seems more tired, though, almost hollow. The spark of 'home' has left it. He'll approach it, though, hoping to find familiar ratty rope-braids and bright hazel eyes and all the other little details tagged to 'Trace' in his mind. When he finds them, boots clomping quietly on the steps, he'll stand there and just watch for a while, finishing off his clove and pitching it into the dead flowerbeds before calling softly, "Trace?"

He was going to break in. Curl up on some familiar old piece of furnature that smelled of home. But it would probably just be seen as further intrusion, further vandelism. As much as Trace loathes the idea of another living here, he doesn't really want to wreck Ben and Walker's attempt to rent out the place. It'd just seem like another attack. Trace's eyes flutter gently, flinch returning to his features as your name calls him up from his dreams, ever more pleasant than his reality. Hazel eyes, salt-reddened and muzzy with sleep, peer up through pale lashes, and he drudges the faintest hint of a smile. But it's sad. His eyes are sad, hell the fact that he's even here is sad. Soft voice rasps, "H'lo, Batiste. G'mornin." Slow, clumsy effort is put into pushing himself upright, one hand fumbling as though to rub away the red lines on his face from the wooden slats of the swing.

Jean-Batiste takes a couple cautious steps towards you, as if he was scared either the porch will give way beneath him, or you'll dart away and vanish. Once he's near the swing, he leans up against the railing and digs into his pockets, rummaging until he produces a half-eaten roll of Wint-O-Green Lifesavers. These are offered to you with a faint, twitchy smile and equally-sad eyes. "How you feeling?" he murmurs. Without leaving you time to answer, he sighs a little and glances down to the porch's floor. "I'm sorry last night didn't go that well."

Trace stops rubbing at his face in favor of picking a lifesaver from the offered roll. Your question isn't answered at first. And your eyes aren't equally sad, you had a great time last night, but we won't go into that. Because Trace doesn't begrudge you Walker and Benjamin's love. It's a beautiful warmfuzzy thing, and his missing it doesn't mean he'll resent you for maintaining it. Circumstances. Bad decisions and slanted views. These are all blameable, but vague, and still means he can want you to sit with him on this swing. His cheeks cave in, a little comically, as he sucks on the sweet minty candy. Finally his hands reach up to tug you down next to him, scooting over a little. "Me too," he mumbles finally around the bit of wint-o-green.

A happy night doesn't make a happy person. At least, not with Batiste. It's more like drunkenness -- fun while it lasts, but never as good the next morning when you wake up with the hangover. Walker and Ben's love is a beautiful warmfuzzy thing, yes, but it's their thing. Batiste's went the way of the dodo -- and like a stuffed dodo behind glass, he can stand there and look at it from a distance and say, 'There. That's what I used to have.' He slips a Lifesaver out from the roll and returns it to his pocket, rolling the candy around in his mouth as he settles beside you and drapes an arm across the back of the swing and 'round your shoulders. "You really going to go back and listen to his side, sometime?" he asks after a while, turning to look at you.

"Course," Trace sighs softly, leaning in tentatively to rest his weary head against you. "Hoped to hear it then, but I couldn't stay there. N'I couldn' deal with everybody standin' round gawkin' at what shoulda been a private conversation. Woulda been a lot better. I'll make us go someplace private next time. Maybe.." But he sighs and shakes his head. "Guess I should just do it like Jason. Apologize and say a quick goodbye and get out. Coz maybe he's right. We don't do nothin but upset everybody, even at jest the sight of us... But I dunno. I have to hear what Walker wanna say, coz it *does* matter, and if he really wanna 'splain his side, I wanna be there to hear it. I jest end up hurtin so much every time I try." He closes his eyes gently, turning to nuzzle closer.

Jean-Batiste's arm tightens around your shoulder a little when you lean in, and he starts petting frizzled blue rope-braids. "You want me to redo your braids sometime?" he murmurs. "Or you going for dreads? Could pick out beads for the ends, and everything." It's an absent thought brought on by the braid-tousling, and he quiets to listen to your words. "Well," he murmurs. "Walker's in therapy over it all, you know. He's still pretty touchy about it all. But...you know how he likes to run away and hide, even at the best of times. And I think it'd be good if the two of you talked, despite that. I think it'd do you both good. But...private, yeah. So it's fair, you know? One on one." He leans into you a little, holding you close, and adds, "You want me to talk to him for you?"

