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Log Title: Slip and Fall

Log setting: The alley outside the Lafitte apartments.

Log Cast:
Trace
Jean-Batiste

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Afternoon has faded to a slightly cooler evening, but is Trace still hiding in the darkening shade of the alley next to Lafitte's. Curled up in a tiny huddle with slender arms wrapped around his knees, his blue ropes to the cool brick. The music of the club pulses gently from the wall, lyrics lost, just the base thumping out past the walls. Chatter beyond the alley's mouth is blocked out as the boy lets that techno-tribal rhythm vibrate around in his brain, eyes closed. He seems mindless of the filth around him, and who knows how long he's been here. His skin is shiny with light sweat and grime, and he could probably use a bath or three. But he's oblivious to it. There's a broken toy in his chalk-caked hands, some cheap plastic Happy Meal action figure with the arm torn off. Eyes still gently shut, he's still clearly not sleeping because he turns the little gun-laden, red-armored man over and over lazily in his hands.

Jean-Batiste's booted steps scuff on the sidewalk as he makes his way down Bourbon Street. Free hand slouched in his pocket, other hand busy holding his clove, he pays little attention to the people he sidesteps or the shops he walks past. Eyes are downcast, tracking the concrete, distantly noting the cracks and rubble under his feet as his mind whirls with whatever thoughts inspire his usual pensive expression. As the pounding bass-beat of Lafitte's draws close, his eyes come up from the sidewalk to pay a little more attention to his surroundings. The alley isn't always empty, and its inhabitants aren't always friendly. He turns the corner, eyes scanning to spot...you. This brings him to a halt, head cocked and brows furrowed in puzzled concern. Doesn't say anything, just yet -- too shocked to see you to recover within a second or two. Finally, as he steps forward: "Trace?"

It wasn't the footsteps that lifted Trace's gaze to yours; this is an apartment complex, after all, and he's just made a tired attempt to blend in with the waste here when people have slipped past into that door. But the sound of his name blinks his eyes open, startled and coming quickly out of his little medetative zen he was reaching, or whatever that was. The action figure is dropped, bounces off one knee and falls to the concrete with a soft plastic clatter. He sweeps it up again and smiles a little, reaching out a free hand to you. Doesn't clarify whether he wants to be pulled to a standing position, or is inviting you to sit down next to him among the old, rain-pressed newspapers and discarded cups and cardboard. Softly, "Batiste." He seems glad to see you, despite his world-weary eyes, like someone lost for ages among strangers and finally finding a familiar face.

Fingers curl snugly around yours, to help you up to your feet. He won't sit here in the alley with you, oh, no. It's bad enough you were sitting here yourself. "Are you okay?" he asks, once he's helped you up, pitching the clove to the ground to use both hands if it's necessary. Then, as if he hadn't asked the first question at all: "What's wrong? What is it?" Worry shines bright in his eyes as he looks you over, reaching out to brush blue rope-braids back from your face and dust off any alley junk that's clung to your clothing. MommyBat to the rescue. It's almost businesslike, the way he works to get you upright and tidied up and guided towards the door at the back of the alleyway, as if Trace-tending was part of his ingrained job duties. Or maybe it's just second nature, it comes so quickly and without hesitation.

Trace allows himself to be tugged upright and brushed clean and ushered towards the door, all without the slightest protest or even surprise. You're right, it's your duty. "M'okay," he says soft and childish, leaning against you a little as he walks. "It was jest hot, and I stopped to rest awhile, and awhile jest turned into... a really longer while." Black shoes scuffle and drag a bit on the ground, though still not a conscious thought to stop your guiding him. Just dragging along wearily. "Might've fallen asleep f'some'a the time. Dunno. But it doan matter, I didn't have noplace else to be." One hand slips up to touch at your shoulder, rub it a little, fond and needy. "How're you?"

Jean-Batiste guides you down the alleyway to the steel door, and fumbles in his pocket until he locates his keychain. Just a simple steel ring, with a few new-looking keys on it and a familiar-looking string of purple Mardi Gras beads. They rattle and click together, counterpoint to the metallic jangling, as he locates the proper key and unlocks the door, holding it open while he gestures -- or helps -- you inside. "I'm okay," he murmurs. So it's his version of Walker's 'I'm fine', so what? He can be worried about later. Right now his attention's on you. "What d'you mean, didn't have nowhere else to be? What about Caddy's?" He frowns a bit, glancing to the street as if he could see Pontalbo from here.

