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Log Title: Ravage

Log setting: Lelong Avenue - City Park

Log Cast:
Jason
Rosie
Jean-Batiste
Trace
Glass

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Jean-Batiste sneaks a swift, sidelong glance to Jason when Trace mentions 'that Nunan guy', then shakes his head casually at the blue-haired boy. "No, I went upstairs after you dozed off and talked to Ben for a while, then I crashed out on the waterbed. I'll call him in a couple of hours, promise." He grins slightly, bumping Trace's shoulder as he sits down at the picnic table beside him. "You feeling okay?" he asks with mild curiousity and concern, then looks up at Jason acting all bashful - which, surely, must be a sign of the Apocalypse - and Rosie edging away. He licks his bottom lip, still uncertain, then murmurs, "Hey...I've seen you around before, I think...can't remember your name." He smiles contritely, then adds in case the forgetfulness is mutual, "I'm Batiste."

Glass looks up.

Trace adds softly, "N'I'm Trace," since he realizes he hasn't introduced himself this entire time either. His hand twitches again, as though flexing his fingers, a faint smile on his lips. He remembers his Snickers bar, still where he set it down when he ran over to greet Batiste. Mm.. He picks it up and gnaws a bit more on the unwrapped end.

Rosie wriggles a little as she tilts her head up to look at Jason, and is somewhat comforted by the expression she sees there. The girl offers a tiny, aplogetic smile around to all the boys. She isn't honestly trying to attract attention, and now that more than one pair of eyes are on her, she's all embarassed. Best to focus just one place; Batiste is talking to her. She tilts her head and offers another, stronger smile to him. Has to turn her attention off him toward Trace, baby steps, just one boy at a time can't hurt, right? "My name's Rosie, though -some- people could do well to remember that more often," she explains quietly, with an absent thumb in Jason's direction.

Jason probably would have immediately pounced on the question of 'that Nunan guy' right away (among other things that would have caught his attention), but Rosie's odd behavior (not that she has /normal/ behavior) seems to have captured his attention right now. The moment when Jason gets a Clue is rather visable, understanding dawning from some half-forgotten memory. He offers a small, soft smile, murmuring, "Y'know, yer not as pretty as you think you are 'round these people... No need to go get the makeup." Sort of backhanded words of comfort, one might think.

Jason, Trace. Jason, Trace. Batiste eyes them both up, puzzled, then shrugs it off - unexplained mysteries don't often get cleared up in this gang. He lights up another licorice clove, drawing it out of his Marlboro softpack, then offers the pack around the table with a, "Anyone want one?" He's not certain what he's done to make Rosie edgy, but introductions and an offer to share smokes usually settles people down...at least a little.

Glass looks at Batiste. He murmurs, "Okay."

Trace blinks a little, confused at the words. Isn't it against the law or something, telling girls to their faces that they aren't pretty? Then again, maybe if you're said girl's Father Collaborator or whatever it was, it's different. He waves the expected hand of dismissal at Batiste's offer, "No, s'okay," and turns to look over at Glass when he decides to rejoin them. "Hey Doug, did ya go see De today?"

Jean-Batiste glances over at Glass, and a broad, lazy smile brightens his face. "Hey..." he murmurs, beckoning him over. "Whatcha doing, staying over there? Come sit with us." He draws out a licorice clove, rather than a Marlboro, to offer to Glass when he nears.

Rosie actually smiles, crookedly, at what Jason says, and bats at the air near him lightly. "Why, you flatterer!" she teases, relaxing somewhat. Steals a quick glance at Batiste, Glass, and Trace each in turn, considering. Instead of a cigarette, she produces a blueberry sucker and pops it in her mouth, thoughtful.

Glass shakes his head, "No. I forgot."

Rosie doesn't go so far as to bat at The Foxtail. Just nearish him.

Glass comes over and accepts the cigarette from Batiste.

Jason giggles softly at Trace's look and flips a blue braid fondly, then scoots over a little to crouch next to where Batiste is sitting, though still facing Rosie. He starts absently toying with blond braids as he smirks up to Rosie. "I try sometimes... othertimes I'm just naturally swauve, you see?" He winks.

