Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s something very funny about being back in the real world— in the sense that it doesn’t feel very different from the circus. Not in the important ways, anyway.

It’s annoying, it’s bothersome, it’s anger-inducing, time consuming, way more effort than it’s worth, and very… 

Well, Jax doesn’t want to say lonely, because that would be admitting far more than he’d like, but it’s reminiscent of the feeling. It’s an odd thought, because Jax is anything but alone. Not anymore, at least. He and the others have weekly meetings every Monday, where they catch up on their lives and talk about how they’re adjusting after the whole circus incident.

Which— yeah, it was a traumatizing experience for the majority of the members, but it’s been almost a year since they got out. There’s not much more adjusting to be done, is there? 

Not that Jax particularly cares, he’s been adjusting just fine. The government paid them generously to help them get back on their feet after they were all missing for years— save for Pomni, of course, who’d only been gone a few months at most— and he’s managed to get himself a crappy little apartment.   

It’s small, dimly lit, and barely furnished, but it’s his. He rented this place, and it’s not too far from Ragatha and Pomni’s apartment complex, so he supposes that’s a bonus. If he cared about that sort of thing, anyway. 

He’s had a couple of jobs, but he’s been let go more times than he can count because of his ‘temper problems’ (something he’d rather die than tell the others about). Which, it’s not his fault the customers are fumbling idiots— God forbid a guy speak his mind when he’s being verbally abused. 

He’s yet to get another job, since he’d rather work at Spudsy’s for an eternity than go back into customer service in the real world, and he’s finding it increasingly difficult to get motivated to find a new one. 

He’s finding it increasingly difficult to do most things, lately. He really only drags himself out of bed those Mondays for their group meetings, if only because he knows that if he ever missed a day without saying anything, the entire group would hunt him down at his apartment, and that was the last thing he wanted.

He doesn’t want them to waste their time on something pointless like his laziness, so he slugs on with a lopsided smile. They meet up at the park, like always; Gangle and Zooble talk about how well their relationship is going, Ragatha and Pomni admit they’ve been going on dates, Kinger shares his progress in therapy, and Jax cracks a few jokes.

By the fourth week of ‘slugging on,’ however, he doesn't even bother trying to match their energy. He’s sure Pomni notices, or Zooble, or maybe even Ragatha, but he doesn’t care. He doesn't tell them anything; they don’t ask. 

He spends most nights staring at the ceiling, waiting for dreamless sleep to take him. It hardly ever comes, and he finds himself falling into a deep hole. His apartment becomes dirty— abandoned laundry, take-out boxes he hardly ever finishes, dust sitting on every surface. He can’t bring himself to pick up.

On a random Sunday, a day he can’t even be bothered to remember the date of, only a couple of months since they escaped the circus, Jax decides he should take his own life. 

The very next day, Monday, he attends the meeting and says goodbye when they part ways instead of his usual, “see ya, losers,” which only gets him a few confused glances.

On Tuesday, he withdraws some money from his bank account and pays the rent for the following month. His landlord gives him his usual distrusting look.

On Wednesday, he sits on his bed, covered with clothes and dirty sheets, and tears the rest of the months off his calendar. It takes him thirty minutes to do so, his mind can’t be quiet.

On Thursday, he lays in bed the whole day and stares at the wall. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything else— he doesn’t have much else to do, anyway.

On Friday, he calls the other five and gives them half-assed apologies. That is, he insulted them as soon as they picked up the phone, then told them they were “alright” people— even Gangle, who seemed satisfied with the compliment. Tch. Typical.

On Saturday, he decides to go through with his plan. It's a good day. He sits in the bathroom, against the cold and hard tile, and closes his eyes to think. One final time.

…

Pomni’s been… worried, lately. 

Well, that’s a bit of a broad statement. She’s always worried— about her job, her rent, her family, and of course her friends. After the circus incident, as they’ve been calling it, she’s made sure to reach out to them consistently. It’s familiar to her, and she’s glad to know that they feel the same way too. They've got their weekly meetings, which help remind her that this is real— that they actually did get out. 

She loves seeing their faces, their real ones, smiling at each other and talking about their lives. It’s a beautiful feeling, to breathe for the first time in months. Or years, in their cases. 

They have their ups and downs. Sometimes it’s hard for them to remember where they are, sometimes all it takes is a bad dream to remember the days back in the Circus, and it’s hard to come back to reality. But they have each other, and they manage.

So, yeah, she’s always worried. Right now, though, she’s worried about Jax in particular. It’s an odd feeling (and a deeply familiar one), since their relationship has always been a bit messy, but he’s been off lately.

It’s hard not to get concerned when he’s still so… secretive outside of the circus. They’ve all got their secrets, of course, but he takes it to an extra level. Fortunately and unfortunately, depending on who’s looking at it, his face is an open book in the way his avatar never allowed, and it easily tells Pomni that something is up.

He’s stopped answering her messages recently (not that he was an adamant replier to begin with, but still, concerning), and after their last meeting, he’d said goodbye. As if he were preparing to leave them, as if he were going to go somewhere far away. He’s never said goodbye.

Then, of course, yesterday, on a rainy Friday, he’d called her to tell her she was a good person. Well, that was sugar coating it— he’d said she was just okay, which is as much of a compliment as someone like Jax is willing to give. And sure, the call was too short to really be called a conversation, but it was out of the norm for him to call at all. 

Now she’s sitting in her apartment, wringing her hands together as Ragatha patters around the kitchen, trying her very hardest to pretend she isn’t completely staring at Pomni as she cooks. She’s curious, Pomni can tell.

“So… anything interesting going on?” She eventually asks, rather unsubtly, when the anticipation has clearly become too much for her. Pomni glances at her, brows furrowed. She presses her lips together, searching for the words.

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly, “maybe I’m overreacting.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true!” Ragatha encourages, sweet as ever, and Pomni is ever thankful for it. The others hated it— or at least found it bothersome— and criticized her for the optimism, the smiles in the dark moments, but Pomni always knew she meant well. It’s how she shows her support. Pomni gives her a soft smile, hoping to come across as just as encouraging as she is.

“It’s… I’m worried,” she starts carefully, finding her footing on uneven ground. Ragatha immediately turns the stove off and walks over to the couch where her girlfriend is, and slowly sits down beside her.

“Well, I’m all ears,” Ragatha replies, offering, and Pomni knows she means it.