"No, no," Trace moans softly, shaking his head, as though trying to abort any notions you might have of dropping him off at Caddy's apartment. "I d'wanna be there. It isn't home to me. Never was, never will be." He sighs, one hand squeezing at your shoulder gently, the other tightening a little on his little broken toy. "Jason don't come there anymore, anyway... Not f'the past three days or so anyway. Dunno, even *with* him around, I feel like an intruder there. Without him I'd rather.." Rather what? Sleep in the alley? Apparantly. "Dunno, jest be someplace else." He looks up. Here. With you. It's much better. He looks more alive anyway since you picked him up off the sidewalk, but there's still that bleakness that met your gaze initially back on the porch of the Moss Street house several days ago. Keeps coming back to haunt him, this goddamn depression, and 'having nowhere else to be' sure isn't helping.

-That- warrants a slow, unpleasant glare -- aimed not at you, but back at the closing door. You and Jason vanish for Parts Unknown, find a new home for the two of you away from the rest of the family...and then he doesn't even stick around and leaves you to fend for yourself? It's not that he has no faith in your ability to survive on your own. Not really, at least. It's that you -shouldn't- survive on your own. The idea of you, alone, when you're 'supposed' to have Jason with you makes for a rather unhappy Batiste. "So where's Jason been? What's he been up to that he's not at Caddy's? Has he-" He stops short. Whatever he was going to ask, he decided against. Doesn't want to know, maybe. "C'mon," he murmurs, wrapping an arm easily around you, complete with gentle shoulder-bumps. "We'll go upstairs for a while. Got stuff to tell you, and you can clean up a bit, and cool off, okay?"

So we'll go upstairs. Trace can deal with that. He can also deal with cooling off, and more tentatively, stuff you may tell him about. Cleaning up is out. Boy's feeling this bad, and you're gonna go and tell him he smells on top of that? No, we're perfectly clean, thanks. "Jason..." He swallows and hitches his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. "Dunno where he is. He jest... been out. So have I, some. Can't blame it all on him. Like that night I slept on the porch. But I mean. I ain't even seen him since then." Because you know he'd want to run back and tell Jason of his confrontation with Walker, but he hasn't gotten that release yet, so the hurtful memory is still all bottled up. "He'll prolly.. be back tomorrow." A forced laugh comes out more uneasy than mirthful. "Guess he fell asleep on another boxcar."

"Yeah." Batiste doesn't even try to sound optimistic as he starts up the creaky stairs. "You still got a key to the apartment?" he murmurs, glancing back at you. "If you do, and you want to crash here instead, I'll start checking here more often. You know, um. Until Jason's back." Which may be a day, and may be six months, for all either of you apparently know. "If you want. I've got it all cleaned up and there's just a few things left to move, but...if you want to start crashing there again, it's cool." Down the hallway to the stoned-eye-of-Horus door, which is carefully unlocked before keys are repocketed. The door swings open, bringing the vacant scent of an unlived-in apartment and the lingering lemon-soap of Mr. Clean. There's a few boxes piled against the kitchen wall, and the nest of blankets in front of the a/c has been folded up. A bucket sits on the kitchen counter, full of cold Mr. Clean water. A new addition: A little dorm fridge, plugged in by the a/c, humming softly. Well, 'new' as in not seen before -- considering its colour scheme, it's probably ten years old or more. He guides you in, and closes the door behind you.

"Maybe," Trace agrees with a noncommital nod, looking the place over once he's standing in the middle of the apartment. "Like the fridge," he compliments, but rather than go explore it he's headed towards those blankets. They're well remembered. He claimed them all fiercely throughout the whole kicking ordeal, cowering beneath them or mashing at them violently and threatening them to get comfortable *or else*. But if there's anything sentimental or distasteful held for this particular pile of fabric, it's not shown now as Trace flops down on them in a sitting position and waits, looking up at you. The action figure is finally tossed down in favor of tugging at a thread near the frayed bottoms of his jeans. "Come sit," he beckons, still looking at the denim string. "Didn't you have stuff to say?"

