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Log Title: Hearts Torn

Log setting: Atop the castle in the playground at dusk.

Log Cast:
TooFar
Jason
Trace
Jean-Batiste
Remy LeBeau

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The evening is getting along, clouds blotting out the quarter moon and stars above. And here arrives TooFar, jacket fluttering in the breeze, his footfalls quiet. He's smoking his usual cigarette and even humming some cheerful tune to himself. Seems in a good mood. As usual.

And, as usual, Jason's up on the castle's battlements, sitting cross-legged. This time, though, his back is to the world, his shorn head hung low. Asleep? Deep in thought? Or just staring at nothing? Probably the latter, cuz he absently tears something off his shoe and throws it over the side of the castle.

Well, TooFar stops humming and doesn't alter his course. He was heading towards the castle, that doesn't change. Never pass over a chance to sneak up on someone. It's just something in his nature. Gotta do it. He's gonna see how far he can push it, too. Picking up the pace, he pads across the grass like a feathered shadow to the castle, and climbs it as carefully as he can. There's footholds, luckly, no way he can get up there silently if there wasn't. It's just a matter of keeping his booted feet from scraping the wood. With a rabid grin, he settles down on the roof, assuming his usual effeminate position. With luck, his little fun is successful. He's not a god at this sort of thing, after all. It's really a matter of how little Jason is paying attention. Finally, without any attempt at subterfuge, he sparks up a cigarette, drawing deeply of the nice soothing smoke, "Hey man." Deadpan voice. The expression amused.

"Hey, TF," comes the quiet reply. If he was snuck-up upon, it's hard to tell from his reaction. Probably, though, considering he didn't turn around to see who was clambering up behind him. So maybe you surprised him but he's just not surprised at being surprised? Oookay. Jason quietly spins around on his butt to face you, running a hand thro-... over his fuzz. He smiles faintly, but it's clear there's other thoughts in his head right now. "What's up?" he asks quietly, green eyes absently roaming over down over your coat before finding their way back up to your eyes again.

The perkigoth giggles quietly. That wasn't very satisfying. See what happens when people get to know him? He becomes predictable, in his funny way. Damn. Strawberry blond locks hang around his face to his shoulders, a couple strands crossing his casually intense glance. People usually have to buy contacts to get eyes his colour. Maybe that's what they are. "Oh, y'know," is TooFar's smiled answer, "Usual. Jus' hangin' 'round."

Jason's smile gets a twitch stronger at the giggle. When you're sitting there with your chin on your knee and all, it's cute, see? And Jason is pretty sure they're not contacts. /Everyone/ has to get contacts to get the color his eyes get sometimes. 'Specially when he's all worked up over something. Which, well, he's not right now. Subdued, actually. "Oh, good, if it was anythin' else, I think we'd get worried." Absent fingers flick out to brush some of that errant hair back, as if forgetting that it's not his hair. Or maybe it's because he can't do it to his own hair anymore. "Where ya been hangin?" Idle questioning here.

"'Roun' town, y'know. French Quarter." He rolls his shoulders in a mild shrug, lifting his head off his knee to make a more comfortable draw from his cigarette then brushing those errand bangs from his sky eyes, out from the black makeup that bruises them. "Lottsa stuff t'do 'roun' Jackson Square. Best place t'make some money, too." Gotta keep that in mind. TooFar here is a streetkid by trade. Needs to panhandle to get by.

Yeah, all us punks need to prey on the payrolls of the working class to fill our stomachs. Some, like our errant bluecap, need to find a clever veil so he can tell himself it's not panhandling at all. Trace is back from just that, with a pocket full of spare change and chalk bits. He's decorated now a street artist's warpaint, this brightly smudged brow from where he's absently brushed braids out of his eyes with chalk-caked hands. And yet, he seems content, making his way through the park's dark lawns, braids jostled gently with each step.

Fuzzhead and the featherwaif are up on the castle, sitting in their respective 'comfortable' positions. Jason nods a little at the other's words, drawing his fingers back when perki does the exact same thing on his own. "Um, yeah," he mumbles, sorta absently. "S'where I get just about all of my spare change," fuzzhead murmurs. "Well, 'cept during Carn'val, was doin' okay on Bourbon then." He'll go with the smalltalk now, not really feeling up to the willpower it'd take to move on to more interesting subjects. He doesn't see Trace just yet, unfortunately. A little consumed by his own thoughts and a set of nifty eyes.

The perkigoth is the more aware of the two, noticing Trace in short order and casting a little wave his way. The two are easy enough to see. They're on the castle, for Pete's sake. All but advertising their presence. "I get by," TooFar grins in his odd manner, like his continued survival through these means was a matter of faith. "Helps t'crash over wit' Naddy an' Grace an' all them. I bum a lotta shit off them." And have to put up with a lot of shit in exchange. But that's okay. The featherwaif finds them entertaining. Few others would.

Trace is mumbling a song under his breath. It's too obvious, exactly what one does when the song keeps playing over and over, but it's nothing you'd *want* to belt out. The boy doesn't even particularly like the song. At all. It just wound its way into his brain somehow and now is doing a mocking little jig on his tongue. "There ain't no athiests in foxholes, you gotta stand by the edge of the grave most yer life..." Hands find his pockets, eyes on his black shoes as they shuffle and pick up grassbits from the freshly cut lawn. "I said that me.... an' my mental health, they don't agreeee most times.." How sad. Of ALLL the groups to get caught in your head, Blade Fetish? Really, pity the boy. So with his eyes on the ground, he misses the wave. Headed towards the fort really, but when he hears TooFar's easy, casual tones he looks up and spots the two on the castle. "Oh, hey!"

The wave from TF to Trace is, of course, what brings Trace to Jason's attention. He's not THAT out of it. He's getting more /in/ it actually. Returning to reality so to speak. He lifts his hand in a wave as well, giving a faint smile down to his blue-headed roomate. "Yeah, dunno where we'd be without Caddy right now either... S'just one less thing ta worry 'bout, y'know?" He shrugs one shoulder and starts picking at a loose thread at the hem of his jeans. "Nadine and Grace seem cool, Nadine actually offered t..." And he stops /that/ line of conversation right where it was headed. That woulda been embarassing. Well, still could be, considering TF's well-renowned curiosity.

Yep, you called it. "Offered what, man?" TooFar wonders out loud. It wasn't so much the content but whole quickly the line of thought was chopped off. That certainly caught his attention. It's okay, you can tell me, say the eyes of the feathered streetkid, sparkling in humour and curiousity. He actually didn't know you guys were staying with Caddy, but she seems a cool enough kinda person, the times they've talked. Even if she things the perkigoth is certifiable.

