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Log Title: Shatter
Log setting: The grey house on Moss street. It's night, Friday, January 25th, 2002, around 7:00pm.
Log Cast:
Benjamin
Jason
Glass
Trace
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Prelude: Home, about a month after the wedding. Jean-Batiste has gone back to California for awhile to be with a dying friend. The household misses him but has been getting along, even to the point of Jason and Ben getting comfortable with each other. They even seem ready to confide in one another.
Benjamin doesn't say anything while you give voice to thoughts, just does what he does best. Listen, with warm eyes and a quiet expression, all trained on you. You've got every iota of his attention and it shows plain. After a few moment's absorbing, he murmurs, "I've had lots of sex without love, and I know that it was never as good as what Holly and I have, with love. But I've never had love without sex so I don't know if it's better together or not." Quiet falls again as Ben shifts position, letting his knees down a little, letting his guard down a little. "I think it is simple, really. Feelings themselves are always simple, it's just what we choose to attribute to them that complicates things." A shrug of one shoulder punctuates the words. Or, y'know, something else. He's probably wrong. Self-effacement is what he's second best at.
Jason probably doesn't really conciously notice your whole attention upon him, but he probably does sense it. That thing about you that makes people open up to you like they used to to him - before he started snarling at them - that works its way into people and tells them 'I'm listening, just tell me.' Only, with you, it's genuine. Guess Jason was the only one of the 'Triangle' that held out against it, and he sure lasted long. But now, now he has no one to turn to. At least, no one who'd sit quietly and not say things like 'you /should/ do this.' But, again, this isn't concious. He just remembers that firm voice asking him why he does the things that he does to himself that night months ago. At your words, he nods a little, making a little connection. "I dunno... s'never as good, but I do it anyway. I mean, why?" Of course, he answered that himself earlier. He was lonely. And by the looks of him, he's lonely a whole lot. "S'like... sumthin' to do or sumthin'. 'N I know when I do they jus' want sex but I guess that's kinda jus' what I want, even though sex with love is better. But how many times do you fall in love?" And then those eyes lift to yours, a sudden thought striking him. "What if love is jus' like... foolin' yerself? Like every time yer jokin' 'n it'll go 'way an' then you gotta go lookin' all over again? Or... or... worse yet, you fall in love, an' it's the real thing, but it can't last. An'... you can' have sex with 'em anyway, cause it can't happen that way. But yer all twisted up with sex bein' in there with love so you screw it up an' make it end?" He takes a deep, shivering breath, somehow realizing he was getting a little frantic there. "I mean..." He shakes his head again, just once, eyes going back to his fingers and the cookie. "You think it's possible ta love someone like that, but never be able ta have sex with 'em? Even when you feel like you gotta have sex with someone?"
Quiet. Even in the face of a dozen questions, Ben's always quiet before he gives his response. Thoughtful. If considered, one could be assured that he's thinking about everything he hears in detail, determined to give the best response he can possibly formulate. "I don't know," he admits after a few beats. "I don't know how love works. I don't know what it requires. Holly and I have a lot of problems even though we both know it's the real thing, the only thing." A pause for breath. What was it he was trying to say? Oh wait, yes, there it is. It's been his entire philosophy for months now, he'd just misplaced it for a moment. "I don't believe in cynicism when it comes to romance and relationships. If love and sex and commitment were all just illusions, we wouldn't have them at all. We'd have found something better a long time ago, that doesn't hurt as much."
Something that doesn't hurt as much. You've hit the nail on the head with that one. "But..." he starts, but then just lets it go. He tosses the cookie-bits next to their intact brothers on the table and slumps over sideways, resting his head on the back of the couch. His eyes once again take on that tired cast as they rest on some cushion midway between the two bodies on the couch. "S'like..." He shakes his head a moment, as if erasing that thought that got begun. Fingers go up to tangle in his mass of hair by his eyes. "Y'think life is like that movie? Um... Chasin' Amy?" The green orbs go up to you. "Ya see that? Guy falls in love with a dyke 'n she's all 'no way,' but he like loves her 'n she realizes he's the one 'n comes around? Y'think that ever happens? Or is one of 'em out of luck in real life?"
