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Log Title: Third Wheel, part 1

Log Setting: On Bourbon st, and later in the new apartment. It is July 26, 2001, early evening.

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Trace Anderson
Cat

Note: This log is a continuation of Sick Rumour.

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Trace trots at Batiste's side, holding an umbrella between the two of them. His sneakers are thoroughly soaked, even if his braids aren't. Probably because he has a tendancy to stomp on each puddle that passes underfoot, though since he's occasionally splashing on Batiste's jeans, he looks up with apology now and then. They seem to be in something of a hurry.

Cat bobs his head to the two of them, then, in recognition for their bravery in the face of adults. It's the 'us against the world' quick glance, and a fast, almost invisibly so, thumbs up gesture as well.

Jean-Batiste's jean-cuffs are already drenched, so any new water is just chuckled at. Every apologetic look is met with a softly murmured, "It's okay..." His eyes skim around the streets as he heads downtown, focussing on Cat for a second. He nods back, content to stay mute, then adds in a weak but genuine smile as the other boy flashes a thumbs-up their way. Don't trust anyone over twenty-one, or something like that.

Trace returns the little nod when he sees it, though he's not sure why he's being greeted. Pure courtesy, maybe? If that's so, then it deserves a nod in return anyway, no matter their hurry. "Where to?" he asks softly of Batiste. "Someplace I know?"

Jean-Batiste watches Cat a moment longer, then turns his attention to the street in front of him again. "Yeah," he murmurs, thongs slap-splashing through a shallow puddle, spraying water around at shallow trajectories. "Yeah. The apartment. I put the air conditioner in, and I've got some stuff over there from Marco's. We can just...stay there for a while, and talk?" He looks over at you, expression hopeful: sound good to you?

Trace nods, "Yeah, yeah... 'course." He gives a hesitant but honest smile. "I don't mind goin' to our apartment at all. Something magic about it even empty. S'been too long since I came by to visit..." He shuffles along, gripping the umbrella with both hands, except for when he has to reach back absently and shove the strap of his canvas back up onto his shoulder.

You head downtown, to Bourbon and Dumaine -- Vieux Carre

Jean-Batiste digs around in his pocket until he locates a small keychain with several keys threaded on it. "See?" he murmurs, pointing into the alley, up to the third-storey window with an air conditioner that wasn't there a week ago. He smiles a little more, jangling his keys in his hand, and slips into the alley.

Alleyway -- Somewhere Off Bourbon Street

Dark, dirty, and dank, this alleyway is a narrow strip of filthy concrete walled in on both sides by unforgiving brick. Crates, scattered trash and things less recognizable pile up against the walls, making progress a cautious undertaking at best. Drunks, homeless and prostitutes are the usual occupants of this darkness, finding protection from the wind behind a heap of crates, or furtive seconds of privacy behind a dumpster. During Mardi Gras, partiers choke the alleyway - even months later, discarded beads can seen, tangled up with the rest of the trash.

Trace folds up the umbrella once he enters the little alley and stays close to your side. It's not a pretty alley at all, but he looks upon it with some small amount of affection. This is going to be home, after all.

And right here, ladies and gentlemen, right here in front of this very door is where none other than our very own Jean-Batiste Vesanieux was consumed whole by a demonic hell-hound and lived to tell the tale. Well, when he remembers it, at least. "You want a Coke?" he asks you as he pushes the steel door open, glancing over his shoulder at you with a smile. Soon-to-be-home. It's relaxing him already. Jean-Batiste opens the steel door, a bell chiming inside, and steps through.

Lobby -- Lafitte Apartments

Bright red carpet has long since been stained and trampled down to a dingy reddish-brown, covering the floor of the small lobby. Barely larger than a small porch, the lobby holds the staircase up to the apartments, a swinging door leading into the back of Cafe Lafitte in Exile, and a scarred wooden door labelled 'Manager's Office - Bang Or Scream Loudly For Assistance'. In one corner is an abused vending machine that, for fifty cents, sells any kind of cold drink...as long as it's Coke. A much-abused pay phone is next to the vending machine, its phone book a tattered mess. Curtainless windows let in the shadow-choked light from the alley, their ledges holding pots of very dead plants. The lobby smells like an odd cross between a party house and an antique store - dust, mildew, sweat, and alcohol.

"Nah, m'fine," Trace smiles. "Wet 'nuff outside, I can't even think 'bout bein' thirsty!" He chuckles again at the manager's sign. It's probably going to take five or six more visits yet for him to get over how cute it is. Moving towards the stairs, hop, hop, hop up three steps, then hopping right back down so he'll keep up with you and not rush ahead to reach the room. For he IS eager to reach it. Also he's not sure what's going on, or what they'll speak of, or why Batiste has goofy sandles on, but he's eager to find out.

