kore_logs | I like to keep my issues drawn

Entry tags:

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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

The guy looks way better, he has to admit.

There's really nothing to do around this town; Jesse finds himself wandering out aimlessly more than anything. Walks haven't exactly ever cleared his head but maybe it's better than sticking around in a house that feels way more empty than he's gotten accustomed to here.

His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets when he comes across Finch, the smell of spraypaint permeating the air, and he stops just before the fountain mural. Before I die, huh? He points, hand still jammed into his pocket, to the empty lines before he speaks up. "Ya didn't answer it."

Jesse looks up at the familiar voice, and pushes his hood down, shrugging. What sort of answer does he want to give, here? Because there are plenty. In the end he takes a step over to the empty lines and peers down at them.

"S'more for the YOLO crowd," Jesse says casually, squinting at the words on the wall. "Been there, done that." But he'll scoot closer to pick up a piece of chalk, anyway.

Yeah, he has played that game, hasn't he? Something Jesse almost forgets and nearly drags a wince out of him when Finch replies. "There's gotta be somethin', though, am I right? Go to Italy. Fly a hot air balloon." He shrugs, tacks on, "Nail Brad Pitt or somethin'," for good measure.

"YOLO," Jesse adds after a beat or two, and it's almost a question. Three years and jargon's changed a lot with you crazy kids and your internet.

That gets a loud snort. "Definitely up there on my t'do list, there, Pinkman." No, but seriously. He shrugs, looking up at the wall for a second, and then he glances at Pinkman lazily before reaching up to scrawl against the wall.

Get married is what he writes, because nobody's going to recognize his handwriting. Glances back at Pinkman, and offers the chalk. "You next." A beat. "And it means 'you only live once'."

Bruce likes the colorful improvements to the town that he notices on his way home, but the graffiti-turned-DIY motivational poster is what gets him to stop and smile, looking over the question and the blank canvas of answers. It makes him wish he had a good answer to put there, but really, before Bruce dies? He wants to figure out how. That's a pretty morbid way to go about it, and he stands there thinking, trying to work around what has to be an ingrained negative thinking about the other guy.

Finally, he picks up the chalk and lifts it to the board, but he hesitates before he finally writes heal myself. That could he taken a lot of ways -- literally, emotionally. Maybe he means all of them.

Deciding he's done, he sets the chalk down and heads over to Jesse, sliding his hands in his pockets.

"Tell me -- and be honest, now." He stops and narrows his eyes, but he can't stop the smile that's about to bloom. "Are you Banksy?"

Get married. It's a good one and Jesse shrugs a shoulder again, plucks the chalk from Finch's hand. "Maybe a priest'll drop in some time'r another, ya can take advantage." He taps Finch on the shoulder as he moves past him, offers, "YOLT," before he stares up at the wall.

It looks more daunting than it did a few minutes ago.

Maybe his mind's just addled from that joke in such poor taste he just threw around, maybe he's had too long to think about this answer. But a flurry of emotions cross his face for a moment, the chalk raised to the board as he doesn't write anything. When he does, it's a scrawl in caps, a simple, Fᴜᴄᴋ Sᴀsʜᴀ Gʀᴇʏ. Actual answers are for chumps, and it's not like it's untrue.

Honestly, Jesse's getting a kick out of seeing the colors. It makes it a little less dreary and dull, here. He's paused to look over one of his pieces with a little smile when he hears someone in the area, so he turns, just in time to see Bruce pick up the chalk. Heal himself. It just makes Jesse want to help.

What he can do is turn fully to Bruce and grin widely at the question, rubbing at the back of his head. Oops, paint on his hoodie, but whatever. Not like he cares. "Nah, not nearly that sneaky, yeah?"

A beat, and then another, and then Jesse can't help himself. He doesn't quite throw himself at Bruce but it's a close thing. He'd talked to the Hulk - but that isn't the same. Just let him hug you for a bit, Bruce. And mutter a hey into your shoulder.

Ned spots Jesse in the midst of his spray painting, makes his way over at a leisurely pace, enjoying watching the colours and lines take shape before his eyes. Ned has been near enough to Jesse, since he came back. He's seen how hard it's been for him, is keenly aware of every inch of improvement. The fact that he's out here now, on his own, relatively at his ease, is a very good sign.

Spotting the developing collective bucket list, Ned goes over to it, peering at the things which have already been written. He picks up a piece of chalk but stands there, hand hovering.

"I don't have any idea what to write," he says, conversationally. He's never really been the kind of person who had grand ambitions and plans for the future. He'd wanted to open his own shop, had only just gotten hold of that dream before he was brought here.

Another snort, and Jesse stands back, watching as Pinkman thinks about what he's going to put on the wall. He sees all those emotions go past, and for a minute he thinks Pinkman is going to write something serious - but he doesn't. Actually, that answer makes him laugh, and maybe facepalm a little, he can't help it.