"I think love is love," Ben replies simply. "I don't believe in different kinds of love or different degrees of love. I think if people love each other then they'll figure out between themselves what to do with that feeling." Dark eyes wander to the ceiling, pausing to sort out something plausible. "Like Batiste and I. My dearest friend, I love him very much. But he's obviously more than a friend, but not quite a lover. Not," he adds, looking back to you with a small smile, "That I think friend to lover is a direct upward progression. It's a spectrum really, and Batiste is just in an area that isn't friend, and isn't lover, but I do love him."
Jason's eyes snap to your wandering gaze as soon as you save the name, and, if you were looking and aware, you could almost see the twisting of his stomach in them. Like he's not quite sure if he should get worried, angry, or if he should just ignore that you said his name. Twice. Dearest friend. Then you probably don't know what happened, because you still can tolerate Jason's presence here in front of you. But something masochistic in him forces out a question before he can stop it. "Did you an' him ever...?" You know. As soon as the question's out, though, he bites down on his lip, hard, and throws his gaze back down to his fingers in the hair. The pain and anger over whatever happened is glaringly clear, and asking that question was only inviting the potential for more of both.
Benjamin looks at you for a few moments, expression carefully blank. Too carefully. You have your answer at least in part before he even says anything. It's in the softedged pain in his eyes, the dulled bitterness in his voice. "Just once, months ago. Before Halloween. It wasn't even that much, but it was a mistake." And it -hurts- to say that word. To admit that getting a step closer to someone he cares for so much was a mistake. Ben draws a deep breath, but continues on to mend that wound before it can drive you away. "We never said anything, because he doesn't want you to hurt. You're the one he wants, Jason. He's devoted to you, completely." Each word is another tear at the bandages covering this raw wound. He's no good at hiding it even though his primary purpose is helping you.
Jason just... blinks at you for a long time, frozen all but for his eyelids, flickering. "You..." And then the betrayal hits. He draws back from you, pressing back into the arm of the couch. "An', fuck," he says in that mock calm voice that usually heralds the onset of a storm. "Hidin' it sure makes me feel better. Thanks, Ben." He pushes away from the back of the couch so he's sitting up straight, now-bright green eyes glittering with a newly refreshed anger, but this time it's not just for Batiste. It's for everyone. "Jus' how much is 'not even that much?' anyhow? Did he do 'not even that much' with Walker too?'" He looks back over his shoulder, to the rest of the house, and then back to you. "He so fuckin' devoted, why he fuck around, huh? He fucked 'round with Glass too, didn' he?" Jason didn't even have the advantage of bandages to his wound. It's still fresh and raw, burning there since that day. Just a couple weeks ago... He pushes angrily at a pillow. "Motherfu... If he was so fuckin' devoted, then..." Brows draw together, a sudden pain deep down in in the pit of his stomach. Then the eyes are back on yours. "How much is 'not much?'" Because he needs to know.
You asked. You asked and he told, and you'd never asked before. The anger and the betrayal he understands, and the firey shots of pain he catches and absorbs. Because he knows how you feel, speak the dark eyes silently. Knows how it feels to have the illusion of devotion torn away and stomped on. Even knows how it is to face the person that helped betray. He knows, he faces, and he accepts, all with his normal calm and slow murmur. "We kissed. I went down on him, with a condom. We fell asleep naked together." Three short sentences, no details, no wistful longing. Just facts. And this is 'not much'? But he's going on without further explanation. "He and Doug have never had sex, or even really kissed, to my knowledge. He knows how much you despise Doug, because you think he's trying to take Batiste away from you. Why you can't realize that it isn't true is beyond me. It tears at him, it tears at Doug, and that may be why his devotion can't always hold." Still calm. Waiting, now, for you to run away, or fly at him in anger, or shout, or whatever it is you'll do. Apparently, he'll just sit there and take it.
