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Log Title: Trace’s Overdose

Setting: The home of Holly Walker Windholm

Log Cast:
Trace Anderson
Jean-Batiste
Benjamin
Keri (NPC)

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Batiste tries to hide a grin behind his imperfect curtain of blond braids as he climbs to his feet and hurries to the door. "I'll get it..." he murmurs, playing handservant again. Or doorservant. Or...well. Whatever. He opens the door slowly, peering out to see who's there with a curious grin.

It is Trace, but he's not alone. A girl stands before you too, probably nineteen years old or close to it. Her head is shaved except for long, spikey pink bangs that hang down along the sides of her face and brush high cheekbones. She's dressed in dirty jeans and a t-shirt that reads in tiny letters 'What's with today today?' She's got plenty of piercings, the most noticible of which is a chain that runs from her strong nose to her ear lobe. The piercing at her brow actually appears to just be a safety pin. Anyhow, Trace is slumped against her, eyes lowered, and she seems to be mostly supporting him. He looks faintly mortified by the whole situation. She looks at Batiste somewhat cooly and blurts, "This yours?"

Is what whose? Ben leans over, looking for an excuse to worm out of his embarassedness about the revelation about Shari. He has to crane his neck to see around the corner to the door, peering closely. At the sight of slumped Trace he sets aside cola and cigarette without thought, rising and moving toward the hall to offer assistance.

Batiste's grin melts off his face and splatters on the porch as he looks from Trace, to the girl, and back again. He steps forward, reaching to grasp one of his friend's arms and loop it around his shoulders. "He's my friend, yeah," he replies, looking to the girl with spikey pink hair, worry pooling in his eyes. "What happened?" His voice raises a little at the question, sounding younger than his still tender years.

Trace grapples clumsily to shift his weight from the girl to Batiste, assisted by her attempt at an almost gentle shove. The boy buries his face into the familiar bony shoulder gratefully. Running a hand through wispy pink hair once, shoving it back over her scalp, she loiters uncomfortably by the door, watching to be sure Trace isn't going to fall. Once satisfied, she mumbles, "Just gave us a scare, is all. Told someone I'd get 'im home. Anyway, gotta run." She starts away, but turns back to add with a shrug, "Just, you know, don't let him go to sleep yet for a half hour or somethin'. After that it should be fine." Hooking her thumbs in her jeans, she starts back towards the street where a white beat-up ford is parked, without a word or a glance back.

Ben comes up behind Batiste and rests a hand on the small of his back, surveying the scene uncomfortably. But he can react smoothly when needed, so he moves to shut the door and slip Trace's other arm around his own shoulder. "Trace," he murmurs quietly, lifting the young man's chin up to try and search his eyes. "Trace? Come on, help us get you to the couch."

Flinching slightly at such a direct look, Trace reluctantly meets Ben's gaze. "Yeah... yeah, wanna couch," he decides thickly. "Just... Just don't lissen t'her, Keri's jest worryin'... She's just sayin' stuff, m'fine." Fine, he claims -- but could never make it to that couch unassisted.

Worry hits Batiste's stomach with such force his skin starts to crawl. "Here, c'mon, c'mon..." he murmurs to Trace, hand around his friend's waist, braced so he can support most of his weight. He glances back for only a second, nodding to the girl with dark, haunted eyes. "Got it," he replies, perhaps too softly for his voice to carry. He turns back to the two of you, looking up into Ben's face for a second before he starts to manveuver Trace to the couch, all but carrying him. "You're just fine," he agrees. "C'mon, let's sit down..." Over to the couch, where he carefully heaps Trace half stretched out, half leaned into Batiste's shoulder.

Ben helps settle Trace down, crouching on the floor near the couch, on edge. "What happened, Trace?" he murmurs, quietly calm as ever. "What did you take? You take too much?" Depending on his state of mind, that soothing, gentle voice could be taken as condescening, rather than the soft supportiveness it's meant to be. Just to be here he has to overcome that desire to fade into the background of things that aren't his business, so every move he makes is just a bit forced.

Trace nuzzles warm flannel with the little movement his body is allowing him right now, eyes falling closed. Ben's prodding questions float down from a bright distance above him somewhere, and find themselves much gentled when they reach him. 'Ohh.... Well, it was free. Old friend'a mine.... said he'd share, and I'd just fixed a little bit ago, but... but it was white, and free, and I couldn't.... hurt his feelin's." Pulling away just slightly to yawn, he settles his cheek down again and decides softly, "I guess I shouldn't've... Need more time between..."

Batiste arranges Trace on the couch just -so-, supporting him in the crook of one arm and reaching over with his free hand to brush at Sharkadelic braids and gaunt cheeks and squeeze his friend's shoulders. His motions are fretful and jumpy, panic poorly reined in. He listens to Trace's story and glances up at Ben for a second, as if curious about or dreading his reaction, then looks back to the blue-haired boy and closes his eyes. "Trace..." he murmurs, drawing his friend in closer and even more protectively. He sighs gently, then gives him a little nudge with his shoulder. "No sleeping," he says, trying to sound teasing and light. It comes out a bit frayed, very young sounding. Breathing is important, especially when a body's stoned enough to forget to.

"At least you won't be doing that again, hm?" Ben murmurs smoothly. "You want something cold to drink? I'm sure Walker has Fruitopia for you. Nice and icy and keep you talking to us." So, maybe he doesn't know what he's doing. But Trace is too gone and Batiste is too nervous and of -course- Walker isn't here. So Ben of the attention deficit and utter lack of street smarts is in charge. Gently he rests a hand on Batiste's knee, a light squeeze for reassurance. He knows what he's doing. Sure he does.

