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Log Title: Tarnished Gold

Log setting: The hidden fort in the playground, nighttime.

Log Cast:
Trace
Jason

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Trace moves quietly through the damp, recently cut grass, with the little green bits collect on his now-shiny black sneakers. He breathes in the fresh grassy scent deeply. The moon, full yet milky white and distant, hangs low on the horizon now but still manages to light the silent playground more than usual this night. The boy's hands are jammed down into his pockets, and his blue braids sway gently with each step. The boy seems content and observant tonight, craning his neck as though he wants to drink it all in, every silver slip of moonlight caught on dark, wet grass -- each shadowy ruffle of the wind dancing through green-black, beaded leaves on the ancient trees that encircle the playground tonight. But he's heading for his fort, and eventually gets there. Mindless of the damp beneath, the knees and shins of his jeans are darkened from his crawl as he rustles his way through the foilage and into the little fort.

Getting down on hands and knees, you crawl into a clutch of thick bushes.

Jason's been in here before when you weren't around (probably looking at all the pretty - and not so pretty - drawings and frowning at the spoons and bleach), but this would be the first time you've come in and seen him actually /in/ here. He /planned/ to find you in here, but you weren't, and he just didn't have the energy to go searching. And so, what you find when you crawl in here is a curled up shape on your mattress, its back to you, arms curled around the pillow held against his chest, umoving. Pale moonlight glistens off of his long, red hair, making it glow softly with a faint aura in the tiny, makeshift room. From the soft sounds of his breathing, he's either asleep or almost there. Or at least he was until you break the threshold of the fort. There's a startled movement, and then too-bright eyes peer at you from the shadows of the corner. "Trace?" he asks softly, hopefully. If it's not, he'll have to do the fight or flight thing. Which usually sucks no matter what.

The wayward artist surely wasn't expecting to find anyone here, least of all Jason. Nope, he was just planning on grabbing his few belongings tucked in the hole under the mattress and, at long last, head towards his sorely missed home on Moss street. But when he does see you, immediately recognizing the familiar red-silver shine of moonlight on your hair, and those impossible green eyes, he closes the distance between you and himself quickly. "Yeah, s'me," the boy assures you. Indeed, it's his own quiet, kinda-almost-Cajun voice accompanied by his usual scent of grass and unwashed skin and thick, fresh paint -- some of which colors his hands tonight. Dropping down onto the mattress, Trace reaches out to affectionately scritch at beloved ears and smile. "Whatchya doin' here, fireheart?"

Unfortunately, those familiar eyes don't hold a familiar look. Jason's disturbed beyond words. In fact, as you sit beside him, you can see that his face is thoroughly tear-ravaged. He apparently cried himself to sleep on your 'bed.' Despite your scent (which, honestly, is familiar and comforting to Jason), he immediately burrows his face into your shoulder at your touch, throwing his arms around you and holding tight. 'Sides, he's smelled much worse tonight. "Jus'... wanted ta... say hi," he mumbles muffledly into your shirt, wiping his cheek against it and sniffling your scent. Something humans usually don't realize. Their unwashed scent is unique, and can be quite familiar to those they're around a lot. To Jason, it triggers the words 'friend' and 'safe' and 'beautiful' in his brain, among others. But this clinging, sniffling Jason isn't the one that /you/ probably wouldn't find familiar. It's clear that Something happened. It's just what is what you have to pry from Jason - a process that people often don't realize is just as frustrating (if not moreso) for Jason as it is for the person prying.

"Well, hi," Trace murmurs softly, hazel eyes immediately flooding with concern. His hand against soft fur and tangled red hair lowers so he can wrap his arms around your shoulders and hang on. "Jason..." He nuzzles his nose to your pale brow and the crown of your head, and plants a single kiss there. For a few long moments he stays right there, letting you burrow and sniffle. Then with infinite gentleness he pulls away just enough to look reach down and brush your cheeks now, smooth away clingy red strands pressed against your tear-dampened cheeks. Jason hates to explain things. He understands this. And if he does, the answers come in puzzles and questions and poetic, sometimes painful metaphors... Never entirely clear. But your small voice, your tears, the way you clung to him so fiercely... how can he *not* ask? "What happened...?"

Jason's grip on you shifts a little as he gets comfortable against you, but doesn't loosen up any. He needs someone solid here. He swallows and just lingers there, face hidden in your shoulder, and then finally lifts his head and rests his chin on your shoulder, eyes kept lowered, though. "Jus'... saw a friend. 'N..." He shakes his head against you gently. "You ever..." he starts to ask, but doesn't finish the question. That's too far for him right now.

Trace listens carefully to what few words you do manage to get out, and then just tightens his embrace slightly, one slender arm firmly around you. He can wait until you're ready. Trace has always been in most cases, jonesing and Christmas mornings among the excluded, eternally patient. So he's quiet, letting cricket chirps fill the silence, and there seems to be nothing to do but hold you and lean his cheek gently against your hair.