“It’s about Jax,” Pomni spits out, glancing away from Ragatha as she squeezes her fingers together. She feels Ragatha straighten up slightly beside her, but she can’t find it in herself to even be bothered by the fact. After everything, Jax is still as distant as ever– as mean as ever– so she can’t quite blame her. 

But Ragatha doesn’t say anything, she just gives her an understanding smile and stands true to her words. Pomni runs a hand through her dark hair, strands falling over her face despite being tied back into a neat bun. 

“He was weird during our last meeting. I- I know you guys probably didn’t notice it, but he was seriously off. I think something is wrong? But I don’t have any way of knowing because he’s so distant and he has never gotten close with me again ever since—“

She cuts herself off with a frustrated sigh, throwing her hands onto her lap. She startles only slightly when her lovely partner reaches over and slides her hands over Pomni’s. She meets her eyes, ever so gentle and so much warmer than they could ever be on her avatar. 

“I noticed it, Pom,” is all she says, and Pomni visibly relaxes. Confirmation. So… not crazy. Not imagining things, not hallucinating— 

She shakes her head to clear her thoughts, looking up at Ragatha. She opens her mouth to question, but the redhead just shakes her head. “We ought to keep our distance, Pomni. I know you mean well, but Jax doesn’t do well when he’s surrounded or cornered. He prefers to handle things by himself.”

Ragatha gives that sad smile she always does when she doesn’t quite believe her own words, and her next comment just sounds… wrong. “I’m sure whatever he’s going through, he can solve it on his own.”

Pomni wants to believe her— really wishes she could— but the uneasy pit in her stomach doesn’t fade. It sits there, heavy. She almost wants to throw up from the anxiety. This can’t be it— that can’t be the solution, can it?

No. No. Sure, that was what they used to do in the circus; that’s what Jax used to do, how he dealt with things, but they’re not in the circus. Not anymore. 

Jax’s unhealthy coping mechanisms don’t exactly work in the real world, and the thought terrifies Pomni, because it means he’s probably out there trying to find a new way to cope with their situation. He’s never been the best at finding good ways to deal with things, and she doesn’t like the way that thought sits in her mind. 

When it becomes increasingly obvious that Pomni has not been at all reassured, Ragatha just sighs heavily. The brunette just stares at the floor, slightly ashamed about being so worried, hardly even reacting when her girlfriend stands and walks away. 

A few moments later, black Mary Jane shoes come into Pomni’s view. She glances up to see Ragatha standing directly in front of her, wearing her coat and holding out a smaller, black jacket. 

“I’m sure Jax is alright, but if it’ll make you feel better to go check on him, then we can go really quick, okay?” She murmurs in a soft voice, offering the jacket. Pomni gives her a shaky smile, standing to let her slide the sleeves over her arms.

“What about dinner?” Pomni asks as they head out the apartment door. Ragatha locks the door behind them, tucking herself into her jacket and taking Pomni’s hand in hers as they walk down the hall. “Dinner can wait a little bit. We won’t be long— and we could always invite Jax, too.”

The shorter girl cracks a smile. “As if he’d ever join us for that.”

They make their way down the apartment complex, out the front doors, and straight to Ragatha’s car parked just outside the building. It’s chilly outside, late October, but the heater is blasting hot air and it hits Pomni’s face wonderfully. She sinks into her seat, picking at the leather as they drive down to Jax’s apartment building. He only lives a few blocks away, so the drive isn’t long. They’re parked before she can even register the trip.

They make their way through the crappy lobby and dusty hallways to his floor, cringing when they hear what seems to be his neighbors very clearly arguing. They never understood why he holed himself away here— they were all paid fairly well, well enough to get nice homes, but he still chose this. A dingy, little apartment in a crappy little building. They always held their tongues about it; It’s not their place to judge, or comment, they suppose. 

Pomni knocks first— quick, rapid taps against his door. When there’s no answer, her heart leaps to her chest and she tries again, a little harder this time. They wait a few minutes, hoping to hear the sound of shuffling inside. When there’s still no answer, Ragatha leans forward and gives one of her sturdy knocks. They stare at the door, patience wearing thin. Pomni feels the anxiety rising.

“Jax?” Ragatha calls, assuming that perhaps he just wasn’t answering because he didn’t know who was at the door. It’s a shady place, after all, so she can’t blame him. She calls to no avail, though. There’s no answer, no sign of life at all. The neighbors seemed to have quieted down for a moment, plunging the hallway into an eerie silence.

Ragatha glances down at Pomni, who looks like she’s about to be downright sick. “It’s alright,” she immediately reassures, leaning forward to press a hand to her girlfriend’s back, rubbing gently. “He’s alright, he’s probably just sleeping. He took a lot of naps back in the circus, you know.”

She isn’t sure who she’s trying to convince anymore.

“No, this— something is wrong,” Pomni rebuttals, reaching forward and trying the doorknob. It’s locked, of course, Jax is nothing without his locked doors. She stares at the door for a long while, and has half a mind to question if he’s abstracted. Hah. How silly.

Ragatha gives her a sad look, brows furrowing as she thinks about a solution. Something to quell the younger girl’s nerves. She elbows her gently, gesturing to the stairs. “We could always ask the front office for some help?”

Pomni doesn’t reply for a moment, doesn’t even seem like she heard her at all, before nodding curtly. They make their way back downstairs, to the front office that belongs to some sketchy man— the landlord, apparently— who gives them a spare key, but not before asking for twenty dollars.

They give him ten, and they’re heading back up before they can even question his sense of morality. That is who Jax has been paying rent to? Seriously?

The key hardly fits into the key slot, but with a bit of wiggling and a lot of persistence, it eventually slides in and unlocks the door. They gently push it open, both girls peaking their head into the room. They hadn’t ever seen Jax’s apartment, but they suppose there isn’t much to see with the lights off, anyway.

They step into the place, flicking the lights on. It looks… really empty, and sad. It’s barely got any furniture, and the floor is covered in trash. It looks just about how they expected Jax’s apartment to look, in all honesty, but it doesn’t make it any easier to see.

It’s very quiet, save for the neighbors who have started arguing again, and it’s almost uneasy. It’s eerie here, as if they were standing in nothing more than a memory. It’s the most real Pomni has felt since coming back to the real world, and she hates it. It feels dirty, it feels grimy. This is the real world. It sits heavy in the pit of her stomach.

They don’t spot Jax in the main room, so they continue into the small apartment, calling out for him gently. He must be really asleep to not have heard them come in. 

Pomni can’t wait to see the look on his face when he wakes up; it sure will be a surprise to see them here.

…

Jax has flown many a times. In the circus, it was all he ever did. Caine made them float for adventures, he tossed them into the air and sent them crashing down– but it was never comparable to the feeling of flying. That feeling of escaping into your mind, the feeling of freedom. Caine could make them levitate all he wanted, but only Jax could make himself fly. It’s what made him so disgustingly human. 

Tch. There’s something poetic there, he supposes– something about how freedom is something only a living being could feel. But he’s tired of feeling freedom, he wants to be it, in every sense of the word, even if that doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t know what makes sense anymore. He doesn't know what is.

He thinks death is the closest thing to being free, because he’s not feeling. There’s nothing to feel when your consciousness is slipping, but there’s so much to be. He wants to be something, he thinks. He doesn’t even care if it’s free anymore. Nonexistent? Gone? Over with? Dead? He just wants to be. 

He’s rambling– he’s dying, and his thoughts are still racing. What kind of crap is that? Isn’t death supposed to be a peaceful experience? He doesn’t know. 

He’s lying on his dirty bathroom floor, covered in grime because of his neglect, in his own blood. What a ridiculously real way to go. He hates it. He can’t wait for this to be over. He can’t wait for himself to be over. His eyes are blurry, but he can’t get them to close. He thinks saliva bubbles through his lips and down his cheeks and chin, but he can’t get himself to move. He’s stuck somewhere, in limbo or something. All the sounds around him are muffled. 

If he concentrates hard enough, he can almost hear voices. Are they the voices of the afterlife? Jax has never been a religious man, but maybe he should have gone to a priest or something before all of this just in case, right? They’re soft voices, though, so surely it means he’s going to heaven. If that was any indicator, anyway.

Only– well, okay, they aren’t so soft anymore. They’re loud, and roaring, and burning into his ears. Guess this means he’s going to hell after all, what a shame. There couldn’t be a fate worse than this life, though, so he doesn’t feel that alarmed. Or maybe his relaxation means death’s finally catching up to him– his lungs certainly feel like they’re about to take their final breath.

He can’t even get any noise to escape his throat when he’s jostled, someone’s hot arms pulling him forward and grabbing onto his shoulders. The voices are loud; he thinks he feels droplets on his face. No. He can’t feel. He won’t. The same person– an angel, if he were a believer of that sort of thing– squeezes him tight, and their breath is hot against his ear. His body feels cold. Their golden touch melts him. 

There’s a distant buzzing– flies over a dead body. He wonders how long it will take the little critters to take him over; he wonders how much longer it would take for somebody to find him. He doesn’t think he ever wants to be found. The angel’s breath shudders against him, and he feels another presence loom beside them, peering over. A second pair of hands joins, as if they were feeling him up to see if he were good. To see if he was worthy. He’s a filthy person– a human, after all– so he doesn't think there’s much to find. There never was. 

He tries to close his eyes, to block out the dim fluorescent light of his bathroom, but the angels keep him awake. They force him to look into the light, a shaking hand coming up to wipe at his chin and mouth. The other hand, clearly much smaller, pats his cheeks encouragingly. He registers his name, only– that’s not really his name, is it? Jax. Who is Jax? Who is he? Are they one in the same? Were they ever? What a weird time to have a crisis. These angels are really annoying. They won’t let him sleep. 

“Jax,” the voice murmurs at him, voice shuddering and scared, and full of tears. “Please.”

The smaller hand brushes his hair back, and he makes out a blurry figure in front of him. “Jax,” she says, “stay awake. Look at me, Jax. Just keep looking at me.”

He doesn’t want to, he just wants to be done, but he does it anyway. Something about her voice makes him believe he should. He stares at the figure, and all he can think is man, this sucks.

…

The circus was lightwork. Matter of fact, Pomni almost feels bad for ever complaining about it. She’d been so focused on getting back to the real world, to her life, that she blocked out what she hated about it. She blocked out the bad parts, and she thinks she hates herself for it; she loathes her mind, because she never considered that perhaps those bad parts made up a whole for somebody else. Somebody like Jax.

Jax, who they know nothing about. Jax, who is the youngest member of their group. Jax, who they always knew existed but never really processed him as existing. Jax, who is currently sitting somewhere in the emergency room as Pomni and Ragatha sit in the waiting room. There’s a buzzing light somewhere above them, monotone and endless, signifying the bulb’s end. No, no– Pomni shouldn’t be thinking about the end of anything. Not after tonight. 

She sneaks a glance at Ragatha, who is sitting motionless beside her, staring wide-eyed at the floor. Her hands and arms are covered in dried blood, her lavish jacket– which had been an anniversary gift from not too long ago– was stained, likely permanently. She had stains on her cheeks. The nurses had offered to let her change and clean herself off, but Ragatha hardly processed the words. She just wordlessly sat down, Pomni in tow. 

Pomni assumes she doesn’t look much better. Sure, she isn't as filthy as her girlfriend (she didn’t squeeze Jax and embrace him like she did), but she’s still covered in sweat and her hands are equally as stained. She intertwines her fingers together, staring blankly at her pale hands, splashed with red and brown. She wishes they were red and blue, instead.

She had shot a quick text to their group chat– the one they made once all the members got a phone, graciously dubbed “Circus Freaks” by Jax himself– but she hadn’t given much detail. All she had told them was that they were in the E.R.'s waiting room because Jax wasn’t in good shape. They jumped to questions, of course, but Pomni couldn’t get herself to repeat what she saw. She left her phone in her pocket.

A nurse dressed in dark blue scrubs walks out into the waiting room, scanning the area. It’s empty, save for Pomni and Ragatha. It’s late at night, and the only other people that would have been here would only be here for emergencies. Like they are right now. The nurse’s eyes land on them, taking in their zoned out appearances, and very awkwardly offers them a smile when they glance up to meet her gaze.

“I assume you're both here for Michael?” she asks, and Pomni’s mind blue screens. Right. Michael. Jax was still a real person, outside of all of this; he had a life, and a name. They all had names, of course, it’s just… after those months and years of not having them, they don’t really… fit anymore. They only ever refer to each other as their circus names. 