Jean-Batiste offers Glass his little Bic lighter, still smiling at him. "So what're you all doing hanging out here instead of the playground, anyways?" he asks the group at large. He starts eyeing up Trace's Snickers bar in a covetous way. Mmm. Chocolate.

Jason curls his tail around to the other side, the fuzzy white tip just barely resting on Trace's shoulder. It twitches a little, 'accidentally' tickling the boy's neck. Evil, is he?

Rosie pulls the pop from her mouth to croon with wiggly eyebrows, "Rrrrrico.... Suuuuav-ay." She wolf-whistles at Jason and winks at him, comfortable. Nope, this isn't a scary boy after all. The girl takes a second, longer look at each of the others, as if seeing something new in each. To Jason, "Makeup, you say?"

Glass lights the cigarette, murmurs to Batise, "Merci. I was just here, and saw Jason and Trace."

Jean-Batiste looks away from Trace's candy, closing his eyes for a second and shaking his head so pale braids bat around Jason's fingers. "Rico Suave..." he chuckles softly, opening his eyes to give Jason a sly, shy grin.

Glass grins.

"I was headed to my fort to think, but... these two were here. So I got distracted." With an understanding smirk, Trace takes the chocolate out of the wrapper and breaks off a nice sized chunk on the opposite, untouched side. He startes to pass his candy bar over to Batiste -- so he *will* get to share his chocolate after all! But accidently drops it where it lands in Batiste's lap. He's cringing with laughter, his hand flying up to his neck protectively. For absoltely no reason. Unless it was a mosquito or something, nothing's touching his neck at all.

Jason doesn't even look back at his two friends sitting beside him, just smiles innocently at Rosie.

Jean-Batiste tries to catch the piece of chocolate, fumbling it in surprise before trapping it down against one leg so it can be properly picked up. He straightens up a bit, shaking his braids back from his eyes, and gives Trace and odd, muddled look. "Bug flew by again?" he inquires, a little drolly. He carefully grinds the ember off his smoke, tucking it back half-finished into the pack, so he can nibble at the chocolate bar.

Rosie breaks into a bright giggle, nose wrinkling up as she does. Ohhh, that's nice, the nose wrinkle, and she reaches up to touch it, giggling more. "Shoulda known. Always thought you coulda done with some cleverly-applied blusher, Mr. Riley."

Glass blows a smoke ring.

Yup, Jason /does/ have a last name. Well, so do Glass and Trace and Bat, come to think of it. Probably. Anyhow, he wrinkles his nose in return, then looks back over his shoulder to Trace, grinning, as he twines his fingers amonst Batiste's braids once again. "Angel fly by, hmm?" He gets this mischevious crooked smile, then winks to Rosie. "Pesky angels."

Trace's laughter dies in his throat as he slowly turns to look over at Batiste, quite startled. 'What...?" He rubs at his neck. "You didn't -- I mean..." Realization spreads across his features, and he looks from Batiste to Jason and then back at Batiste again. Finally, slowly, he looks drops his gaze to the table, thinking hard. He peeks up -- he has to be sure -- and murmurs very softly to Batiste, "Don't you think... Rosie'd look nice in stripes?"

Jason's tail grows nicer and decides to dangle off the side of the table and brush up against Trace's arm. So nice. Yes, pet it. His ears wriggle, his mood having improved immensely since people started streaming in here.

Rosie nods with enthusiasm to Jason, echoing, "Pesky." Quite like a little sister, especially with a sucker-stem poking out of her mouth. At the sound of her name she turns and settles sideways on the bench to face Trace and Batiste. Grinning bigly, though her lips and teeth are stained blue by the pop, she awaits her fashion verdict.

Ringed ferret-tail peeks up again, since it's being discussed, and fuzzy ears fan up and out, showing themselves off.

Jean-Batiste pops the rest of the piece of chocolate into his mouth, chewing the caramel and peanuts as quietly as he can - considering the mouthful, it's not -that- quiet. He glances around at everyone, giving them a pensive look, then shrugs restlessly at Trace. "Yeah, I guess." He leans forward as he starts to stand up, kissing Trace's forehead, and murmurs, "I'm going to go for a while. You guys come by later, or something." He glances back to Jason, trying to gently draw his hands out of his braids so he can finish standing up.