Oh, but you're certifiable in such a *loveable* way. "Make way!" Trace grins as he starts to clamber up the castle with ease and plants himself down next to the both of you. "Wha's goin' on?" His hands are scrubbed absently on the already stained thighs of his jeans, but he still isn't quite aware of the purple and red smudged on his forhead.

Yo, yer seriously infringing on a certain pooka's territory with those eyes, bub! Heh, um, anyhow. "Ta gimme couple piercin's" Okay, must give in to TooFar to save self. He reaches over and bats Trace's braids. "Um, nommuch, was jus' talkin' 'bout work." He gives a smirk. Yep, 9-5. That's us.

TooFar adds another link to his heavy chain of cigarettes, a heavy vice that must see him through several packs a day. He must just barely be able to afford it. The scrape of a cheap disposable lighter, and another link is forged. Slow death for the perkigoth. A crooked smile, "Oh, that's cool. Was thinkin' 'bout getting some m'self, but I gotta save for it." A light snicker, as ash is idly flicked away, "She ain't gonna do it fer free."

"Yeah..." Trace agrees, ducking his head as his braids get whapped. "She'll give ya steel f'cheap compared to her reg'lar prices, but not free. She gotta eat too, y'know?" One hand darts out to nudge at Jason eagerly. "So what we gettin' next?" Yes, he has no shame as far as piercings are concerned. "I saw a guy who got himself pierced right here onna hands," he informs you both, pinching the soft skin between thumb and forefinger. "Looked kinda cool, but dunno. Only reason I don't think I'd get it is coz while it was healin' I might not be able to draw fer awhile, coz it'd hurt there, an' it ain't worth it." No, cool as piercings are, we do not sacrafice art for it.

Jason shrugs a little, rubbing his fuzz slowly. Mmm, sensation. Gonna seriously try that with the X, yup. Anyhow, yeah, shrugs. "Dunno, 'nother brow, get my ears done again, mebbe a labret..." Nevermind that none of those are what Nadine suggested after his little Mardi Gras stunt. "Got a little saved up fer it."

The perkigoth pulls the cigarette from his lips after another lungful, exhaling through a grin, "I was jus' thinkin' a somethin' simple, like a ring uptop my ear," a hand follows his line of thought, tugging a little at the area in question, "An' a 'brow 'r somethin'. Nuttin' serious. Jus' somethin', y'know?" TooFar rocks a little, wrapping both arms around that upraised knee in an idle gesture, "So, what's new man? Any new's 'bout that party deal?" The question is open for either blue or red.

"Yer already in," Jason pronounces. "Yer with us." And that's that. "But, yeah, do it, I think it'd look really fuckin' cool. Chicks dig it." He goes quiet a moment, watching TooFar's habitual ritual. "Y'know, I think you'd suffocate in clean air," he informs with a smirk. And then to Trace, head tilted. But he's so /comfortable/. "Wull... why not? Weren' we gonna do it here anyway?" He of the Red Fuzz looks like he's feeling a bit sedimentary tonight. Glances up to TooFar for his opinion on the matter. Party versus veg?

Well, the featherwaif is remarkably easy. Content to just sit here up top the castle and shorten his life on smoke at a time... or go to a party and possibly cut back his lifespan in a more effecient manner. Jason's remark about TooFar's little vice is grinned at but left untouched by verbal remark. Not going there. As for getting down from the castle and being a dirty rascal, well. He's not quite ready to act as tie breaker just yet.

Jean-Batiste steps in from the park.

Booted feet crunch quietly through the spring grass as Batiste wanders into the playground. One hand is slouched into a pocket, the other holding the requisite licorice clove. He walks and drags, and walks and drags, trailing spiced smoke behind him.

Trace looks between the two of you expectantly, then gives an flippant "Pfff," as he drops his hands down into his palms. He's clearly a bit too restless to just veg. "Well, if we jest gonna sit here and be mellow or whatever, anybody gotta j?" See, maybe then he can reach the calm lazy state you two are in. Just gotta ply him with some good green and he'll shut up about the party already. Smoke the initiative outta him or something.

The three are sitting up top the castle, incidently.

Everyone, by the way, is up on the castle, seated in a small circle. Yeah, mellow. Um, or at least they are currently. Wait, did someone mention weed? We've got weed. In fact, we were seriously pondering smoking weed right now. Even though it's the only blunt we've got left. But Trace asked, so Jason's gotta give in. I mean, it's not unwillingly here, sharing's better anyway. A desperately lonely baggy is pulled from deep within Jason's pocket and a unrolled, revealing the lone j inside. It's pulled out and the j passed over to Trace, along with a lighter. "Here, ya do the honors," he murmurs with a small smile.

TooFar, a gothic androgynon in an odd feathered jacket sits atop the castle with the other three, seated easily with one leg crossed underneath him, the other hugged to his chest and sometimes used as a headrest. Brilliantly skyblue eyes peer at the other two guys up here in humour, eyes held in sharp contrast to the black makeup that rings them. And once again, it's this feathered waif that seems the most alert. That or it's just because he's facing the entrance. His head turns faintly, lifted from his knee, to see who's entered the park. It's a familar form, vaguely, maybe. But it's dark, and he really doesn't know Jean-Batiste from anyone else.

Jean-Batiste who? Colour him unsurprised. Unsurprised is a mottled greyish hue, by the by, most suited for New Orleans' eternal drizzle and that weird o'clock that comes every night, too early to be morning, too late to be night. The long dark teatime of the soul, if he were British. The cherry on his clove flares demonic orange as he drags hard on it, then blows the smoke off to the side. Voices; he pauses for a moment, chin slightly uptilted. Listening.

Poor baggy, with its lonely little j. Trace eyes it before accepting the blunt with a fond little smile. "We gotta go score summore tomorrow." You gotta come with him, of course, or do it yourself. Trace sometimes goes out like 'yeah, I'll get us some' but he never does, because he never can work up the courage to approach dealers by himself. So, tack a 'we' on there and everything's alright. Strength and courage in numbers. The j is placed between thin lips, the lighter sparked. Er. And sparked again. He gives a playful growl and takes the joint out of his mouth, and bites down instead on the little plastic child-proof bit, tearing it off. There! Ha-ha. His eyes flash triumph as he turns to spit the little plastic bit out, patoo! Look out Batiste, it's the Plastic Bit from Beyond. The joint is replaced, let's try this again, but he does a double-take. Waitasec. Did he see something out in the shadows? Er, yeah. Yeah he did. The joint falls from his lips in surprise, and he scrambles to pick it up so that it doesn't fall between a crack in the planks or something. Geez... Kid can't get this right. Maybe someone else shoulda been given the honors, seriously.

Geez, Trace! That's the only one he has! Jason scrambles for the escaped joint just as Trace does, not really noting the reason for the j's sudden fall. It's like one of those cartoons, though, four hands scrambling for the bouncing baby blunt and two foreheads meeting somewhere in the middle. Crack! Ow! With comic exaggeration, Jason wobbles back and holds a hand to his shorn head, moaning extravagently. "Trace!" he scolds playfully. Cuz, y'know, this IS all his fault.

This is kinda funny, really. Trace sees this shadow walk in and his mind fries. Jason freaks in defense of his joint. That's worth a grin to TooFar, cherry ember glowing as he draws in another lungful of soothing tobacco. A chain reaction. Because of this new arrival. There's a significance to this, he realizes, but without knowing the history here, there's nothing he can do to figure out what it is. Just have to wait and see.

Drag, exhale. Drag, exhale. Nicotene cures what ails you, you see. Batiste doesn't approach any closer. Not yet. What details his eyes can't make out, his ears can. A grinning Trace. A playful Jason. His next drag ends on a near-silent and smoky chuckle. Colour him even more unsurprised that he's been so missed. Head canted slightly to the side, he continues to watch the black-against-blacker silhouettes upon the castle, his eyes two dull pinpricks of moisture in the darkness.

Trace is done coloring for the day, thank you; his pocket of spare change has been won, and now he's just trying to relax for the evening. Obviously these two are better at it than he. The bluecap rubs at his head where it was bumped, and gives a weak half-grin. "Uh, sorry. Here, I'm such a klutz and it's yer weed. You light it." The j and un-childproofed lighter are passed back shyly, his hazel eyes flickering to TooFar -- okay, he saw. Doesn't get it, but he saw -- and then his gaze is out searching the shadows again. Bat's pinprick eyes aren't picking up details too well, He hasn't stumbled on some giddy trio at all. Mellow, it's different. It's subdued, somewhat thoughtful, mostly just cheerful in TooFar's case. But heh, that boy's always cheerful. And Trace hasn't even reached mellow yet, but he's trying to catch up.

Frustratingly cheerful to some, refreshing to others. But Jason's used to TooFar (already?) and doesn't mind the kid who just sits there and grins to himself all the time. Cuz, well, y'know, Jason does that sometimes. It gets great reactions from the uptight. Err, anyhow, Jason flashes a smirk to the perkigoth like 'that was planned, honest!' and then takes the j and lighter from Trace. Mellow Jason - the one quite oblivious to the cherry-marked figure in the darkness - mutters something about his poor blunt, then lights the thing up, taking a slow drag. Smoke, naturally, held in, he passes the thing to Trace again. He needs it the most. And, 'sides, TF's already got his oral fixation taken care of so he can wait.

TooFar just needs the nicotine for maintenance. Other chemicals are required for an actual buzz. But he's a patient sort, content to try and decypher the meaning behind the shadowed figure out there while he waits for the joint (joint! joint! None of this pansy 'j' stuff!) to come around his way. This is a curiousity. The bluecap was startled, but said nothing of this to anyone. Most interesting. There's another level to this. Who is that guy? But nothing is said. We can't say anything. There's a delicate balance in the air.

Yeah, see, the bluecap is *scared* to say anything, because last time Jason had words with Bat, there was bloodshed. It was most disturbing. So for a moment or two Trace sits still with his shoulders slightly hunched and anxious, but finally he realizes that the...tossed salad (?!*snicker*) is getting passed his way, so he takes it, looks down at it pensively, then gives Jason an elbow in the ribs. Just a little nudge. Then a nod flicked out into the shadows to point out what everyone but the oblivious fox has noticed. Then the lighter is flicked, joint quickly toked, before both are held out to the patient perkigoth.

Ah, what's a little bloodshed between friends? The scar's inspired a nifty tattoo, and he didn't have to use a bedpan once. 'Course, we won't get into any long explanations of nasty nurses and catheters, neither. Brrr. Batiste finishes his clove and crouches down, stuffing it down into the sand that rings the castle to smother, then straightens up again. One hand touches his stomach briefly as he straightens, then returns to his pockets. He rocks back and forth on his toes, considering the ladder leading up to the castle.

Well, y'know, the bloodshed probably wouldn't have come about if the friends part did, see? Anyhow, Jason's nice and oblivious, but Trace is kind enough to de-oblivi...ize him or something. Jason looks back at the nudge, brows furrowing. And then Bat's cherry flares with the last suck and Jason just... Well. What's he supposed to do? Aside from choke on his smoke. A little cough and the puff comes out. JUST as he was gettin' the buzz coming too, thanks a lot. There's a soft sigh and he looks back to his companions. He's coming over here, isn't he? The big question would be... WHY?

Don't look at TooFar here. He doesn't know what's going on. He hasn't been reading the liner notes. All three of you were there, not him. The featherwaif is just trying to just figure out what it could possibly be. Maybe Jason here owes the shadow money or something. Could that be it? He certainly doesn't look very happy at the moment. Most fascinating. Since we're all aware the shadow is there, TooFar ventures a question, indicating Bat with a gesture, "Um, who's he?"

The friends debate wouldn't last long, if it was ever verbalized, likely. The firearm-shooting, pederast-calling, house-trashing side is somewhat louder and more prone to violence than the other. Life's funny like that, isn't it? Right and wrong, who was a good friend and who was a bad friend, all of it is so objective at times. On that vitriol-scorched bit of irony comes Batiste, moving towards the castle and starting to climb up. Why? Maybe he knew these folks, once upon a lifetime ago.

Trace leans in to speak softly, and his words would not be privy to ears beyond his castle's walls. "Jean-Batiste Vesanieux, my blood brother, and Jason's... ex-boyfriend." He drops his eyes, humbled, only to lift them a moment later. Actually startles a little when he realizes that Bat's not going to stop at the bottom of the castle, but actually thinks to climb up. Well, Trace isn't going to stop him. He scoots back a little to make room for the boy, giving Jason a baffled glance before peering out at Bat timidly. Lingering puzzlement lifts his brows a little. "Hello, Bat," he greets, soft and polite.

Um, so, yeah, Jason's not quite expecting this 'I'm joining you' thing that Bat's got going on here either. The fuzzhead makes a small sigh at Trace's revelation of, well... I dunno. Hey, the kid just labeled himself a junkie, Jason a f-... y'know, and Bat as both in a simple sentence. Green eyes peer down at the rising form, fixing on him, really. "What do you want, Bat?" he asks softly. Calmly. There's reasons for this, and he really doesn't feel like digging through the bullshit to find 'em.