Ragatha immediately stands, pulling Pomni up with her, as she nods worriedly. “Yes, yes, is he– is he okay?” Her voice shakes when she asks. 

The nurse hums thoughtfully, clasping her hands together and giving them a sympathetic look. “Well, he’s physically alright. He’s no longer in the emergency room, so that’s good,” she murmurs, “but mentally, it’s really anyone’s guess. You two know him better, so you’d be better at assessing his mental health.”

Pomni wants to scoff at her words– we don’t know him any better than you do, she wants to say, but she holds her tongue. Ragatha grips her curls in her hands in that usual way of hers that signifies she’s stressed. She lets out a heavy breath through her teeth, swallowing heavily. “I suppose… he has been pretty distant lately. Not joking as much. I-I just– I just assumed…”

The nurse gives her a sad look, gesturing to the front desk. “It happens. We have resources,” she says quietly, “for counselors and therapists. You could pick up some information pamphlets and booklets up at the front. There are a lot of things to do in times like this.”

Ragatha nods, the action so small that it’s hardly noticeable, but it’s there. She lowers her hands to clasp them in front of her chest, brows furrowed. “Can we… see him, then?”

The nurse ponders, before giving them a soft smile. “I don’t see why not, he’s got his own room. Room 157, I think? If you can’t find it, you can always ask another doctor or the front desk for help. I do believe he’s asleep right now, though, so be aware of that. I don’t think he’ll wake up any time soon.”

They both nod at that, and the nurse allows them to walk away and wander the halls. Ragatha is walking like she’s on a mission, hardly even noticing where she’s going, when Pomni suddenly grabs her hand. She glances back, confused and frantic all at once. She needs to see him, why is Pomni stopping her? Doesn’t she understand that–

Oh. She takes in Pomni’s face and feels her frustration simmer. Of course she understands, she had been there when they found him; she was friends with Jax, way more than Ragatha ever was. Of course she’s worried too. So then why…? “Pomni?” she questions, voice echoing through the empty hallway.

The shorter girl lets go of her hand, standing up straight and gesturing vaguely at them both. “We’re covered in blood, Ragatha. I think it’d be best to change our clothes and get cleaned up before we go see him. I-I just… I don't want him to wake up and see us like this.”

“He won’t wake up,” Ragatha reassures, but her words feel flat. How many times had she reassured that he was okay only for her to be completely wrong? She bites her tongue. It’d probably be best for the both of them to wind down. “Alright. We can wash our hands and faces in the bathroom, maybe ask Zooble to bring us some spare clothes?”

Pomni gives her a smile and a curt nod, and they both change direction toward the bathroom. The brunette pulls out her phone and shoots Zooble a text, asking if they can stop by her apartment and get them a change of clothes.

Zooble replies in a matter of seconds, promising to bring some shirts and pajama pants, so they head to the nearest bathroom to wash off all of Jax’s dried blood from their skin. 

Pomni stands at the sink, scrubbing and scrubbing, but there’s still some red caked under her finger nails. Nothing to be done about that right now, she supposes. She glances over and sees Ragatha staring blankly at her hands, the water still running over them. She wonders if her girlfriend is thinking the same things as she is right now— that is, picturing Jax lying on the bathroom floor, eyes glossed over and teeth grit. 

“Rag?” She calls out, walking over and pressing a hand to her arm. That seems to snap her out of it, and she gazes down at her for a moment before giving a shaky smile. She dries her hands quickly, glancing down at her phone when it dings.

“They’re here, we should go back to the lobby.”

“You don’t want to stop by Jax’s room first?”

Ragatha sighs, brushing her hair back. Her curls are frizzy now, individual strands flying in different directions. She looks as exhausted as Pomni feels. 

“I think we should explain the situation to everybody first,” she murmurs slowly, opening the bathroom door for Pomni to go through. “We can all catch up and decide on where to go from there while Jax sleeps. Then maybe we could take turns visiting him? I think it’s only two visitors per room.”

Pomni nods, rather unsubtly sliding her hand into Ragatha’s as they walk into the E.R. True to their word, everybody is there— Gangle and Zooble are sitting together, the shorter girl twiddling her fingers together nervously, and Kinger sits across from them. 

“Hey, guys,” Pomni quietly murmurs, breaking the silence. The other members' heads snap up to stare at the couple before them, hardly even processing their appearance before they’re standing up to interrogate them. Their voices overlap one another.

“What‘a going on?”

“Are you two alright?”

“Is Jax alright?”

“You can’t just text us like that and expect us to—!”

Zooble cuts themself off, staring with wide eyes as they seem to finally take note of their bloodstained clothing. Their eyes flicker between Ragatha and Pomni, Gangle and Kinger gasping from behind them when they seem to also take in their appearance.

It’s silent for a long while, all of them standing in the waiting room as they process what they’re seeing, what it could mean.

“What happened?” Kinger speaks up from behind the couple, walking up to gaze at both of them knowingly. Pomni presses her lips together nervously, her heart pounding out of her chest. She squeezes her hands together so hard it hurts.

“I—“ She starts, but she can’t get the words out. Every time she tries, she pictures Jax. She sees his tragically young face, how his dirty hair glided through her fingers as she brushed his overgrown bangs back, how Ragatha squeezed his limp body as if it’d save him. 

Her throat closes up. From beside her, Ragatha chokes on a sob. Pomni can’t even look at her, but she knows her girlfriend well enough to picture her face. Brows furrowed, bottom lip wobbling as big tears slid down her cheeks. 

The others’ faces soften; Zooble walks up to Pomni’s side as Gangle moves to Ragatha’s, Kinger using his large frame to bring them all into a group hug, effectively squishing Pomni and Ragatha in the middle. They stand like that for a long moment, only the sounds of each other sounding through the waiting room. It’s a tragic sight, really.

Eventually, they pull away, all of them standing in a small circle. 

“Where is Jax?” Gangle asks in a quiet voice, eyes frightful and worried. That’s funny, Jax would have said right about now, the crybaby actually cares about me. How embarrassing.

“Jax is…” Pomni starts slowly, picking up on the fact that Ragatha doesn’t want to speak. “He’s here, obviously. He got hurt and we called the ambulance and he was in the emergency room for a while, but now he’s in his own room. They said he was okay, but he lost so much blood and he wasn’t moving, and I was so scared, and I didn’t know what—“

“Pomni,” Zooble calls, hand rubbing her shoulder, “take a breath.”