"They gonna be dreds," Trace admits softly. "They got all tangled up they're lost. But.." His eyes open and he peeks up. "I'll keep one braid. T'remind the others'a how pretty they used to be. I'll comb it out and redo it every now and then and keep it nice.." A chuckle, melancholy, as he drops his eyes to the fishbowl bong, which is on the concrete of the porch next to one of the pillars. Rather out of sight, you might not have noticed it yet. "I know how to sort my memories, the good from the bad. D'wanna throw everything away." He lifts his eyes to you. Bleak. A hand reaches up to twist fingers gently around the couple braids and let the bumpy texture run through, against his skin, tickling and pleasant. "Don't talk to him. I'll do it. S'gotta be that way, f'it's gonna be real. You can... you can talk to him bout what I been sayin' and feelin, I mean. Jest.... don't talk *for* me." Voice hushed. "That make sense?"

Sort the good memories out from the bad. Batiste still isn't able to do that -- at least, not in a consistent manner. The sore spots are still red and raw, the bittersweet ones more vinegar than honey. Not that it stops him from reminiscing, though. He's too much of a masochist for that. "Well, um," he murmurs. "You... ever want me to fix 'em up for you, let me know." He smiles faintly and gives a little shrug, looking out to the weeping willow tree in the overgrown front lawn. He watches the tendril-branches sway in the breeze for a while, listening to your words then replaying them in his mind when they're done, and finally murmurs, "I wouldn't talk for you. But...I'll talk to him about you, if I can. It makes sense. Only fair that you get to say what you want to say, yourself."

"Yeah," Trace whispers, nodding a little. His hand slips from your hair, down to rest near your collarbone. "Yeah, I jest don't want no more misunderstandin's... Wanna do everything I can to clear things up, or at least let everybody get heard." A breath of a sigh, warm near your skin. "Even though maybe it's jest hurtin' everybody more. Lotta people jest seem to wanna move on, forget all we had and carve out some new life without each other. I guess that is the easier way, but... it's not. I mean. Not if that old life was the best you'd known, and all you do now is carry round this heartache, and thread it through everything you do..." He peeks up, asks you an unfair question. "Would you change your path, Bat, your part in this, knowin what you know now? That Jason were faithful, and that it'd break it all apart?" And he seems to realize it is unfair, and flinches, closing his eyes and pushing his cheek closer against your shoulder. "Guess you can't play with time, though. Can't help sometimes to go by what you feel at the time, either... Think maybe s'what you did, and what I did too, by Ben and Walker and Glass -- by wreckin the house. All pain and lust, anger and insecurity. All action before thought and... consequence."

Would he do things differently, if he knew what would come of it? Unfair, yes -- if only because it makes him think about it all, and wonder if things could still be perfect and happy instead of shattered and bitter. A tough question, too. Would he? Batiste rubs your shoulder and upper arm in a slow, absent rhythm as he muses and remuses. Finally, softly: "No." He looks out to the tree again, then down to you. "No, I wouldn't. Because..." Pause. Slow, deep, silent breath. Calm. "Because someone so willing to just throw everything away and not try to understand, and just...forget...so much time and so much love...I deserve better than that. If I could turn back time, I wouldn't. Not now, knowing what I do. This all..." He gestures vaguely to the yard with his free hands, eyes dark and dull,"...I think it's just some really drawn out and painful way of showing me who really loves me and who's worth loving back."