Oh, whoops. Okay, so he did say too much there. Trace is too blunt, we've established this. He's got the excuse of having his logic currently scrambled by Batiste's sudden arrival, but it's not a good excuse. He also has the excuse of knowing TooFar better than Jason, and understanding that the kid's fine with any lifestyle you wanna throw at him, but that's probably not going to make Jason feel any better. Especially not when TooFar goes and makes his quiet exit, claiming to need smokes. He probably does, considering how that kid goes through his packs with more fervor than Bat attacks his cloves, but the bluecap knows it doesn't look that way. Gah. And now he's got the joint again, so he stays quiet and concentrates on giving it a nice long hit, eyes flickering between the two of you.

Jean-Batiste hauls himself up and stands off to the side as TooFar leaves, watching the feather-wearer vanish of into the darkness. Boots carry him to a spot vaguely equidistant from the both of you, as best as the castle's layout allows, and he settles against the side, hands returning to his pockets. He glances only briefly to the two of you, then looks down at the planks of the castle's floor. "I was thinking," he begins. "That maybe if you two are feeling a little calmer, we might try talking again. Don't know that it'll change much, but it'd be nice to try and explain things if I'll have a better chance to talk. I'd like it if you two would do some explaining, too."

Explaining. Gee, now there's a concept. But it's a little late now. "Bat, it's over, I told you that. Was pretty fuckin' calm on Mardi Gras, but yer 'explainin' did a wonder for that. If ya don' feel like you did nuthin', then there ain' no point in talkin', right?" He reaches out to get the joint from Trace and takes a slow hit. "Don' try an' make yerself the only victim here either, please Bat. I'm not up fer that bullshit."

The three boys are seated up in the castle, silhouettes held tense against the moonlight. Trace flinches a little, glancing at Jason. He'd still been holding his smoke, but now he averts his head gently to one side to blow it out away from everyone. The sweet-smelling smoke drifts up to tug at his nose anyway. He sighs softly and lifts hazel eyes to Batiste, and expression that tries for bravery. "You wanted an explanation fer what we did..." He licks his lips, eyes just slightly pleading. "It was all done outta hurt, an' feelin' betrayed. It were all hot white and red thoughts, an' no cool thinkin' behind 'em. I see now that Walker'n Ben din' deserve what we did to 'em.. And that's all the explanation I can give. Prolly won't ever be enough for anyone." He shakes his head a little, ratty, frazzled braids swaying gently.

Remy LeBeau pauses near the playground area to survey the serenity, then tilts his head slightly in the direction of the castle upon notices the trio. He meanders his way over to a large tree and plants himself beneath it to settle at its base.

Remy LeBeau's eyes flicker over the boys in the castle for a few moments as if to regard them appraisingly.

Jason's words are quiet too. Periodically he goes quiet and drags on the cigarette he and Trace are sharing, but he doesn't look anywhere but Bat.

Remy LeBeau is seated beneath a large tree and has a rather thoughtful look as his attention is held on Jason for a brief while. He flickers his glance away and rises up, dusting himself off, then decides the walk the permiter of the area, looking out over the beautiful flowers growing here.

"No. They didn't. And I don't think I'll ever understand how the two of you could live with them for the better part of a year, and know them, and -love- them, and turn on them like that. If the both of you didn't just use them and play them for the fool that whole time, they deserve an apology. If for no other reason than they took care of you and loved you and thought they could trust you. You two aren't the only ones feeling betrayed." Batiste looks up at the sky for a long time -- counting stars, perhaps. Calm. Must stay calm. He looks down, then sidelong to Jason, just barely out of the corner of his eye. "It's not over. I don't understand how you can just...drop...something like this. A whole year, and you just turn your back on it, like you never did any of it, or felt anything at all. If...if you can do that, fine. But I can't. And I wouldn't, if I could." He licks his bottom lip, looking back at the planks. "That night wasn't about explaining. That was about you two wanting to beat on me. Words, fists, whatever. That wasn't a conversation. It wouldn't have mattered what I said. You-" A glance to Trace, here, "-wanted to rail at Walker and Ben, and you-" A glance to Jason. "-wanted to scream and hurt me like I'd hurt you. It wasn't about the words at all."

"Bat, yer takin' the moral high ground an' I'm not quite sure how you think it belongs ta you." Jason nods towards Trace, as if reaffirming his words. "There was a line crossed an' it ain' like we can fix it now. But, Bat, you sit there an' wonder how we can do that shit. How could /you/ do it too? We all built up sumthin, but it was sumthin' false, built on trust. We didn' fergit nuthin', cuz there was nuthin' ta fergit." Jason takes another drag, needing this green to keep him calm, honestly. Green eyes ask how one could even /think/ of assuming the things Bat does. But he knows no rational answers will come his way. Thick, sweet smoke is blown towards the stars. "If ya want real discussion, Bat, don' come here with the 'tude yer packin'. Like I told Ben, I'm sick a' it. Like I told Ryan, I'm sick a' it. Y'wanna talk, you talk with a clean slate, cuz, b'lieve it 'r not, that's all I got right now."

Trace just looks sad. Terribly sad at the words softly uttered by both of his companions. He stays quiet for a time, listening with shoulders hunched slightly and nodding here or there, vaguely. At one point he does look out to see the shadow of the unfamiliar man standing out there on the dark lawn. Who is that? Why's he looking at Jason? He glances towards the once-redhead, then back out again, before speaking softly among his friends. Doesn't seem ready to point the man out just yet, though. Perhaps assuming he's just a man out for a quiet stroll in the park.

Remy LeBeau's pager cuts his silent reverie like a dark blade, and he sighs quietly as he looks at the number. He glances over to Trace, noticing his look, and he offers in return a pleasant and amiable smile as he meanders up the path toward the exit. He tips his head to the group, eyes shifting over to Jason, then the mystery man vanishes out of the park. Not literally, of course.

Remy LeBeau heads back to Lelong Avenue.