Glass looks at Batiste, "Where are you going?"

Jason tilts his head at Batiste as his hand falls from the braids, lands on a shoulder, then slides away from that too. "Yeah..." Jason adds, blinking a little, brows drawing together in confusion. "Why do ya gotta go?" A hint of a sniffle in there. And with those large, green eyes blinking at Bat, you know there's gonna be a guilt trip comin'.

Trace leaps up at that and slaps a palm on the table sharply, "*Wait!*" he works his way out from around the picnic table bench -- damn things are so hard to free yourself of when you're in a hurry -- and hurries over to grab Batiste's arm and stop him. He drags him a bit, just far enough to grabs hold of Jason's collar. "Okay. Okay, we need to talk. *Now*. It... it's very important." A flickered glance to Rosie, before he adds, "Not a very long talk. Just... please come into my fort for a moment?" His jaw is tense, eyes hopeful in spite of it.

Jason yelps in surprise as he's snagged by the collar, blinking at Trace now. Probably could drag him anywhere right now, while he's recovering from the sudden sound and movement of his blue-haired friend.

Whups, boy stuff. Immediately, Rosie loses interest. Or at least, looks convincingly bored enough once the attention is off her, that those preoccupied with other stuff won't notice. Or maybe she just really is that self-centered. The girl clambers to her feet and tsks sympathetically at Jason. "Never let 'em collar -you-, willya?" she calls with a plaful wink, flicking a finger against her collarbone.

Jason's ears plaster themselves against his head at the sharp sound, then even moreso when he's collared, his tail immediately wrapping around himself, tucking itself in. Much like a dog might when it's yelled at. Cringe.

Jean-Batiste blinks down at Jason, seeming quite unguilty. He jumps, startled, when Trace grabs his arm, then just smiles with faint sadness at him and tries to pull his friend's bony fingers away. "Just...stay with them, Trace. I'm okay. I'm just not in the mood for private jokes right now." His smile twitches, dark eyes tired. "I'll come back later, or something."

Glass looks at Batiste.

Rosie's fingers flick against her silver necklace and pendant, invisible to eyes not Dreaming. The light playfulness is obviously a facade; she really does feel sorry for Jason and the touble he's gotten into.

Jean-Batiste tries to draw away, looking towards Glass. "Feel like walking for a bit?" he offers, reaching for his pack of cigarettes again.

Jason ducks down low now, crouching on the table, so that he's below everyone else surrounding him. Oohhboy, he /does/ look like he's in trouble.

Glass nods, murmurs, "Yeah, sure."

Hazel eyes flash with frustration and slight anger. He latches again onto Batiste's arm, very forcefully in fact, or as much as those slender fingers can manage. "God*dammit* Batiste, I said it was important. Ain't no fuckin' joke, 'n if it's private, I swear t'God it's 'tween the three of us. Not two. Unnerstand? I *need* you to come with me."

Rosie salutes Jason, straightening stiff and military. A quick turn on her heel, and she marches back toward the playground, whistling 'Taps'. Nope, she don't care. Not one whit.

Rosie steps into the playground.

Jean-Batiste looks towards Glass, forlorn and pleading, then sighs and bows his head, rubbing at the inside corner of his eyes. "We just talked about this," he murmurs to his boots. "We -just- talked about this. I told you both, I'd do anything, and..." He gestures vaguely to the area of the picnic table. "It's just one great big joke." He just stands there, staring down at his boots, listlessly smoking his half-consumed cigarette.

Glass murmurs, "You want me to go?"

Jason just keeps himself small atop the table, waiting... Like there was some judgement coming. He doesn't say anything, yet. Not until the court's officially convened.