Well, if Trace asked an unfair question, he certainly got back an unfair answer. Wow. He blinks up at you, breaking the contact and pulling away a little, but finally nods a little. Not agreement really, just testing out the theory. "F'that were true..." Eyes drop down. "Then we could say the same of you, Batiste. That you were so willing to throw away what we had, to share what you did with Walker and Ben and Glass." He looks at you with hazel eyes that, while very serious, are neither cold nor angry nor even really accusing. Just looking at you, weary, tossing out ideas. "N'if that were true... Then we need to find someone worth loving us, and who's worth loving back, because Ben and Walker threw us away with one mistake." The house. That was a mistake. He's admitted this like a zillion times now, but keeps feeling the need to point it out. The boy shakes his head a little. "You have to understand that you aren't ever going to be justified in my eyes, for choosing to.. to be intimate with them. It don't mean I don't understand. Jason didn't make you feel secure enough. You had different ideas about love and faithfulness than he and I have on it. I mean, I get that, Bat. Took me awhile. But I understand *why*. Don't make me think it's right. And also don't mean I gotta hate you, or hold onto my anger, or never see you. Because I can forgive a mistake. I can forgive both of you."

"I didn't throw anything away." If it's bickering, it's damned calm bickering. Batiste draws one knee up, clasping his arms around it, fingers stuttering over his bootlaces. "I didn't turn my back on either of you. I tried to explain why I did what I did. And I never stopped loving either of you, even when you made me crazy. From my point of view, the two of you fell through on a couple of those. But." He shrugs, and digs into his pocket, pulling out the Lifesavers again. One is popped into his mouth, and crushed to bits by the time he offers the roll to you. "All these things, all these 'I did this because you did that, and you did that because I did this'...I think about them, and try to figure out where things went bad. What started it. And all I can come up with is two spots. The first is when you and Jason reacted like you did because of what you heard. Because nothing changed after Walker and Ben and I were together that night. Did I treat either of you different? Did I love either of you less? Walker and Ben didn't change how they treated you, either. It wasn't a problem until the two of you found out and reacted the way you did." Pause for breath. "Or, if it wasn't there, then it was right at the beginning. First meetings, first introductions. Because it wasn't some alter-ego Batiste that did what I did. And I suppose it wasn't any alter-ego Trace or Jason that did what the two of you did, either. Which means we were all fucked from the start." Another little shrug, and a glance back to you. So calmly, he says it all. And sadly.

Trace hasn't bitten down on his original lifesaver yet. It's a little delicate ring in his mouth, candy porceline held save on his tongue. "When I try to think of where things went wrong..." he muses very softly, wistfully, looking out through the trees, "I grasp at air. Because you're right, it was doomed from the start, if you never realized that you weren't allowed to have others to be with Jason." A new way of explaining it comes to him, and it makes him giggle a little at the awkwardness, not quite with mirth. "If you... if you had been mine. I could n't have dealt with it either. Of course, I woulda told you. I woulda said baby, I couldn't bear nobody else touchin you, you're mine. All mine. Jason doesn't say all that he should. I know that. He probably does too. But he can't splain things, and it makes f'misunderstandins. He was a mystery when you met him, and he's bound to stay that way. I spose I just wish he'da let you know how he felt. Owed you that, I guess." He sighs and rolls his shoulders. "You and Walker and Glass... Even Ben, I figger. You all have a different mindset, like you grew up in different worlds, where everybody flirts and everybody loves on each other, and their ain't no ownership of nobody, no possessiveness and jealousy. I could never... live like that. Nor could Jason, to an extent. He can til' it's about love. And then he needs to have his territory, and that's just the way his brain's built. Actually, I'm worse about it, probably. Guess you'd call it traditional. Everybody got their different needs. He needed you to trust his silences, and be just with him. You needed to hear what he couldn't tell you, and to share your affections with others, I guess. Neither's really fair. Dunno if I could deal with silences, and I know f'sure I couldn't live with a girl who cheated. So maybe you're right. Maybe you and him never shoulda been lovers t'start with. Maybe if you'd jest kept to Walker -- he did tell me you were his long before Jason -- and if you'd found another who better met your needs, things'd have been easier."