"I never wanted to beat on you," Trace protests quietly, meeting the blonde's dark gaze. Sorrowful words tumble out helplessly. "And I *did* love Ben and Walker. We was only upset, s'all. At the time we din' see it as 'turning on them'. We was gettin' his pipes. And we jest... looked real thorougly, til' thorough' was jest trashin' the place. I mean... the only thing we damaged permanent was the bed. We shot it. The rest was jest emptyin' cupboards an' stuff. Dumped out the trash cans. I mean... You guys act like we busted up furnature or burned the place down. It still weren't right... But I dunno, at the time, I din' know it'd hurt them so bad as it did, or make 'em sell the place." That still baffles him, apparantly. He shakes his head a little. Straying from the point. "It's still unforgivable, I know. This whole thing, it's jest a huge big string'a unforgivable acts..." There's one on your head too, Bat. But you know that. It's just that Jason wants to clean slate it, so the bluecap's going to skirt that ugly little detail.

Jean-Batiste is quiet for a very long time, thinking. Thinking. As he told Jason once upon a time, the words go through his mind three or four times before they finally come out. Whether that means they're exactly what he means to say, or that too many cooks have spoiled the broth, who's to say? When he speaks, he looks straight at Jason, for the first time. "What attitude?" he asks. It's an honest question, but nonetheless he quickly adds, "I'm serious. What attitude. What..." He trails off, and just stares at Jason for a second. Hair. Or rather, lack thereof. He blinks a couple times, then stumbles over a recovery, stubbornly trying to finish his thought. "How do you see this? And I want to know...what I did. What do you think I did? What hurt you so much? There's all this misunderstandings and assumptions going around, and they ought to be cleared up, even if it's too late to fix anything."

Jason blinks slowly and tilts his head. "What attitude?" And then. "What did you /do?/" The fuzzhead sighs softly and slowly pushes to his feet, shaking his head. "What'd you do." This time, not a question but a statement. "If ya don' know what you did, Bat, then there ain' no point in talkin'. /We/ know what we did." He looks down to Trace as if sharing a quiet thought, then to the blond-headed one. "We knew exactly what we did an' even Ben knows we know." Yes, he talked to Ben today. A soft, unbelieving laugh. "Even Ben knows what /he/ did. But you don'." Another shake of his shaved head. How can you talk when you don't agree what the words mean?

Trace's brow furrows up at that too. He starts to say something, then bites it back, looking to Jason, letting him get his words out. A little nod at several of the statements the fox makes, then hazel eyes find Bat's once more, large and questioning. "Batiste..." he says softly. "Yer right, maybe it was a misunderstandin'. Maybe you was... thinkin' differently cozza the house we was livin' in, an' the morals there, or how you grew up, or *whatever*. But the truth is most lovers 'spect their partner to be with only them. I'd want it from any girl'a mine. I'd... I'd *die* if she betrayed me so! An' it was jest a lotta hurt you threw at Jason by... by doin' what you did." He can't be vulgar about it, no matter how much he'd like to throw around words like 'fuck' to make a point or be dramatic. He just can't. "I mean, you jest... you hurt him so bad, an' told him to his face that hurtin' him weren't wrong. That's why he got so mad that day onna roof. I mean.." He looks up sheepishly to the boy standing. "That's how I read it, anyway." See, unlike Jason, Trace can explain things. Now whether or not he gets it RIGHT, that's another story. But he can try.

Jean-Batiste shifts his weight when Jason stands. Not to flee, though -- he's still looking squarely at Jason. To stop the fireheart's flight, perhaps? Fox and the Hound, indeed. "Don't leave," he murmurs. "That's what you always do, Jason. Time comes when you're supposed to say something, or explain -anything-, and you fuck off faster than I can blink. You want to try and figure out some of why this happened, how about you start in your own back yard, and think about just how much you ever actually -said- to me." Pause for breath, and a vague little gesture. "You say you talked to Ben, or talked to Ryan, or talked to half the fucking city. That's great. But you never talked to -me-. Ever. Only time you ever open your mouth and something serious comes out is when Trace is around. Just how was I supposed to figure I was so important to you when you never told me? You fuck off for a month, and bring back a keychain and no explanations. Even when you were in town, you were gone more than you were around. You talk to Zachary, and I ask you what he means to you, and you say sweet fuck all. You know what that looks like to me? That looks like you had a whole lot more guilt-free dick than I ever did. You tell me when you did one thing to make me believe you were faithful to me, Jason, and didn't have anyone else. You tell me that, and I'll apologize for not giving you as good as I got." Well. Wasn't quite what he meant to say, but there it is. Sisyphus in reverse, sort of.

It's a long look with those emerald eyes, something deep and dark waiting in there. Only Jason doesn't want to let it out. In words or actions. "Did you ever /ask/, Bat? Did you ever /wonder/ to me? Did you ever say 'Hey, Jason, what's up?' No. When you did, with /Zack/, I said a whole lot fuckin' more than sweet fuck. None of which said I was gettin' dick." Jason's face twitches at one side, as if he's fighting back a sneer. That's not going to get him anywhere, but it's what his face /wants/ to do. To give into that primal urge to snarl. "So, suspectin' I'm fuckin' around with the guy I almost called /dad/," he continues, voice still soft and quiet, "ya fuck around with everyone else?" A completely uncomprehending look goes down on Batiste. "Are you tryin' /so/ hard ta excuse yerself here?" He really looks at a loss here. "Bat, ain' it funny that I /assumed/ ya was faithful ta me, but you /assumed/ that I was cheatin'? An', assumin' that, I /stayed/ faithful, an /you/ cheated? Yet it's my fault? Mebbe I shouldna left you so long, or at stole sumthin' bigger than a poem that means more ta me then you'll ever know, but mebbe you shoulda asked someone 'fore stickin' yer dick in everythin'." Surprisingly, he's calm. Maybe his incantation worked. A deep breath, but then... THEN he finally looks angry. "I had to /ask/ you to be faithful???" He looks to Trace. Can you believe this??? his eyes ask.

Trace flinches a little as Jason's temper flares up, looking between the two of you. At one point he looks down to the joint in his hands, but this is too intense and demanding of his attention right now, and the weed can wait. As Jason looks down to him for confirmation, he nods a little and says softly, "It's fucked up, yeah. It's just the sorta thing you expect." He sighs and refrases his words. "The sorta thing MOST people expect. An' you gotta find that out 'bout yer lover before you go screw around on 'em." He shakes his head a little with disapproval for the act. "Bat, I have advice for you, so you don't break no more hearts. If an open relationship's what you need, s'cool, but tell the person first, you know? God. I mean, jest give 'em a clue so they don't go and put all these expectations on you that you d'wanna deal with." He's well past anger or lashing out with his words. This has just gone on for so long. His words just come out weary and faintly sad.

"Assumption is the mother of all fuckups," is Batiste's first reply, soft and dispassionate. He's the bastard son of that mother, all right. Maybe all three upon the castle are. His attention moves to Trace, and stays there for a long while. "Trace," he murmurs. "You imagine meeting a girl. This girl who makes you crazy, in all the best and all the worst ways. She's wild and carefree and you know you'll never, -ever- be able to hold them down. To tame them. And you know, all you can hope for, is to be there when -she- wants to be with -you-. You know this, as much as you know the sun rises and sets. You know if you try to keep them close, they'll just go crazy and fight to be away. Like...a butterfly. The most beautiful butterfly you've ever seen." His words spill out, at almost a manic rate. "You can hold your hand out, and hope it lands on you, but you can't force it to. You can't make it land, even if you want it to. And if you catch it in your hands, and trap it there, it'll break its wings trying to get out. You imagine that...and then imagine that's how I saw Jason. How could I see that, and try and hold him down?" He looks away, shrugging. "So maybe I was wrong. No. I know I was wrong, about that. About thinking...that he had others that he treated the same way. But that's how I saw it. And I thought I had more of a chance that he'd keep coming back if he never felt trapped." Jean-Batiste looks back at Jason, then, frowning for a moment as he pieces together yet more thoughts. "And yes," he says. "Yes, I did ask you, Jason. More than once. More than I can remember. And you would never say a thing. You'd evade the question, or just change the topic, or do -anything- to avoid answering. And if you couldn't avoid answering, you'd all of a sudden need a drink of water, and you'd be gone." He looks down, and takes a deep breath. Slow, very deep, and let out even more slowly. "And I did not fuck anyone. Not Walker. Not Ben. Not Glass. I haven't fucked -anyone-, since the last time with you. Nobody." He looks hard at Jason. "It wasn't about sex. It was -never- about sex. And yes. It's your fault. The same as it's my fault. And everyone else's fault who's involved. This isn't something where -any- of us can step back and say, 'My way is right, your way is wrong.'" He lights up his clove, finally, and sucks down a couple lungfuls of smoke. Softer: "And I never meant to hurt you. Ever. And I know there's nothing I can ever do to make it up to you, because I'll never be sorry enough for you."

Jason listens the entire time, quiet. His jaw tightens at Bat's description of him, but he still doesn't sat anything. It's not until Bat says that he asked Jason that there's a reaction, a narrowing of the eyes which doesn't let up even when the blond one finishes. He speaks quietly, in a calm, even voice, despite the words. "'Assume' certainly fucked everythin' up, Bat. But don' fuckin' tell me you asked me shit, cuz you didn'." He quickly holds up a hand to forestall anything from Batiste on that though. "It don' fuckin' matter, though. That's the thing yer missin' here. It happened, it's over. I ain' lookin' fer blames no fuckin' more, cuz I know where my mistakes were. You, yer jus' wantin' ta 'splain yerself with my own mistakes. That don' make it. An' yer tellin' me it's /my/ fault yer never gonna be sorry enough, /that/ won' make it. You really think it's up to me how sorry you gotta be?" He tilts his head, green eyes challenging. /Do/ you? they ask. "Dredgin' up the past, you think that'll do anythin'? I made my mistakes an /you/ made /yer/ mistakes, so don' tell me ta look in my own fuckin' back yard. An' /don'/ split fuckin' hairs on the sex. Even if it was the one fuckin' blowjob," Again, the hand. He doesn't WANT to know details. "Even if it was, it broke everythin' cuz you lied an' Ben lied an' Walker lied. Yeah, me an' Trace broke trust /right/ back, but no matter what you /meant/ ta do, you still hurt us worse 'n it seems you even realize." He shakes his head, folding his arms. He knows he rambled, even dredging up what he said wouldn't help. "I ain' pointin' no more fingers though, Bat, s'much as I wanna rub yer nose in yer own shit like you seem ta wanna do ta me. S'over. There's two words I gave ta Ben taday..." Yeah, today, Trace... "That I wanna hear from you now. An' that's all. Y'give 'em, an' I'll share sumthin' with you like he did with me. Jus' plain an' simple, not self-servin' like you jus' now said 'em. Cuz it ain' up to me, I jus' wanna know it's true." He runs a hand over his fuzz and looks to Batiste, now quiet. Expectant. Though not hopeful.

Trace's eyes do widen in surprise as Jason admits he spoke with Ben today. Now's not the time, though he *will* be pressing about that later. He sighs softly and nods. "What it was specifically doan' matter. I still count you guys my first. You can't go'n say this sex act means more'n that one. The whole point's jest t'be able to look at your lover and know you're the only one he or she wanna touch. The only one who get ta hold her's you. Some people need that..." He sighs and shakes his head. Backtracking again. He looks down a moment, thoughtful, lips pursed. Then his eyes lift to meet Batiste's and he says, soft and calm, even a hint of sad affection, "There's a promise made in any bed. What promise? Spoke or silent, a promise is surely made." He looks out across the dark lawns, rolls his shoulders and explains softly, "That's the Crucible. An' I think it's true. Anyway, I'm not sure what else I can say." He folds his arms, huddles in on himself. It's between you both, really. He's only been stretched between this whole time, anyway, dragged this way and that.

Jean-Batiste stays quiet a while, peeling bits of skin off his bottom lip. "It wasn't splitting hairs," he murmurs. "It-" He stops, and looks down, sighing. It was clarifying. It's important to mean what you say, and say what you mean, isn't it? Or at least to try? Gods know what he feels isn't translated properly into words, despite his efforts. He looks to Trace, listening to his words, then shakes his head a little. "I can so say that one thing means more than the other, Trace. Because they do, to me. Just because they don't for you, doesn't make that right or wrong for everyone. And if something's that important to know, it's important enough to -ask-, and not assume." It's not a matter of hoping for the best and discovering the worst for Batiste, see. It's a matter of expecting the worst and working your way towards the best. Theorically, two such opposite viewpoints should've met in the middle somewhere. Ah, well. Unstoppable force meets immoveable object, or something like that. He looks back to Jason, then, and just...watches for a while. Silent. So many things he could say, or wants to say. The fireheart's only looking for two words, though. So, soft-sad and heartfelt, he murmurs simply, "I'm sorry." What else could he want to hear?

Jason closes his eyes as Batiste starts reasoning again. No. Wrong. He keeps them closed and, amazingly, finds this rhythm for his breath to fall into. "But cuz something's right fer you, does it make it right fer everyone, Bat?" The green eyes slide open, fixing on Batiste's. "Ain' ever been a one-sided coin... You say things, but do ya listen? If we did wrong, you did wrong. If you did wrong..." He looks to Trace, sharing this comment with the blue-haired boy rather than telling him, "we did wrong." A deep breath, dark green orbs going back to Batiste's. "An' so... I'm sorry too." Soft, quiet, honest. Like when he used to say 'I love you.' "S'over, Bat," he whispers. "Nuthin' else ta say." Over. Complete. The slate, for Jason, is officially clean. He looks over to Trace and nods in that 'let's go' manner. "Maybe we'll see ya 'round," he murmurs softly, turning to leave.

Trace looks to Jason briefly, and he does pick himself up off the wooden planks slowly, but pauses then, his gaze on Batiste. Jason is his Muse, and of his many purposes on this spinning rock, one is to inspire Trace, and help him dream vividly. And yet he is no blind follower. Of course he's going to turn in a moment and trudge after the fireheart, not only for the sake of shared morals, but more for their shared home. For good or ill (and if you ask him, he's sure to say ill), he can no longer claim Chez Walker-Ashley as his own. So he's gonna follow the fox to their little air mattress in the corner of Caddy's little painted box she's passing off as an apartment. He sighs and pockets the joint and lighter very carefully, before stepping forward, dropping into a crouch, and clutching skinny arms around the blonde's bony shoulders in a quick hug. He breathes in deep, a lungful of India. "See ya," he mumbles hoarsely. And he will, he insists to himself. Sometime, when things are better. Don't things always get better? Trace has trouble with this clean slate idea. If it were a clean slate, would we all still be bleeding? Well, the bluecap can't quite see it that way. After that quick stolen hug, he's detangling himself shyly, turning. But... yeah, Bat. He will see you. It just may take some time.

Jean-Batiste looks down when Jason whispers, 'It's over,' and stares at the planks for a long while. Quiet, wet tear-swallowings can be heard, as can several catches in his previously-mostly-steady breathing rhythm. When he looks up again, his eyes shine too-bright, though no moisture tracks his face. A sullen look, lost and angry at once, the look that came so easily when the Triangle was tentative and newly-formed and the two of you would be off together, without him. He is hugged, and hugs back unresponsively at best. "We," he says, as Trace steps away. A hard, hurting look at Trace. "We," he repeats. No faith in those eyes, no faith that Trace is doing anything but following the bouncing white tail-tip. "And what about the 'we' that's you and me, huh? Where'd that go? So glad he and I are so equal in your eyes." And he'll glare. Fine. If it's the two of you against him on this as well, so be it.

Trace turns back at that, eyes bright and widening at Batiste's implication. Quiet a moment, turning fully to offer the blonde a square-shouldered look once more. "Bat," he says very softly, the kind of soft kept low so one can keep tight reins on an emotional tremble. Hushed. "I have no home with you. All I had-- my whole LIFE was centered round our friendship--" A glance between the two of you, to let 'our' indicate the Triangle, "--and my home with Walker and Ben. Our family. Now I don't have none'a that, because of mistakes I didn't make. Not the house, that was my fault too, but s'not what I mean. The original mistakes. What started this. That weren't me. An' yet you all jest tear me up. What'm I supposed to do? You want me to go with you, but I have no home with you, Batiste. And I think... we got too different'a morals for me to find more right in what you done. That don't got nothin' to do with how much I... I love you, Batiste." He drops his eyes, the gaze landing somewhere near Batiste's toes. "Because I do. Still love you. It's more a question of our differences in what we feel is right and wrong... I see more faith and honesty in his actions. Walker an' Ben and Doug, they doan' think like me as far as romance and bein' true to yer lover. An' so you have them to support you. You aren't alone. Jason an' me doan' got nobody." He sighs and shakes his head sadly, a little upset that you'd launch this attack at him in the first place. As if he weren't caught up in your lover's quarrel enough as it is. "Alla' that...s'why I can't follow you right now, Batiste."

Jason had stopped at the edge of the castle, ready to jump down, but had waited for Trace to say his goodbyes. Bat's reaction came as a surprise, though. Or... was it, really? The abbreviated redhead (heh, TF's terminology's gotta stick) shakes his head slowly. So many things he coulda said to that as well, but this is what he meant by 'it's over.' That painful part of the past, yeah, it still hurts, but it's not going to cause new pains. He hoped that Bat could let go with the apologies too, but it's clear he can't. So he just waits there on the edge for Trace, looking out over the park. It wouldn't be right for him to do anything else almost.

Jean-Batiste doesn't buy it. Not for a wooden nickle. "Yeah," he replies to Trace's speech, summing up his belief in that single syllable. "You don't have anybody. Caddy's nobody. Nadine and Grace are nobody. That guy in the feathers is nobody. You sure have a lot of nobodies in your life." He looks away, dragging on his clove until it scorches his throat a little, roughening his voice. Harsh. "Ben and Walker have eachother. Glass has Shay. You tell me how much room that leaves me." He waves a little at the playground, tensely, agitatedly. "This isn't about a home, Trace. This is about you actually being willing to spend a bit of time with me, and not-" He stops, and frowns down at the planks for a moment. He doesn't look up as he finishes. "Go ahead, Trace. He's waiting for you. He's been waiting to keep you for himself since we all met. Let me know when you have permission to hang out with me again."

Trace just looks at you with blunt surprise that waxes to open hurt, finally turning, but not to leave. Just to hide that first ugly contortion tears lend to an expression, and then he's back in Bat's face, cheeks streaked with silver-wet. "What the fuck, Bat! How much more you gotta tear my life apart, huh? FUCK!" Rather than push as is his instinct, he just flings his arms up in a helpless burst and half-turns, scrubbing uselessly at his eyes. "You say it's not about a home, so where's my fuckin' home with you? Where's my support? We're a burdan to Caddy," he says softly. "TooFar doan' take sides, he jest watches everything. S'how he survives. He'll never have nobody's back. Nadine... she's my fuckin' *piercer*, what the hell, Bat! It's not like we hang out. Said she was goin' to Ben and Walker's party though, like to my face. Lotta support that is. And Grace, yeah, she's got my back. S'why she licks Flagg's boots, right? That's why she'd go an' pretend she's with me to snag his eye! There's love. Dunno where yer gettin' this shit, Bat. Puttin' daggers in me. God, an' here's me startin' to finally see where yer comin' from, and now you try an' tear me away from the one who's stuck by me all this time! I wanna make amends with you someday Bat, but goddamn, that was unfair. You know how unfair that was. Gonna pull that guilt shit on me, tell me I'm lyin' to you about how I really feel after I go an' show you my heart about this?"

