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Log Title: Starlight Lost

Log setting: Starts in Jackson Square, a little before dawn, and ends in Trace’s hidden fort in Lelong playground.

Log Cast:
Tiens
Trace
Starlight
Cat
Wilhelm
John Black

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It is near dawn. Tiens is perched on a bench, and there is a cigarette, dangling from his lower lip that makes himlook like a two-bit Creole James Dean. He's been very still for some time, and birds have shifted closer in the dusky, pre-dawn half-light: testing him, perhaps, to see if he'll move, threaten them. So far, he's succeeded in not scaring them away. There is a bit of a tiny breeze, which sends the shirt-tails of his workshirt shifting a bit. Otherwise, nothing moves except the tiny bob of the end ofhis cigarette.

Out for a walk perhaps, or putting off heading home, Trace trudges along the ironically circular walkway of Jackson Square. His jeans are damp from the knee down, for New Orleans can never be fully rid of puddles this time of year, and anywalk home needs at least *some* puddle-stomping to keep his spirits up. The blue braids sway gently with his steps, no dancing about his shoulders as they might with his more typical, boisterous stride. This is dawn; it's a time of silences. He shoves his hands deep in over-large pockets and keeps his head bowed.

Tiens tilts his head to watch Trace as he goes, beads rattling gently -- the birds are perhaps not pleased -- though they don't leave, entirely. Very St. Francis, actually. His eyes are gentler than street eyes should be, though they have the depth you recognize, like sea-deep, not puddles. He's worked to keep himselflittle worse than a bit damp, that was tonight's task. It takes but a few minutes to place where he's seen the blue-braided kid: aha, that fucked-up guy hanging with his friends the other night. At least a bit more ambulatory, 'seems.

Yes, Trace is sober tonight. Or his head is straight, anyway, for the boy's head is never truly clean unless he's flat broke. But he keeps a steady path, kicking up the occasional spray of grey-silver puddle water as he goes, kicking at rocks and discarded go-cups. He sends one cup, a white and green cylinder from oneof the beignet carts that patrol the square during the day, your way and it scatters some of your bird friends. He looks up with somewhat sheepish hazel eyes, s eeking a quiet apology.

Tiens purses his lips -- gently amused, if nothing else: when you play a game you're bound to lose, you don't tend to look askance at somebody who stacks the odds in either direction. He gives up the "get one on my hand game," pulling his dreds back from around his face it a soft rattle that's reminiscent of the relentless drizzly rain that seems to have forgiven us all, pardoning this dawn, at least, from perpetual damp. He shrugs a shoulder, apologies and forgiveness belong to other places. "Mornin'," he drawls, his voice as soft and warm as the sun might be. Again, contrasts and confusions, this voice from this person is...strange: not uncomfortable, not insincere -- just unexpected.

"G'mornin," Trace smiles, and it's one of those open, boundless expressions, defenseless. The boy walks these streets without armor, somehow. He shoves some blue braids away from his eyes and regards the bench around you, and the few lingering, spooked birds. "How you 'spect 'em to come visitin' if you don't give 'em no seeds, bread, r' nothin...?" He shifts his shoulders, perhaps slightly cramped from the walking or the constant damp.

Tiens shrugs a shoulder, loose, expressive. "You jes' find somethin' they want moah," he drawls, with a grin. "Man don' live by bread 'lone, and neither do birds." Something humourous laces his lips, his smile -- there's the strange gentlyprickly feeling that means maybe he's teasing you. "You look sotah lucid this mo rnin'," he ventures, casual. There's nothing judgemental about this. Trace certainly isn't the junkiest kid wandering around Jackson Square this morning. Merely the only one to wander into Tiens' conversational radius, so far.

Trace tips his head to one side, unoffended, but also unsmiling now. A smooth young face, grown smoother by your words as he considers the meaning, and how he's expected to respond. "Mebbe so," he shrugs finally, the slightest rise and fall of bony shoulders as he shifts his gaze to survey again the dim square. "City's sleepin'. No reason I can't have some peace along with it." So maybe it's not sleeping. Maybe there's crime and death slithering through the projects right now, but the Square is a lovely sight right now at sunrise, with Jackson keeping watch, and that's how you survive here, not thinking on such things.

Tiens mmmms, gently. He spreads his hands, lightly -- something about the gesture takes in the square with an oddly possessive bent. "Ah can see that, I can," he says, with a faintly benign smile. His eyes glitter, dark and soft both -- ashis lips curl faintly into a smile. "Thoah I'm not sure this city evah _really_sleeps," he ventures, musing. The birds have fully dispersed, and he reaches a hand into his bag and pulls out a rubber band, pulling the front dreads out of his face into a sort of Samurai topknot with a rattle of beads.

"Maybe not," the boy sighs, looking down to scuff at a chalk smudge -- perhaps one of his own old sketches, washed away by the tide of tourists, but more likely not. "But it gets quiet like this... s'nice. Lets you sleep, even if it don'. I like this city... S'got stuff messed up 'bout it, but they all do. S'easy t'find what's magic here.." He smiles a little. Just a kid rambling, yeah. Humble posture asking you to go on and ignore him like everyone else. His black sneakers give up on wiping the smudged drawing away entirely.

Tiens shifts position a bit, no longer all beatific and posing for the birds, he folds his legs a bit closer into his chest. He thinks on this, a bit. "'spose you're right," he nods. "'least the magic's closuh to the surface," he observes,keen-eyed and dull all at once: the bright mind, perhaps merely decaffienated. He stretches his back, vertebrae popping with a snappity-snap-snap-snap that sounds discomfiting and yet also pleasant. "Maybe ah do need a nap," he suggests tohimself, or to you, but doesn't seem likely to follow his own advice anytime soon.

