kore_logs | I like to keep my issues drawn

Who: Jesse and OPEN
What: The best way for Jesse Finch to (healthily) get his anxieties out is by drawing and painting. Which means he's out spray painting and mural-ing (and not punching in windows). Feel free to run into him anytime, during any sort of painting!
Where: All over town
When: Day 74

Jesse is finally starting to feel normal again.

He can sleep without six or seven nightmares a night, he feels comfortable in his own bed, he doesn't have to cover the cameras - he feels at ease, and it's nice. It's something he just wants to forget, now. And the best way, he's found, is to draw it out. But today, paper isn't cutting it. He wants a bigger canvas, he wants bigger tools, and he wants more of the feeling he'd gotten when he'd tagged with Pinkman, before.

So he sets out to do that. He looks better than he has, well-fed, in less layers and without the hunched shoulders and anxious expression that's been the norm lately. People will find him all over town, hood pulled up, the sound of spray paint cans being shaken constantly, covering the walls in all sorts of art. Mostly of birds. Because Finch. Get it?

Those around the fountain will find, on a wall, the words Before I Die, I Want To: with a box of broken chalk next to it. Jesse will be nearby, painting something else - he's curious to see the answers.

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"Yeah, me --" Well. He laughs a little, bitterly. "Well, I don't remember gettin' here, anyway. I dunno what we're doing here but they ain't giving us any answers, either, so." He shrugs, pulling away from the wall to go back to painting, grabbing for a different color can.

"No point in worrying about it. We got bigger problems, bigger things t'deal with." And without looking at Pinkman: "Like you blowing smoke up my ass about me being a good person and insinuating you're a shitty one. Don't think I ain't hearing it, I speak self-deprecation like a second goddamn language."

"You - "

And he cuts off short before anything really comes out, bites down hard on his tongue until it hurts and pays some really scrutinous attention to his cigarette again rather than at Finch. 'You don't know me,' it sounds like such a chump response and he's certainly not trying to raise a scene here. Rather, he'd like nothing more in this moment than for this scene to end.

"I ain't startin' a contest here," he decides on instead, rolling his eyes and puffing idly at the cigarette, smoke pooling out of the corner of his mouth. It's not like he's the worst person to exist on the goddamn planet, he's not that much of an idiot to convince himself of that. But he puts himself pretty damn high on the list, and that much is that much. "Waddya want to hear, huh?"

"Didn't say you were," Jesse says, pausing to pick at his nails a little. "I don't wanna hear anything you don't wanna tell me, man, I'm just sayin'. When's it ever been me t'dig in your business, huh?" He doesn't, because he'd hate if the same was done to him. But still, he's not convinced.

"You know how many times you helped me, now?" Jesse asks, still not looking at Pinkman as he works. "Three times. Three times, and the last time, y'dropped all the shit you was doing to come over and reassure my stupid fuckin' brain that I weren't actually gonna get eaten by monsters under the couch."

Jesse pauses, finally looking. "You're doing a terrible fuckin' job of convincing me you're bad. Just sayin'."

"Well, what'm I s'posed to do? Kick your fuckin' puppy?" he asks a little brusquely at first, peers right back at Finch with a sharp kind of look that doesn't really work at being as threatening as he might have hoped - doesn't really know what he wants from Finch here, this weird kind of in-between where he likes the guy enough and doesn't feel like it's fair unless he knows all the details.

He hasn't been honest because he's never honest, not anymore. But it's not like his track record's been terrible here. Well, not with Finch.

Jesse pinches his nose, agitated, shuts his eyes for a moment against the conversation and takes a step back with a hand raised, a universal sign of placation.

"You're, like." And he gestures at him. "My friend. The hell else was I supposed to do?"

Jesse just raises his eyebrows. Not taking that bullshit. He's just trying to make a point, here. "We weren't friends when y'stopped me from killing myself in the lighthouse. Y'barely knew me."

He's got him there. Jesse doesn't really know what it was that landed him in the lighthouse that night. Instinct, maybe. Boredom, he'd call it starting out as. Maybe it was how the paranoia was starting to affect him, or maybe he just kinda saw something in Finch that was a little too close to home, time to time.

Jesse looks down, shrugs his shoulders. He's quiet, at first.

"Ya know what I do for a living, right? Ya figured it out a while ago."

"Y'make real fucking good meth, yeah," Jesse says, shrugging. It - really doesn't bother him. It scares him, maybe, but only because it's concerning. Because Pinkman could end up dead and probably has, several times. Jesse knows how the drug trade works and he knows how fucking terrifying it can be. "Y'do what you gotta."

Predictably, Finch doesn't seem too bothered. But Jesse already knows he's got his own poisons, maybe sunk a little deeper into that world than he's let on - he gets that vibe from him. "Like, big leagues. Like, two hundred pounds a week. Multi-fuckin'-million dollar empire goin' down the tubes while I ain't there to do my job."

He ashes his cigarette, peers at Finch with a bit of a squint, expression unreadable. "I'm good at meth. I'm real good at meth. It's the only thing I am good at."

Excuse you. Jesse scowls at that, because that sounds like bullshit to him. Sounds like someone fed him that.

"Bullshit. I seen you draw," Jesse says, almost angrily. He hates to be like this, but he will not let Pinkman get away with thinking he's not good at anything. "You're good at makin' me laugh and makin' sure I don't go batshit. And there's other shit too, shit you ain't shown me yet, but I know it's there. You ain't that kind of drug bitch, Pinkman, I know the type."

They're not exactly invalid points, it's just that Jesse is automatically ticking them off his list, waving them away like they don't belong. He's out of practice with drawing, he's barely done a thing since high school. He's good at parties, big whoop. He's good at- He was good at talking Finch down, good at getting the guy out of his funk. Good at-

His lips press together in a thin line, eyes setting into something firmer. "So what kinda type am I then, huh?"

"A good type," Jesse tells Pinkman, staring back. "Someone whose so used t'getting insults that y'can't take someone telling you good things without assumin' you're being lied to."

He used to be that. He still is that, sometimes. But he doesn't want to see Pinkman go that way, at all.

"Yeah, well-"

And he takes a drag off his cigarette, pointedly, without breaking his eye contact just yet. He's got a number of sarcastic comments lined up; none of them seem good enough. So he just flicks the spent cigarette at the wall, Finch's artwork, lets it skitter and spark at the ground before he takes a few steps back. "Takes one to know one."

He's just going to turn to leave now, waving a hand in the air. "Thanks for the psycho analysis or whatever."

Wow, yeah, that's mature. Not that Finch is any better - Pinkman flicks the cigarette at Jesse's work and turns to leave, which means he misses Jesse's middle finger. Yeah, he's a little mad.

"No problem," Jesse calls after him, pissy. "Come talk t'me when you're done actin' like a five year old, huh?" Whatever. Be an asshole, Jesse doesn't care, he'll just. Quietly fume and be sad at his wall.

I like to keep my issues drawn

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