“What happened to him?” Kinger asks, voice gentle in the way they’re still getting used to. “You said he got hurt?”

Pomni offers a jerky nod.

“Did he get into an accident?”

A shaky shake of her head, and she hears Ragatha exhale sharply beside her. “No,” Ragatha murmurs, voice rough and weepy, “no, he— he—“

“He did it to himself,” Pomni finished for her, burning holes into the ground. She clenches her hands into tight fists, suddenly feeling angry. “The asshole thought so highly of himself that he’d rather try to take his own life than talk to us, is that it? He thinks we’re not worth the effort?”

There’s a hand on her cheek, tilting her head up. She meets Kinger’s sad eyes, and suddenly realizes that she’s crying. She’s angry at the implication of why Jax is here, but her fury is betrayed by her tears. Her cheeks burn red with despair. 

“No,” Kinger says slowly. “No, Pomni, we both know that’s not it.”

Her bottom lip wobbles, and she’s trying so hard to stop herself from screaming at them. She wipes at her eyes furiously, shoulders hiking up. Kinger’s right, of course. Jax doesn’t think they’re not worth the effort, he thinks he’s not worth the effort. It makes her feel sick.

“Jax tried to take his own life?” Zooble asks, tone indescribable. They’re staring at Pomni with wide eyes, Gangle standing beside them with a matching expression. Pomni and Ragatha nod their heads in scary unison. Gangle’s pale hands come up to her face as she gasps, tears already forming in her eyes. Always so emotional, Jax comments from afar. 

“But y-you… you said he’s alright?” She asks, voice high-pitched and scared. Her eyes are big and round, brows arched up in that familiar way of hers. Pomni gives her a nod.

“Yeah,” she confirms quietly, “he’s getting some rest. Last we heard, he was asleep.”

“Heard?” Zooble questions, “have you guys not seen him?”

Pomni shakes her head, but Ragatha is the one who answers. “No, we wanted to… clean ourselves up a bit. We’re kind of a mess. A-and we wanted to explain everything to you guys first.”

The other three take in their filthy clothes and hum in acknowledgment. Zooble’s brows raise, and they hold out the bag in their hand– the clothing. Pomni hadn’t even noticed it.

“Thanks Zooble,” Ragatha sighs with a small smile, taking the bag from their grasp. She takes Pomni’s hand in her, squeezing tightly. She gestures down the hall. “You guys can go see him, if you’d like. It’s only two guests per room, but I’m sure they’d let a third person pass, just this once.”

Kinger shakes his head. “No, we’ll wait for you. We can all go up together. Two can go in together, and the rest of us can sit right outside the room. In case of an emergency.”

Ragatha considers for a moment, before a tired smile grows on her face. She gives him a nod, and the pair of girlfriends head into the bathroom once more to change. 

The other three wait patiently outside the door, standing in silence. “I can’t believe Jax would do something like that,” Zooble says, “I mean, I just assumed he… I don’t know.”

“It’s scary,” Gangle whispers, squeezing the hem of her cat themed sweater. “I got so used to him being some force not to be reckoned with, I guess I… forgot that he was one of us, too.”

“Stop,” Zooble immediately scolds. “I know what you’re doing, Gangle. Don’t forgive him for what he did just because he has more feelings than he lets on. He was still crappy. Especially to you.”

“I’m not forgiving him,” the shorter girl defends, voice raising just a bit. She lets out a small sniffle. “It’s just—  it’s not so wrong to humanize him, is it?”

Zooble paused, lips pressed together as their brows furrow. Thinking, thinking— because, yeah, Gangle has a point. This is a mess. They don’t know how to feel right now. “I don’t get him,” they say eventually, “I don’t get him at all.”

“You don’t have to,” Kinger speaks up, arms crossed as he leans against the wall, eyes tired. “Jax is a bit of an oddball. We’ve never been able to understand him. The important thing is that we’re here. That you’re here, Zooble. I’m sure this isn’t where you wanted to spend your night, but we appreciate it.”

Zooble stares at him for a long while, taking in his words. They’re not heartless, they would— of course they’d show up if someone was in the hospital, even Jax! They care, deep down, about the wellbeing of everyone. Jax is just, he’s just—

They let out a low groan. “I wouldn’t want to spend the night in the hospital for any of you. I’d prefer it if you were all alright, actually. Even Jax. He’s an asshole and an idiot, but—” They pause, brows furrowed, lips pulled into a frown. “But he’s my age, and he has a lot to learn or whatever. All I’m saying is that I think you should all be a little harsher on him.”

“Sure,” Kinger agrees, taking Zooble by surprise. “We could’ve gotten a lot farther by being a lot tougher on him, but we’re past that point. Right now, that isn’t what he needs. Right now, he just… needs help.”

Zooble hums in almost agreement. Before they or Gangle have the chance to reply, Pomni and Ragatha exit the bathroom in freshly changed clothes. Ragatha points down the hall. “We can go now,” is all she says.

The others nod along and follow beside her as they make their way down the hall and onto the elevator. They walk and walk and walk for what feels like an eternity before the redhead stops them in front of a door. 157. Pomni does them the favor of going first, grabbing the knob and twisting it. The door jams a bit, and it takes her back to earlier that night, when she’d been trying to get Jax’s door open and she couldn’t, completely unaware of what was going on inside.

She shakes her head, pushing a little harder and swinging the door open just a smidge. She glances inside the dimly lit room, spotting the figure on the bed, but finding no doctors around. 

“Okay,” she says, leaning back a bit, “he’s here. Who wants to go first?”

“Well, you and Ragatha were the ones who found him, so… I think I speak for everyone when I say you should get the closure of seeing him,” Zooble answers on the others’ behalf. Kinger and Gangle only nod in agreement.

Ragatha and Pomni glance at each other, before nodding slowly, stepping into the room together and closing the door behind them. The room is dimly lit when they enter, but the lights brighten ever so slightly when they sense movement. They stare ahead the bed— there lies Jax, in all his glory, propped against the pillows and bandages wrapped around his arms, with an IV coming out of his left arm. 