"Naps're fer wimps, eh?" Trace chuckles. Just the tiniest bit of wincing at that awful back-popping feat, but he's quick to recover. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and comments, "I sleep to much really. Bat's always callin' me a sleepyhead. But he's weird like that, wakin' up with the sun like he do." Then a glance up. Whoops, is he offending you? But morning people, he really doesn't get them.

Tiens laughs, lightly. "Oh, Ahm only still up 'just 'cause I haven't slept yet," he says, loosely. That mellow air he seems to cultivate has obviously been exacerbated by that hazy pre-morning murmur that happens when you don't sleep.

From the Balcony Starlight has arrived.

Trace nods faintly, more a single slight dip of his head. He hovers one moment,suspended, before taking a few steps forward to sit hesitently on the bench beside you, perching as capriciously as one of the birds you were trying to lure earlier. His hands fidget slightly before clasping together, rested on his thighs."You live 'round here?" You're almost familiar. Maybe he's seen you somewhere, but can't place you.

From the Balcony Starlight exits the apartment, and walks to the railing. He's not wearing much, really, just a pair of skivvies, and he leans a little, placing his arms on the wood. Alone on the balcony, his eyes wander the square, only stopping once landing upon the blue-haired boy and Tiens.

Tiens tilts his head to the side, shrugging his shoulder to Trace. "Sometimes,"he says, noncommital. His eyes cast over the square itself, as dawn finally andfully arrives...there's a strange dance about that answer...not like he's ashamed of it, but more of not having a good answer to a question that usually has atleast a solid one.

One small, dirty hand unclasps from the tangle of fingers to reach up and shovea few frazzled ropes back away from his face, quickly tucking them behind one ear, before returning. Not quite uncomfortable, just cautious by instinct. He murmurs softly, "S'not a bad place to be. Sure, s'got it's spooks an' all that, but.." A shrug. A look. Maybe you're one of those spooks? But you don't scare him. It's the beads, maybe; he likes them. They're pretty, bespeak of creativity perhaps, or at least something that appeals to him. A man can't be too ungentle and walk about with beads, right?

Tiens nods, loosely. "Too much rain 'ah think, lately," he says, with a tiny smile. He has a way of letting you know when he's saying the opposite of what he thinks...he likes the rain, and frankly, it's no different than any other damn rainy summer, after all. Though he has managed to stay pretty dry. Life is full ofthings like that. You like the rain, you don't like the wet. He curls his lips,with a tiny grin. "Y'seen any spooks, lately?" Maybe he's joshing you...but he seems also to take the question as seriously as the statement that provoked it was given.

From the Balcony Starlight watches the two for a few moments, but then is distracted. Something behind him. Something from where he came. The boy straightens and turns, walking back into the apartment.

"Yer askin' me if I seen gothy spooks n' weirdies in N'orlins?" Trace giggles softly. "S'like askin' if the Sahara's got sand." He leans back a little, relaxing some. "Yeah, I seen folks. Seen a girl walkin' round with jest black lace, n' 'er undies beneath. Seen a girl what takes pictures a dead people..." He shudders a little, perhaps at the memory. Then shakes it off, like he shakes off the drizzle that's started up again. "Seen a girl flipped out on some crazy doseof whatever, an' no more'n eight or nine years old..." He shakes his head faintly. "S'a crazy town."

Tiens nods, lightly -- his beads clatter musically. Around you, the square begins to pick up a bit -- not more people, really, just those that are there are moving more purposefully, not with that late-night ennui that soaks into pores andcircles like second-hand smoke. "Full 'a crazies," he admits, with a tiny smile. Maybe he includes himself in that number.

Trace turns to you with faint interest now, head tipped to the side slightly ashe asks, "So what crazies you seen?" A game, perhaps. Swapping tales. Maybe competitive, like he thinks he can one-up you. He really hasn't seen you around much, after all. Maybe he's the knowledgable one here. But then, maybe you're good at hiding. Maybe he's not as worldly as he thinks himself. But he looks at you expectantly. Entertain me.

Tiens thinks for a bit, rubbing his chin. "Well, I saw this lady who tried to make another think she was drinkin' chopped up pieces of little girls," he says, after a bit -- he has that strange sort of expression on his face of somebody who finds that a story keeps changing as he tells it: at first it was sorta creepy, now it's more funny than anything else. He smirks, softly. "And the lady who runs the funeral parlour is pretty wierd," he says. "But in a way that's hard to put a finger on."

Starlight comes stumbling out of the apartments. Rather embarrassing yes, and the people around? Well, they don't even pretend to not see the little kids blunder. Already rosy cheeks redden even more and the child heads straight for Trace and Tiens. He's wearing new clothes, and they really don't suit him. Dorky clothes is what they are. And we all know Star is cool. But he doesn't seem concerned at this point and just keeps on, humbling stepping away from anyone that comes near him. His eyes are puffed and red. Ya know, like you sget from an entire night of crying, but he's not crying now. Nope. Doesn't look angry, just looks lost.

Trace snickers with morbid appreciation for the story of the gruesome little girl flesh eater. "Gross," is his intelligent comment. Then about the lady at the funeral parlor, he just listens carefully and nods a little. "Like how?" he wonders, glancing down to scuff at the sidewalk. And when he looks up again, there'sStar heading for him, puffy cheeked, and yes, in dorky clothes. He's not going to comment. Polite boy. He just looks at the boy and licks dry lips. Maybe he'll explain? Probably won't. He just lifts a hand to wave timidly.

Tiens spies over in Starlight's direction, from where he and Trace are sitting,aimless and thoughtful in the morning, on a bench. His eyebrows lift a bit as he studies the new apparrel, and without any sort of serious censure the obvious afteraffects of being upset. Given the distraction, he doesn't immediately answer Trace's question, but instead hmmmms, ambiguous and maybe just a bit curious.

Star sniffs as he steps up and slows right before the two of you. His eyes move back and forth, and this sick feeling crossed over his face. They know. They know. He swallows, then glances back to the apartment balcony, but then returns his attention to the both of you, but Trace lastly. A little shake of his head, asif completely denying that anything /ever/ happened /anytime/ in his entire life and he speaks, quietly, "Am, do," a pause and quick glance to Tiens, then back, "Can I, are you," this child is currently broken, for the moment, and having ahard time admitting he needs the blue-haired boy or something "are you guys," Fu ck it. He moistens his lips and deflates. "Hi." There. That wasn't so hard now was it?? Eyes drop away, down, then shift to look over toward something else. A car or something. He pays no mind to the drizzle as it assaults him. No big, always happens here. Stupid city.

Tiens rides Starlight's discomfiture as a surfer rides the big wave: he just lets it happen, around him, watching and yet maybe not quite as connected to the trauma that Starlight needs to convey as the younger boy might imagine. His dreads are pulled back in the front, topknot style, and so there's no rain of clicks -- just a little 'smack' every know and then as he takes in things above or below his prior line of vision. "Hey," he says, lightly. He squints up at the sky, creamy brown skin darkening in circles as rains hit.

Trace tries not to look Star up and down, but he's always transparant about these things. Let's face it, about all things. He bobs his head once in greeting. "Hey, Star. How'zit going..?" Soft words. Not gonna ask where the black went, the tough guy gear. Did he ask where the glitter went? Nope. Minds his own, Trace does, until he knows someone better. So he's comfortable to let Star change his styles every month without getting in his face about it. He looks down at the concrete for a bit, somewhat at a loss for words.

Starlight doesn't really know Trace very well, now does he? But ya know what? He doesn't really know /anyone/ that well. For all the hype behind the kid, no one really understands what's happening in his life. Where he came from. And he picked Trace. This time. He picked to go to the blue-haired older boy for whateverit is he needs. And more than likely, Trace'll never know exactly what he's done for the child. Or maybe he will. Maybe. Star is soft-spoken at the moment, andvery much like when you first met him, Trace. Gone are the walls of tough, but replaced, they are, by something more withdrawn. Something harder to get at. Quiet. And the Star tries a tiny smile that never quite touches his eyes. "Do ya min' if I sit with'ya, Blue?" Oh so humble. Tell me to leave, or let me stay. Two choices. Which will his aquaintence choose?

Tiens watches the exchange between Trace and Starlight. The personal relationships are sorta touching, even to the uninitiated -- but, the irony created by the surroundings and situation just adds the coup de grace, doesn't it? Wow. He cracks his neck, unceremoniously, content to let Trace make the call on Star joining them. Right, like this is a "dress code" bench. He grins, rumbling in his bag for a cigarette. What he removes, instead, is a beeper, who's tiny electronic cry brings a rueful smile to his lips. "Duty calls, boys," lhe says with a grin to the two other young men. "Catch ya 'round," he drawls, loping off towards a pay phone.

Trace tips his head to one side, curious and quietly concerned, but he nods andslides over a little to make room on the bench. "Yeah. Yeah, 'course." A few braids slip loose during the movement, entirely untamable, unruly braids, his. He wiggles his fingers at Tiens shyly; maybe another time he can find out about thegirl in the funeral parlour. But for now he just waves and watches him go. Didn't really know him, anyway. He shifts his gaze back to Starlight and licks his lips once before giving a timid smile. Now what? "Ah... what's goin' on?" he wonders finally, tone still soft with the dawn.

Starlight steps way back as Tiens stands. Like, steps back and to the side, apparently not wanting the man anywhere near him. But that's nothing new, he, sincewalking from the apartment house, hasn't seemed to want /anyone/ near him. But oddly enough, as Tiens makes his way toward the payphone, Starlight steps back up to the bench and sits down right next to Trace. A little on the close-side, actually. "Not really much, really," he says, and the tone used is one of humility. Small. "Jus' saw you from," and he lifts his hand, motioning toward the balcony. Little boy sniffs and wipes his nose with his hand. "Just saw you talkin' thought I would come down and," I need you "keep you company." Riight. His dark eyes shift back to the blue-haired boy and he shakes his head. "Just not really much is going on." Lies. He looks down, hair falling over his face. "Are you good? I mean, are things good for you?"

Cat finds a nearby tree, leans into it, shoulders braced against the live oak as he lights the cig and draws on it. Oh, he's in no hurry, none at all, but he watches. Nothing else to do on this day, anyhow. The boredom flashes through his looks like a knife. He's annoyed by it, as well.

As you scoot in close, Trace's automatic instinct is to inch away just a little. Nothing personal. He's not used to dealing with people up close, with two notible, fellow-braided exceptions. Really the only time he was ever close at all was that first night he laid eyes on you, and gave you that fix with intimate, infinite care. But daylight is as stark as reality and sobriety, yes? But as you speak, as he watches you, he moves in a little closer again. Uncertain, yeah. What's going on here? Like he's almost waiting for you to pull all those shields back on. "Things're... things're okay. Don't got that one problem no more. Batiste and Glass went with me, cleared it up. I tole' her off."

Cat looks down, a slow beep goes off in a pocket. He pulls out a small black rectangular object, looks at it, grunts, and heads out.

Star's eyes lift to you as you scoot away, and then drop back down again. It's ok, no one really wants to be close to him. Or, wait, is that the other way around. A tiny shrug, but then as you move back, he peers back up at your face and tries another little smile. Your words, perhaps offering some sort of pacification in his dark, dreary world. "I'm glad, Blue," he says, very quietly. Looks dwonagain. "Shouldn't hafta be worried 'bout nuthin'." He clears his throat and sniffs, then shakes his head, eyes still peering down at his own thighs. "I seen Ben last night. He said ya was inside. But I didn't wanna 'innerup' nuthing. With yer family." He reaches up and pushes some of his hair behind one ear, then tilts his head to the strands in place, hopefully. "I'm real glad everything worked out with that, Blue," he repeats, same soft tone.