Jean-Batiste dredges out a quarter and a bunch of nickels, and gets himself a Coke, opening it up on the way to the stairs. He nearly trips over the first step as he fusses over the can's tab, catching himself on the bannister. He slurps down the first few mouthfuls, then grins up at you and tries to give you a light, playful swat. "Hey, wait up..." he murmurs, starting up the stairs after you. He's more relaxed now, this is true. His thoughts are being collected at long last, after all the chaos.

Jean-Batiste climbs the old, creaky staircase up to the apartments.

Hallway -- Lafitte Apartments(#6623RJL)

There's no tacky red carpet on the hallway floor, only scarred floorboards of dusty, greying wood. They creak noisily in some places, and even noisier everywhere else. The only lighting in the hallway is a naked bulb hanging above the top of the stairs and any natural light shed through the balcony doors. The walls have been repainted countless times, the various hues showing through the numerous gouges. Hasty repair jobs with spackle and primer show the marks of forgotten brawls and drunken stumbles. The hallway is eternally dusty, and smells of stale alcohol, dirty laundry, and cigarette smoke.

Trace stands to admire the door for a bit as he waits for Batiste to unlock it. "That's so cool.... Wow. You gave us a perfect, magic door." He leans on his umbrella like a cane. Dapper Trace, yes.

Jean-Batiste wrestles with the locks a little, offering out the Coke to you after getting the deadbolt undone. "It's pretty trippy, isn't it? We should paint Ali's door for her sometime, maybe. You think? She deserves a magic door, too." He gets the doorknob unlocked as well, and pushes the door open, gesturing to you with no small amount of flamboyance. Cool air wafts out. Not bank-cold or library-cold, but cool enough to feel blissful after the muggy heat outdoors.

Trace nods his agreement, lowering the coke from his lips (despite his earlier claims, yes, he stole a sip) and murmuring, "Yeah. Yeah, totally. It'd be fun." He trails on in once given the flamboyant go ahead, flashing a grin on the way, and then standing in the room and blinking, gaze flickering towards the air conditioner, then you. "Ohhh.." He tosses down the satchel and the umbrella, then holds his arms out. "Wow. Heh, Batiste we shoulda been camped out here 'long time ago. Feels *nice* in here. When did ya get the AC put in?"

You open the garishly decorated door and enter Apartment 1.

Apartment 1 -- Lafitte Apartments

The faint scent of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and cologne still lingers in this empty apartment, suggesting its last tenant moved out only recently. The small kitchen/dining room area is empty, holding only a small counter, sink, a few cupboards and shelves, and a window where the kitchen table once was. A doorway marks the transition to the living room, as does the start of mottled brown carpet. The living room is bare, save for the window and two doors - one leads into the small closet, the other leading into the equally-small bathroom. Voices bounce oddly off the empty walls, making the small apartment seem even more abandoned than it really is.

"Three days ago?" Batiste wonders as he follows you in and closes the door. The air conditioner whines and whirrs softly to itself as it filters the thick, warm air from outside and turns it into lovely cooler, drier air inside. Beneath the air conditioner is a small heap of old, ratty blankets and an empty black garbage bag - probably what lugged the blankets here in the first place. "I put it in after Marco's party, that's when he gave me all his old blankets." He kicks off his thongs and heads for the blankets, already tugging off his shirt.

Blankets! Trace makes a dive for these blankets, and old and ratty or not, he seems to enjoy them as he flops down and then turns to grin up at you. "Wow! That's great..." He sits up a little as it registers, "Marco's party?" He cocks his head to the side and smiles. "Why didn't ya tell us 'bout it? I mean, since we don't know 'im, s'cool that we weren't invited, but I'd still wanna know how it went. Ya have fun...?"

A couple thin quilts, some blankets of the sort you buy at Wal-Mart, all trussed up in plastic, and a bright purple, very fuzzy blanket with whatever trim it used to have ripped off. Homey blankets. They're clean, but still smell a little like home - well, -someone's- home. Batiste hangs his shirt off one of the kitchen cupboard handles and follows you in, curl-sprawling over his half of the blankets. "Well, -I- wasn't even invited. I mean, it was just one of those parties that started, and I just showed up while it was going on, that's all. It was...it was okay. I got pretty drunk. I ran into Glass on the way home, and he helped me back to his place."