He’s asleep, of course, completely unaware of his situation. He won’t be happy when he wakes up, but right now he looks peaceful. His eyes are closed, face entirely relaxed as he slumbers on. It’s similar to how they found him in the bathroom, but so different all at once.

The girls make their way to his bedside, Pomni stepping up and clasping his hand in hers. He’s warm, a reliving improvement from his previous state (cold, cold, cold). Ragatha steps up beside her, sliding her hand on top of Pomni’s as they both rest their palms atop Jax’s hand. 

He would hate this, if he were awake. He’d probably cuss them out and insult them, but they know he needs this. He needs love, even if it has to be given to him at an unconventional time. 

“Jax,” Pomni says, voice low and shaky. She’s heard that people can often hear their loved ones when they’re in comas; Jax isn’t in a coma, of course, but maybe it still rings true. She hopes he hears her, even if she realistically knows it doesn’t work that way.

“We’re sorry,” she whispers, “we’re sorry you ended up like this. Maybe we didn’t do all we could have, but you could have put in some effort too, you know? You could have talked to us— to me. I’m sorry you felt you couldn’t.”

“It’d probably be best to save your words for when he’s awake, Pom,” Ragatha murmurs into her ear in a sad, tired tone.

Pomni stares ahead at him, shaking her head. “This is the only way he’d ever hear them.”

…

Jax feels like Jello. His limbs feel like they’re about to melt, his brain feels like it’s full of cotton, and his eyes and ears are clogged full of the blood that’s rushing to his head. 

He tries to gasp for air, but finds his chest heavy. Fuck, this sucks— what kind of crap is this? He blinks his eyes open, staring at blurry white blobs. Oh man, his head is killing him. He feels like he’s two steps away from being in a grave. Feeling this groggy is making him wish he had died. 

Oh.

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait— he— wasn’t he supposed to—?

The thought enters his head, and he remembers, immediately sitting straight up. His head swirls and his arm burns when he does so, and he glances down to find a tube coming out of his arm. What the fuck. He grabs at it, yanking it out of his arm and groaning at the pain that accompanies it. He shoves the heavy blankets off of him, jumping to his feet but finding them oddly wobbly. What’s going on? Why is— where is—?

He drops to his knees, coughing and gagging in agony as the past events catch up with him. He feels like throwing up; he wants to run, he wants to be left alone, he wants to die.

He grabs at his hair, running his fingers through the strands and yanking at them painfully. He gags, and can’t stop the bit of bile that slips through his lips. This isn’t right, he should be dead, he should be—

A pair of hands stabilize him, helping him stand. He stares at the culprit with wide eyes, unseeing as they fill with tears. He tries to speak, but all that comes out are pathetic whimpers. How did he get to this point? 

He’s laid back down, his arm gently being tended to, and all he can do is lay there and stare at the ceiling. Slowly, his vision clears up. He can feel the way the fluorescent lights burn into his irises, he can properly see the room he’s in now. A hospital bed, white walls.

He glances over and spots the doctor re-wrapping his arm and fixing the IV. He glances up, eyes magnified by big glasses, and offers Jax a shaky smile.

“You’re alright,” he says, patting his arm. Jax stares at him, brows furrowed and pupils shrunk. His eyes dart around the room, mind racing at a million miles an hour.

“I know this is scary,” the man continues, finishing up the wrapping and standing up to check the IV bag and Jax’s vitals. “I know you’re confused, but everything will be alright. You’re in good hands, Michael.”

Jax just stares at him for a long while, expression scarily blank. Michael. Michael, Michael, Michael— god, he hates that name. He narrows his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

The doctor seems taken aback, but also pleased that he’s speaking at all. He hums thoughtfully, treading dangerous ground. “Oh, no? What should I call you then?”

“Jax,” he answers before he can stop himself. The doctor gives him a funny little smile, confusion in his eyes. “That’s a unique nickname, where’d it come from?”

“A circus,” Jax says vaguely. 

The doctor hums in acknowledgment, moving over to scribble something on a clipboard. He glanced up at Jax, speaking with a sickly sweet tone. “Well, I’ll be sure to let the other doctors and nurses know that you’d prefer your special nickname. Now, besides that little incident, how are you feeling?”

Jax wants to hit him. Why is he talking to him as if he were a child? He’s not a kid, he doesn’t need to be coddled. His choice to do this was fully conscious, fully his decision. Why are they acting like he’s some idiot who didn’t know any better?

“Like shit,” he answers honestly. He probably looks the part, too, not that he’d want to see. Seeing himself after a night like that was the last thing he wanted. Speaking of which…

He glances out the window and finds that it’s still dark outside– much darker than it had been when he attempted, anyway. How much time has passed? He glances around the room, looking for a clock or any indicator of time, to no avail. He finds nothing at all. It drives him a little nuts, not knowing how long he’s been out. It reminds him of the circus.

“How long have I been out?” he asks eventually, swallowing down his pride to ask such a foolish and weak question. The doctor glances up from his paperwork and raises his brows at Jax. “A couple of hours,” he answers slowly, “it’s three in the morning right now. It wouldn't be a bad idea to get some more sleep.” 

Jax just shakes his head with an eyeroll. “Oh, great idea, doctor! It’s not like I’m bed ridden and don’t have a choice in the matter, but sure! I’ll get some more sleep!”

The doctor chuckles under his breath. “Well, it’d be good anyhow. The more rest you get, the quicker you’ll be on your feet, and the sooner you’ll be let out of here. Besides, it would save you from being lonely for the next few hours until visiting hours start back up again.”

The mention of visitors makes him want to throw up again. Christ, he can’t do one thing right, can he? He wonders if the others know that he’s here– not that he cares or anything, but it would be embarrassing to be visited in the hospital. It would be weak of him. It would be stupid of them. It’d be a waste of time for all parties. Who brought him here, anyway? The only one with access to his apartment was his landlord. Did his landlord come to question him about the money or something? Typical. 

He stares ahead at nothing, picking at the white hospital sheets. He wants nothing more but to sink into the floor right now. This sucks, everything sucks. He wishes he were somewhere else, something else.

He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the pillows once more; it still feels off, even after all these months, to not feel his bunny ears stopping him from lying in this position. He doesn’t want to think about that right now, so he opts to focus on how he’s currently feeling. He’s rather sleepy, he realizes when his eyes slip shut.