Trace smiles a little more, warm creases at the sides of his mouth. "Yeah.." he says softly. "Things're okay now. Don't ever get in debt, okay? It's jest... It's never worth whatever ya gettin' in advance. Coz then ya owe somebody, an' maybe someone helps ya, but then ya owe them somethin', an' it's easy fer 'em to pull somethin' over on ya, make ya owe more'n ya got in the first place..." Rambling with comraderie, the world's out to get us, but I know you're one of the good ones. He looks over at you and grins a little, more quirk to it now as he points out, "Coulda come in. I don't mind." Then something occurs to him. "Oh, but Bat was there..." Lowers his eyes. Bat's beloved to him, and he doesn't understand why you two don't get along. It's really confusing.

Star's fingers tighten and relax as you speak to him, his expression like that of a small child who really really super needs companionship right now. Like in the worst possible sense of need. The worst. And he nods as you teach him. Imagine that, you teaching him. You teaching anyone. Don't the olders teach you? Well, you're the older here. He agrees and sniffs, eyes lowering again as you speak of Bat. "He's ok. He maybe was just trying to," and he pauses. He has to pause. He has no choice. As his head lifts again,turning away, .eyes watering. Nothing matters anymore. See? And his hate, his denial of you and your family? Of the happiness? Well, fuck everything, because there's nothing he wants more right now. Nothing. He's trying to gather himself again. Embarrassed yes. Small yes. Alone yes. Helpless.

Trace is just baffled by Star right now. Intrigued, confused... all of this. All of it shows, of course. And he wants to help, maybe a small part of him wants to wrap you up in the hug you seem to need so badly, but he's got these hang-ups, these programmed blocks that hold him fast to where he clings to the edge of the bench, just watching you. "I still don't know what Bat's supposed to've did.." his voice is somewhat small, and he shakes his head. Never wants to believe Bat did anything, not in a million years. He reaches out gently and touches your hand, very shy, like a butterfly landing there. You've got to hold very still forit to stay. Looking down at his hand and yours he says softly, "Wait til' you know him better. You'd see he'd never.." Do.. what? Talk about blind faith.

Perhaps the child doesn't /want/ to let you know what your best friend did. Yesterday he would have. The day before. And maybe even tomorrow he might. But right now, no way. Nothing is going to destroy what you have with Batiste. What he so desperately seeks right this very second. And you hand reaches for him, his eyes moving down to the act. And watching. And as you touch, flesh to flesh, he doesn't flitch. He's hot, you'd feel. Warm. Full of emotional and hormones. And he's not going to move, because see, he knows enough about all this to understand your trepidation. Your fears. So he'll just speak, very quietly, "He didn't do nothing, Blue. It was just me. I jus' was afraid because of one time when we was at Walker's house'n he was being weird." Anything to make sure someone stays happy. To make sure someone stays loyal. "Jus' don't really know no one, really." Soft admission. Little Star burning out?

Quiet a moment. Gathering forces. Then Trace speaks with soft encouragement. "You... you know people." Dirty little fingers squeeze yours, very gently. "Ya know Walker... He likes ya tons. Trusted ya t'take ya to his party." No jealousy; he never shared Batiste's feelings on that. "An ya got a girl... More'n I got. N' Ben musta liked ya if he talked t'ya all that time..." A little shrug, without moving his hand. "Know me some." Not much, true. Unforfunately?

Wilhelm arrives.

John Black comes out of Pontalbo St. Ann.

Star's eyes move from the union of Trace's hand with his, to the older boy's face. He sniffs and attempts another little smile, this one shining, albeit momentarily, in his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he says, quietly. But offers no explanation for what he might be apologising for. The little boy swallows and looks like he might, I dunno, hug you or something. Wants to, but it's just not him, not yet anyway. Because you're right. He doesn't know you that well. "Drew's real mad at m e," he admits, quietly, and drops gaze from your face. Regret? Guilt? "She's real mad, Blue." He chews on his lower lip, hair concealing his expression from most, cept the boy he's next to. Close.

John Black steps out of the Pontalbo shops and into the crowd and confusion of Jackson Square. He mingles with the crowd, circling the perimeter of the place and letting himself be carried by the currents of the tourists.

Wilhelm carefully adjusts his wire frame spectacles, squinting in the directionof the two youngsters seated at the park bench.

John Black slowly makes a complete circuit of the square, ambling easily through the mixture of vendors, tourists, artists, and pickp ockets. When he's come almost full circle, he turns off and moves towards the river.

Star nods to your words and glances out toward the square finally. First time in awhile he's removed his attention from you. "I dunno. I hope so, butit just seems like she doesn't really like me. Just likes some of the things wedo together." Vague? Yep. He still doesn't move his hand, content with your touching him, apparently. "Do you think you could help me, Blue?" he asks, quietly,gaze still averted. "Do you think you could help me with something? Just, maybe help me?" And he moves his dark eyes back to your face. "I don't mean so that I would owe you." See, he listens to you. "But like when we first met?" Brows lift some and he swallows, then nods. You remember? Right?

Trace just looks at Star for a moment. A little surprised. A litle pleased. He looks down again, and squeezes the younger boy's hand once more before drawing it away. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll help you. Les' go." Quiet words. "Ain't had mine yet this mornin' anyway." He slides up off the bench and looks at Star. Is this aboutjunk? He's not seeing the typical jonesing signs. But he's surely not going to refuse Star. He says softly, "Come on... I know someplaces we could go..."

Starlight stands up, quickly, as Trace does. Nope. Little kid isn't going to let Trace out of his sight. No way. The boy stays close to the older and begins wal king. No words just yet, simply silence.