"Do I *look* like I'm fucking JOKING?!" Trace cries heatedly, tugging Batiste's arm as though trying to shake the blind melancholy out of him. "Why won't you come with me? I..." He distractedly looks to Glass and pleads, "We just, we need some time alone, and he won't come with me, so... I would want you to, Glass. I-I'm sorry, I ain't tryin' t'be rude, but it's just... real, *real* important. We'll try to come find you when we're done talkin'... I hope you don't mind..?" Slightly sheepish at that last, but it wars with his flushed, incensed emotions. "I'm real sorry."

Glass looks at Batiste.

Jean-Batiste drags down the last of his cigarette and flicks it away to smoulder out in rain-damp grass, exhaling the last of the smoke towards his boots. He looks up at Glass, shaking blond braids back from his face, and murmurs, "I shouldn't be long. I'm sorry. I'll come looking for you soon as I can." He reaches out to try and grasp Glass's fingers for a moment, squeezing them then releasing them. He doesn't move away from Trace, seeming quite securely caught by the younger boy's fingers around his wrist. "I'm coming, I'm coming, wherever you want to go.."

Glass nods to Batiste. "Okay," he says, and turns.

Jean-Batiste sighs, eyes closing. "I'm sorry..." he repeats softly.

Glass murmurs, "It's okay."

Glass heads off, turning his collar up.

Jason is hiding, but one thing caught his eye. And in this atmosphere, it strikes him pretty sharply. A glance at the quick contact between Bat and Glass, and then a /look/ to Bat, blinking quickly. But then he shakes his head and looks to Trace, taking a deep breath. Ready as he can be, considering.

Jean-Batiste misses the Look shot at him, his attention on the retreating form of Glass. His mouth twists up at one corner, and he looks down at the ground again, rubbing the inside corners of his eyes.

Glass leaves the park.

Glass has left.

Trace waits patiently as he can while Glass takes his leave, ears pricked, his entire figure tense and very still. When finally decides that they're sufficently alone, he releases Batiste's arm and it's Jason he whirls on instead, striding up to the crouched boy and demanding, pleading, "I know... I know 'lotta times you don't like to, but you *gotta* 'splain this! Why's he lost it? I-it isn't fair! I got mine a day *before* him an' he's already lost it! Why?"

Jason ducks his head as soon as Trace turns on him, like he was expecting to be hit or something. He takes some long, deep breaths in the silence between the question and his answer, but finally says, very softly, "It's easier on fam'ly... Don' hafta go so far ta remind you or nuthin'..." Okay, you asked for an explaination. Doesn't mean it'll make sense.

Jean-Batiste sinks down on the edge of the picnic table seat, leaning forward with folded arms against his knees, back to the two of you. He draws out his pack of cigarettes yet again, lighting a Marlboro this time, sucking the acrid smoke deep into his lungs.

Trace sighs exasperatedly. It's true, the explaination doesn't completely make sense to him. He stands still for a moment, stranded between the two of you, before he slowly turns and walks back to Batiste. There's something infinitely sad and accepting in his expression as he reaches out to carefully cup Batiste's face in his stained, small hands. "You don't understand right now," he says softly, his voice unsteady. "But.. I see this is what's gotta happen, so..... it's really hard for me, but.... it's what I'll do. For the three of us." He releases Batiste and moves slowly back to Jason. "I don't get what ya meant 'zactly. But.... I know I'm different, sorta. Not... like you, not really Different, but, more than Batiste. Right? S'why I kept it and he couldn't? But I..." His voice breaks and he flinches, but doesn't cry, just takes a moment to compose himself before he finally chokes, "I can't keep it either, if it does this to us. So... unless you can find a way to make it stay with him too.... take mine back! I *love* it, it feels right to me, but I.... don't want it, if it hurts him like this.... it's not fair."

Jean-Batiste looks up into Trace's eyes for a second when small, stained fingers touch his face, summons up a twitchy smile, then looks down again, concentrating on his cigarette. "It doesn't matter," he murmurs. "It's just...I'm not a part of it, whatever the two of you have. It's just the way it is." He shrugs listlessly and goes back to smoking his cigarette, the words 'more than Batiste' tumbling around inside of his head.