You don't know how hard this is for him right now. He just wants to break down again and cry on you and tell you everything, but... he couldn't even if that /was/ a part of his psyche. But not explaining, internalizing, hiding, /those/ things are what he does. But he... tonight's been rough on him, he tries. "Fergittin'... always try 'n fergit. Weed helps sumtimes... Other stuff mebbe..." He takes a shuddering breath, slow. "Never thought I'd see someone who..." He shakes his head. "Wasn' 'spectin' ta see him ever 'gain... But he called 'n..."

Trace nods a little, very gently. Hard words to hear, almost. All his friends seem to try and put up this 'everything's okay' front. Everyone tries so fucking hard to 'be strong', whatever that means. Sometimes it's easy to just accept that. Everything's fine, because Jason and Bat and Walker and Star and everybody else he seems to know work so hard at keeping up that invincible mask that he's never been able to manage. He sighs softly, just a released breath hushing through almost closed lips, and a hand lifts carefully to pet at your tangled red mane. "Weed n' stuff... ain't the way to hide from things," he finally gets the words out. Ah, such irony, that he should tell you this, of all people. "Been learnin' that from you, 'member?" He gives you a sad, fond smile and keeps on petting your hair soothingly. "So this friend... This the guy what had Bat all bent outta' shape th'other night?" It's the only friend outside the family that he's heard about, recently, and the last cause for tears, so it seems an obvious first guess.

Jason mutters something that might be a sudden defense of his weed, or maybe a reluctant acknowledgement of his own words of wisdom. His ears lay back against his skull, but your petting them seems to make it okay that they're like that. His tail curls about him and into your lap, just making him a big ball of 'pet me.' But then he suddenly lifts his head at your question and replies quickly, "Don' know why Bat was so freaked, though! It's jus'..." It's just that Bat saw Jason getting fucked up just like he is now, over some older man. Not hard to come to the same conclusion. Jason lowers his eyes, biting his lip hard. "He... he was like.. what.. like what Bat 'n Walks're like now. Took care of us..." Us? Jason's struggling, but answering questions sometimes is easier than volunteering stuff. So maybe he handed you a question? Or maybe he's unaware of what slipped out.

Trace's lips part slightly, a silent 'oh', and he nods once. Things are starting to make more sense. "Bat talked to me, after you fell asleep, that night you both fought," he admits. "I calmed him down. He ain't so freaked now. I told him he gotta trust ya, n' how like, y'know, would *he* go off with some other guy jest' coz they had some history? An' he said no, 'course not, an' I'm like 'wellll', an' he laughed and kinda felt better." His ramble falls to a clumsy halt, and he considers the situation thoughtfully as he takes to finger-combing your pretty hair after coming across a tangle. Trace may think grooming *himself* is a bitch, but other people -- especially beloved people with really pretty, soft hair -- is a much worthier pasttime. "So anyway, he'd prolly feel even better though, if you let 'im know that guy is just someone who useta have yer back, y'know? I think we all had people like that... Bat had that one guy, whassisname, Martin? And I had Jake, an' you had..." The name's slipped him, so he concludes lamely, "Yer guy." His fingers trail down your back and seek out the tail to pet. "So was nice, bein' in this guy's care..? Was he like Walker 'r Jill, lotsa people crashin' at his place?" You *did* say 'us', like plural, right?

Jason almost, /almost/ gets soothed out of his anxiety by petting and completely tangent (well, not /completely/) conversation. His head lowers to your shoulder again and his tail just flips idly against your legs. A faint smile forms as he learns why Bat hasn't made reference to that night since. Jason just thought it was fear (though there may still be a little of that). But anyhow, just as he was relaxing to the point of just dropping the whole thing and going back to being 'normal,' that last question catches him. Okay, maybe it wasn't an intentional 'us' question. You can feel him tense against you, breath caught as he tries to think of an answer. Slowly, he says, "Wasn'... his place. He jus'..." The processing takes longer on this one, and all Jason can come up with is, "He jus' got a good heart, I guess."

Trace flinches a little when he feels you tense up. Whoops. That's not supposed to happen. So he gets quiet for a few moments, putting all his attention into petting, and trying to consider what he's allowed to be curious about vocally. Finally, he just isn't sure, and asks you softly, "Am I botherin' ya? I-I mean... Obviously y'ain't gettin' taken care of by him no more, coz yer in our family, but if it's... hard, I mean, y'kin' tell me to shut up. I jest', I mean," he brushes hair away from your eyes with careful, slow fingers. "You looked at me like that, so sad, an' it made my heart get too big an' push on my rib bones an' stuff, an' I wanna... help, and understand, an' know what t'say t'make you feel better..."