[ Off-camera, Trace leads the two to the playground. ]

The trip back's a long one, but he doesn't know of anyplace else to take you. Of course Rocket's the dealer he knows near Jackson Square, the place he took you last time, but the guy rips you off and Trace is unfortunately broke right now. Carrying too, so Rocket's seems such a waste. So all he needs is a place. A bus gets takes the two part of the way -- a short trip really, just pocket change. Trace knows the routes well. A bit apologetic, but you're asking for his help, hopefully you'll forgive the annoyance of a bus ride. And finally the trek seems to be winding up... At Lelong park? Huh? The boy tries his best to assure you, mumbling, "Jest trust me... S'a good place." Smiling a little. A secret place. It just took a moment's hesitence before deciding on this little fort hidden away in the thick brush. It's a special, magic place to him, but he's decided this will be a good time to share it. Maybe you'll laugh? As he leads you towards the bushes, he glances back, with eyes bright and hoping for approval.

The day is another blistering one. The sky a murkey yellow as the sun shines upon the haze that is perpetual in this part of the country. That or clouds. It's dripping hot, really, and the bus ride is actually sort of soothing. Star offers what money he has in order to help out with the fare. The child stays close to you for most of the travel, not really seeming capable of handling his life, as is, at the moment. Scared? Eyes stay down-cast, unless you speak to him, and then he meets your gaze with respect. Yes, respect. And upon seeing the playground, Star's head cocks to the side and he nods. He'll trust you. Curious heading toward the bushes, tho. "Is anyone gonna be here?" he asks, softly.

Trace shakes his head. "No, no..." A little grin, as he lifts up the plastic shrouded by branches and brambles, tugging it up with an ease that makes it clear he's found the hidden door many, many times before. As he waits for you to crawl inside he speaks softly. "Nobody comes here. Maybe they useta... I didn't build this place, after all. But now... Everyone who comes here, s'pretty much coz I took 'em." And he tonight he took you. Trace doesn't want unexpected visitors either. Once you're heading inside, he crawls on after you, letting the door fall back in place behind him. Still chattering softly. "Sorry it's not much... Woulda took ya t'Walkers, but I didn't want Jason t'catch me..."

Starlight bends down a little and crawls through the opening, cautiously. Sure he trusts you, but you've been with him for the past couple of hours and technically someone /could/ be here. But as his eyes scan the small fort, he relaxes considerable and moves against the back 'wall', sitting down on the dirt. After crossing his legs, he shakes his head at something, then speaks quietly, "Don' wannim tuh catch ya?" He doesn't get it, obviously. He wipes his cheek with his shoulder and sniffs, eyes never leaving you. "Would he be mad if you were with me?" Curious yes, but also concerned.

Trace smiles faintly, sadly, shaking his head. Sure, Jason's awful protective, but that's not his immediate concern. "I never, ever shoot in front'a Jason. Never will. It... really bothers 'im." Walking somewhat hunchbacked to avoid the low ceiling and sidestepping art as he goes, he makes his way to the mattress and perches on the edge of it, near you. With a glance down (perhaps ashamed?), he fidgets with his hands a moment before starting to tug up his left pant leg and work at undoing the knot that holds the pick nestled up close to his calf. "I... I won't always be able ta help you like this," he admits quietly, eyes down, spreading pale reddish-blond lashes across the junk-darkened skin beneath his eyes. "I-I'm givin' it up fer him soon..." He speaks with hushed fear. Quite reasonable fear, in his opinion. Facing the Agony is no light matter. His hands at the needle quicken, almost fumbling with it now as he tosses the tourniquet onto the dirty mattress and rifles through art-clutter. If I was a candle, where would I hide...?

Star watches you and your actions. After shifting his legs and pulling them toward his chest, he lays his head down, cheek against and just stares at your hands as they fumble around. "Do you ever wanna die? Does it scare you?" the child asks, quietly. "I mean, does it scare you to think that it'll happen?" He swallows, then sniffs. It's still hot in here, so beads of sweat drip down the sides of his face, and have managed to cause a few strands of midnight coloured hair to stick to the sides around his hairline. He shrugs a little, but doesn't lift his head. "I mean, if you knew it was gonna happen, would you freak out? Or would you just kick back and be content that you had this long?" Serious question here. The child is obviously trying to tell you something, without really telling you anything. If you just guess it, then he hasn't opened up, right?

Trace digs out an old, battered green candle finally, little twigs and mulch-bits clinging to rivulets that are now hardened and tried. It's two-thirds melted already. He sets it on the ground, and looks up at you, a little unnerved about the death questions. And of course there's the question hovering over the air, tugging at his lips -- you're dying?! What? -- But he just purses his lips and tries to give the question thought without getting too distracted by the concern nipping at his attention. "I... I always thought I'd die young," he admits. "Never 'spected t'hit twenty. Got people tryin' ta convince me otherwise now, an' it works sometimes..." His eyes try to hold yours, but they're timid, large black pupils swallowing up the hazel from the dimness of this place, and the junk-hunger too. Not a commanding gaze, but he watches intently. "I think... if I knew fer sure... Yeah. Yeah, first I'd flip. Then... fuck it, y'know? I'd be sure t'have such a fuckin' good time... Party til' the end, y'know? And I'd jest... wanna see everything, and touch everybody, and memorize faces..." He looks down at his idle hands with reprimand. Why have you stopped? There's a mix to get cooked. He pulls out a lighter and gets catches a soft wick on the flame. "So... what about you?" Not safe to ask bold questions. Just here to listen, to help, not scare Star with prying.

Guess what? You get a little smile, a real one, as you explain your philosophy to him. Star nods and lifts his head, "I guess I'm the same way, kind of. I mean, I think about it a lot and stuff. Just seems quieter, ya know? Less hectic? But Death-man says it's not my time, so I have to wait." He wipes at his nose again and then at his eye. "It's gonna make me sick, when I do that," he admits, weakly. "It always makes me sick, but then it makes me forget stuff, too." Escape. And you're helping him. "Are you gonna leave me after?" He's not really giving you time to respond here, questions and comments coming one after the other. "Because, I mean, I don't really want to stay here," he pauses and spreads his knees, folding his legs under again. "Do you wanna with me?" he asks, hopefully. His dark gaze lights on you, through strands of unruly hair. Please?