The fuzzy purple blanket, Batiste's favourite, is missing, though all the others are there, awaiting flumpage. "It's okay," he murmurs, heading for the fridge and crouching in front of it to give it a soft thump on the top. "I got it at a garage sale for twenty bucks. It works pretty good, there's a little compartment for ice cubes and everything. It's for the new place." That said, he unlaces his boots, kicks them off a ways, and flumps down atop the blankets with you, half-beside, half-behind. All the better to drape arms and braid-tousle you with, my dear. "I'm going to get a new place, with Nelson and Ali," he announces. First item on the bill of New Things to Discuss. "Nelson's going to apply for one of the fixer-uppers in the same neighbourhood as Ben and Walker, and he'll rent rooms to Ali and I. Or if he makes too much money for that, we'll rent a place somewhere else nearby." He reaches for the little red Happy Meal toy, leaning a bit to try and nab it.

Trace smiles a little. "M'glad f'you..." A slight nod. "I like Nelson. Even if he ruined my breakfast this one time. He's still neat." His smile twitches as he adds softly, "Seems to be good friends with Ben and Walker now, though. I mean, I knew him before that. Wonder if he don't like me no more.." The idea seems to disturb Trace. He saw something special in Nelson. "Maybe he'd get in trouble with Walker'n Ben if he sees me..." He shakes it off. It'll only plunge him deeper into this slump he's in. "But it should be nice."

Jean-Batiste picks up the little action figure in one hand, then redrapes his arms 'round you, drawing you back, protective-possessive. Come lean. You know you want to. He'll pull out something cold to drink later, once the clingy fit has passed, honest. "If Nelson likes you, then Nelson likes you," he murmurs. "I've got to know him a bit better, lately, and...well. That's pretty obvious with him. He makes his own mind up on things, you know? It's not like Walker and Ben tell people that they can't be friends with you if they're friends with them, either. If they did, I'd be in a whole shitload of trouble with them, and I'd tell them to go get stuffed for saying something like that in the first place." He pets your hair a little, then murmurs, "D'you know where he lives? I'll tell you, if you don't, and you can stop by and say hey sometime. I know he'd like to see you. He talks about you, sometimes, and everything."

"He does...?" The words are murmured with surprise and quiet relief. Trace leans back, as encouraged. Drinks can be put off forever as far as he's concerned. "Yeah, I wanna see him again sometime. I'll surprise him. Bring him a danish." That gets a short-lived smirkish smile that fades off into something distant and thoughtful. He's looking off into space for a few quiet moments, but then his gaze focusses on you again. Hard to read motive there, but there's something vageuly calculating, like he's thinking something over. Whatever it is, he doesn't speak up about it, however. One hand absently reaches to play with the beads at the end of your few remaining braids.

"Yeah," Batiste murmurs, dropping one shoulder a little so it's easier for you to settle into the curve of his arm. "Of course he does. You're not that forgettable, you know?" He grins at you for a moment, teasing-fond. "We talked about the drawings we used to do on the sidewalk, and all. It'd be cool if you visited him sometime. He lives down in the warehouse district, in Heritage Square. One thirty-four." He joins you in silence for a while, though not for long. Too fretful and restless to let it linger, perhaps. "Shay gave me a key to Rorick Mansion." Next item up for conversation. "Shocked the hell out of me. I thought she hated me. Gave me a little bit of money to fix up a room there, and everything." He shakes his head slowly, eyebrows shooting up. Still boggled by it all, obviously. "So Glass and I picked out a corner room, and I'm going to do my drawing there. It's full of windows, and really beautiful. I'm going to do a mural in there, too."

Trace listens, nodding a little, but there's not much he can say, and his lips don't seem to want to un-purse. He's about as happy about that as you probably were with the arrangement at Caddy's. Trace is just a little bit upset with Doug right now. But he doesn't want to get into it. So he gives his nod, glad at least for pretty windows and prospective murals. "Walker 'n Ben... oughta make a clause that if anybody gonna rent our house on Moss street, they can do anythin' they like cept cover up the mural. But I'm glad yer gonna make another one." Another quiet bout of silence then. Whatever he'd been calculating, it's back again, searching your face. When he speaks, it's as though he was going to say something else, but averted it at the last minute to a benign "What're you gonna draw fer yer mural?"