Jason sighs softly into your shoulder, tilting his head down so he can nuzzle it gentle. And then he pulls away. Not a 'stop touching me' pull away, just a 'had enough cuddles to last me five minutes' pulling away. "I... dunno," he says softly. "S'jus'..." He frows slightly. It's right there, in his reach. He just needs to grab it. It's the maturity to admit things. C'mon, Jason. Try something new once in awhile, you'll like it. Or.. not. But still, try. "Jus'... feel... little bit fucked-up, y'know?" Hopefully that's not an understatement. "I thought I fergot some stuff, but..." I didn't. He lifts red-rimmed green eyes to search out your hazel orbs. Yeah, he's more than a little fucked-up. He seems to be handling it well enough right now, though. But he's by no means the self-assured Jason that everyone knows and... well, 'loves' might be a little strong. Right now, you can see that Something happened. Recent or distant past, it's really close to the surface, creating these waves that give away the fact that Jason isn't a solid being. He's fluid. Shifting.

Trace bites his lip and nods barely, just the slightest lowering of his chin. Yes, his redheaded friend is clearly fucked up. He sighs softly and keeps his eyes locked to yours, wishing for a liquid green translator so he could come to understand this mysterious Something that's put his friend into such turmoil. "Sucks, huh," he says softly. "So much shit you go through, an' y'gotta carry it with ya. S'how it always is. Weighin' ya down, draggin' at ya... I kin' never forget completely, neither."

Remember that poetic problem Jason has with just /saying/ stuff? Well, it pops up again. He clenches his eyes shut as you speak, swallowing. That's exactly how it is... Dragging. But sometimes he can let it go. Sometimes. He hasn't perfected the art, not by a longshot. "'Member that keychain I gave Bat? The poem? 'Nature's first green is gold...' His bright eyes open, but seek that beam of moonlight that eavesdrop from the window. "Gold tarnishes... I seen it. The streets..." He laughs softly. "They're /paved/ with gold. S'just so covered in black you'd never know it. 'N people... they walk on it 'n drive on it 'piss 'n shit on it 'n... buy 'n /sell/ it like it was..." The thought lingers for a long moment, and then he concludes basely, "Dirt." He lowers his eyes to his arms, and then moves them to yours. "Some people... Dunno what gets into 'em. But they get out the rags 'n try and polish the gold. Sometimes they get a shiney spot somewhere. A little one. But usually..." He gets this infinitely sad smile, that, in his eyes, makes him suddenly look... far far older than anything you could imagine. "All they get is arthritis." He raises his eyes to yours, that ancient look still in them. "My fingers hurt. But I never noticed that I was hurtin' other people's fingers at the same time..."

Trace's brows furrow in confusion, as he takes a few long moments to wade through your golden metaphor... "I..." He looks up, still confused, grasping for a clue. "Jason, I..." He sighs softly and lowers his eyes. He'll take what he can from it. "But.. yer worth it, y'know? Else why we all tryin'? I jest, I... know there's tons we don't know 'bout you. So much we don't see. Everybody's got so many secrets.." A tiny curve of a smile lights upon his lips and flits away again. Maybe he's an exception to that 'everyone'. Damned open book personality. "You... ya lock 'em up tight as anyone I ever met. But somethin' in you makes me wanna scrub so hard, y'know..? I jest, I really... look up to you." And he does. More than friendship alone... Muse. Inspiration. Not words or concepts to be taken lightly, so he tends to think the world of you. "I could just kill everyone who walks onna' street yer talkin' bout, an' pisses an' sells it an' takes diamonds fer dirt. I hate people who pass by everythin'... like it were nothin'." He sighs and huddles his shoulders a little. Maybe he's completely misunderstood you here. After all, that was damned hard to follow. So when he finally does glance up, it's tentative and uncertain.

Jason tilts his head at you as you start off, but then blinks and lowers his eyes, smiling quietly. No, you did miss what he was saying. Not completely mind you, but, for once, he meant so much more than just himself. But he's not going to correct you because... you're right also. Your fingers have been scrubbing at him too, and he never really thought about it. In fact, he's always thought himself apart from everything else, yet he's always been intimately tied to his environment. His eyes raise to yours again, his hand following suit to brush across your cheek in an affectionate touch. "If you ever change, I'm breakin' kneecaps. Kay?" Whatever twisted sense of humor Da'n has, it never should have let you be related to... who you're related to. But then his hand drops to yours in your lap, fingers twining with chalk-stained fingers, tailtip covering all. "Ya know alla me that ya ever need ta..." he starts to say glibly, but falters. Such a blatant lie almost feels wrong. Not because it's so transparent, but because you might actually believe him. So he sighs softly and rubs his thumb against your hand, bushy-soft fur curling over it. "If I could tell you everything, I would... I jus'..." Can't? Won't? Would explode? He shakes his head, silent. You know, he never, ever, expected to be here with you. To be in this situation. Again. Of course, he's come to a realization that he's in a lot of places he didn't plan on.

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