The blue-haired boy tips his head to one side as he looks up at you, away from his task. A faint smile. "I know this isn't... yer usual thing, junk. You do somethin' else, right? Tranks 'r ludes 'r somethin..." He takes a small packet from one pocket of his jeans, a little plastic bag of brown. Nothing fancy, but enough to do the job for both of you, and again tomorrow probably. "Ya only get sick the first three'r four times usually... Maybe a few more. We're both small 'n all..." He shakes his head a little. "Wasn't gonna leave you. I was gonna stay, nod out with you..." He looks up, at the cluttered little home. "If there's somewhere else you wanna go, maybe we shouldn't do it here... I won't wanna walk none after I had mine." Back to you, dark eyes that should be lighter if his pupils weren't gobbling up the soft, pale hazel. "Haven't ya had someone t'fix with ever..? S'nice. The best. Jest ta sink down with someone an' relax..." He really hadn't even considered not taking his own. Walk away sober? Huh-uh. He smiles faintly and looks down, whispering, "S'a beautiful thing, noddin' out with someone. Hand me that spoon, hey?" He nods to the bent, blackened utensil near one of your boots.

Star brightens as you speak to him, as you share with him. And he even smiles a little, getting lost up in your thoughts. So much so that when you ask him to hand the spoon, it actually takes him a few moments before he jerks in the direction of the battered utensil, even tho it's just by his boot. With small hand, the boy offers it to you and tilts his head again, scooting a little closer. "'M sorry that I didn't tell you I wasn't a girl before. It was really hard because I liked you and I wanted to say something, but there was a problem with it." He pauses, but not long enough to give you time to respond "I didn't know if you were, I didn't know if you liked guys and knew I was a guy and then if I said that I was a girl, you would get embarrassed and so I just tried not to be around at all. There's this other guy named Cat who doesn't really care that I'm a guy, even tho he thought I was a girl." He blinks some, as if having confused the issue, totally. "Um, I mean, he still wants to, ya know. But," he shakes his head and looks down. Apologetic. "I just didn't want you to be embarrassed and I thought Walker would tell you right away. I didn't know how to say things about ya know, telling you and stuff about it. I just, ya know, just wanted to say that to you because when people don't say things then stuff just builds and it never gets fixed." Okay. Mr. Quiet talking about expressing himself. And he lifts his hand, pushing some of his hair behind one ear. "If I asked you to keep a secret, would you?" He seems unsure. He doesn't know you at all, and how dare he ask that you keep anything from your family, but he's not himself, as you can tell, or maybe he is. Gaze intent now, nearly pleading for your affirmative response.

Honesty. Trace drinks it in with intrigue and appreciation both, then looks at you for a few long moments before responding in turn. "I swear t'God I'd try," he smiles faintly. "But people kin' read my face so easy. Can't help it." He looks down shyly. So maybe you won't tell him now, but he couldn't not be honest after your heartfelt apology over a matter long-since forgiven. "I'd never offer it up," he promises quietly. "Kin' tell ya that much. But I unnerstan' if ya wouldn' wanna trust me anyhow." Junk temporarily forgotten, he looks up at you curiously, hopefully.

Star drops his eyes down, away, humble, or perhaps just doesn't feel he has any right to meet your gaze right now. "Never been a part of anything. Never had real friends that didn't wan' sumthin' from me. Never, ever had anyone to talk to." And he shrugs, the walls starting to come back up. It's visual, this. Up. "No," he says, then shakes his head again. Down. Not up. Down. He pushes the fear away, and there's no doubt that's what he's doing. He's scared. Scared of the junk. Scared of this place. Scared of Tiens. Scared of anyone who came near him today, except for you. Kid flinched and did his best not to be touched. A completely different child, this one, today. "An' when I seen you guys, it was always best that I left. 'm not like you, Blue," he admits, softly, eyes still away. "I wish," I was? "I wish that I had someone like someone, ya know, like, that," and his voice drops down to a whisper, barely audible. Just breath pushed out over his lips "Wanna trust." And quickly he lifts his hand, wiping at his cheek. Fuck this shit. Why does life have to be so fucked up. A little frown that deepens, quickly. Puts his head down again, hair falling to help him hide. "I, I don't want, I want to, Blue," comes out, reluctantly.

Trace listens intently, held fast by your words. A breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding hushes softly past dry lips, and he licks them, glancing down at the packet and spoon in his hands. Not now. So he'd been right on the street, and this help had nothing to do with junk at all. He sets the packet and spoon down and creeps hesitantly closer on hands and knees. When he settles down into a sitting position, he's facing you, his sneaker touching your boot lightly. He dips his head down to try and get a glimpse of your expression, but it's hidden by that black curtain of hair, so he straightens and curls on arm around his knee in a loose hug. He's not sure how to approach this, really. How terrible, to have no one to trust. Trace has always had at least *someone*, for as long as he can remember. He's sought them out. How bleak it'd all be, otherwise... Finally he murmurs very softly, "Know what I was thinkin' of maybe askin ya today? Or more, I was jest wonderin... I mean. I've made these promises to my family, right? That'd I'd quit. But a part of me doesn't think I can.. I mean, like almost sure of it. And how can I face them, then? I-I don't wanna be this fuck-up, jest some failure who couldn't even give 'em that. And I was jest wondering... I jest... I always wanted us t'be friends. I jest don't know... how to approach you sometimes, you seem so much stronger'n me most times. But I thought if we were friends, maybe there'd be someone who... I knew would still...... care," God, that word was hard for him to choke out. "Even if, like, I couldn't keep promises like that. Like if I had to leave 'em behind, maybe we could still... hang out?" He rubs at his nose, the tiniest sniffle into his knuckles, before peeking up at you.