Jason takes a deep breath, shivering slightly like a breeze blowing across him, except his hair doesn't flutter. He doesn't look at either of you, just wraps his arms around his knees and stares at the ground between the two of you. "Dreams..." he starts, then stops. Fingers crawls across his arms, plucking at the hair on his arms. "Dreams can't be taken away, they fade with memories and pain..."

A glint comes to Trace's eyes as he softly, intensely, insists, "They can. I know you can do it. I... I remember. God, I don't know how I ever forgot it. It *hurts*, I know. I remember... when he stole it, and it just scared me so bad, it *hurt*. I.... I couldn't draw for a few days. That was the worst part. But... it doesn't matter. I need you to do something like that now, don't you see? Please, Jason... I promise I'll forgive you..." With an unsteady laugh, he scrubs at his eyes. "Actually, I guess I.. I won't even remember, so there'll be nothin' to forgive..."

Jean-Batiste looks back over his shoulder then, smoke curling around him, leaking out of the baleful orange ember at the end of his cigarette. He frowns at the both of you, not understanding, maddeningly frustrated, knowing only that whatever Trace is talking about -can't- be good. "What are you talking about?" he demands gently, looking from Trace to Jason and back again. "You can't just go inside someone's head like that." Patiently explained, but without much hope, like trying to explain to someone in the midst of a bad trip that their skin really -isn't- melting off their bones. "You...you have something incredible, Trace.

Something...maybe nobody else has. How could you not want to keep it for as long as you can?" He looks away, then, dragging hard on his cigarette.

Jason lifts his eyes, lingering on Batiste's face for a moment, smile sad, then turns them on Trace. There's a glittering deep with them, a dark, almost twisted shine that he almost... gives in to. But then he shakes his head. "I almost did, once... When I first met you and told you to draw what you saw. It would have been so easy then to take a little bit..." And he pulls his eyes away. Instinctively they seek refuge in Batiste again, but then he remembers that he can't hide there either, so he ducks his head, hiding his eyes behind a curtain of red. "Rape, ravish, ravage, it's all the same... Easier on a stranger, better with a friend." He murmurs to no one, shivering again.

"See, but I... I'm asking you to, it's very different..." Trace curls his arms around Jason's hunched shoulders, hugging him tight and resting his cheek to the boy's back. He peeks up over at Batiste, his eyes tearful as he explains, "It's just... I don't want to keep it. I... love what we have." Another unsteady laugh. "I love it more than Jason's tail, pretty a'zit is. I can live without it..." He sniffles and reaches down a hand to affectionatly pat the tail in question. "Please go ahead, Jason." A sniffly, tension-filled giggle. "Jest' wish Batiste could see like us jest' for a minute so he could appreciate it. He jest thinks I'm nuts right now... pettin' thin air."

Jean-Batiste looks back coldly at Trace, noting, "Sometimes it's not a matter of -wanting- to keep something you have, sometimes you have no choice. Sometimes even if you don't want something, you have to keep it anyways. Whatever...whatever it is, maybe it's part of what brought us all together." He looks at Jason, here, assessing, trying to pick apart the redhead's motivations, reasons within reasons hidden inside of casual laughter. "It's something special, you shouldn't want to throw it away." He stands up, folding his arms across his chest, and stares hard at the distant trees, blowing smoke at them.

Jason murmurs, forehead against Trace's shoulder, his tone... bleak, "'N mebbe it's what's tearin' us apart right now... Ain' been three but two an' two an' two, triangle with sides but nuthin' in it." A soft giggle, probably him visualizing it.. or something else. All this pressure, all this stress, all of his thoughts, they're bearing down on him now and pulling him in three directions, towards Trace, towards Batiste, and away from both of you. "Magic makes the worl' go 'round," he says softly, voice almost singsong. "But it also brings it crashin' down." It has the edge of... not insanity, but not something completely sane either. Something dangerous that could do harm if he lets it. Like Trace seems to be asking of it.