Jean-Batiste gives a little nod in regards to the mural at the old Chez Walker, rather akin to the nod you gave in regard to his new window-festooned studio. Something he doesn't want to think about too much. "The mural's gonna be great," he murmurs, expression warming a little, eyes lighting with inspiration. "The whole idea just came to me. Completely vivid, you know? I just have to get it up on the wall like I saw it. I've got some of the sketches done already, and everything." He unwraps and rewraps his arms around you, squeezing tighter, then starts to recite from memory, soft and playful, "'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe..."

"A Gabberwocky mural..?" Trace muses softly, already picturing it as his hands move to gently cover yours where you hold him. "Gotta put... lotsa bright colors in it. F'me." Because Trace did always go wild with bright colors in his pictures. "At the bright parts, I mean. Slithy toves are swampy and dark." He smiles a little, tremulously, and for some reason his eyes flood then. He looks away. Liquid pools swimming with hazel are held back by pale red-blonde lashes, but a slow blink finally sends a slow, hot trickle racing for his chin. His gaze is off towards the other wall now, embarrassed, and his hands are still held fast against yours. It's a strange phenomenon, to be so lonely and finally to cry when someone holds you and speaks so sweetly. "I know it'll be beautiful," he says softly, trying to hide the tremor in his voice and mostly succeeding.

"Yeah. Each stanza is going to be its own picture, and it's going to have the text with it, too. Like...a storybook turned into one great big page on the wall. I'm really looking forward to painting it." Slow, thoughtful pets are given to your braids as he speaks, then nods to your request. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. Maybe you can come paint some of it with me, too. I'd like that. And-" He stops short when you suddenly look away, and squeezes you closer, uncertain and worried. "What..?" he starts to ask, voice gone very small. "I'm, um. I'm sorry?" He fumbles for the right words to say. "I didn't mean to upset you..." Wretched. "I thought you'd like to hear that I'm trying to keep drawing, that's all..." He trails off and lowers his head, sighing into your shoulder. "Sorry," he repeats, mumbling it into your shirt.

Trace turns around immediately, completely, shifting to straddle one leg and pull you into a quick, fierce hug, nails digging in a little with emotion. "No," he insists, choked past the tear-knot in his throat, "No, no..." and he pulls away to lift your head up to look at him, hands staying on your face. "S'not it," he whispers, "not at all. Yer mural sounds beautiful. I only been lonely, Bat. So lonely... Ever needed something so bad you lock it up? And it ain't til you get it, the hurt comes out.." Tracing the gentle lines of your cheekbone and jaw with light fingertips, smoothing across the planes of your brow and cheeks, petting back errant strands of hair. His eyes are intent on yours now, kept close to your face. "Doan' be sorry."

Jean-Batiste suffers the nailbites without protest -- there's such a thing as good pain, after all -- and draws you in as close and tight as he can, face tucked into the crook of your neck for a few slow breaths. Scent is the sharpest memory-trigger of them all, and despite the smells of the alley, or sweat, or dirt, or exhaust-and-bayou that is New Orleans, you smell most importantly like -you-. He can hold you close and just pretend for a moment that he'll open his eyes and everything will be fixed and better again, can't he? He finally looks up at your coaxing, the corner of his mouth twitching with a struggling smile. He clears his throat, then swallows, to keep the knot in his own throat down to a manageable level, then whispers, "I know...how it is. I know. I miss you so much, Trace." He sighs, and leans forward, resting forehead to forehead with you. "We used to spend so much time together. Almost all the time. I don't want you to be lonely. Ever."

"Well, I am," Trace whispers, hazel-blurred eyes looking at you imploringly, still touching your face with gentle caresses even as he doesn't pull his brow from yours. "I can't escape it. There's big gapin' holes in my life right now from what's been torn away, and I ain't healed over yet." He draws back just a little and looks down, the dim light catching in a brief silver-wet streaks on his face. He's quiet a moment, but tense, as though hovering on the edge of something, and then he topples over. Quite literally, though slowly, more gently pushing you back into the blanket nest. His face hovers close above yours. You can feel him trembling a little, feel the soft hush of breath on your own mouth as he speaks, whispering, "Batiste." His hazel eyes are bright and wildly needy. "Blood brother, gimme what you got. Like ole days, share with me. Jest this once. Gimme... what you got, Bat."

Trace has still got you pinned by one leg, his weight on his arms holding him above you, a palm to the floor near each of your shoulders. A rather compromising position for a straight boy to find himself in, but the boy seems not to be thinking about this. And yet you told him recently that you'd always 'liked' him. Did you lust before the needle games, or did it start then? Isn't he pretty and promising when you hold all his pleasure in your grasp?

Hello, what's this? Batiste finds himself down on the blankets after a overbalanced swoop of the arms, blinking up at you in confusion. This is...oh dear. Very unexpected. And very...not good. Or good. Or...he's not sure. He just lays there, breathing these tiny, shallow breaths, watching those wild hazel eyes that're too close to his own to focus properly on, and tries to think. "Trace." He remembers your name. That's a start. "I, oh, God. Trace, I..." Can't share. Mustn't share. But when has he denied you anything? And, Lord, but this has startled him, and thrown his thoughts all akilter. "Y-you kicked," he informs you, just in case you've forgotten. "I..." ...can't make myself say 'can't'. "You shouldn't, you'll start up again if you do." He swallows, and moistens gone-dry lips before speaking again. "Y-you wanted to kick so much," he adds, pleading a little. Even softer: "Please."

"I know..." Trace gasps softly, tongue flickering out to wet his lips, "But I been so good, Bat. I been so good, even when some days all I see is...is sorrow." His voice cracks a little at that, eyes flooding again. You're going to deny him! He's going to scream if you do, he's going to die dramatically sprawled right across your chest. Thoughts race with a panic that tries to stay under a veneer of smooth, sweet calm. Struggling to keep the logic in his voice, even as his eyes still roam your face, wild and hungry. He pushes a little closer, explaining with very strained patience, "With me bein clean long as I have, Bat, it's all gone outta my system. S'like startin' fresh, I won't even be sick if I go right off again." And the sad thing is, its true. Actually, that's the problem, there's so little punishment when you slip. But in Trace's case, hmm... No punishment? Hardly. Jason's gonna skin him. But that's okay, that's so far from Trace's thoughts, just a soft little nag in the back of his mind, muted by this world of your eyes, and your hitched breathing, and what you've got for him. "Please gimme, Bat," he pleads huskily. "I'll never ask you again."

Skin you? Skin -you-? And what will Jason do to -him- when he finds out? He still loves you. That limits the available punishments, somewhat. Batiste's not at all sure he wants to know how vengeful Jason can be when he really, -really- wants to be. But...God, this is hard. It's not bad enough that you're his blood brother, but you're crying on top of that. His resolve regarding you isn't that great at the best of times. But...this isn't Trace. This is the junkmonster. Batiste tries to tell himself this, -remind- himself of this. The junkmonster just happens to look like Trace, sound like Trace, and just happens to be sprawled on top of him with those pleading, desperate, teary, wild hazel eyes. He swallows hard again, and stares up at you with a sort of pained, transfixed expression. "Trace, oh God, don't...please don't make me do this." Just saying no has never been harder. "I, I don't...don't even know if I have a needle anymore..." See? No supplies. Can't do it.

You're almost right, but this isn't quite the junkmonster either. The junkmonster is that one who snarled and snapped when he wasn't appeased, who left you all to manage the fallen Glass on your own that night on the staircase, who clawed at Jason's cheek in this very apartment amd drew blood. This is different. This is the junksuccubus, who isn't going to let you out from between his legs until you give him the pleasure he wants. "I d'wanna shoot it, Bat," the blue-haired boy presses. Literally too, once more. Skinny legs tighten gently around your thigh, insistant and urging. "I d'want so much as that, jest a taste, Bat. I could get stuck on it again if I shot it." And if he doesn't, oh, perfectly safe. He knows just what he's doing, you see? How silly you are to deny your brother this, Batiste. So silly and stubborn. He sighs and nestles himself down against your neck, such a crafy junksuccubus, insisting hushedly, "I need this." Unexpected sharp little teeth nip once, hard and retreat again, breathy words immediately following to stir against your neck and cool the damp and reddening skin there. "Gimme a taste, Bat. Please."