As you speak, the child lifts his head some and tilts it, his hair shifting position by default and allowing you to see his face. His emotion is dripping dow his cheeks and at this point, he doesn't seem to care if you see. You're opening up, and he's wide-open right now. Completely exposed. Star reaches up again and wipes at one of his cheeks, then the other and sniffs. He didn't want the junk, he just wanted -you-. Because that's just where he's at. And you were there and he saw you and, and that's all. And you've most always been comforting. And so he nods to your words, eyes shifting away, but curiously. And time passes, pensive moments, while the little boy before you gathers thoughts into words. Finally Star speaks, quietly and most sincerely. "I always thought about having a best friend. I used to lay awake at night and think about having someone to talk to and someone to trust. I used to dream, even, about being able to just say anything and my best friend would always love me. And would always want to hear. And even if me and my best friend got into a fight," he shrugs a little, "we'd make up right away. And laugh and share /everything/." Another sniff and he glances toward the junk. "If we're friends, then there's nothing that you could ever do to make me want to go away from you." His eyes, soft, return to you. "Blue, I went to Ben last night, because I didn't have anyone else to go to. I didn't even think that you would want to hear my words, or what happened, or anything. I was scared because I thought that you were so close with your family, that you didn't have time to hang with me. And it's like, I see all of you together," okay, he drops his head again, because he has to hide. Because he's not used to crying in front of people and he's most CERTAINLY not used to being broken. "..and that night, I wanted to stay with you, I wanted to be with you and watch TV and stay with you and your family and I even wanted Drew to leave, so I could just watch TV and laugh and it's just not inside me. I mean, I just cant be that way, but I want to be friends and I want to be close and I want to be that way, but everything is just so black. And so dark and shadowy. Like everything is fading away and no matter where I am or what I do, I just always remember. And the faces and the violence and the memories, they just play over and over and," his voice is strainging to maintain control here, and for this last, he sort of whimpers it out, "if I love you will you die?" Both hands move up now, covering his face. His shoulders shake some. Whatever got to this kid, was brillant. Huge. Bigger than God.

Your words get to him. They really do. They take something in his chest and twist it up so tight it hurts, and Trace pulls in a shaky breath and creeps closer. There's a soft rustle as he shoves artwork away to make room to sit beside you, leaned against the makeshift wall. It's hard for him, because this is all so new, and he's damaged too... but not like you. Not to such an extent, clearly, or could he walk around with such open eyes, brave the world without bitterness? Oh, he's got his defenses.. But it's different. He reaches out very gently, a shaking hand to draw you up against his shoulder and rest there if you need it. Timid comfort offered, baby steps, even if he feels like everything's moving quickly right now. And he wishes he could give it to you, be that instant best friend who'd throw popcorn at your cheesy cracks on an even cheesier movie... It's a very pretty picture. But... he's taken. "I..I wouldn't die," he whispers softly. "I'm gonna stick around awhile..." He reaches out to run his fingers carefully over your damp black hair, a feather-light touch. "I would love... to let you in. And share everything with you. But my heart is tied up in this, this triangle..... And I... could love you with time, but you'd need to open up to Jason and Batiste, or else you'd need to understand that I... need to love them too. Do you see? I don't want to hurt you, but I jest... I need to be honest."

Star puts his head down on your shoulder, the boy, smaller, fits nicely against you. Needs this very much. And he listens, sniffing and responding as one would expect a child, desperate for affection, to. And as you finish, he drops his hand onto your leg, letting you know that it is, indeed, ok, that you touch, that you share, that you be so fucking, brually honest. NO ONE does this. I mean, seriously. Have you seen the shit out there? No one lets anyone talk or touch or feel. It's like this bigass cesspool of addiction and deception and everyone, /everyone/ wants to rip you a new asshole. Up and down. That's life. But here, with you, calm, peaceful, serene, despite the humble surroundings and the blistering heat, the child finds comfort. Real fucking comfort. You are so /substantial/. So real. So brilliant in your depth and conception. But alas, a spark of truth. "A triangle only has three sides," the child says, quietly "And your friends, I think they would not like me very much. I think they would not want me. And that's ok," he admits, again real real quiet "I wouldn't want me if I was them, either." He lifts his head, looking at you with tear-stained cheeks and crystal-clear watery eyes. Vivid. No drugs. No lies. So distinct. "I just see you. I just see you," he repeats, meaningfully. Swallows and begins again. "I would /never/ try to break you away. I would /never/ want to pull you from something that is so fucking beautiful. I would /die/ if someone took me from, from," he doesn't have a word. He doesn't have ANYTHING like you have. Nothing. Blinks a few times, then shakes his head, starting again. "I can't imagine laughing and not seeing blood. I can't imagine sleeping, with a demon's caress. I can't imagine being so happy that I can see the sky, blue," and his hand lifts to gently touch one of your braids. Clarity. "I would never ask you to leave them, Trace. Never. But if they made you or you had to, then of course I would be right here for you." He sniffs, and looks down, hand lowering. A little smile, but it's a cry-smile. "I've never been so alive and in so much," Pain? He glances back to the junk. Escape. But then just swallows and wraps his arms around his stomach. No.

Such understanding. So precisely the perfect answer. Trace smiles, this liquid bright-eyed, precious smile that crinkles up the smooth skin around his eyes, puts creases in his cheeks. He's not a pretty boy, and probably never will be. But there's always something lovely in such a smile, when it's just for you, and so honest, no? Dirty fingers reach out to tentatively brush one wet cheek, perhaps smoothing away a strand of black hair as an excuse for the affection as he promises you, "I'll try and teach you the best of what I know. I'll teach you how to look down at a dreary puddle... and jest see the blue sky reflected there, okay? I'll try..."