"Aw, c'mon, really?" Jesse says, reaching to nudge Pinkman. "You're gonna follow up my heart-to-heart with Sasha Grey? Not that she ain't wonderful, 'cause she is." Come on, you can do better than that. "Strike one, Pinkman. Two more and I spray paint yer face."

When he hears Ned's voice, Jesse smiles and glances over his shoulder, pushing his hood down and lowering the can. He gets it. It's a harder question than you'd think, really. It took a while for Jesse to come up with something - past his own problems and troubles with life and death, settling on one important thing had been difficult. Jesse slides over to Ned, keeping his usual careful respectful distance away from Ned and looking up at the wall.

"Took me forever," Jesse tells him, smiling a little. "Gotta be something, right? Cook every flavor of pie in the world, maybe."

"What?" He claps a hand against the side of his answer, impatiently. "It's totally legit! Waddya gonna do, turn me green? That shit don't wash off easy." And it'll get all over his favorite leather jacket, Finch, ya jerk.

He waves a passive hand at Finch back, turns back to the wall - first with a little look thrown back at Finch, almost defiant - before he writes Mᴇɢᴀɴ Fᴏx Tᴏᴏ and turns back, his hand planted lazily beside the words. The look on his face is deadpan and unbothered.

"I think I've might've already cooked every kind I know of," Ned admits, with a hint of self-deprecation. He knows how ludicrous his obsession with pies probably seems to someone like Jesse; it was his sole interest and hobby for so many years of his life. But then Jesse's never really been one to judge. After looking at the blank space at the bottom of the list for a little while longer he sets down the chalk with a little sigh. It's going to take a bit more thinking before he's ready to come up with anything.

"Which one's yours?"

Ned knows it is a personal question, but hopefully if Jesse wrote it up here in public, he won't mind owning up to which one is his. If not, he can always choose not to answer.

Bitch, please. That's strike two, and Jesse shoves a little at Pinkman this time, looking exasperated. "I mean it, fucker, I'll chase you down," Jesse warns - but he's not entirely serious, and he just rolls his eyes, flicking Pinkman on the forehead and scooting back to his unfinished wall. Fine, fine, be a butt.

"Ew, Megan Fox, by the way," Jesse says over his shoulder, uncapping his can.

Nah, he's never one to judge. He kind of thinks it's cool, even - Ned's got dedication and there's no way Jesse couldn't be a fan of that. Maybe he makes a pfft sound at what Ned says, but he doesn't push it. Definitely takes some thought, this sort of thing, which is exactly what Jesse was intending. As for the question, Jesse glances up at the wall, to Ned, and then back again, biting his lip. Well. Why not?

He leans to tap the part of the wall that says get married, shrugging slightly with a smile. "Sappy s'fuck, that's me."

"What?" Jesse defends, gestures to Finch with a wide swing of his arm, probably meant to whap him again. "She's got a nice ass. I've seen Transformers."

He flicks the chalk in his hand, lets it twirl between his fingers as he nervously and seriously regards the wall this time. There's the sound of the spraypaint spritzing in the background, Finch isn't at his back to watch every letter-

Jesse's handwriting is different from the agitated capslock from before, a less defined chicken scratch that's barely even legible, and he writes a vague, forgive myself, before he drops the chalk back where it belongs, swipes his hands against his jeans in a half a panic before he wanders back over to Finch.

That's better. Jesse doesn't let Pinkman see he's watching him do it, but he sees what the other writes. That's all he really wanted. It's the point of the wall - there's a lot of broken people, here, and Jesse isn't nearly at all equipped to handle them or help them with their problems, but it doesn't mean he won't try his best.

He just doesn't like to see his friends hurt, that's all.

And Pinkman definitely counts as a friend. A good friend, he thinks as he sprays a long line along the wall. So whatever he can do, he will. Anything he can do to make up what Pinkman's done for him so far. Jesse offers Pinkman a genuine little smile when he wanders over.

"Thanks," He says simply, glancing back up at his work. A beat, and then he speaks up again, shaking his can. "Tell me how you're doing, man. No lies, gimme straight up."

Ned grins at that, broad and unrestrained, because it's so sweet, and of course Jesse would write something like that. He's surprised he hadn't guessed it himself; it might not be a side of himself that Jesse advertises widely, but Ned has seen Jesse and Galen together.

"There are worse things to be," he points out, reaching up to push his bangs out of his eyes. Ned's always been a romantic at heart. He doesn't hold with the kind of cynicism that would look down on Jesse for writing what he did. Though he might be jaded about plenty, Ned still believes in things like true love. He hopes that Jesse finds it; if not with Galen, in the end, then with someone.

He looks over at Jesse, now that he's a bit closer. The dark circles under his eyes aren't nearly so bad as they were even a few days ago, and his movements don't have as much of a nervous edge to them. Ned is glad, wishes he knew how to say how glad he is. Instead, he settles for a soft, "How are you?" There's enough in his tone to make it more than a mere pleasantry.