Junksuccubus. Yes. -Much- more accurate...and much, -much- harder to defend against. A corner of Batiste's mind rails at him for ever admitting his crush on you -- surely you wouldn't be trying this ...flavour...of persuasion if he hadn't, after all. "Trace," he whispers again, in a thready voice fueled (or unfueled, as the case may be) by those shallow, quick little breaths. Just reminding you of your name. Trace. Not Junksuccubus. Honest. Believe him. Please? "Christ, Trace, stop it..." His arms are traitorous, though, and refuse to push you away. "Trace, please, we shouldn't, you wanted to kick so much, don't you remember? It-" And then, O Gods, you nip at his neck and keep talking over the spot you bit, and his mind puddles as goosebumps stand up and say, 'What was that? We liked that. Where'd it go?' He puppy-whimpers in the back of his throat -- or moans, it's hard to tell -- and his hand twitches, fumbling for something out of reach. His backpack, sitting off by the boxes, a couple feet away.

Trace the Junksuccubus doesn't relent as you fling desperate logic at him. Nope, quite immune to that, and too busy being irresistable, besides. But as you reach for your pack, he peeks over slowly, and though he's still tear-streaked, he looks back at you with the sweetest, most grateful smile. Oh, you gonna reach for that? Well then certainly, I'll let you up. By the way, you remember that smile, don't you? Same smile he shone upon you when you helped him out when his stash had been totalled, and yet also the same smile when you showed him how you'd decorated the motel room for his birthday party.. A gratitude and love so profound, you probably couldn't help but think him Trace, *your* Trace. He scoots away quickly and grabs the backpack up for you, then crawls back and deposits it in your lap. Arms twine about your neck, from behind now, since he doesn't want to get in your way. Lips nuzzle up by your cheek, your ear, playful. "Mm, love you, blood brother."

I'm going to hell for this. That's what Batiste thinks, as he sits there with the backpack in his lap, numb fingers fumbling at the drawstring, feeling your familiar warmth against his shoulders and 'round his neck, and your breath on his ear. If you lapse -- -when- you lapse, whispers a pessimistic corner of his mind -- then it will be his fault for it, for giving you a taste of what you've given up. The drawstring finally comes free, and is tugged open slowly, revealing crumpled clothes and a few other items tucked away. Somewhere, down at the bottom, is that which summoned those nips and nibbles, the squeezes and teases. He starts to reach for the twist of paper and plastic, then falters, glancing back at you. "C'mon. We don't have to do this," he whispers. One junkie talking sense into the other? Uh-huh. You don't see him pushing the backpack -away-, do you?

Arms about your neck tense, then slip away, hands moving to rest tentatively on your shoulders instead. Trace looks at you, a rush of plea that fades to something sterner as he releases a trembling breath. He tries to reason with you, soft and pursuasive, but still with that need and panic making his eyes flicker about your face, skittish and anxious. "Nobody gonna blame you. I won't let 'em. I made you." His eyes fall, inevitably, to the little packet you hold. Ohhh, god. No turning back now. No longer a gleam, his eyes blaze. It's going to be officially Ugly if you deny him now. Soft words faulter, straining for sanity, "F'ya don't gimme taste I'm... I'm gonna walk outta here and get so fucked up, Batiste. But I'd rather... have you with me. Yer my -- my blood brother, yer poseta be with me, n'I know I'll be... safe with you." It's an old tactic, unfair really. Doug used it on the both of them many times. Why not, Bat? I'm just going to anyways.

And so it comes to emotional blackmail of your blood-brother, does it? He knows the junkmonster -- and now knows the junksuccubus as well -- and knows how stubborn you are. He can't take the chance that it's just a bluff. He can bear this more than he can bear the thought of you shooting up, using too much, and dying with a needle in your arm, alone, or with someone who has no clue of who to contact. Just the thought of that makes his heart speed up in pre-emptive panic. "Just...just a taste," he whispers, looking back at you, trying to make it a stern, uncompromising look. Then his attention returns to the backpack, and the packet. Such an innocent little thing, just crumpled brown paper around a tiny baggie of pale brown powder. But it feels so heavy in Batiste's fingers, as he turns it around, nearly fumbling it down into his lap with his nervousness. He pushes the backpack away, and opens the baggie. "Give me your hand," he whispers. He bites on his bottom lip as he taps out the powder into your hand once you offer it out -- for there's no doubt you will, is there? -- and glances away and down to the baggie once the deed is done. Ten or fifteen seconds pass before he repeats the motions for himself.