Jean-Batiste replaces the roll of Lifesavers, and looks back at you rather oddly when you offer up your awkward explanation. He smiles, a sad and adoring curve of mouth, and murmurs, "And if you'd said that, or if Jason'd said that, things would've been different. I...get weak in the knees for words like that, you know? Statements like that. But Jason was always so passive with me. I was always in charge, it felt like. That...probably had something to do with it, too." He shrugs a little, and chuckles once, bittersweet. "I had such a crush on you, when we first met. You know that?" He grins at you a little, and looks for a moment like he may cry, but it ends up a smile, instead. "It was really hard working through that. For the sake of the friendship. It's why I was so careful, sometimes, about huggi ng you. Didn't want to ruin anything, you know? But it worked out in the end, I guess." His bittersweet expression edges more towards bitterness for a moment, when you mention Walker, and he sighs. "Walker met Ben," he murmur s , as if that explains everything. "He and I were just comfortable with eachother, you know? No strings or nothing. I never would've figured he'd settle down, when I met him, so I sort of counted on him just...being there, like that. And then he met Ben, and it all changed. I don't...begrudge them their happiness. They love eachother. They need eachother. Just...miss how it was, sometimes. Grass is always greener, I guess. I don't know why he'd say I was his, though. I haven't been for a long time." He shrugs a little; much as he adores the lord and master of Chez Walker, he doesn't try to understand him.

Trace is quiet as you speak, listening. Both of us listening. Isn't it amazing? Maybe it had to be this way, had to take all this time and pain and effort before two people involved could just sit down like adults and talk about this without attacking each other and causing hurt and tossing about blame. Perhaps, because we are human, we needed to give it time so that we could reach such a rational, mature attitude. Well, Trace didn't have it last night, come to think of it. He was nearly there, but maybe crying himself to sleep on the porch swing of the original Chez Walker, in some odd way, helped. And finally he smiles a little and reaches up, touching your cheek gently. "Y'liked me, huh?" His eyes crinkle a little with his smile, wistful and amused and affectionate all at once. "Dunno why. I ain't a pretty boy like you and Jason. Never will be." He sighs, not heavy-hearted this time, more just a release of breath, and sits up a little to turn and wrap arms around your neck in a hug. The swing rocks a little with the movement. "Well, I miss how things was too, Batiste. Guess I need to stop clinging to the past, though. Ben.. and Walker specially, neither'a them wanna think about that past at all. They jest wanna look ahead. Maybe it's what they need. But I'm not part'a what's ahead for them. It's sad." Real sad, by the catch in his voice.

Jean-Batiste laughs softly when your eyes crinkle up, and takes your hand in his when you touch his cheek. Fingers weave together in a familiar, if recently-neglected, pattern, and squeeze tight. "-You-," he murmurs, as if it needs emphasis. "Not your face, not your eyes, not your ass. Sheesh." And he laughs, tightly and tentatively, like a knot inside is easing and the sudden lack of tension is a little scary. This is communicating, isn't it? Real communicating, and not guilt-knives jabbed soon as your back's open, and no spite-guilt shackled to ankles with a simple glance. "-You-. You're so alive, and so inspired, and your spirit..." He shakes his head a little, sighing softly. "Would've chased you to the end of the earth if you swung my way. Wrote bad love poetry, the works." A little grin. See what you were saved from, by being the straight boy of Chez Walker? His grin settles to a sadder, more sombre expression when you speak of Ben and Walker and nestle close, and his arms wrap 'round, offering comfort as best he can. "After that talk in the playground, I was ready to never talk to you or Jason again. Never see either of you." He's quiet for a moment, remembering that. Terrifying thought. "If...we can work past that...they can too. Or they ought to be able to. If you try, and they don't try back, then it's their fault. And I'll tell them so, to their face. It...won't be like it was, no matter what, I think. But it could be a whole lot better than it is."

Trace looks up and then giggles a little, point out impishly, "Oh, you could still write me bad love poetry; I'd get a kick outta that." He laughs shyly and buries back down against your neck and shoulder comfortably. Quiet. A little nod against you, at your last words. "Yeah," he says softly. "Don't know if we can ever be their boys again. They ain't gonna trust us. Which, you know, sucks, but makes sense. I'll do my best though. Like I tole ya, I'm gonna see Walker again. Told him I would. He didn't really say too much, f'all his talkin' about wantin' to get heard, so I think we really do need t'speak again." He peeks up again and says softly, "Bat, guess what. Star's gettin' this private tutor, right? This guy to come to his house and home school him. Gideon's gonna pay for it, I guess." Because Gideon pays for everything Star wants. Kid's Mr Moneybags lately. "He said I could come by sometime if I wanted, and learn some stuff. And Cathy... She gonna show me some of her books and schoolwork and stuff, and go over it with me. And get me a library card. I couldn't get one before coz they want all that personal information and my record would show my missin' persons report, and they could track me, and it'd just be bad. But she's gonna say I'm her brother, and her dad'll prolly vouch fer it. Isn't that neat?" Well, Trace seems to think it neat, anyhow. He's expressed his desire to learn before. He wonders, soft and almost bashfully, "Might wanna mention it to Ben? I mean. Well. He might not care. But jest so he knows I ain't gonna stay stupid, even if he's not there to teach me alla stuff he was gonna."

"I don't get it," Batiste murmurs. "Star's sweet on Caddy's sister, but yet he's with that Gideon guy all the time? What's up with that? That's...that's really good you'll be learning stuff, though, Trace. Real good. Proud of you." He tousles a few rope-braids, then hugs you close again, aiming a smile at the crown of your head. A chuckle stirs individual frizzle-locks of hair, when you mention Cathy and the library card, and he murmurs, "I could just get a library card, and give it to you myself, you know? And there'd be no lying or having to worry about anyone getting caught that way." Light nudge, and the sound of a faint grin in his voice. "Unless it's important that you get the card from Cathy?" He gets a little more serious to finish, "I'll tell Ben. I think he'd want to know. And maybe it'll help smooth things over, somehow."

Trace wrinkles his nose at you playfully when you ask about Gideon. "Ugh, Gid's like his dad, Batiste." Shoulders roll in a shrug. "Ain't like that. You seem t'have trouble believin' in parent-type figures who honestly don't want sex outta their 'kid'!" A little bump with his shoulder. "But Walker never wanted that from me. Zach didn't want it from Jason. And Gid don't want it from Star. Just ain't like that." It wasn't an attack, simply a little amused and bewildered that you'd leap to such a conclusion. And yet, from what Trace knows of Batiste's past, that's what he assumed with Martin. It's what he HAD with Walker and Ben. So once that occurs to him, he gets quiet, lets it go. Different upbringings, maybe. Different patterns in life. "Anyway, um." A little sheepish. "Y'prolly better let Cathy get me the library card. I mean, she seemed real happy to.." A pause, then he blurts out with a spreading grin, "She kissed me, y'know."

Jean-Batiste gives you an odd look for a moment, a look that'd translate easiest to, 'I'm so glad you're so naive.' Any disparaging comments about Gideon go unsaid, though, when you say Zachary's name connected with Jason's. There's an awkward silence, a moment of bruised feelings as he glances away. He doesn't buy that one. Nope. One of his bigger irrationalities. But again, he says nothing. It'd likely start a disagreement, if not an argument, and he doesn't want one over that topic right now. And then, bless you, you provide a true distraction, something he can concentrate on. He looks over, eyes lighting up, goofy grin threatening his mouth. "She did? -She- did? Wow. How forward of her." There's the grin, full-out. "So you like her?" Just a little hopeful.

"Dunno," Trace mumbles, and then giggles a little with embarrassment, looking up at you. "She's real pretty, y'know? I mean, did you see her Mardi Gras outfit? She was *hot*. You know?" A wry grin, "Well, no, guess you wouldn't. But just trust me. I mean.. She had this thing, right? Like her dress, I mean. It was all short an' spikey at the bottom, and tight up here, and wings.." He blushes and shakes his head a little, eyes still bright. "Guess I hadn't noticed it so much til then. And you know, she's really nice. It's jest, um." He lifts his shoulders in a tiny shrug. "Dunno if it'd work. Like, she doesn't like my piercins, or weed or anything, and I think it'd cause fights. Plus, well." A sigh. "I gotta get over Grace first, fore I think'a seein' a girl. It wouldn't be fair to her at all. I mean, I wanna devote myself completely to a girl, not have some other one I'm mopin' after. Ain't fair to the first." He shakes his head, decisively. "Naw. I couldn't do that to Cathy, pretty 'r not."