Trace draws away, unnerved and confused now. "I... I don't believe either of you! First, Batiste's jest wrong. I was in *his* world when I met him... and it's where I was when I met you, Jason! N'that triangle bullshit.... I don't believe it at all. We *are* best as three, you know that's true!" He shakes his head with disbelief, scrubbing at his eyes again. "The worst times we get pulled apart, it seems, is when Batiste don't have it, and us two do. And that don't got nothin' to do with how I feel towards him or you, not at all! So t'me it seems like this is what fucks us up, an' if you won't fix it, Jason..." He stops himself, as his courage deflates quickly. Flatly, he admits, "No. I... I couldn't let anyone else do it but you. So I guess I jest gotta... wait it out. It can't last forever, it never does." He looks over at Batiste, rubbing at his moist cheeks, "I guess I'll jest wait it out, and hope yer still with me when it's gone."

Jean-Batiste goes to take another drag off his cigarette and finds it smouldered away to the filter and died. He flicks it away into the grass and leans back against the picnic table, still staring out towards the trees. All this talk about different worlds and things half-remembered and hopelessly distant make his head hurt; all this talk about triangles with nothing inside of them make his heart hurt. He stares a while, not really seeing anything, then shrugs and murmurs, "There's nothing to be fixed. You're not broken, however you are. You're...you're the way you're supposed to be. You're whole, Jason makes you that way. I just gotta stop caring that I'm not a part of it too." A light, negligent shrug jostles bony shoulders. "World's not perfect, world's not even fair. Shit happens." He looks towards the park exit, rubbing the back of his neck.

A fox. They're small, they're cute, but what are they still? Predators. And right now that's what Jason's looking more and more like, despite his own wishes. He raises his eyes, gleaming darkly behind his hair as they level on Trace. Confusion is in the air, tinged with pain, and you could swear that Jason's nostrils flare with it like that fox smelling a wounded rabbit's blood. All the mix needs is... His eyes slide over to Batiste, smoking and looking away, and he murmurs, lowly, almost hideously gleefully, "Wait, Bat... he's right. Times when two of us have sumthin the third don' have... Ya two have yer H, me 'n Trace have our secret, 'n you 'n me..." He grins at Trace again, flashing his teeth in an expression that isn't a smile. "If we wait it out, who knows how long it'll take? Dreams fade, secrets fester." This isn't Jason. This is something much worse. Be careful what you wish for...

Jean-Batiste shudders slightly and looks down towards the grass near his feet, as if he'd been run through with something too sharp and fast to react until it was already through him. He closes his eyes, eyelashes laying like bruises on his cheeks, and something in his spine and the squared cast of his shoulders falters and wilts. He turns his face up to the sky, letting the drizzle spatter against his skin as he murmurs, "You want to tell him, Jason? Tell him. You know I can't stop you."

A soft whimper escapes from the back of Trace's throat as he retreats a step back. (He never can seem to remember that rule about how running things attract Jason's attention!) Is this what he wanted? Terror lights his glass eyes as he retreats another step. "I never... never wanted any secrets...!" he swears in a desperate whisper, before looking over to cast Batiste a wild glance. So much for Protect Trace mode. But he provoked Jason to this, of course. He tries to remind himself of it. "But if, if..." He shakes his head a little, speechless, and forces his feet to root and stop running. Alright. What have you got without these two? So stand firm, and be it terrible secrets, a torn psyche, or vulpine fangs... come what may.

Jean-Batiste looks over his shoulder again, his eyes cold and sad as they focus on Trace. "You've never known a secret that'd change everything, -ruin- everything, if anyone knew it, Trace? Never?" So if it would ruin everything, how does Jason know it? He looks to the redhead next, swallowing hard, watching that predatory gleam deep in those crazy green eyes spread to Jason's mouth as well. Softly, he speaks, "Whatever he says he needs fixed, you won't change it. There's nothing wrong with him." Won't. As if Jason will listen to such absolutely, simply because they're stated.

Mm, yes, see, the one thing missing from the air was betrayal. Little does Trace know that terrible secrets, a torn psyche, /and/ vulpine fangs can result from just one little thing. And Bat...? Jason flashes him a toothy grin, knowing his fangs are already poised at the throat of Batiste's dreams right now. Ever since the older boy's shoulders sank and he turned the power over to Jason "There's always something wrong with knowing what you don't want to know..." he says, low in his throat. The flashing green eyes slide back to Trace. "But he's right, Bat... we need to share everything, we can only be happy if he knows what happened this morning when you 'talked with Ben.'" His head tilts, in almost comic curiosity. "Don't you think?" Maybe this is the one who was there that night at Walker's... The malicious one with the crazy eyes. The one who laughed at the terror.