Star lifts his head, looking into your eyes, deep as he can get. Gaze with intent to pierce, still so clear and fresh and most of all, new. New perceptions. And the cutest little smile breaks across those trembling lips as you talk of puddles and the blue reflection above. You were the one who liked him before. Sure you thought he was a chick, but still, I mean, you liked his face. Her face. His face. He frowns a little, completely confused tho, definately not angry. Thoughts swirl in the mind of the boy, flying, colours melting into images. And to your eyes, lips, eyes, he swallows. No. Not that. He's not. You're not. In his current state, who wouldn't misconstrue this passion. Who wouldn't long to take it deeper, in the more feral sense of things. The more animalistic side of our humanity. But no matter how hard this child tries, it's just not there. Not that part. Good thing too, because he never did find out if in fact the 'boy' thing was why you stopped falling over your tongue to get at him. So instead of a gentle kiss, or a soft touch layed upon your body, the child offers more words. "When we first talked today, you mentioned that you should never owe anyone anything." Hands come up to wipe his wet cheeks and fingers press black strands of hair back behind his ear. "But I think that the kind of 'owe' I feel right now is the right kind. It's a friend kind." He really is new at this friend-thing. Even tho this is kind of like an 'almost friend' thing or something. Anyway. "It's like you feel like you want to give because someone is giving to you. Like you want to share and let them share, you share and it's like you owe, or I mean, it's like I owe you something, but it's just like I would just give you me. I mean, like I would want to give you something for something." Get that? Don't worry about it, he's confused to. Managed to completely baffle himself. He knows what he's trying to say, it's just not coming out right. And he shakes his head, looking down. Duh. "I keep saying thank you," he begins again, quietly, "And I want to say it again, and again, and again. I mean, you've completely made me, ya know?" And again his head shakes, he does that a lot, eh? And he looks up at you, curiously. Can't explain, but do you understand?

Trace chuckles warmly. Confused? You bet. But he tries his best to sort it out, happy to wade through the fond ramble and see what he can grasp. "You don't... owe me nothin'," he grins, shaking his head slightly, tossing blue braids against his slender shoulders. "Friends never do. S'part of it. I mean... whadda I care if I leant ya somethin, even jest a shoulder? All evens out, if it's real." A tiny shrug. He's got it worked out in his head, how this friendship thing works. He looks down shyly. "I like you a lot like this. I jest... I mean, are--" A hesitant pause, then again with that brutal honest. And it can be brutal. "Are you gonna go tough an' teasing on me again? Round... Drew, or whoever?" Doesn't even sound like he's saying he'd reject you if you did. Just needs to know what to expect.

The child listens to you, intently, seeming almost in awe of the entire concept of you. All of you. Your face, hair, body, thoughts, eyes, mouth, past, future. He's so into you, right now. This new experience. All of it. But as you speak, Star's eyes slide over to the junk, staying there a moment. They then drop down to his lap, where his fingers lock together. He flips his hands over, palm-unity and shakes his head. Before speaking, his eyes lift to meet with yours and a bit of his power slips into his dark gaze. Intent and completely honest. "I won't tease you. But out there, if I don't keep my guard up, things will happen to me," and he pauses, looking down, his eyes /watering/. Bad. Quick, too. Real quick. Images attack. It takes him a few moments to regain himself and he nods. "I won't tease you, Blue." Quiet promises. As long as you keep him distracted, he seems fine. But the moment he needs to think, he's done for. Haunted.

Trace nods and smiles at you again, encouraging, willing away the too-bright shine in your eyes. "Fair deal. Ya do what ya gotta do..." He takes one of your hands carefully, explores it with his own. A child with something new. He ventures over little knuckles, webbings, love and lifelines etched across your palms, and the less significant ravines and creases get his attention too. Distraction for you? Well, his real intent is just testing all of this. You have him the feeling he could touch, so he's trying it out, exploring the strange, flat new world that is your hand.

Starlight seems completely more taken with you as you allow him his destiny. As you allow him to do what he NEEDS to do, because really, he has no choice here. He has no where to go and must do what /they/ require. It's just the way it is. And as you take his hand he tilts his head, not pulling away, but watching. Watching your fingers against his palm, watching as you explore him, as you learn from him. As you learn of him. He moistens his lips, "Blue?" he says, quietly. Blink blink.

Trace puts concentration into everything he does, and has to pull his gaze up from your hand and blink once before breaking into a smile again. "Yeah..?" He releases your hand gently; perhaps that's what you're going to tell him, stop being such a weirdo because it's just a hand.

So you release it, but Star doesn't pull it away. So, there's his hand. Right where you had it. Anyway, he smiles a little and tilts his head, "If I said," okay, he looks down now. This is going to be hard for him. Yep. Hard. "that I would try with your," another little pause and swallow "..friends, would that," and he looks up at you again "make you happy? If I would try to be friends with them? With Bat?" He moistens his lips again and drops gaze, obviously afraid of the answer for some reason or another.

Trace's eyes flutter down to the dirt floor as he considers this. "I... dunno. If you were gonna try. I mean. I think they're wonderful, so of course I think you'd like them, but if it don't come natural I wouldn't force it jest fer me..." He runs back over his words, and the pondering shows, with pursed lips, and just the slightest furrowing of his brow. "I guess... I mean... Don't run from 'em, is all I think. Jest... Give people a chance, y'know?" Imagine, Trace -- who runs from so much as a way of solving things -- telling another to stay put. But he feels he's right about this. He really does. "So if you stay, n'then... it happens naturally, then..." Then what. All's well, right? All's more comfortable, anyway. But he just ends his fumbling advice in a tiny shrug.

Starlight pulls his hand back, seeming a bit saddened that your palm-reading has stopped. Didn't even tell him how long he was gonna live. And he nods to your words, then coughs a little and sniffs. "I trust you," he says, his gaze running over your face. "I trust you," he repeats, as if those words have never passed over his lips before. You could really hurt him now, ya know. You really can. More than anyone else. And he knows it. "I'm tired," he says, then rubs his hand over his face. Tired and doesn't want to be alone. Great.

[ Off-camera, Trace offers to stay with Star here and sleep. He gives the younger boy the mattress and curls up on the floor. ]

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