Three simple sentences. He just wanted it to be the one, honestly. Just 'we kissed' and he can just feel really stupid for being so hair-trigger lately and then he'd have a cry and this'd all be over. But it wasn't just the one sentence. Not that Jason really hears much beyond them. He just looks at you a long time, chin doing that wrinkling-up thing that happens when people try not to break down and cry. You can watch his perceptions of you shatter in those moments, though. That cookie feels like it's going to come up, and violently, the way it's turning to rocks in his stomach. His upper lip twitches several times, like in a snarl or the beginning of a growl, but he can't really bring himself to take it out on you. You betrayed him, but the final, ultimate blame lays with the one who left him twice in one week. He doesn't come at you, but doesn't run either. Just slowly slips his legs off the couch and rises to his feet. Eyes on you the entire time, glimmering with tears. "I thought..." he starts, a hint of that snarl in his voice. "I thought..." he repeats, though this time only the pain comes through, a lost, confused squeak of words. And now those tears that he'd been holding onto come, first one, then two dripping down his cheek and falling to the carpet, but then more. "This wasn't supposed to happen, I... It's not, Ben!" he demands, petulantly. A little boy who was told that things aren't going to go his way. He shakes his head, denying it. "We were all gonna..." He swallows hard and looks around the room. The world, it's closing in on him too much. It'd be so much simpler just to... The green eyes dart about more, frantically. "Ben, it's not supposed to feel like this! Oh, god... where's Trace?" His breath hitches as he takes a step backward and nearly stumbles back over the coffee table. That forces him to look down, but when he does, the ground comes up too quickly at him. Before he realizes it, he's on his knees beside the couch, leaning heavily on it, eyes clenched shut. "Just... have to sleep for a..." His head tilts forward, fingers clenching tight.
"Shhhh." It's going to be completely the wrong reaction. Utterly. Wrong. Bad. Kicking any chance he had to be close with the most enigmatic of his boys right out the window. Shattering the proverbial window in the process. But it's what Ben does. He comforts. He's not always good at it but he doesn't have another mechanism to deal. "Does it feel like someone just threw your heart in the scrap heap and let it get crushed without a second thought? Does it feel like you're abandoned and a dozen times removed from nothing?" Jason's tears shine back in Ben's voice, if not yet in his eyes. "I know. I know exactly how it feels. But Jason, running away from what you feel is exactly how you got to this place." A hand tries to rest on tangled red fire, shaking. "Not dealing, not watching, not maintaining. Relationships take a lot of time. And time is all you've got for now, isn't that right?" Since he's gone. Since he abandoned us both, us all. You're not the only one hurting, kid, not by a long shot. Guess even mop fairies get broken hearts.
Jason was trying to hold on, to keep in place, to maintain /himself/, but, no... Jason yanks his head away from the touch, like it burned. "Don't..." he tries to gasp, as Ben grinds it in. And then a twist. "Don't!" he gets out again, octave rising, making him sound almost pre-pubescent. It's anger, but tinged with terror. Terror at something only he can feel. "Don't!" he says a third time, this time almost at a shriek. And then the eyes come, snapping up to Ben and burning with a flame. A flame that seems to be dying. "Don't you fuckin' make this MY fault! You an'... you an'..." He has to grab tight to the couch and coffee table to keep from going over backwards again. "I..." One might call them wild eyes as they go back around the room, but compared to what they've looked like before, Jason's green eyes seem only to be dull. "Just... shut up," he hisses. "Just shut UP! You, Ben... YOU!" The room spins for him, but he knows he only has one chance at this. Now he tries to run. Stumbling to his feet, he makes a lunge for the doorway, but ends up against the wall with a crash. "It's not supposed to feel like this! I don't want to go now!" he pants out, panicked again. It's like two different Jasons (like... always): one angry and hurt and who wants to lunge for the throat; and another lost and scared who just wants to run and run far from whatever it is chasing him. But the air about him, it's like the thing chasing him is just on his heels, and gaining.
Benjamin just sort of stares at Jason's explosion, blinking. At first it's blinking in total confusion, but bit by bit it dissolves into a blinking to hold back tears. The second purpose is far less successful than the first, and soon they spill. Like all his tears, they're pointless and uncared for and probably unseen. He doesn't understand. He can't understand. How many times has he heard that? Even if he tried... Ben looks away. It's pointless. "I'm sorry." It's a too quiet response to the outburst, but it doesn't matter. The end result will be the same no matter how long it takes to reach it. Without another word he gets up, collects his cigar box and sketchbook, and turns toward the stairs. No need to run, Ben will do it for you tonight.