Jesse's immediate reaction is defensive. It's hard to practice anything else, not when he hasn't had this sort of friend, not when he hasn't had people asking how okay he was, not sincerely - it feels almost like a trap, when Finch asks, and Jesse's face initially turns into a bit of a sneer, something scoffing.

"I've been-" And his face dips off for a moment, even with his hackles risen like they are now, every inch of him on guard. "Thinkin'," he finishes vaguely, before he swats a hand at the air near Finch and traipses sharply into a different direction.

"Yo, asks the guy who just- kicked it recently. What're you askin' me for?"

He rubs at the back of his head with a rueful sort of grin of his own when Ned grins at him like that. It's definitely not something that he lets out often - in the past he's made fun of married couples, but that was before he met Galen. The rockstar really changed everything, and it hit him when he arrived here. A lot of shit has gone down between them, and there are problems, but Jesse's already decided for himself that if he was to marry anybody, it'd be Galen. It feels right.

The question makes Jesse glance back at Ned, and he turns to the piemaker, shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets.

"Better," Jesse tells him, his voice relaxed. "Still - things, that bother me, but better. Feels less like m'drowning." Deep breath. "S'really thanks t'you and the others. S'your magic healing pie, that helped." As usual, he doesn't give himself any credit.

All that sneer gets is a raised eyebrow from Jesse. Finch ain't taking that bullshit from you, Mr. Pinkman. The guarded thing isn't necessary at all and Jesse's determined to break it down and sidestep the distractions. He points the can at Pinkman once before turning it back on the wall.

"Cause we fuckin' been over how I feel," Jesse tells his nametwin, rolling his eyes. "I died. There was a whole lotta nothing and I probly deserved it. See, simple. Thinkin' bout what?" Wow, that was a whole lot of casual, jeeze.

"Hey," Jesse rebuts, a bit disheartened this time. There's a whole lot of familiar in what Finch says sometimes, these little allowances that make his chest jerk in the slightest, lets the guilt delineate what it will somewhere in his gut. Now's one of those times, and he takes a step inward, glosses over the question about him one more time.

"There's some real scumbags out there, some real bad guys that, ya know, actually deserve what's comin' to 'em," he jabs a finger into Finch's arm, lets it stay there and pressing presently into his shoulder. "And then there's the guys that never should'a seen it comin', even if they think they oughta."

"Never underestimate the power of pie," Ned says, eyebrows lifted with false gravity. Jesse's honesty in admitting that everything isn't perfect, that it isn't as if nothing had happened in the first place, is comforting. In Ned's experience, categorical claims of complete recovery are often a sign of the opposite.

He isn't sure if there's anything else he ought to say, at a moment like this. Certainly not you're welcome, even if Jesse had thanked him. That would be absurd. He hadn't done anything, not really. But he wants to say something, to acknowledge what Jesse is trying to say.

"Glad to help." And then, briskly, he says, "What are you painting? I can't tell what it is yet - or is it supposed to be abstract?"

The finger jabbing makes Jesse scowl, and he pulls away from it, turning to look fully at Pinkman. He won't try to argue the point, because Jesse knows he never wins it. Instead, he's going to get past this stupid distraction.

"Y'don't know how scummy of a guy I been. But whatever. S'old news, Pinkman, old news. It really that hard t'answer a question?" Poor Pinkman. If there's one thing Jesse's terrible at letting people fix, it's his self esteem. "All I ask is you tell him how yer doing, tell me true, and you change the tables. I wouldn't ask if I didn't care, motherfucker."

He can admit things are still wrong, but it doesn't mean he won't be flippant about it. He just hasn't the chance, yet - and maybe he's a little scared to do so with Ned. Ned's really, really good at calling him out on his bullshit, which makes Jesse less inclined to let the nasty little voice in the back of his head have a turn.

Instead, Jesse keeps that smile on his face and looks up at the wall again, pulling out the can to shake it. "Abstract," Jesse says, reaching to put his palm flat out on part of the brick. The paint's still wet, so it comes off on his fingers, but he doesn't seem to mind. "Abstract birds, yeah? I know, m'clever."

Because of his name. "S'been a while since I done this. You ever tried?"

"Yeah, well, maybe ya gotta enlighten me some time, cuz I sure as shit ain't seen anything that'd put ya on the losing team over here," Jesse returns, almost a growl, and he's digging at one of his inside pockets with angry fingers, picks at the carton in his jacket with two lonely cigarettes inside.

How's he doing, other than some roiling guilt, other than a vague memory of hell and where he's going when he's six feet under. "I mean, I'm clean," forcibly so, "ain't I? Bein' a real upstanding citizen down in the fuckin' Cape, yeah, I'm fine." The cigarette hangs haphazardly from his lips at once but he doesn't look back up from the pack, just lets his index finger play idly along the foil inside, stares at it until his eyes cross. "I'm real fine."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 8

I like to keep my issues drawn

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject