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Log Title: Under the Bridge

Log setting: It is sunset. The scene starts in Jackson Square, ends under a bridge near the edge of the city.

Log Cast:
Trace
Jason
Alisynde

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This is why Jason kept with you so long. To see you like this. And, as much as he hates to admit it, right now making himself known would just distrupt you - and he's secretly promising a sacrifice to Helios to keep his great burning eye open just a few moments longer. He wants to see this finished, wants to see this flood of creativity finished and poured out upong the concrete. He wants to be one of the few who see it untouched and unscuffed, fresh from the heart and brain of its creator. And so, for the past half hour, he's silently been perched on a bench nearby, silent and still as the statue that he could be. No longer the predatory creature that perched, wings folded - like back when he had his coat - now he's just a shadow limned in red. The two bright orbs peer out from the unruly frame of his hair, sometimes catching the light just right as to reflect it. With them he absorbs the frantic movements of the creator's hands, the raptured expression of his face, the urgency with which he finishes his world before the last grain falls to the bottom of the hourglass. This is why he came to love this blue-haired boy - because in him he can catch a little bit of divinity.

Alisynde comes into the square from St. Ann.

The sun's nearly set, but Trace races fervently to take advantage of what little light remains.

The chalk picture itself features an emerald green dragon that *would* be fearsome and magestic if he weren't enjoying such a languid sprawl. One great paw up cradeling it's spiny chin, it's expression is decidedly wry, smoke trickling lazily through it's nostrils, lips quirked sardonically. Heavy lidded, but it's not all sarcasm; there's a peace there as well. A fondness, like a big gruff dog used to getting it's ears yanked by a select group of beloved, guarded children. Because two figures are deep into their play on the dragon's back, using scales and great shielding wings and spines as fighting terrain. One in fanciful burgandy with white smudged into ruffles at the upper chest and sleeves, long black tresses escaping a black pirate hat, he holds a sword high. Expression and the curve about the open mouth suggest something between a laugh and a war cry. His attention is on a sprite of a boy with a pixie-cut crop of red hair, dressed in green rags. He looks as though he's going to try and use the end of the dragon's spiked, diamond-point tail for his sword during this duel, as he's trying to tug it into cooperation. It's a playful, carefree scene drawn with much affection.

Alisynde looks somewhat pensive, her hands jammed into a pair of her pockets, her shoulders set in a stiff line. One foot in front of the other, and staring at the ground. She may bump into a few people, but at least she won't tromp on Trace's picture.

Jason's perched silently on a bench behind Trace, watching the boy draw his comfort-scene. From the arrangement of himself and the other, one might realize that the blue-braided artist is unaware of his green-eyed watcher - and that the green-eyed watcher is aware of nothing else. A slight smile has curled one corner of Jason's mouth, gaze fond.. but also very intense. Like he was a /part/ of this creation (which, in a weird, existential sense, he is). As the chalk drawing comes closer to completion (and the sun drips closer to oblivion), Jason slides from his perch and silently pads up behind his friend, then crouches down again. He watches his friend, not the drawing, eyes moving from the sweat beading at the other's brow to the chalk staining tatter-nailed fingers. Basking in the other's presence, almost.

Alisynde sighs, staring down at the ground, the...flash of color out of the corner of her eye? She turns her head, looking in the direction of the drawing, and slowly up to the artist. Not unsurprisingly (to her, at least) she spots Trace. This is enough to pull her out of her reverie and over towards him. Or, rather, them, as her gaze continues to move up and focuses on Jason. She remains quiet, not wanting to disturb the delicate rendering done on while the ticking time bomb of the sun slowly winds its way towards zero.

Finally, as the last few textured scale-shapes were scraped and rubbed into the BatDragon's rough skin, Trace tosses down the bright green stub of chalk into the pile and looks down at the picture with quiet triumph. The slender, bent frame that had been rigid with the intense concentration now nearly sags. Whew. But it was a good piece of work, and Trace knows it. Not often that his cruel self-esteem allows him the content that comes with such knowledge. He sighs softly, and pulls himself slowly out of his hunched position, sitting back, wincing at tightly cramped back and leg muscles and an ache in his hand that never seems to hit him until *after* his work's poured out onto the sidewalk. Ouch. He flexes his hand carefully, and then starts to turn, to gather up his pile of chalk. Red catches in the corner of his eye and he hitches a gasp and looks squarely at Jason with surprise that quickly blooms into full grin.

Yup, right into the intensity of Jason's gaze, a thing almost predatory. But then the redhead suddenly snaps out of it and just gets a subtle, crooked grin. A small sparkle in his eyes gloats over the fact that he was here, unnoticed. And then it gloats more that his friend, as always, is happy to see him here. Okay, so there's warm fuzziness going on at that thought, but he tries not to let it show. Jason's supposed to be Mysterious or something. "Arrr," he says simply, by way of greeting, and then lowers his gaze from Traze's hazel eyes to the picture. "Wish he was always so content," he murmurs. He knows who's who in the picture, obviously. But it's not a sad observation - just an observation. In fact, as Jason raises his eyes to his blue-haired friend once more, it's clear he's quite happy about this creation (though he's being 'cool' about it). "Yer purdy good with yer hook thar, Cap'n," he rumbles playfully.