Jean-Batiste shakes his head, just a little, and glances up as Trace finishes speaking. Patiently, slowly, and in very soft words, he murmurs, "If it's not true, why're you feeling guilty? Who're you leaving with, Trace? Who are you staying with? Who's necklace're you wearing?"

"This is the last time ah'm gonna say this," Trace says softly, jaw clenched around the words, with eyes still tearful and wounded. "Y'all gave me no choice but to choose. Y'hear me? I din' do nothin, but the only thing t'do was to choose! God, do you know how hard that is? Can you understand? I love you *both*!" He looks between you two frantically. "An' I hadda choose! You can't unnerstan'.." He shakes his head. "Goddamn right I'm guilty. How could I not be? Looka the choice I hadda make! No way I coulda escaped it, an' thank'ya so much f'grindin' that in a little harder, Bat. So. Ah hadda choose. Ah hadda line up all the dirty lil' sins of y'all an' decide who to stand beside through this storm. It did NOT hafta do with decidin' who t'love. Because ah love ya, and if you EVER fuckin' call me a liar again when ah say ah love you, ah swear t'God Bat.." What does he swear? Well, he can't swear anything, just non-specific Badthings. Because that was a low blow and you knew it was. "Y'so insecure! S'all you are, one big tremblin' insecurity. Gonna go cheat 'fore ya even know what's up, n'all cozza that! S'insanity." He gives a grumble of a sigh, rubbing hard at cheeks that are starting to itch with drying salt. "And so I made my choice'a who I thought was more true. And you didn't win it, Bat, an' I'm sorry f'that. But I doan' think you done right by y'lover. Ah think you was wrong t'lie. An' you can't jes' pass me round 'tween the two'a you like some custody battle, ah ain' yer fuckin' child. Ah see you if ah wanna see you. An' I DID til you went an' pull this shit on me, rubbin' in my face that terrible decision y'cheatin led me to." He shakes his head, lips pursing. "How can you drag me into yer shit like this. I was startin' to... to unnerstan' how y'was seein' things. I was startin' t'come to grips with it, an' god forbid f'give ya. Why you gotta do me like this?"

Jason quietly reaches out for Trace's shoulder, resting a gentle hand on it. Both restraining and urging to pull away. "I think we did 'nuff ta him, Bat," he says softly. Yes. /We/. "Jus' let 'im go. Please." He sounds almost like he's begging. He's seen his friend in so much pain, and knows exactly where his fault in it lies, that he doesn't want to see any more coming. "What're ya tryin' ta do here, Bat? Cuz it ain' keepin' him, that's clear. If yer tryin' ta hurt yer own self, then use me, not him." He lifts his eyes to Trace, apologetic. "Le's jus' go... Please?"

Okay, so Batiste's yelling, now. "You didn't -haveta- choose! You could've stayed impartial and waited to play judge-jury-and-executioner until you'd heard -my- side of it, too! Least then I could've dug my own grave, and not just been pushed into what the both of you dug for me." He strips a bit of skin off his bottom lip as he takes a deep breath to continue. "And I�m not rubbin' your face in anything! I'm showing you -my- heart, where it is on all this!" And what a pessimistic, jealous, insecure heart it is. "So now-" And a fit of world-weary absurdity plummets upon him, cutting off his words. When they continue, they're weaker, the defensive anger drained from them. "So now we're even, or something, 'cause we both yelled at eachother for showin' our hearts." He seems to be figuring out what to say next, when something Jason says snags his attention. We. The Jason-and-Batiste variety of that word. He looks up at the fireheart for a long while, then sighs most of the solidity out of his shoulders, and slump-settles back to the planks, arms dangling off his updrawn knees, staring at the wood between his feet. "I'm sorry. I just...miss you." On so many levels. Where the two of you are 1/3's diminished at most, he's 2/3's so. The emptiness is panicking, and panicking is frequently self-destructive. "Please...try to see it my way. You don't have to agree with it. Just...try to see it. Just for a minute. And please...want to see me soon." He looks up with too-bright eyes, and whispers, "Take care of eachother."

Trace sniffles softly. A glance to Jason and he nods, but holds a hand up. Sorry. Just... a few more moments. Promise. Then we'll go. He turns back to Batiste and swallows, agreeing softly, "Been missin' you too. If I din' care for you, this'd all be cake, y'know? There'd be no conflict tearin' me up." He sighs and shakes his head. "Bat, yer whole problem is you doan' trust nobody... Not even the ones you love. All that insecurity. Think about it... You and Jason was *lovers*! An' I could get over that. It was hard, so hard, but I finally got it through my thick skull that y'both still was gonna love me. And you an' me..." He ventures forward again a step. "We had some times, eh?" Eyes bright, still teary from his earlier emotion, but there's more there now as he carefully runs fingers over Batiste's cheek. It's almost seductive. "Member how we'd sink inta bliss...?" He smiles shakily. "N'more'n that... You'n me getting lost inna mural, belly down on the sidewalk, scritchin' away f'hours. S'been too long. Bat, these was things Jason weren't a part of. An' y'see him flip out on us? Y'see him run off t'seek comfort elsewhere?" He shakes his head a little. "You gonna go nuts over what..? What me an' Jason got? Our imagination?" He looks back to Jason briefly, but finally finds Bat's gaze again, even as he straightens once more to fully stand. "You need to work all that out, Batiste. I guess I still unnerstan'. You din' trust, s'all. You gotta learn to trust what you love." He takes a retreating step. "M'gonna go home now. Gotta air mattress an' some borrowed sheets callin' my name, an' this night's been hard on me." And we'll try this again. His eyes plead for you to let him go this time. "I'll see ya when I see ya."

Jason just gives a little nod at Trace's gesture. He'll give as much time as the bluecap needs. This, finally, isn't about him. His part of the conflict is over now, or at least he hopes. He wishes it could be over for Trace, but it's not. If anything, that's the legacy this all will leave. Trace's words, though, they... make so much sense. He could point out that they trusted Bat... but, no, that wouldn't help. Not at all. A faint smile at himself as he lowers his eyes. Y'know, it's like he'd almost forgotten his own insecurity at what he was missing. But then, there was the magic. Each brought to the other two something different. Green eyes raise to Batiste again, something burning far deep inside. Something sad and wistful. "Some other time, Bat," he says very softly. Some other time, some other place, where the both of you are ready.

Silence, and tears, and a couple tiny, speechless nods. That's all Batiste will muster to the touch to his cheek, the words, and the looks given to him. He makes no move to stop either of you, watching as the two of you leave together.

Epilogue: Trace and Jason go back to huddle together in their corner at Caddy�s, and Batiste stays atop the little castle, but all three boys cry themselves to sleep.

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