Yesyesyes. Greedy cupped hand extended for his taste. The little pile of powder in the center of his palm is pulled close for a moment of brief study. Not too much, right? Or (hah, worse?) not too little? This'll get him high, right? If Trace were to shoot this, sure it'd get him high, but straight to the vein is more efficient. A little goes a longer way. You're the sniffing expert here, however, and he should trust your judgement. And you know, he can't hold back any more. Just a single flash of doubt, a glance up. In that fraction of a second, his mind intercedes to baffledly wonder... Did he just have you pinned to the floor not long ago? Did he really just pull that awful trick of Doug's? But it's such a short flash of doubt, and then he's got one nostril crushed down with his finger, the other buried close to his palm. Pulls it in violently enough to knock his head back, eyes blinking and instantly tear-bright. Arg.. stings and itches. He blinkblinks more, but ducks his head again to knock back the rest, and then lick greedily at the last brown crystal-bits clinging to his skin. Then there's a few moments of silence from the boy, rubbing at his nose in discomfort. Is it gonna work? Is it? Bat? Building upset clouds his eyes, forgetting maybe that it takes just a little longer to kick in this way. But ohh, wait, yes, he feels the first tingle of rush and throws himself into your arms happily (assuming you're done, of course, as Bat's more used to taking it this way, respective needs aside). See, he's not a junksuccubus! Because he's already got it, and here he is back in your arms again. Really does love you, see? He just gets really insistant about his love when you got junk and he doesn't. That's all. He pulls back and starts to kiss you full on the lips, but *then* it hits, the full flowering rush of his 'taste'. His hit, by all rights. Clean four months... Even with a small amount, can you imagine the bliss that courses through him? Sweet, golden-warm waves that slump him down into your arms, as he moans loudly. God. That caught him by surprise.

Equal amounts were doled out, just a little less than what he usually snorts, plus an extra tap -- for him, that is. Because now that the deed is about to be done, he wants to make sure it's worthwhile, thankyouverymuch. No scrimping allowed. Batiste stares down at the pale brown powder, blinking at it, then glances up and shares a look with you, meeting doubt with sad resignation. No, he didn't trick you. It's not some magical placebo powder. It's the real thing. Snort up, Ma Heroin says it's good for you. There's no tentativeness with snorting for him, like there is with needles. If addictions were business, he'd have a great worth ethic. Two sharp sniffs, a shake of the head, and a few sniffles as he pinches his nose, and that's that. He licks his palm off, then dusts it against his knee, and sniffles again as he glances back at you...just in time to get an armful of blissing bluecap and feel the shivery honeygold rush of his own. The guilt and resignation fades away under it, becomes distant and detached -- he can feel bad about it, worry about it another time -- and a soul-deep sigh starts to give way to a laugh...that's muffled by a kiss, instead. Whoops? There's a surprised sound that ought to be a yelp, but it comes out like a moan instead, and just grows louder as you slump away and start to melt. Four whole months -- after just two, Batiste's first hit felt like a minute-long orgasm personally monogrammed by God and all His saints. After twice as long...he doesn't have any idea how it'd feel. All he knows is it'd feel even better than melting down into these blankets with you, limbs full of heavy warmth within and without. He can't be -too- envious, though -- this is pretty close to heaven, as-is. He makes a soft sound, half-moan, half-groan, and lets his cheek rest against you, eyes lazy-lidded and unfocussed.

Ohhhh yeah. This just keeps going and going. It's the energizer hit. An absurd thought flickers through Trace's mind -- he should have quit more often! But it's lost a moment later, drowned in this bliss that keeps on rolling over him, and reduces him to a happily whimpering puddle in your lap. Hands reach up to clumsily rub at your chest, but he can't even speak, overtaken as he is. Overwhelmed. It hasn't felt so good since he started. And that was a long time ago, the end of his thirteenth year. His raised hand gives your chest another caress -- his only way to express himself further -- thank you, I love you, my blood brother and savior. Perhaps none of that could even be conveyed with a rub to your chest, but if not, he did give it a shot. His breathing pulls in and out, deep and peaceful. His caresses continue, and help to stall the sweet nod into which he's helplessly, gently spiraling. And at last it does overtake the boy, as his hand slumps and falls still, cradeled and unconscious in your lap.

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