Jean-Batiste chuckles softly. "No, I didn't see much of Mardi Gras," he murmurs. "Only got six strings of beads." Not at all like last year, nope. He smiles at your description of Cathy's dress -- or, more accurately, the way your face lights up when you describe it -- then lets the smile turn to a wry, sympathetic grin as your words continue. "Awfully straight-laced, huh? Well, she's friends with that De chick, so..." The Just-Say-No'ers tend to clump together, like poorly-made rice. "I'm glad you guys are getting along, at least. That's...that's good. It's good you're thinking ahead like that, too." He reaches out and fwips a couple rope-braids, grin perking up again.

"Yeah, I guess," Trace murmurs, glancing down. "Grace is jest hard to get over though. I mean... I dunno, she's so sweet each time I see her, y'know? Hangs all over me, and kisses at my cheeks. But I jest, I dunno. I don't think she's really attracted to me, though. Else we'd be together by now. I guess.." But he trails off and just shakes his head, lips pursing. Gonna try to get over his true love. It's hard. Way too much 'getting over people' attempts being made lately anyway, in his opinion; while probably for the best in most cases, it doesn't make it easier to watch. So he changes the subject. Reaches into a pocket low on his shin, one of those lower ones that most people would consider decorative rather than functional. Not Trace. This kid doesn't have a secure place to keep his shit, so pockets are blessings. He pulls out a string of violet beads, and has to shake free a pencil that was tangled up in them, replacing it in the pocket. He turns, and the beads are draped around your neck carefully, and he gently tugs your braids free and smiles. "There ya go, sexy. Now it's seven." A little laugh, and he looks up at you, murmuring conspiratorilly, with mock-shame, "Bat. I confess. I did bad stuff to win my beads. There was this one guy standin' outside Lafitte's, eatin a popsicle, and I come'd over to him and um." Mischief in his eyes, his smile. "I licked it." A pause, grin widening. "Y'know. Like.. really licked it. Well." Then he collapses in laughter, falling back against the back of the swing and into the curve of your arm. Haha. Got more beads then you.

Jean-Batiste looks from the beads to your face, back to the beads again, as you draw them out. Dark eyes sadden for a few seconds -- there'd been so many things he'd wanted to do with you and Jason this Mardi Gras -- then gentle to a bittersweet smile. He reaches up to touch the beads as you settle them around his neck, fingers rubbing over them as if he can't believe they're really there. A gift. He laughs softly, a tight sound, and rubs pre-emptively at his eyes to stave off any appearance of tears. "Sheesh," he mutter-laughs at himself, and pulls out a smile for you, one hand still wound up thoughtfully in the beads. Head canted, he listens to your story of Lafitte's...and starts to giggle. A lot. "Oh, oh," he laughs. "Trace, that's...oh. Terrible! Shame on you." He's grinning widely as he says it, though, and seizes you in a fierce hug when you lean back into his arm.

"Yes, shame on me," Trace chuckles, an arm curling around to return the hug. "Actually I'm glad I din' hafta do nothing too gross. I mean, I like popsicles." Another little laugh at that. "And I dunno, I din' gotta show my, um. Heh. My stuff to nobody. Or lift my shirt." The scars, recall. Lifting his shirt would be no fun at all. "Oh, Batiste? Speaking of bad." Ohh boy. "I figgered out where I wanna get a piercing." Actually, he never did answer you when you asked him before, still deciding how to handle the dilemma. But he's made up his mind. And what a decision he came to. "I wanna, um. Get a piercing sorta down there. Like.. Ampallang. Have you heard of that? It's not quite a PA, it's different." He shrugs, a grin both sly and self-conscious too, judging by his faint blush. "I mean. They say it don't hurt so much as you think. Less than nose or some upper ear, even. Lots less than nipple." He says that last a bit dubiously, as though trying to convince himself.

Squeak? Considering the expression, he's indeed heard of an ampallang before. Connecting the concept of that with the concept of -you-, however... "You're serious," he murmurs, voice not raising enough at the end to count as a question. Of course he's serious, you goof. He just told you about it. Repeated: "You're serious?" Blink. Blink. "Trace, it's...you're sure? I mean...whoa." He grins, shocked and amused and intrigued and...well, lots of other things. "It takes months to heal, you know that, right? You..." ...are going to let -Nadine- put your hands on Mr. Winky? "You picked out the jewelry for it, yet?"

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