Unfortunately, the result was forgone the moment Jason's illusions were broken. As Ben gets up, Jason slides back down a final time. He makes no move as the man passes him out into the hallway, just huddling there in a ball on the floor, arms tucked under himself and covered in his own tangled mass of hair. No more sobs, no more squeaks, just a silent shivering.
Benjamin is stumbling up the stairs with difficulty, probably a danger to himself and the sketchbook and box he carries. Jason is sunk on the floor against one wall, just inside the living room entry, and Doug is still inside the front door (I think). Welcome home, Trace.
Glass blinks, baffled now by the silence and by Ben's flight. A strange combonation. He steps inside, his tread hesitant and wary. A glance back over his shoulder into the living room, but he doesn't go in there. Just the look, checking things over before he slips quickly into the kitchen with the paper bag under his arm. He turns and looks around the silent kitchen before he sets the bag on the counter, then pauses, biting his lip as he thinks the situation over. He left the door open, he realizes, and the thought makes him frown at himself. Gotta do something about that.
An army could seriously tramp through the hall, along with a circus train and several high school bands playing 'I Love Rock and Roll' over and over again really badly and Jason wouldn't notice. Silent as he was since he dropped, he could almost be asleep, except that his breathing hasn't slowed any. Just a rapid, shivering pant.
Flight. Yup. Despite bruises and frequent hissed curses, Ben makes it up the stairs. The house's silence echoes the sounds of a frantic search upstairs.
Well, don't do anything about that door, because Trace appears in the wooden threshold, heralded by the soft creek of floorboards. Shoulders sagged, he peers in, made suspicious by the open portal. Finally he steps on through, manuevering the length of hallway cautiously and peering on into the living room. The sound draws him first, that panicked panting, and his eyes immediately drop to the shock of red hair covering the huddled bundle of Jason beneath him. He blinks with instant surprise and confusion.
Glass is just stepping out into the hallway to see about that door when Trace slips on past. He looks at the bluecap and offers a faint flicker of a smile in lieu of a greeting. The expression doesn't hold too much good feeling, and Doug seems fundamentally uncomfortable. Once he's assured himself that the door is indeed once again closed, he retreats back to the to the kitchen. There he frowns to himself, sure that what he's doing is not at all the right thing, but unable to think of any other course of action. He lights a cigarette as he gives the guilty, uncomfortable sensation some further thought and then begins to unpack the bag of groceries.
So, um, yeah. Jason's pretty much immobile until something happens to him. Like one of those circus elephants stepping on his head or something. The breathing does calm down at least, though. Slowly.
Trace doesn't notice fresh cookies, out of character as that is for him. He drops down to Jason's side, arms going around him. He looks up over the tangled red mane to give Glass a look, one asking for explanation. The bluecap's hands are filthy, and leave black charcoal prints on his huddled friend's jacket where he touches him. The scents of weed and rain and the musk too many days unbathed all hang heavily over the boy. He looks away from Glass, nuzzling at Jason with clumsy worry, nose and cheeks pressed against the boy's shoulder gently. "Jason..?"
Glass shakes his head to Trace, having stopped to watch his young friend the kitchen doorway once he put away the meagre supplies. "I don't know," he says in a low murmur. "I just got back." He bites his lip a little as he takes in the scene, but doesn't move.
Jason shakes his head once at the initial touch, matted locks falling from his shoulders to hide his face more. He coughs gently and sniffles, but doesn't say anything. That is until Trace nuzzles up. He sort of draws away from the contact (not that there's much room to go to, being against the wall), then sits up a little, head still hanging low so that his hair's mostly on the floor. He draws his sleeve across his face, wiping tears and snot away, sniffling some more, then shakes his head once again. "God," he mumbles. "I think I took sumthin' nasty..." Bloodshot, clouded green eyes lift, sunk deep against pale, tearstained cheeks. Brows furrow as he turns them towards the bluecapped one. "Trace?" he asks softly, as if unsure this is who is before him. That's the name he puts with the face, but... the face looks different somehow. He shakes his head a third time and covers half his face with a hand. "God..." Disoriented.