Trace ohs, and nods a little. He makes room for you, and curls in close once you're properly sprawled on the blankets with him. "Mm... I *love* our air conditioner," he smiles, and is quiet a moment before asking, "So that's all that goes on at a Marco party?" Well, now he doesn't feel he missed much, because if it was all just a bunch of drinking and people he didn't know, it doesn't sound like his kind of gathering at all.

Jean-Batiste squirms around a little, getting comfortable just -so- with most of his chest covered with one corner of the fuzzy purple blanket, and chuckles softly. "Well...there's lots of drinking, yeah. Lots of drugs, too, but...seems like our parties don't have a lot of booze, you know? But...well, he knows a lot of people. Lots of...um. Lots of the local prostitutes. So the parties are...-really- weird. But...they're sort of eachother's families, sort of like us, but not as close."

Trace nods a little, and looks up at you with a faint smile. "Yeah... yeah, I kin understand." He looks away again, up at the ceiling, and shifts so his cheek touches your shoulder as he murmurs. "Sorry... about our parties. S'probably all my fault. I don't mean ta... ta have it that way. Really ya guys oughta know it's fine. Parties are... different, they're not like..." He's not sure how to phrase it, and finally just repeats, "Well, it's different. I wouldn't mind." Then he licks his lips and, to be fully honest, must ammend, "'Less it's wine, I won't mind."

Jean-Batiste shakes his head a little, and loops an arm over you, gathering you in a bit closer to him. He shakes his head, resting his cheek against blue braids as he murmurs, "You don't have to apologize. I mean...maybe if you didn't like cigarettes at all, -then- you'd have to apologize..." He grins, rubbing his cheek against your braids in a very weak sort of noogie, then continues to speak. "I like getting drunk, sometimes. But I don't like it so much that it's worth making you uncomfortable." He hugs you for a moment, then goes quiet. A minute or so later, you can hear him take in a breath as if he's about to speak, but nothing comes out. Thought better of it, or lost his courage, perhaps.

Trace gives a muffled giggle at the cheek-noogie and hugs close a moment. He nods as you keep on speaking, and gives another faint smile. "Even so, don't... ever feel bad 'bout it, if you like it. Geez, the shit I do, I'd be some huge hypocrite, if I pulled that on you." A little half shrug, since one shoulder is pinned by his own weight, and then as he sees you about to speak he peeks up at you. "What?" he demands with a little smile that fades as he grows more uncertain. But he looks at you expectantly, because he's sure he did catch you about to speak. Can you deny your curious Trace this?

No, a curious Trace cannot be denied, -especially- by Batiste. And so he squirms a little, propping his shoulder up a bit so he can peer into your eyes. He drags his teeth thoughtfully along his lip, then reaches out and plays with one of your braids. "You know how...we all agreed, no more secrets? Well...I...wanted to talk to you about something. And..." He takes a deep breath, looking away for a moment. "I don't know if it'll make you uncomfortable, but...if it does, just...tell me to shut up?" He chuckles weakly, and gives you a sort of vaguely hopeful look.

Trace almost stops you right there. He thinks he knows what you mean, because of *course* he knows about the point of the triangle that's not his, and it seems the most logical secret for you to be talking about. But... he was the one who asked for no secrets. So he nods, very faintly, looking up at you with big, anxious eyes now, and a stomach that's quick to knot up into a tight little lump. "Alright," he allows. "Go on."

Jean-Batiste wavers a little, looking into those big, anxious hazel eyes. "Well, I mean...if you don't..." But you already told him he could go on, and so he runs a hand through your braids and takes a deep breath, and summons up some bravery to continue. "I think...I think you know how Jason thinks, better than I do, so...I want your opinion, I guess." He licks his bottom lip, and talks to your shoulder, not looking in your eyes. "After we went back to Walker's this afternoon, after you crashed out, I was sitting on the porch, right? And Jason was in the park, and waved me over. And we walked around a little, and started fooling around a bit, and things got a little heavy, and..." Deep breath. "Well, I told him we couldn't, you know. Couldn't do anything more, without protection. And he didn't want to use any. And...and I told him, we -had- to, and...I think I hurt his feelings, or...or something. And...I don't know how to explain to him, that...that it's important. Really important."

Trace's brow creases a little, and he looks down, somewhere near the neckline of your t-shirt, to escape your eyes. He's quiet for several moments. "How... how can you ask me something like that?" he finally wonders in a small voice. "I mean, if it'd been *any* other boy, it'd be *fine*, but..." He sighs softly. "It's like, it's like me asking Jason if I should share needles with you. It's not a secret, it's something you know but it hurts to think about..." He sighs and lifts an arm to drape it over his face and hide his eyes in the crook of his elbow. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry. I know it's wrong, it's *so* wrong of me to feel this way and be so scared..."

Jean-Batiste's quiet. Atrociously quiet. A few seconds later, he sits up and half-turn s away from you, arms folded across his updrawn knees. He just breathes for a while, slow inhalations and heavy exhalations, not looking back at you, then finally hitches in a sharper breath and tries to speak. "I wanted to ask you. I wanted to...show you, let you know that...even if..." He gives up ad looks further away, shaking his head. "Nevermind. I'm sorry I brought it up. Just...forget about it, it was stupid for me to ask anyone." He stands up, pacing for the bathroom.

Trace flinches and hauls himself upright quickly to give chase -- not that any chase in so small an apartment can be very difficult, but he grabs for your hand with both of his and squeezes it tight, if you let him catch it. "Batiste. *Batiste*, please, I said I'm sorry... Please don't be mad, I didn't... want that. I *am* sorry. I'm so selfish... It's just, it's something I gotta deal with. But please don't be mad.." He bows his head. 'It-it was a good question. It, I mean, you should be able to.. to come to someone with a question like that. I-I guess it's the same as how you always made me fix first, every time, when we shared. It's the exact same thing. Sorta. The technical part. It, I mean, if yer not sure it's safe, it's yer responsibility to, to protect the person, no matter how much they wanna... trust you. There." He keeps his shameful eyes on the floor.

Jean-Batiste looks down at his hand, caught in both of yours, then raises his eyes to your face. Bitter regret flashes there, and some sort of tangled shame. "I didn't want to come to 'someone'. I wanted to ask -you-, I wanted -you- to know that I wasn't trying to exclude you. That...you were a part of it, just in a different way. And...I shouldn't have. I don't know. I just...don't know what I'm supposed to say to Jason, if he asks why it's such a big deal. I..." He stops, and stares down at his toes for thirty seconds or more, then looks up squarely and unerringly into your eyes. "I hustled when I was on the coast, Trace. Imagine what Jason would think, if he knew. He wouldn't even want to touch me, anymore." He blinks a bit, too quickly, and glances down, using his free hand to rub at his eyes. His fingers go very limp in your hand, as if preparing for you to not want to touch him, either.

"Askin' me whether or not t'wrap it up ain't includin' me," Trace mumbles softly. "I, I wanna be the one you wanna ask when something bothers you. But it's not--" his voice gets hoarse with emotion, and he stops and delicately clears it, embarrassed, but plodding on. 'It's not including me like that." He lifts his chin to lock eyes with you again and plead softly, "Ya must know how I feel. Ya gotta know what it's like to, to want something ya don't really want so *bad*... How I sat up once and watched you both sleeping, and, and tried to feel *something*, just because then I could be... included.." He shakes his head. "It's jest what Ben tole' me not to do. I'm such a fool..." He shakes his head sadly and goes quiet. As you confess to hustling on the coast, Trace finds your gaze and looks surprised, yes, but there's nothing condemning there. He does insist, "You actually think that's gonna matter to Jason? Shit, Batiste. Ya ever known him to live in the past? He's all *now*. Sure, he'll growl at boys what come sniffin', but I can't see 'im snappin' at ghosts." He sighs. "There's jest... desperate times, y'know? Ya do what ya gotta... Jason loves you. He'll understand. An' so do I." He squeezes the limp hand. "It.. it's okay."

Jean-Batiste looks down at the floor for a few moments, then peeks back up at you through mussed blond braids. "I...don't know, Trace. I just don't know. I don't know if I'm brave enough to just tell him, and if it just...comes up sometime, like it did today, it'd just be...so bad." He tips his chin up suddenly, as if finding a burst of defiance, and shakes his braids back from his face. His hand shivers in yours, then gains a bit of strength. He swallows carefully, and adds his free hand to the tangle of fingers in front of him. "I love you," he says, looking so intensely at you. "I love you with all my heart, and there's nothing that could ever change that. I wish I could say something so you didn't...wish things were...different, for the three of us, but I can't. Because...I've been there before, from the other side, and I know how it is." He reaches out, hand curling against your cheek, and smiles at you with sad, adoring eyes for a long while.

[ After this the two boys head home. Batiste goes inside to shower, and Trace putters about and eventually walks outside to sketch on the front porch, but runs in to Jason seated on the stoop. The log is continued there with Third Wheel, part 2. ]

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