Alisynde hides her smile, as she notices that grin. Perhaps things are a little better than when she last left our band of intrepid adventurers. Moving to a spot where she won't be disturbing, she kneels to get a better look at the latest piece of art.

Trace curls arms around his chest in a self-conscious, very pleased hug at the praise, smiling wearily at his redhead friend. "Thanks, Jason..." he says softly. "M'glad someone got t'see it 'fore it was all scuffed up. Specially you." More warm fuzziness. Run for cover! He untangles himself from the self-hug and reaches out to scoop up the chalk bits and dump them all in one of the lower, less practical pockets down on his shins. Then his hands are dusted off on the much-abused jeans.

Alisynde smiles down at the picture, and rummages in her pocket. A small can of hairspray is held up, perhaps in view of the boys, perhaps not. It /is/ blocked by her body from the view of any passing officer-types.

Jason bites his lip lightly lowering his eyes to the picture so he doesn't blush or something. Yeah, he loves the fuzziness and cuddling, but in public he /tries/ to be discreet. It's a survival mechanism he kinda got ingrained. Anyhow, eyes on the picture, he catches sight of someone huddling over it with a spraycan of something. Uh-oh. There's a fierce flash of 'gonna kill someone' in the brilliant green - but then it's gone. Cause it's Ali with... hairspray? He blinks a moment, the clears his throat to get Trace's attention her way well (and to get her attention too). "Hey, Ali," he greets softly.

Alisynde grins up at both of you. "Fixative?"

"Hi, Ali." Trace scritches at his scalp, digging to get under the braids and dusting them liberally with green in the process. "I..." He looks down at the picture. "I dunno. If you really wanna... But I don't mind makin' sandcastles." He finally just shrugs and leaves it up to her, slowly pulling himself up to his feet. Better way to stretch, and besides, this way he can dash out of the way if a cloud of hairspray decides to float down and try to choke him.

Alisynde ohs, and slips the can away. Doesn't seem like he wants to, so she won't either. "Figured I'd offer. Hi, guys." She pushes herself to her feet.

Jason smiles softly back up at Trace as he stands. He understands why Trace likes his sidewalk art impermenant and actually looks a little relieved that Trace voiced that. His eyes go back down to the picture. Yeah... It's a happy fantasy, and one that bodes well for his friend (friends, really). It's time for troubles to vanish like the chalk will eventually. 'Sides, he's got some shit to deal with himself. He pushes to his feet and stretches languidly as well (crouching on a bench isn't exactly comfy), adding a wide, curl-tongued yawn on to the end of it. "Nice thing 'bout sandcastles is ya can always build another one," he murmurs.

Alisynde nods, glancing down at the picture again. She jams her hands back in her pockets, and looks at both of you, some question in her eyes. But...she can't quite seem to get it out.

"Yep," Trace agrees easily. "Can't help it. It gets under ya skin, and ya gotta make more." He smiles and then starts to move closer to the fireheart, but recalls his earlier blush and retreats back a step. Hmm. But this won't do at all. Maybe you and Bat kick ass at that discreet thing, but Trace is terrible at it. He's transparant in nearly everything he does, and his emotions knew few reins. So he finally comes up with a solution. "Know what'd be cool? We oughta head out'a town or under a bridge 'r somethin' and get a fire goin' in a drum 'r like with actual firewood even, if we could find somethin' dry 'nuff... I'm in a fire mood. Pyro fer the night or something. An' I been 'round crowds all day..." He looks between the both of you to see how well his idea might be acceptd.

Alisynde's eyes flicker back and forth between the two of you again, catching Trace's furative movement. She casually shrugs her shoulders. "You two can go, if you want. I'd.." Be in the way. "..probably not dig it so much. Not really in a firekinda mood."

That idea isn't just accepted, it's pounced upon. Jason bounces and nodnods with a huge grin, the image of a blazing ten-foot inferno already dancing in his eyes. 'Sides, he caught the aborted movement as well. Fires under bridges are big ol' Cuddle-Times. After you clear the trolls out, that is. He starts to start suggesting places and idears, but.. He pauses and tilts his head at Ali. First the unasked question, and now this. Brows draw together. "Sumthin' up?" he asks curiously.

Trace looks to Ali curiously as well. After all, *she* wasn't included in the crowds he wanted to escape from. "Y'sure?"

Alisynde sigh, and tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "I..." What to say? Where to start? She's really unsure where everything stands, and it shows. "...don't want to tread on toes." Or cuddling. "Y'know."

"Uh, great," Trace mumbles with a half grin that's both confused and amused. He nudges at Jason. "Ali ain't comin', so we can break out the leopard thongs 'n green jello..." A giggle and an incredulous look to Ali. What's she think she'll be treading on?

Alisynde shoots Trace a look. "I meant if you two wanted to talk." Ninny. But she must love him anyway, cause she does offer him a warm smile.

Jason tilts his head as well at that sentiment, then looks to Trace with a little grin at the nudge. "I got the whipped cream if you got the whip..." And then he mirrors the same incredulous look to Ali. Almost might be comical cause the two boys to it at the same time.