"Yeah...?" Trace murmurs, still blinking and somewhat disoriented himself really. What's going on here? "If..." His lips purse, concentrating on considering what to do and swallowing hard on some of the fear rising up from his churning stomach. "What was it? If y'took somethin' bad, y'oughta walk it off. Walkin's good fer it." He reaches out gently to touch the boy's damp, freckled cheek. "What kin' I do..? Tell me how I kin' help, n'I will."
Glass blinks. Oh. This is a situation he can handle. Maybe. He starts forward towards the two, his step hesitant. "Something nasty," he repeats in his soft murmur. "That's okay. After a while it'll go away, you know?" The tone is reassuring. He pauses a yard or so from the pair and says to Trace, "Help him up, okay? We can go into the kitchen?" The suggestion is made in a gentle tone, hopeful, although the hesitation makesit clear that he's not sure his advice will be taken. When he hears Trace's words he smiles a little, and says more surely, "A walk, or just another room, helps a lot." Dark eyes drop to Jason's face, watching with a concern that is more genuine and less nervous.
Jason shakes his head yet again, sort of flinching away from Trace's fingers. "Nuthin'... I jus'..." He makes a face and plants one hand on the wall for some leverage. "Feel like I'm crashin' or sumthin'." Brows furrow as he struggles to rise, those clouded eyes going across the furniture of the hall. "Shhh...it. Where am I?" Picture. Broom. Table (cookies). Glass. Door. He frowns slightly as he remembers something of the 'conversation' he was having when he collapsed, but then gives Glass a sardonic sort of smile. "I think," he murmurs, eyes finding the smaller Trace again. "I think I was jus' dumped a few months after the fact." Same sardonic smile. Like 'look at me, I'm an idiot.'
Trace keeps as close to he can to the redhead, doing his best to assist in pulling the boy up into a standing position. He shifts so that Jason can drape against him for a crutch if he likes, ducking to manuever one arm over his own bony shoulders. "Bat..?" he says softly, and then shakes his head a little, confusion hand in hand with concern. "He comin' back, Jason. Honest," he assures without any confidence to back up the words. "You see'd the letter. Anyway, c'mon." A kiss is planted on the freckled cheek; Trace has no shame at all before family. He encourages softly, "Kitchen. Les' go."
Glass returns Jason's smile with one of his own, a friendly and sympathetic expression that is still touched with wariness. He's still not sure that the volitile redhead won't change faces on him. Regardless of his concern, he offers Jason a steadying hand and says, "Yeah. His friend is sick." Gentle explaination, simple and already known, words meant only to reassure rather than communicate. Glass pauses a beat and bites his lip. "Come into the kitchen," he offers again. "I brought some of those turnover things from Hooper's, if you want. You should at least have some water, if your head is coming off. It'll make you feel better."
While he initiated the maneuver on his own, Jason definitely lets Trace help him up. He wasn't lying about the feeling like crashing part - his legs feel like jelly. The kiss, though - that Jason draws back from a little, as if a slightly startled. But he shakes his head again at it, dismissing any discomfort it generates in him. And then even stronger, this time with a dry laugh. "Nono, fuck him." See? Fuck him. And then he looks around the house again. "Walker's," he says simply, remembering what wordconcept was attatched to this place. He leans heavily against Trace, lowering his head a moment, then sighs softly. "God, I'm crashing." Fire-less eyes peer out from the tangled mane, up at Trace. "Fuck him, Trace." He straightens up, trying to get his legs to work properly beneath him. Dammit, what did he /take??/ "He fucked 'round with Ben," he says softly, casually, as if just discussing some mutual friend. "Prolly Walker too, I bet." And those eyes find Glass again. But they're not the same green-fired orbs that might be expected. Just exhausted, bloodshot, normal eyes. But then they drop away again. "Let's get out of here, Trace." Soft, simple. This place is no longer home for the redhead. Was it ever, really?
Trace stares at Jason, but after the first few seconds doesn't see him. Hazel eyes turned inwards. He what? With... Ben? And maybe Walker? His lips part, but no words escape, and he breaks his unfocused gaze away to regard the room around him briefly. For it is home to Trace. Or, it has been. "I can't... believe Bat would..." he finally gets out, but can't finish it, lips working futily and finally falling still. Bat, who got so fiercely jealous with that Zachary guy...? It makes no sense. He finds Jason's lackluster gaze again and finally, slowly nods. "Whatever you want. L'get m'stuff. Okay? We could sleep in the fort." A glance in through the kitchen's entrance where a handbag hangs off the back of one of the wooden chairs. Hmm. We just crossing the bridge or burning it? A tentative suggestion, eyes still on Walker's purse. "Or if y'like, could spring for a motel room..."
Glass' eyes widen a little at Jason, and he lets his offered hand drop back down to his side, stepping backward away from the readheaded one. The widening of eyes is gone a bare instant after it began, and his retreat is smooth and fluid, seeming slow when it's not. His smile had dropped away and once the moment of suprise has left his eyes his face is only calm and distant. Both movement and flat expression are somehow similar to those of someone on junk and high past pain. Somewhat eerie, that. He ducks back into the kitchen on that same languid movement.
Jason shakes his head slowly, just to do something. He watches the knotted lengths of hair sway slowly beneath his chin, thinking quietly. He caught that look from Glass, and it sort of sparks just the tiniest hint of something deep down inside. A remenant of something he can't quite grasp. At Trace's words, Jason looks up again, a tiny smile twisting one corner of his lips. His eyes follow the other's into the kitchen. Purse. Fuck this shit, says the wallet-clipper in him. Motivation and purpose give his legs strength and he's in the kitchen, going through the purse before he can even really think about it. Not that he needs to, this is almost instinctive to him. It's a matter of moments before he pulls out a wad of loose bills and stuffs them in his pocket, eyes going to Trace out in the hall. "Motel. We gotta smell good for the fort." A hint of his usual smirk, but that dies away quickly as that thought from earlier comes back. The redhead once again props himself up, this time by holding onto the chair and leaning heavily on it. "Hey Glass?" he calls over to the young man also in the kitchen. "I'm jus' kinda curious, but, um, you fuck 'round with him too? Jus' so, y'know, I can know and all." Surprisingly, there's no hostility. As jocular as he tries to sound, it's just exhaustion in his voice. Hmm, might have to splurge on a taxi here while we're at it.
Trace stays where he's at, looking into the kitchen as Jason pilfers the cash from Walker's purse. So this is it. Time to go. He turns and shuffles into the living room to gather up his weather-worn canvas bag. A glance is cast towards the upstairs. Hmm... He's leaving a few items of clothing behind, it seems. The boy's not willing to go up there and possibly face Ben. So okay, he loses his shiny black pants from Jordan, his pirate costume, wedding clothes, and that silvery top he never got a chance to wear. Back to scuzz gear. Ah well. Honestly, it better suits the grubby boy. He gets down onto his knees and bends down before the couch, sliding hands beneath it to pull out the large painting done on a slab of wood, which had been hidden there. Well, it's going to be a bitch to carry, but it *must* go with him. So that is leaned against the couch. Next he scans the nearby carpets, pacing a few steps, and when he doesn't immediately spot an elusive ball of white fluff, he hisses quietly, "Dove? Doooove..." His kitty-calling falls silent, however, as he hears what Jason just asked Glass. He doesn't move into the kitchen, but his attention is poised in wait for Doug's answer.
Glass sighs and looks at Jason dully, without feeling. "Yeah," he says after a while. "But not much. Not like you're probably thinking." A flicker of a dead smile, then flat again. "Not that it makes a difference. Look, uh, you gotta steal from Walker? I mean, I guess that's between him and you, but that's not cool." He looks toward the kitchen doorway and Trace's voice, raising his lazy murmur a little to add, off the topic, "Come see me sometime and I'll get free food for you."
By the by, should anyone glance in at that board settled next to the couch, a painting with acrylics is revealed. On a large wooden panel, a magical scene has been painted with great care for detail. Drifting in a pond is a large lily, on top of which is standing a blue fairy, his wings spread slightly, watching with a regal look in his eyes over the rest of the pond, in which many female fairies are bathing. There is one swimming, another is washing her hair, and although nothing is to be seen, by strategically placed overhanging leaves and ripples of water, it is clear they are all naked. Their shoes are collected on a rock to the side, where one fairy is putting on her shoes, this girl's face sharing a remarkable likeness to Caddy, while another fairy is whispering into her ear, a mischievous look on her face that is the spitting image of Cathy.
Jason gives Glass one of those 'where's the crack pipe?' sort of looks, baffled. And then just shakes his head. "An' like, findin' out I prolly got the least 'mount of action from my..." He can't say boyfriend for some reason. He just shakes his head slowly. "I don't think you know what the fuck yer talkin' 'bout Glass," he says softly, then moves back out to the hallway to where Trace waits. Quite noticing where the invitation was directed (and where it wasn't) too. "What a time ta come down," he murmurs softly to Trace once he reaches him. He starts to move past toward the door, but pauses, staring at the painting for a long moment. /Long/ moment. Then, blinking slowly, he puts his hand out just in time to keep him from falling against the wall again. Eyes are pried away again as he tries to get rid of the cloud surrounding his brain. "What a time..." he repeats, to himself.
"I'll be fine," Trace says quietly, in response to Jason's words. He finally catches sight of the kitten out of the corner of his eye. Little Miss Tailkiller is peeking out from behind one of the curtains, practicing her very best sneaking. But the bluecap disapoints her when he doesn't stop to play along, and simply snatches her up and gently deposits her in his canvas bag. Her head pokes out, little paws on the edge as she peers out. Huh. Takes her a moment or two deciding whether this new abuse warrents squirming and a trial for the old 'landing on her feet' myth. But the ground's waaaay down there, so she rationalizes that she's getting carried around just because she's so special and loved. That must be it. Trace calls quietly to Doug, "Ain't stealin'. Lawyer'd call it recompensation f'traum a or something." He peeks into the kitchen, just briefly, to say, "Anyway, if I'm hungry or I miss you, whichever comes first, I'll look ya up. But anyway, in the mean time, you gotta real nice girl. Prolly oughta stick to her, y'know? I know it ain't in fashion these days, monogamy, but shit.." He shakes his head a little and heads back into the living room. So weary. God. But there's one who's wearier, and eyeing up his painting. He licks his lips and looks at Jason carefully. After the redhead has averted his eyes, he waits a few moments before venturing timidly, "You don't like it? Cathy an' Caddy painted it f'me. It was their other Christmas, New Years, an' Junk-free Day present." He scuffles at the carpet shyly before moving to heft it up. "I mean, so it kinda makes me out to be some fairy pimp r'somethin', but I kinda was flattered..."
Glass murmurs gently, "Yeah, maybe I don't know what I'm talking about." He looks at Jason distantly, gaze steady and flat. "It doesn't matter what I say anyway. But come and we'll get free food if you need it. Both of you. I didn't mean you any harm." It doesn't seem that he means to make amends by the offer, for there is no apology in his tone, just a statement of fact. Jason gets another flat and far away flicker of a smile, then he closes his eyes. Standing there in his own darkness he swallows, calling memory so he can say in a slow cadance, "You who must leave everything that you cannot control. It begins with your family, but soon it comes 'round to your soul." He opens his eyes and smiles, momentarily pleased with himself. But his face falls distant and expressionless again after a moment and he studies Jason for a while. After a few moments he speaks again, a little louder and for Trace's benefit, "Yeah, okay, it's for trauma. And yeah, I probably ought to stick to her, but it's more complicated than that. It's not her fault that I don't. It's not Walker's or Ben's or Bat's, either." In his hasty entrance earlier he didn't take off his coat, and he reaches inside it now for a cigarette, pausing to light the thing. "Some people just gotta fuck around, I think. But forget me, I don't know what I'm talking about." He says that with a sort of good-natured indifference, less flat than a moment before. "You want me to bring the rest of your clothes to the fort later?" Doug asks smokily.