Maybe the doctor is right— some more rest will do him some good. It isn’t very often that he falls into a comfortable slumber, so he takes advantage of the opportunity while he can. He finds it’s rather easy to fall asleep, and does so as soon as his head hits the pillow. His sleep is dreamless, as it usually is, but he doesn’t mind this time. He’s tired of seeing things, of reacting to things, a black void is exactly what he needs at that moment. He twitches in his sleep, but he doesn’t move other than that. He stays scarily still. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s out, but when he wakes up again, it’s light outside and his room is illuminated by the sunlight coming in through his window. He glances outside, and notices that he’s probably on the second floor. That’s idiotic on their part, really, what if he decided to jump out the window? 

There’s a shuffle from somewhere in the room, somewhere beside him, and he turns to see the source of the sound. He meets a pair of bright eyes, and nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Jesus Christ, Pomni, can’t you let a guy know you’re around?” he mutters, closing his eyes and raking a hand down his face in annoyance, peeking one eye open to look at her. She doesn’t audibly reply, but her eyes do narrow just a tad. She’s just staring at him, and he feels a little uncomfortable.

“Uh,” he starts, waving a hand in front of her face– or, at least, trying to wave a hand, but the IV yanks on his skin and makes him wince so he doesn’t get very far. He stares down at it, frowning at the fading pain. Christ, is being in a hospital always so bothersome? When he glances back at Pomni, she still hasn’t moved one bit. He gives her a weird look. “Hello?”

She blinks a few times, clearly startled by his voice, and her jaw drops open. She stutters, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Eventually, she swallows heavily and she leans forward to address him. “Jax,” she says, voice pitched in a way he’s never heard, “how uh– how are you doing?”

He narrows his eyes at her, feeling his face contort into a grimace. “Stop that,” he immediately scolds her, picking at his blankets and sheets. His heart monitor increases ever so slightly. Her eyes drift up to the machine, watching as his pulse spikes the green line, as if it would go flat if she looked away. It bothers him. “You’re acting as if I were made of glass or something.”

“Sorry,” she automatically spits out, as if she were trying to stay on his good side, and shrinks under his gaze, “of course you’re not. It’s just–”

“Just nothing. Don’t worry about it,” he grits out. That seems to be the wrong thing to say, however, because her face only creases into a look of much more worry. He wants to throw up again when they’re plunged into silence. He stares ahead at his lap, covered by the heavy white hospital blanket. His eyes drift over his bandaged arms, and he cringes at the thought of what lies beneath them. He’s not squeamish over that sort of thing, but the fact that it’s on his skin makes him squirm a bit. 

He runs a hand down his tired face, grumbling under his breath. He peeks back at her, gesturing vaguely at his arms. “This is embarrassing,” is all he says. 

Pomni huffs out a heavy breath, clearly bothered by his words, and puffs her chest out. “Embarrasing?” she echoes back, “Jax, you nearly died.”

“Ugh. You think I don’t know that?” he snaps back at her, before piercing his lips together. He closes his eyes, brows drawn together in a frown. “Well I didn’t, so stop worrying. Crisis averted. You can go home now.”

Pomni just shakes her head and stands up to scoot a little closer to his bedside. “No, absolutely not. You don’t get to pretend this was some– some fluke, or something. We’ve been here all night, and we’re worried about you–”

She keeps talking, but Jax doesn’t hear her words anymore. We? She can’t possibly mean– oh fuck. Oh shit, oh crap, oh– there’s no way, is there? It can’t be. This is ten times worse than he thought. This is– this– for once, he doesn’t even have the words. He suddenly wishes he had succeeded a lot more. 

“We?” he echoes, cutting her off from whatever she was rambling about. She blinks at him, and gives a curt little nod. “Well, yeah,” she replies, as if it’s obvious, “everybody is here. They’re all in the waiting room right now, but we spent as much time as we could by your bedside. I should probably tell them you’re awake–”

“Okay, stop,” he groans out, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Slow down, wait one minute. I just woke up and I feel like vomiting and you’re over here talking at a million miles per hour.”

“You need to throw up?” She repeats, apparently ignoring every other word he said, as she walks over to pick up a green baggie. “The doctor said you threw up when you woke up, so if you need to–”

“Pomni,” he practically shouts at her. He has a headache. He hates that he feels it. She pauses, staring at him with wide, careful eyes, as if he’d break at any moment. He stares right back at her, burning holes through her head. He’s sure that if they were still in the circus, he would have been able to. She lets out a little breath and sits back down. “Sorry.”“Thank you,” he sighs as he lets his head fall back onto the pillows. The monitor continues its steady beep, beep, beep in the background, and he is suddenly made very aware of his own breathing. After a couple more moments of silence, he lifts his head back up and looks at the girl by his bed. She’s nervously fiddling with her thumbs but immediately glances up when she notices his attention on her. 

He sighs, annoyed and tired all at once. “Give me a run-down, would you?” he requests in a low voice, feeling a little overwhelmed by the bright light shining overhead and closing his eyes. He hears shuffling, so he assumes she’s nodding.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” she murmurs, voice a little shaky. She jumps into recounting the events of last night, when she and Ragatha had found him in his crappy apartment after they decided to check up on him because they were worried (which only makes him mentally roll his eyes a little). She goes into detail about the paramedics rushing into the bathroom to take him away in an ambulance, and how they were worried sick because he had looked deathly pale. He looked like he was already dead, as Pomni put it. 

He doesn't open his eyes, but he does hum in acknowledgement at her words. She clears her throat a bit. “We let the others know in the groupchat, and they showed up about thirty minutes later? By then you were in your own room, but you were asleep. We took turns sitting by your bedside until visiting hours were over.”

He makes a tch sound and opens one of his eyes, staring down at her. “You said you were here all night.”

“Yeah,” she confirms with a little nod, “we slept in the waiting room– or, uh, tried to. It was hard to get any rest at all.”

Jax resists the urge to physically roll his eyes this time. He leans forward a bit, trying to stretch as much as he possibly can without pulling on any tubes or wires. He rubs his bandaged arms a bit, feeling overly groggy. He assumes he’s probably on a shit ton of painkillers. He lets out a very annoyed groan, bushing his hair back. “So what did the doctor say?”

“Uh, just that you lost a lot of blood. They replaced it, of course,” she answers with a nervous chuckle, “but you were to be on bed rest for the next two days, I think. After that, we can figure out where to go from there.”