Jason hmms. Well, that's plausible... but still. "Didn' we invite ya, though?"

Alisynde says, "I'm not sure." She pokes a finger towards Trace's chest. "You, m'dear, are hard to interpret sometimes."

The blue-haired artist's brows lift slightly. He is? And usually he feels like he might as well be wearing a big neon sign strapped to his chest that glows bright orange and blinks, 'This is precisely how I feel now:...' But then again, Trace's open affection and cuddle-factor towards the triangle boys IS decidedly a bit more enthusiastic and willing than your typical sixteen year old would be with his best friends. To hell with 'a bit', he sleeps piled on top of them and kisses cheeks. But, y'know, the kid's got issues, give him a break. These are things long denied, and he's come to need them. "Sorry," is his only shrugged response.

Alisynde grins a little. "It's probably just me. My brain likes knotting itself into little portions now and then, and I can't tell who's serious about what. Unless it's an audience." The grin gets wider. "So all you gotta do is be my shill during a performance and I'll be fine."

Jason ums softly and looks over at his friend, then back to Ali. He sees that neon sign all the time. It's kinda cool, actually. Well, when it says good stuff. Anyhow. He's just a little baffled at the Ali thing, but... He offers a little apologetic smile (as if it was all his fault) and murmurs a 'sorry' as well. (As for his affection-factor, he's got an easy excuse, so nyeah.)

See, it's not so much that Ali has problems with interpreting emotions. She just has problems intrepreting things involving the triumverate. "It's...not even like a mood thing. It's the things between you guys that confuse me. Well. Guys in general confuse me, no matter what. Which is why I've got pets and a pot habit. I understand these things. Don't understand the other, sometimes. Sometimes I do. But I just don't want to do something that'll hurt you. Even if I want to help you." She gives a sheepish grin. "I'm not making much sense, am I?"

Trace smiles at the magician. "Naw, I get it. I guess we aren't like... how most kids our age'd be. We're jest, we're real close, y'know?" Hello, understatement! He grins and shrugs. "We're confusin' prolly, yer right. But it suits me. The only part I don't get is how you could hurt us..." He tips his head to one side slightly, apparantly waiting for an explaination.

Alisynde tries to explain. "Not deliberately. Not ever. I like you guys too much for that. But indirectly. Like, if I heard something that would hurt you if I said it, and accidentally said it. Or if I tried to fix a fight or step in some other way, and you got hurt by that.."

Alisynde says, "Well-intentioned things that just go wrong."

Trace considers this, brow furrowing for a moment, but finally concludes with a smile, "We're stronger than that. Things work out in the end, always." Would he have claimed so that night at the playground, still alienated? Well, maybe he would have.

[ We fast forward a bit, and now Ali has gone home while Jason and Trace have gotten themselves to that bridge to build their fire. ]

It wasn't a long walk. Well, because you both caught a quick bus out to the river-side of the city. Jason apparently had a bridge in mind (and was hoping no one else had it in mind this night). It's one of those concrete spans over a minor stream that winds through a rocky bed, prolly under thirty feet long. But that's plenty big. The space beneath is small and cozy, decorated with colorful tags and spraypainted designs. Apparently it's a common place to sit beneath and burn stuff because there's several remains of fires (and even a barrel to burn shit in!) as well as soot all over the top of the place. Jason leads you underneath the chainlink fence and down the embankment, giggling and babbling on about something or other. He's been glowing the whole way here, but has been quiet about what it might be for. But considering the way he looked at you and that sidewalk painting, there should be little doubt. "... so the cop grabbed me by the jacket and I slipped out 'n ran off. Lost a buncha m'fav'rite Stuff, 'n a whole baggie of good shit, but didn' really matter. Was summer at the time 'n the fog wasn' /that/ thick in the mornin's. Always hadda duck out when he drove by, though."

Trace admires the little hideaway Jason has led them too as he trips along after you. It's perfect really, exactly what he had in mind when he spoke of finding some place for a fire, back in the square. He's cheery too, running on a after-mural rush, as well as thrilled by this little venture. He's eager to get down beneath the bridge, and nearly stumbles on a thick patch of grass, catching himself by luck with one hand latched onto your shoulder. A sheepish smile is flashed, and he releases you. His questions punctuate your ramble. "So ya never got yer jacket back, even?" Silly irrelevant questions, but your chatter's like music, and he's happy to fuel it. Once down at the bottom, he scans the colorful tagged walls with appreciation.

Jason looks back and smiles broadly at you as you use him to catch yourself. Contact's contact even if it is accidental, and your contact's always welcome. Assuming Jason isn't freaking out on something, that is. He nuh-uhs to your question, shaking his head, then jumps off the short embankment to the pebbly sand beneath, then turns around to grin up to you. "Prolly coulda gone and asked fer it, but I dunno how that'd go over. I swear he was out ta get me 'n my friends."

Trace follows close behind you, leaping after, and kicking at little fresh water clam shell, sending it skittering along the bank. "Yeah, fuckin' cops, man." He shakes his head with grinning disapproval, as though those words say it all. Damn the man! Heh. Then his smile quirks and he amends teasingly, "Well, 'cept fer yer one who made ya like boys in uniforms. Though really, I'd get over that quick, coz you get near cops an' always end up losin' yer shit!"

Jason mms softly, eyes going distant for a moment as he trudges up the creekbed. "But they're /so/ nice ta look 'pon from 'far," he murmurs wistfully. And then /he/ amends that as he bends over and plucks up a pleasant-looking stick, "Well, bunch of 'em. Rookies. Rest needa lay off the donuts." He grins back over his shoulder at you and waves the stick (which is pleasant because it could be a sword or a wand or a walking cane or any number of imaginary things). "Still, they ain' so bad if they're not hardass'd 'nuff ta not letcha sweet talk 'em."

The blue-haired artist nods at your words, but it's not like he ever wanted a cop for a plaything, so it's more just a nod born of amusement and his agreeable mood. He watches the bank beneath him as he follows after you, and bends breifly to gather up two medium-sized clam shells rather then kick them this time. He clicks them together to shake off some of the dirt, then wipes at them with chalk-dusted fingers. For a moment they're people, and he pinches and unpinches, making them silently chatter at one another. Then they're fighting, and the slightly bigger one gets fed up and tries to gnaw on the other one. He giggles at his pantomime and lets the fantasy fall away. You know, he was probably one of those kids who could amuse himself for hours with a big shipping cardboard box. He clicks the clam-shells more absently now as he walks, first keeping time to his steps, then picking up a rhythm. Click-clicka-click-clicka... "Hey Jason, I coulda been a belly dancer!" He clicks and swings his hips in a circle or two before giggling at himself and dropping the dance.

Jason goes silent after his last little bit of Jason-wisdom and just has fun trotting along in the early evening darkness, swinging the stick back and forth. Just you monsterous beasties DARE come out of your holes to attack Warrior-Jason and his loyal squire sidekick! In fact, /his/ little fantasy grows a little more intense as your clam-people argue unnoticed behind him, and he suddenly jumps to one side and swats at a patch of tall weeds on the bank with a loud 'HA!' There's a scrambling scurry as some small creature gets scared out of its wits and Jason then grins back at you proudly. One beastie vanquished, tons more to go! But you're doing a little dance there and he just blinks for a moment, then almost loses himself to a fit of giggles. Belly dancing squires! Who could ask for more? "Let's burn something!" he suggests philisophically.

Trace giggles at Warrior-Jason, and agrees whole-heartedly with such philosophy. "Yeah! Yeah, n' we oughta prolly get the somethin' away from the water, so it's not all damp..." He scans the surroundings. "But keep yer stick ready, 'less there's bridge trolls guardin' all the good wood. They do that."

Jason bleahs and sticks out his tongue. "Trolls," he declares simply, in that same tone one would use to say 'girls' or how Indiana Jones would say 'Nazis.' But then he looks about as well. Actually, this place is popular cause there's a ton of driftwood for some reason, and plenty of it away from the trickling water. A bit here, a bit there a- ooh! Jackpot! A nice, big snarl of the stuff, and looking pretty durn dry too. Plenty for a cozy little fire in that can. And with a little extra gathering, that bridge-licking bonfire could become a reality! He looks back to you, grinning broad, and then, to announce his find, he calls out, "A /witch!/" With that, he zings off into the dark and leaps, landing in a appropriately heroic stance with his stick-sword aimed at the heart of the driftwood pile. "Surrender wench, so that ye may be burned at the stake!" (Though why anyone would surrender to those terms is beyond him.)

Well, Trace can think of a reason. After all, this kid read the Crucible. He surges to the hero's side like a good little sidekick. "N'if ya don't, we gonna lay ya 'out n' do the rock press test, *squish* yer confession outta ya!" He gives the wood pile a little kick, then bends down to hear her pleas. Suddenly the bluecap straightens with mock offense and looks to you. "Sounded like a surrender t'me! Anyone who says somethin' boutchya mama, she's a witch lookin' t'be put down." He grins broadly. "Shall we strap 'er to that stake?" He gestures, and apparantly the stake is a patch of slightly-charred ground before a comfortable looking patch of scraggly grass.

Jason straightens up, poking the pile with his stick-sword. "Definitely a surrender. Now, come peacefully so we can ignite you to save your soul! God likes his witches well-done!" He nodnods imperiously, then sticks the stick into his scabbard (well... belt-loop). Only the operation doesn't go as smoothly as planned and he has to frown down at it and wriggle it around to get it through the tattered loop of cloth. Sticks never were cooperative when being restrained. Anyhow, with that done, he clears his throat and announces, "You shall take her feet, I shall take her arms, and we shall bind her to our righteous pole that has been stuck in the earth." Silence as he thinks about that. And then a sudden giggle as he moves to scoop up driftwood into his arms.

Trace sweeps down to pull up as much wood as those slender, marked arms can gather and then some. Sticks hang out and fall to the ground mutely, and he has to duck his head down a little to avoid one pesky jutting limb. "She's puttin' up a struggle," he grumbles around a grin as he staggers over towards the 'stake' and deposits her ungently, with a clatter.

Jason gathers up most of the rest and totters over to the charred spot as well, leaning back so that it all rests on his chest. Another clatter as his sticks pile on top of yours and he grunts safisfactorily, wiping his hands off. "Thar ye be, wench." He gives the pile a light kick, and then giggles as he crouches down to start arranging them so that a fire can be started.

Trace lets you do the arranging, crouching down so he can watch, resting his arms on his knees. "I 'member my sis an' me, we'd sneak off 'n go out in a patch'a bayou near our trailer park an' have pretend fires. We had two sticks in the ground that branched at the ends like a 'Y', and a stick rested tween the two... It was like a spit, an' we'd build the fire on top'a that. Then we'd go huntin' stuff, an' it'd get roasted onna' spit..." He smiles dreamily and shakes his head as though to brush off the memory.

Jason tilts his head a little bit at you, stuffing some of the dry grass that was caught in the snarl underneath the stick structure he's created. Never heard you talk much about your sister (of course, you've never heard him talk about /anything/, really - but Jason's all about double standards). In fact, he never realized you /did/ have a sister. "How old 'she?" he asks, pulling out his lighter.

Trace keeps his eyes on the lighter as he speaks. Fire's fascinating sometimes, when it's not doing something mundane like dancing on the end of his white candle or lighting a clove or some such. Now it's going to be a bonfire, or better yet, a witch being burned for God. Very cool. "She's five years younger'n me. Guess that'd make her ten now... She'll be 'leven in January." He speaks of her with much fondness.

The lighter sparks and flames, and there's a crackle of dry grass as it takes. At first it's just a spreading glow beneath the tent of sticks, but then tongues of flame begin to lick out from between the cracks, tasting the wood, deciding if it's worth eating... and it is. "Cool," Jason murmurs with a soft smile. Having never had to share his life with anyone, a small wondering thought rambles through. How would his life be different if he did? Is it like the triangle kinda? And what would it take to force him from someone he loved? Bright green eyes, glimmering in the growing firelight, seek you out again. And then with another quiet smile, he crawls over beside you.

Trace has open arms ready for you when you crawl over and pulls you into a long-awaited hug, one he's wanted since back in the square when you complimented his mural in a round-about, pirate fashion. He nuzzles at bright red wavy locks gathering up the firelight, casting the most amazing sunset shades all through it. A brief, fierce squeeze, and then he retreats a little, arms slackening and one falling away to self-consciously brush a blue braid away from his blushing cheeks. "Did good. S'a pretty fire," he murmurs his appreciation, but his eyes are on you, flickering over sunset waves and bright green glimmer, so maybe the neon sign would let you know about an unspoken 'heart' after his words. He looks out towards the flames when they crackle sharply, finding a damp pocket in the wood and protesting snappishly. He gives the fire a mock-scolding look that flashes easily into a grin.

Wanna know a way to melt a Fireheart? Well, you just did. He burrows into your arm and returns the hug tightly, depriving you temporarily of those eyes of his as he nuzzles your shoulder in a familiar fashion. Definitely been missing this. And the fire 'n cool night, that just makes it better. He loosens up as you pull your arm away, lifting his head to grin a big, proud grin at you. "Yeah, well, I..." His voice drifts off as he reads the sign, and then his smile just gets fond. Now if only all the straight boys could be as affectionate as you. Women would be happy and there'd be no more wars. He heaves a soft sigh, then giggles softly at your scolding look to the fire. His head rests on your shoulders, eyes going to the flames, and he stays that way for long, silent, happy moments. And then he suddenly sits up ands digs under the collar of his shirt, bringing out his pentagram pendant and then pulling it over his head (briefly struggling with his hair). He turns to you and grins, holding it between two fingers, upside-down with the one point down. "Body over spirit." And then he flips it. "Spirit over body." With that, he takes the silver chain in both hands and spreads it out, obviously wanting you to duck your head so he can put it on.

Trace blinks down at the little silver pendant, then up at you with wonder. "But.. you always wear it..." he murmurs hushedly, and then smiles with bright, shining eyes, so flattered. He ducks his head obediently, humbly, almost a bow. So many Jason-treasures... The little fox keychain with the honda key hooked to his belt loop, the little matchbook tucked away in one of his many pockets... But this one really has him caught by surprise.

Well, this was kinda a special occasion for Jason. Just /what/ occasion is debatable, but it is. Yes, Jason always wore it, but now it's yours. As the chain, still Jason-warmed, slides over your braids and hangs from your skin, Jason leans in and gently kisses your lips. One of those friendly kisses, though, nothing, well, like that. Something in your blood tingles with recognition and your distant kinship recognizes the touch of magick even before it sweeps out from both the token and the kiss. Once again, as they have before, the memories come flooding out from that back part of your mind that remembers dreams, both good and bad. Jason drawns back from you, his hands sliding down so he can lean his weight on your thighs. Dark-peaked ears are perked forward and that bushy tail curls about him, white tip twitching as he waits for your reaction. No longer is he wearing his comfortable rags, but he's back in his dark cloths. Hooded cloak about his shoulders, black shirt, and the loose pants and boots. Jason the Rogue, who belongs in the world where trolls really /do/ live under bridges (just not this one, fortunately). Remember now?

You feel your perceptions change...

Trace hitches a breath as the silver slides down and settles comfortably. And then your lips are brushing his, though he's really even too dazed by the change to kiss back, or respond much at all beyond the surprised flutter of pale lashes. The onslaught of memories, and the rush of it, a feeling like the world's been out of groove but just now clicked back into place properly. Finally once he's able to focus on you, hazel to impossible green, he grins. Shyly, even, because he's not supposed to be given this gift, right? But he's so pleased with it, in spite of the problems it's caused. Forget all that... A tentative hand reaches out to touch pretty, perked ears, and he pulls in a slow breath and breathes out, "Hello..." Is he greeting the ears? Could be. He blooms into such a bright grin then, very suddenly, with a soft cough that sounds like a surprised laugh. Oh, pretty tail... hello to you too. Hello memories of swamp adventures and hello old forgotten friends...

Jason�s fae desc:
Dark-furred tips of red fox ears stand out amongst the deeper red waves of hair that, even tied back with a forest green velvet ribbon, fall nearly to his slender waist. With the appearance of no more than sixteen mortal years, this wilder's demeanor promises trouble. Sparkling emerald eyes mirror the almost unconscious impish grin that curls the corners of his lips while freckles scatter across high cheekbones and over his slender nose to lend to his deceptively boyish charms. The long, white-tipped tail of a red fox escapes from the rear of his pants to curl about the wiry five-six frame, almost always in a motion mimicking his thoughts and moods.

A long, hooded black cloak, slit up the back for his tail, drapes from his narrow shoulders to engulf his slight form. Beneath, a pentagram curled with leaves dangles by a fine silver chain atop a loose black silk shirt whose collar-strings dangle untied to reveal a glimpse of the fair-skinned chest underneath. A crimson sash hangs at an angle across the comfortable black cotton breeches which are in turn swallowed by the supple black calf-length travelling boots. Barely seen beneath the cloak, the silver fox-headed hilt of a dagger emerges from the sash.

Jason lets out a soft, ringing laugh, infinitely pleased - something that came from deep in his own past, from a good place. A hand lifts from your leg to brush through your blue braids. "Figgered I'd give a little back, y'know?" Give a little what? But then, does it matter? His grin gets crooked, one little fox-tooth showing as he ducks his head into your hand, just like a cat or puppy. Please, scritch! Yeah, he wasn't supposed to give this to you, but that picture... it meant a lot to him. And he kinda wanted to show you that it's not gone from your heart. You /can/ get to it. The tail curls around him, the end of it overlapping into your lap as Jason flops down crosslegged before you. His back's to the fire, yet it still glimmers in his reflective eyes. Like an animal's. You've maybe caught glimpses of it while seeing 'normal,' but now it's pronounced. "Was hopin' ya wouldn' be mad 'n all," he murmurs, still grinning.

In the distance, thunder cracks, giving life to a flash of lightning over the bayou. Another New Orleans storm is rolling in.

"'Course m'not mad..." Trace murmurs, looking down. "Missed yer tail too much t'be mad..." Okay, so that's not true; how can one miss something when it doesn't exist in your mind? But his hand moves in instinct to brush the beautiful, soft red and white curl of fur in his lap, gentle and affectionate. The thunderclap makes him look up, hand tensing in red-gold firelit fur for a moment, but soon it resumes it's nice petting. A smile flickers at the corner of his lips. A storm..? Well, they have their shelter and warmth, high up enough that the rain probably won't touch them, so there's no need for him to be nervous. "Hey Jason...?" he asks after a few long, silent moments devoted solely to tail-appreciation. "Would I get pretty ears and a tail, if I were like you? Would I be spooky like Bonnie, or round all over and pink-cheeked like a friend I useta have...?" That thought gets a tiny giggle out of him, that he, with his sticks and angles body, might be round.

You can miss something. Because it wasn't really gone. Just... not where you would think about it. You're still close enough that you can remember things in your dreams. Jason's ears flicker back, pressing against his head at the thunderclap, and he darts a look up at the clouds rolling across the sky. In a few minutes, they'll overtake mother Moon. A small frown, but, well... yeah, shelter, warmth, and companionship are all right here. The stream usually doesn't get this high either (this place makes a good shelter during the storms). His ears pick up again at the tentative question, though, and his bright eyes seek yours out again. Pretty hazel. He likes your eyes. Of course, he likes most eyes. But especially those of the people he cares about. Brows furrow and his head tilts, the furry tail-tip flopping once in your lap as he thinks. He never really got around to figuring out who you might be related to, honestly. It was something that intrigued him, of course, but there were so many other things about you that caught his attention. But now that you put the question to him... No, not round. Hmm. Eyes that seemed unnatural /normal/ are positively glowing here as they go over your face. Pretty, but not unearthly beautiful. Cool hair, but not hairy. Not really dark-eyed, nor tinkering, nor really animalistic... He smiles a bit as the firelight glints off your earrings. You look good with the piercings. And... you... eat weird shit (even by Jason's standards) and... Confusion clouds his eyes a moment as he blinks slowly. Once. Twice. Three times. But you don't have their /temperment/. Not that he's about to complain. "Apple sure don' fall far from the tree, do it?" he murmurs softly, and then laughs, reaching out once again, this time to run his fingers over your nose, brushing the steel. "'Cap..." he mumbles to himself. And then raises the fingers to your braids and laughs outright. "/Blue/cap!" Sorry, he might not be making much sense, but he too can get a sense of wonder.