Tailkiller. Heh. The poor thing. Jason's eyes go to the little thing in the sack as Trace comes closer. A small smile from the redhead and he murmurs affectionately, "Hey, you little shit." He has some playful animosity for the white monster. Not that he can remember why. She's just vicious to him or something. He then hmms? and lifts his head at Trace's question. "Um, oh... Naw, s'cool." He chuckles softly. "Fairy pimp. That'd be cool..." One more glance at the painting as his voice drifts off, but he doesn't let his gaze linger long. He lifts his gaze to Glass and rolls his eyes. "If I was leavin' a fam'ly, mebbe you'd be right. But s'a nice poem anyway, Doog. Mebbe ya should sing it ta Bat someday." The rest of Glass's rationals are lost in some white noise background fuzz. For once, Jasonce doesn't want to linger around for a fight. Besides, there's more important things to do. Like get a roof for the night. "Y'want me to carry any of yer crap?" he asks quietly of Trace, above the creak of the door as he opens it up. A glance out. "I feel kinda weird," he whispers, for Trace's ears only.
Trace blinks, turning to Glass. There is much the boy has come to understand and condone since he left his little town of Jarreau, but his traditionally romantic heart cannot accept Glass' words. Some people just gotta fuck around? Should that rationalization make this whole chaotic mess better? "Y'went an' nailed Walker an' Ben too?" he murmurs with intial surprise that quickly waxes to mild disgust as he turns away, reshifting the painting in his arms. He mumbles half to himself, "God, some'a you kids what turn whore jest don't get it outta yer system, huh." He sighs, already regretting the harsh words, and lips part to call them back. But it can't be done, so he shrugs lamely, and carefully slides the combination canvas bag and kitten-carrier off his shoulder. It's passed to Jason, as he murmurs, "Hopefully the walk'll make you feel a little better. Fresh air an' all that." Well, there's probably not a damned thing fresh air can do to patch this, but he's not sure what else to suggest. "Here, would y'take the bag? I'll get the picture. But I need you t'get the door."
"Yeah, maybe," Doug starts to murmur, a reply to Jason. He's cut off by Trace's words and he draws back, stung. The distant look, parody of a state where pain has no meaning, is shattered. His dark eyes are left raw, hurt written starkly on the near-perfection of his face. But it's only visible for a moment, then he turns his back, places his hands on the counter and hangs his head.
Jason hefts the bag with a nod, looking back over his shoulder at Glass as Trace's words strike home. He'd look satisfied... except that really gave him none. Everyone's just leaving in a vague haze of pain. A soft sigh and he adjusts the canvas bag on his shoulder, not even getting a twitch of a grin as Dove lets out a confused little 'meeew?' And then he steps out, holding the door open for the bluecap with the painting. Something very soft is murmured, and Jason's eyes go to the lamplit streets.
You sense Jason chuckle very softly, ruefully at himself. "Used ta think, ev'rytime I did this, I was a 'splorer or sumthin', 'n was goin' on a 'venture. But..." Dark red brows draw together over the foggy eyes. "Was it always this ugly?" He shakes his head gently and looks to you a moment. "Kinda stupid, huh?" Another soft laugh and he looks away.
Trace purses his lips, looking to Jason, troubled. He shakes his head a little, whispers briefly, and falls silent again. A sigh. His only glance back is to the stung Douglas, faint apology probably lost considering the boy's averted gaze. And after that he turns, carefully works the painting's edges past the frame of the door, and heads out into the night.
Jason senses "Trace shakes his head and says with sorrow, "Naw. Ain't no 'venture. Poseta feel ugly. S'almost as bad as leavin' my sister." The admission is followed by a heavy sigh."
You sense Jason replies in a faintly cracking voice before falling silent and following, "Guess I'm lucky... I'm bringin' everything I got with me." But if you look back to him, he's not looking your direction at all.
Epilogue: Upon waking, Chez Walker-Ashley residents would find that not only are Trace and Jason missing, but so are Trace�s belongings excepting the poetry book and some of the fancier, less sensible clothing, all left upstairs -- the pirate costume, the wedding clothes, the shiny black pants from Jordan, ect. The kitten Dove is missing. Most of Jason�s things have been left behind -- The PSX, all his Christmas presents, what little clothes he had, both his musical instruments (the recorder and the pan pipes). A handbag of Walker's, abandonned on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, has been rifled through and stripped of about fifty bucks. No note, no goodbye. Just petty theft and a quiet exit stage left.
You paged Jason with 'Noo, I gotta make him go get the musical instruments!'.
Jason pages: Make him do it later. We can break in and get stuff or something. Not that it's exactly hard to break in.
You paged Jason with 'Good point.'.
Ahh, irony. :/
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