Jean-Batiste's eyes flare sullenly at Jason, the look of a kicked puppy backed into a corner, waiting for the boot - a silent answer more eloquent than words could ever be. He moves towards Trace, reaching out to grasp his arm, draw his friend protectively towards himself so the two stand together against Jason's unholy green eyes. "Stop it," he says, voice calm, eyes locked on Jason. "You don't have to be like this. I'm sorry, I won't get in your way anymore, all right? Just stop this." Gooseflesh prickles between his shoulderblades with a nasty, uneasy feeling.

His heart painted on his face. Trace looks to Jason, and for the most part, it's just a mask of terror as he trembles, standing so still. A quick glance to Batiste, when the boy touches his arm, grateful and confused, but quickly the fear rushes back onto his expression as he looks back to Jason. He didn't know that, to fulfil his request, Jason would have to be so *fierce* about it. But then, what is gentle rape? He locks his gaze with green flame. Batiste means well, and it warms him to see that his faithful friend did come to protect him after all, but he still does not hold much faith that Jason will be swayed now that it's gone this far. "Batiste.." he whispers. "He's taking back something his to begin with. The magic's... dead in me. It has been for a long time..." And after he's voiced that, for a moment the colorful storm of his expression goes suddenly very still. Calm. He whispers, "I'll miss sharing India with you," and closes his eyes. Waits.

It's all right there. All lined up for him to take. Invade your dreams, tear what he can away from you, bask in the afterglow of a rape of the heart and mind - and Trace should /know/, in his heart, that that's what he's about to do, the same way a man knows just as the trigger's pulled that his life is over. But the trigger never gets pulled. "India..." The word sparks some memory of sanity in his mind, of laying around as Trace buries his face in Batiste's blond hair and says, 'Your hair smells like India...' Something shatters in his green eyes, that something terrible, yet also that something that was a part of him. A flash as he blinks, and he murmurs, "Draw what you see..." He's not looking at either of you anymore. He's not really even /there/ anymore, perched on the edge of the table like some predator coiled to spring. His eyes go wide and sightless, yet flit around, seeking something. Something he lost, maybe? And suddenly his eyes lock on the both of you and he lets out this soft laugh that's more of a whimper than of anything else. "It's not gone, you just dream of needles..." And then the full horror of what he was about to do hits him like a physical blow, making him scramble back on his hands with huge eyes until he almost goes toppling over the other side. Just to get away from you two, his friends.

Jean-Batiste's mouth purses up sourly, a silent 'Well, -shit-,' as Jason scrambles back, wide-eyed and horrified. There's a part of him, jealous and greedy and desperately lonely, still smarting from some real or imagined hurt. That part of him coaxes him to stay put, watch Jason flee, and hope he's hurting half as much as he is, right now. But what will that accomplish? the rest of him asks. What will it get you, besides a hollow flare of sadistic pleasure, a shattering of the triangle before there's a chance to try and fill the inside with memories and hopes? He won't risk that - or, more truthfully, he -can't-. As he said before, he's not strong enough. And so, even though there's still goosebumps crawling between his shoulderblades from the uneasiness and unearthliness of this confrontation, he steps forward, reaching for Jason, calling, "Jason, wait."

Deep breath. Then another. Trace is afraid to open his eyes. But as those terrible, decade-long moments roll by and nothing happens, he very tenatively opens his eyes. And then everything's moving quickly again, to make up for the torturous lull in time as he waited for his dreams to be stripped away. Jason speaks, and a part of him realizes that it's the answer he'd been trying so hard to glean from his red-haired friend, a terrible unravelling of that mystery -- why the magicworld abandonned him in the first place. But he doesn't really have much energy to let it sink in entirely, because Jason's trying to disappear and Batiste's moving after him, and he forces himself to step forward too. "Don't go!"

Oh god, they're following me. They know. He pushes himself back more, trying to get his purchase on the table so he can get out of here. Only there's no more table left, only air. He doesn't even make a sound as he goes down in a flutter of arms and legs and coat and red hair that seems to fall entirely too surrealisitcally. And, perhaps even Batiste can imagine a tail in the flurry of dark fabric. But the fancies in the moment of freefall can't last at the thump of Jason hitting the ground, and once again time speeds up again. Even with the dirt and grass beneath, that must have hurt, but Jason struggles to get up anyway, dazed from the fall and tangled up in his own coat and hair, just from the pure desperate need to obey the flight urge.

Jean-Batiste imagines expressive, silk-furred ears and a white-tipped plume of a tail often, be it inspired by daydream, sketchbook, or the wild flutter of long hair and coattails. He imagines them, wishes for them, but it doesn't make them appear. When Jason tumbles to the ground and lands with a thump, it spurs Batiste to a scrambling sprint for that short distance, reaching out for shoulders tangled up in flame-hued hair. "Jason! Jason, -wait-!" he repeats, glancing back towards the sound of Trace's voice. He looks back to the dazed, panicky Jason, blurting with a near-panic of his own, "Wait, you don't have to run, it's okay, it's okay!" Whatever hurt he may be feeling, there are things far more important to deal with right now. "Don't run away. We don't hate you," he says imploringly, trying to lock eyes with Jason.

Azraphael steps out from the playground.
Azraphael looks... a little surprised to see people out in the park (not that it SHOULD surprise him) as he comes out of the playground. Yeah, by himself even.

Batiste might not be prepared for the yelp that Jason lets out when his shoulders are grabbed. Jason sure as hell wasn't planning on being grabbed. There's a brief struggle against the grasp, an attempt to stand, but those are defeated even before they begin by his tangled condition (sitting on one's own coat doesn't help one get up). But perhaps Bat's words get through to the kid, just a little bit. He turns huge eyes, filled with, yes, stark, raving terror. Inspired by himself. "I don't want it, Bat!" he insists. "I don't want India!" For all the half-truths and evasions Jason's given you both, that isn't one of them. His eyes seek out Trace as he whimpers, "Not like that..."Jason is on the ground by one of the tables, looking, well, like he just fell off of it. Bat is at his side and Trace is on his way.

Azraphael takes a moments pause, watching the kids at maybe-not-play from a distance.

After that short, shocked lag, Trace is quick to pick up speed and follow suit with Jean-Batiste. He moves as close to Jason as he can, but doesn't rush to lay hands on him when he sees the frightened reaction it earns Batiste's efforts. "I... never woulda dreamed of it most times, 'cept for you. I'll just... we'll share it like we always have, okay? I-I'm sorry... I guess I shoulda never asked you what I did. I just... I still don't believe in yer damn empty triangle..."

The world is just so weird, so -wrong- tonight. The skin between Batiste's shoulderblades just won't stop crawling and shuddering and reminding him that this is all just...not right. Gritted, stubborn determination keeps him from fleeing away to huddle, balled up in a warm fetal position, keeps his eyes on Jason except for brief, worried stares up at Trace. He doesn't move his hands from Jason's shoulders, though - though it's not a cruel or harsh grip. Just tight. "It's okay, it's okay..." he repeats, softer, trying to soothe. What could his fire-haired friend be so terrified of?

Azraphael relaxes as it appears things are simply, er, domestic. Not his to worry TOO much if a onetime friend is having a Talk with more current friends. Though he does keep watch.

Jean-Batiste stays in a crouch beside Jason, trying to calm him down, until the fire-haired boy settles down enough to stop trying to flee and curl up a little around himself, face hidden with his long hair. He sits back on his ass then, heaving out a heavy sigh and looking over at Trace, mouth twitching in a weary, sad grin.

Azraphael lingers near the entrance to the playground, dark eyes watching the trio from afar (though he can't be seeing much at that remove, in the dark). Moving with somehow awkward grace, he makes a quiet withdrawl.

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