Trace wrinkles his nose as it's touched and grins then brightly, "Bluecap?" He reaches up a free hand to touch one of his braids shyly, twining it around his finger. He releases it in favor of the tail. Kid with a new toy. It's much more fun to touch, and after all, his braids will always be there. "I asked some others once..." He smiles thoughtfully. "Nobody'd answer me 'cept Kelsie. She said I'd be rainbow colored and fly. But then Pudge said to hush and chased her an' played like he was gonna clip her tail off with his dad's hedge clippers.." He giggles and shakes his head amusedly. "But I believe you." He reaches up to clasp a small hand around the pretty silver pendant. "So what're bluecaps like?" Curious hazel eyes meet yours.

Jason giggles softly. Naturally Kelsie would say such a thing if she had a tail. Can't really trust things with tails unless they're really short and... no, no, you can't trust anything with a tail. Another soft giggle comes at this line of thought, but then he clears his throat and lifts his eyes to yours. Mm, okay. As much as people get lost in his eyes, they never seem to realize Jason usually reciprocates. Slender fingers brush some braids back from your eyes and stroke them slowly. "Bluecaps're a very rare breed, 'n ya can never find 'em if you look. But if yer lucky, one appears in the most unlikeliest of places, like glittery diamonds in an iron mine." He twists the braid through his fingers, treating it just like you do his tail - after all, he'll always have his tail around. "Bein' rare, they're special. They always got sumthin' inside a' them that makes 'em unique too, kinda like snowflakes." He gets a broad grin. "Taste cool on the tongue, too." Another soft giggle escapes, but then he calms again. "They usually got some kinda trouble ta break through ta find that thing, though, 'n some never do. But the ones that do.. they're the most beautiful things ever." And it's a good thing that Jason is lost in your eyes too, 'cause that was so Seelie he'd prolly feel soiled. But then again... it /did/ come from him.

The fall breezes pick up into sporadic windy gusts, while another crackle of thunder rolls through the skies, nearer.

Trace leans into your kind hands tangled up in his braids and siiiggghhs happily. Because you know what? It'd be really keen to fly, and be rainbow-colored, but he'd so much rather be this rare, beautiful bluecap creature you're so fondly describing. "Love ya, Jason," he mumbles, glancing down bashfully, but he's immediately drawn back up into your gaze again. The approaching storm, and the thunderrumbles heralding it, don't even register. They don't exist. His whole world is firelit green eyes and the cool silver disk to which he's still clinging. Finally he releases the necklace and reaches to pet your tail again. "Thank you."

Jason's ears notice the further rumbling, even if the rest of him doesn't. One twitches and twists towards the sound, then swivels back again. No consequence for now. Jason, too, is kinda looking forward to this flying thing. Who knows, maybe once he learns the trick to it... When you raise your eyes again to his, you see his lip caught in his teeth, eyes swirling with affection. Your simple pronouncement affects him deeply, that much is obvious. Perhaps if things were different... then things would be different (ooh, deep). Fingers slide down your braids to your neck... and then drop away as Jason sighs softly, warm smile faint. Maybe this is how Walker felt the other night. Who knows? (Certainly not Jason.) There's so many ifs with this, his blue-capped dreamer. He almost wishes you /were/ fae (though, a different kind of fae), but then it wouldn't be his Trace - it'd be some other soul in your place. No, such are the ways of Kith and Kinain. Another sigh, though this one stronger, as he pries his eyes away from yours and directs them towards the wrathful grumblings outside. "Perfect timing fer a fire under a bridge," he murmurs, and then grins back to you. He scoots around beside you so he can face the fire as well (don't worry, the tail'll be back) and holds open part of his cloak as an offering. May not be the driest down here in a little bit, but at least it'll be cozy.

A flash of blinding lightening in the distance, and a long rumbling of thunder, before the clouds break, and city is engulfed in a full out downpour.

Your attention shift to the thunder directs Trace towards it as well, gaze lifting out towards the stretch of grey-black, churning velvet out there past the bridge. Then back to you, eager to join you curled up in that offered warmth. He huddles up close, letting the thick, dark fabric of the cloak drape around his shoulders, and tucks his head down close to you. "Ya warm," he smiles, and lets his eyes close a moment. The fire flickers more violently with the wind, and casts dancing gold angles and shadows onto his face, occasionally lit to stark, strobe when the lightening flashes outside. The sudden fall of rain outside, striking the concrete and soft ground all around opens his eyes again, and he looks out towards it and smiles. "I don't mind rain. It sounds pretty, anyway. An' it makes great splashin' puddles fer later..." He chuckles softly.

Jason slides both his arms , with the cloak, about your shoulders, pulling you close to him and holding you gently. The thick, bushy tail curls about your hips and the tip once again rests on your leg, twitching with the slow, comfortable rhythm of his thoughts. "Warm as ever," he murmurs softly, ducking his head to rest his chin amidst your braids. Green eyes watch the lashing flames as the wind hits, already becoming hypnotized by them. Again, one ear swivels to the sound of the rain and your movement directs his attention there. "Prolly great splashin' puddles right /now/," he mumbles with a smirk, referring to the quickness of the torrent. "Only thing I hate about rain is the mud." He grins down at you and nuzzles your braids. "Gets stuck in the paws."

Trace chuckles and one hand snakes to seek out your hand, fingers tangling up and clasping firmly. He holds up your hand so you can see it. "No paws. Look, *fingers*. An' fingers is good fer after-rain sculptin' an' mud fights and sloppy, squishy sex out in the rain." He laughs and confides, "Kay, so I'm no expert 'bout stuff, but dammit, I seen a monster truck show an' there was girls in white t-shirts cat fightin' in this mud pit, so I kin' imagine it good 'nuff." He snickers softly and lets his hand spread out, urging the same of yours, so he can put his hand palm to palm with yours. "So see, fingers got their benefits when it comes t'mud."

Jason giggles softly as you go into your recitation of the virtues of fingers (as if he didn't know them), but then chokes on it when you get to the squishy sex part. Actually, it takes him a little while to recover from that part (undoubtedly as images flit through his hyperactive imagination). But the cat-fighting girls in white t-shirts (at a monster truck show? you /were/ trailer trash!) bring him about to giggling again. Easily led by touch, he lets you do what you will with his hand, pressing the slender fingers up against yours. "Fine," he conceeds, "so, without fuzz, mud's the bomb. But still." He grins down into your hair and goes silent, eyes lingering on your hand against his. Then, after some moments, he asks, "What was Kelsie like? When'd ya know her?"

"Kelsie..." Trace keeps his hand pressed to yours for a moment longer, then closes his fingers again, gripping. He keeps his eyes there too, admiring the shared ripple of gold and shadow on the row of lined fingers and knuckles. "I didn't know her so well. She had thin, leathery pink ears and a long grey tail... Kinda squeaked when she talked. She'd creep in my window so quiet an' a couple times she told me stories. But she was 'fraid'a my ma.... Once ma came an� burst in, and she had to hide under my bed, and she left cryin'.. said I stepped on her tail, but I know she was really jest' scared." He�s quiet a moment, lost in thought, but then at last breaks into a grin. "They took turns bringin' me stuff, and I didn't have nothin' t'give, but I'd draw fer 'em, or tell stories. Pudge brought me toys he'd made, magic toys! But sometimes it'd jest be little things, a scrap 'a pretty ribbon, or a cookie, or somethin'." Maybe like a matchbook, or a pretty necklace? But Trace hasn't made that connection yet. "They were my friends," he says softly. "I promised 'em I'd draw always, n'matter what my ma said 'bout it."

Jason grins crookedly, sliding his fingers between yours and holding your hand to his chest. He hasn't been close to another person like this in a long while, and it feels good. Well, there's Bat, but it's kinda different there. "Y'always gotta be careful when people're bringin' ya stuff," he murmurs with a slight smirk. Of course, /he/ knows what was going on. His thumb rubs across your knuckles, exploring the back of your chalk-stained hands like he's done so many times before - Jason's one to always find something new in familiar things. He's quiet for a few moments, and then he says, "Yer ma..." But he doesn't finish it. If you look up, though, the look in his eyes says that if he ever met up with her, /he/ wouldn't be the one to leave crying. At least, in his head, that's how it plays out. Hard eyes turn thoughtful and his gaze goes out to the torrential rain outside, with the roiling gray clouds lit by the occasional lightning flash. "You'll always draw fer me, right?" he asks softly, ears twitching slightly as he does so.

"Yes, always!" Trace assures you, releasing your hand to gather up a giant, exuberant hug, with enough puppy-playful force to knock both boys over. He giggles and rubs his nose to yours before flopping down partially on top of you and yanking the cloak firmly so it forms something like a blanket. Though it's a bit small, since you're laying on much of it, so it's one of those blankets that never covers you completely. But that's alright. Like they both agreed earlier, Jason's warm as ever right now, surely enough to combat even the fiercest storm New Orleans can throw at them. "Always, I promise. The best'a what I can give." He's still now, cheek to your chest, and is quiet for a few long moments before suggesting, "Wanna stay here t'night? Storm's mighty awful out, 'n s'nice here." *Real* nice, if his body language and voice, thick with content, are any judge.

Jason goes over with a surprised *whumph!* and then a bright giggle. He tilts his head up a little at the nose-nuzzle, but then (with another soft *whumph* as you flop), lifts it a little to kiss the top of your head affectionately. A little butt-wriggling on his part as he tries to get most of the cloak out from beneath his body, but even with the best he can do, the ankle-length cloak doesn't quite manage to cover the both of you completely. But, yes, you're most right. The fire's still burning strongly and the wind's not /too/ vicious through the tunnel the bridge makes, so in this patch of grass, with this boy in his arms, things are quite cozy enough. A slow hand pets the braids that dangle over your neck, his heart beating a quick but steady rhythm, and with his eyes already closing with contentment, he's clearly made up his mind already. "Couldn' do better at the Hilton," he mumbles. Great thing about the triangle, there always seems to be a new Moment that you never wanna end.

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