Trace shakes his head a little, half nuzzle, half slow protest. "Naw... Naw, coffee. Coffee keeps you not sleeping. Coffee's warm..." He smiles gently up at Batiste through blue braids. "So're you. I was... really cold, but now I'm feelin' a little warm a'gin...." The slightest shift of his slow smile, finally extinguishing it for the most part. The worry in his friend's face vaguely registers. "W'as wrong?" he asks softly, extending a slow hand with outstretched fingers. His intentions are vague, even in his own mind; perhaps he's reaching for blonde braids or maybe to grasp that wonderful hand twining in his hair, or shape Batiste's smile on properly himself, like molding clay. "W'as wrong?"

Batiste isn't nervous. Nervous is for meeting Walker's 6'3" amourous she-male friend. This is...somewhere -way- above nervous. He has to bite on the side of his tongue to keep from blurting out a flurry of questions - Where were you? Who was this guy? Who was that girl? How much did you take? How badly did you scare them? - and does a lot of quiet sighing and fretful braid-petting instead. He knows what he's doing. Sort of. He knows if he doesn't keep Trace awake he'll nod off and be so relaxed his lungs decide to - if you'll pardon the hideous pun - take a breather. Or maybe his heart will decide it can take five and flirt with those cute kidneys just down the way. "I'm just...it's, it's nothing, Trace. It's okay..." He tries to smile, though it comes out strained and weak. Reaching for Trace's hand, he grabs it with sudden fierceness and tucks it against his neck, ducking his chin down to keep the small fingers warm. "Just good to see you..." he whispers.

Ben rises quickly just about as soon as the gentle moment of friendship starts. Luckily, he has this request for coffee he has to go off and fill, and it just so happens that it helps along his desire to vacate the scene before he interferes with something that isn't for him. The man can move quick when he wants, fairly dashing for the kitchen and hunting for coffee. This morning's (or afternoon's, depending on how early Walker rises) is stale by now, so he must spend several minutes cleaning out the pot and setting a fresh pot to perk. "Keep talking, out there," he calls warningly. "I hear silence, I come bust some heads."

"Yeah... " Trace's smile returns, as he settles himself back down into the crook of Batiste's arm comfortably, making no move to retrieve his hand. That's where he'd wanted it to go all along, he decides. "Yeah... s'good to see you too. Yer *just* who I wanted t'see..." His eyes close again, but he keeps on talking a bit, "We'll do the mural soon, yeah? Now that's'all primered 'n ready... jest cryin' out fer us to give it life again....."

Batiste swallows hard a number of times, his throat shifting against his and Trace's entangled fingers. "Yeah? Why's that?" he asks, his voice a little tight. He gathers Trace in a fraction closer, resting his temple against a fuzzled blue braid. All the better to hear you breathing, my dear. "So what do you want to paint first? Which part? You think maybe we should let Jason play, and paint whatever the music makes us see?"

Ben returns in a bit with coffee, a nice big cup, which he offers to Batiste instead of Trace. But as he enters, he gazes with unabashed longing at the pose of the two boys, quietly comfortable and wrapped up with each other. Hastily he presses the coffee into Batiste's hand and murmurs, "Let me go tell Walker what's up, and get a place ready for you to crash." Not going to take no for an answer, no matter the logic of the retort, he turns and moves swiftly for the stairs.

Blinking a little at the barrage of questions, Trace smiles a little. "Ooh. Yeah.. yeah, Jason's music. Jason's pipes Walker got'im. We'll paint it so nice, with all our colors..." He shifts his head just slightly, trying to get Ben back into his line of sight, but too late... Ben's already headed upstairs, and to look there would require lifting his head. It's just out of the question, much too heavy and comfortable right now. "M'crashin' right here," he says with a smile, hoping his soft slur will carry to Ben as he ascends the stairs. "So nice here... I'll crash here, when Batiste says it's okay..." A tiny chuckle, shifting back to bury his cheek next to warmth again. Muffled, "My blood brother."

Batiste carefully guides your fingers back down to rest in your lap, and maneuvers you around so you're leaned into him, half settled in his lap, with one arm wrapped around you. He rests his hand over both of yours, squeezing a little, his other hand back to stroking and fussing with your braids. He goes to say something, stops, and has to clear his throat. "Blood brothers," he murmurs back, very softly. He takes a deep breath that catches at the end and squeezes you closer, whispering, "I'm glad they took care of you. I'm glad they brought you here...glad you're...you're okay." If only he could stop replaying it all in his mind, imagining up what happened like a tenacious nightmare. "Maybe next time...I could go with you?" He'll be doing his best to play 'me and my shadow' with you for who knows -how- long, now.

"Yeah..." Trace mumbles, making no protest at all as he's shifted about and resettled. "Yeah, you come with me. Kin' come with me anywhere, I don't care... don't gotta ask." He yawns softly, not a care in the world right now. "I'm gonna.... can I... sleep now? Please, I'll be careful.."

Batiste lets out a very long, very soft sigh, and nods gently against the side of your head as he tucks his own cheek there. "Okay, I...okay. But...I'm going to watch you for a while, all right? Just to make sure you're okay. No scaring me like you scared your friends, right?" he tries to joke. He pets your braids again, holding you close, and murmurs, "Sweet dreams, Trace."

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