He doesn’t reply to that. He didn’t want to figure it out. If he had it his way, he certainly wouldn’t be sitting in this hospital bed waiting to be lectured by all of his—… the other circus members. It doesn't really matter that much, don’t they see that? He failed his stupid suicide attempt, there’s no reason to make such a big fuss over it. It’s not like he’s going to try again immediately after failing– could you imagine if he messed up again? Now that would be embarrassing. 

He doesn’t voice any of his thoughts, though, so Pomni just sits in silence as she waits patiently for any kind of response. He clears his throat, sitting up in bed a little more, and gives her a bored look, though he’s sure it looks more tired than he was aiming for. She creases her brows together in the way that tells him she’s still very concerned about it. He thinks it makes him want to stab her. 

“You can go get the others, I guess,” he tells her lazily, pressing his lips together as he hums in annoyance through clenched teeth. “Might as well get it over with.”

Pomni frowns at his words but does as told. She opens the door and motions for somebody else to come in, and only a few seconds later, Ragatha is standing at his doorway. Oh boy. He suddenly regrets asking Pomni to get the others– he can’t even get through Ragatha’s pushy attitude, how is he meant to deal with everyone else’s backlash? 

Pomni politely nods to her girlfriend and steps out, closing the door behind her and leaving Ragatha alone with Jax. He stares up at her, unimpressed, as she scans his form.

He looks worse for wear– tired and sad and so young that it makes her want to squeeze him, but she knows better. Jax would never let her; she would never let herself. She does, instead, replace Pomni in her chair by Jax’s bedside. She offers him a smile as she sits down. It is not returned. He can tell she’s high strung and nervous, and he doesn’t like it.

“I should have known you were waiting outside the door,” he says, breaking the silence with his raspy voice, hoping to get across a humorous tone, “waiting for your precious girlfriend, weren’t you?”

Ragatha blinks at him a few times, but her smile doesn’t turn sharp the way it usually does when he makes comments. It’s softer now, and her eyes are running over the bandages on his arms over and over and he wants to sock her in the face. He glances away, trying to rid himself of those thoughts. He doesn’t know why he’s so… angry, so violent. He figures it has to do with the fact that this is the girl that took him from his almost paradise.

“Actually,” she replies in a warm voice, tone gentle in a way Jax hasn’t heard in years, “I was waiting outside for you. I was in here with Pomni, but she said she had a few private words to share with you while you were unconscious. She was hoping you’d hear them.”

“I didn’t.”

Her smile drops a little, but he can’t tell if it’s because she’s annoyed with his response, or if it’s because she feels sad that he didn’t hear whatever Pomni told him. Whatever, it doesn’t matter anyway. A frown is a frown, and he’s almost got one painted across her face. She clears her throat a bit, straightening out the pajama pants that Jax clearly recognizes to be the pair Zooble wore one Monday when they had been too lazy to dress out for their meeting. 

“Regardless,” she continues, not letting his lackluster tone bring her down, “it’s nice to see you awake, Jax. We were really worried about you, you know.”

Oh, I’m sure, is what he wants to say. Instead, he says, “worried? About little ol’ me?” 

A smile spreads across her face, as if she were fond of his behavior, and he feels the disgust stir in his chest at the very idea. Ragatha gives a polite nod, messy curls bouncing as her head moves, bangs falling over her eyes in a familiar way. It’s abundantly clear that she hasn’t had the time to properly groom herself for the occasion.

Jax tilts his head at her, as if studying who she was, before looking away and glancing out the window. This is boring. He wishes he were still in the circus, because then at least he wouldn’t be sitting in a boring grey room facing the consequences of his actions. Which, it’s totally unfair that he even has consequences– the guy tried to take his own life after all! The last thing he needs is a punishment, not that the universe cares or anything. 

“How are you feeling?” she asks from his left, and he feels his eye twitch. If one more person asks him that, he swears he’s going to tear off his bandages and reopen all his wounds in front of everybody– change the trajectory of everyone’s life and all that. He can’t lie and say he hasn’t thought about it. 

“Just peachy,” he grumbles, frowning and making the bags under his eyes much more noticeable. “I’d be better if everyone stopped asking me that.”

Ragatha gives him a sympathetic look, and pulls her phone out, typing on it. She’s probably repeating his words back to the group chat because he can’t do it himself. If he had his phone, he’d probably–

“Wait. Where is my phone?” he asks aloud, her eyes meeting his own when she glances up at the sound of his voice. She clicks her phone off, humming thoughtfully. She glances at the ceiling when she thinks, and it almost looks cartoonishly. It almost looks like Ragatha, and not like the woman in front of him. Amanda, his mind unhelpfully supplies. 

“Well, we didn’t see it on you when they took you away, so… it’s probably still where you left it. Do you know where it is?”

He scoffs at her tone, bothered that she’s talking to him as if he were a child. She sounds like that doctor. “Of course I do,” he rolls his eyes, before they land on his hands clenched into fists on his lap. He squeezes his fingers. “I powered it off before I did anything. I didn’t want somebody to text me while I was in the middle of bleeding out, so I turned it off and left it on my nightstand.”

Ragatha grimaces at his description, her face contorting with discomfort. “Maybe we shouldn’t refer to it like that,” is all she says.

It’s true, he wants to reply, but he knows better. If he says that, it will just make her uncomfortable, and if she’s uncomfortable, she’ll just keep pushing about it, and he’s not in the mood to argue. He just hums, opting to lay back against his pillows and stare at the ceiling once more. It feels like it's the only thing he can do to distract himself. 

He only looks back down when he hears Ragatha shuffling in her seat. He meets her eyes– or at least tries to, but she’s glancing down. She’s staring at the floor, fingers intertwined on her lap as she glares at nothing in particular. Her bangs cover most of her face, but even then he can see that she’s fighting back tears. He feels himself lean back.

“Don’t cry,” he immediately scolds, but it comes out a lot softer than he means it to. He corrects this, speaker harsher, colder. “Do not cry, Ragatha. Not for me.”

The words only seem to make her cry harder, and a sob escapes her mouth. He reels back in something akin to disgust, staring at her with big eyes as she tries to wipe her cheeks, but the tears fall faster than she can catch them. He isn’t sure what to do, so he does nothing. He just watches her– watches her fall apart in front of him in his stupid hospital room as he lays in his stupid hospital bed. Tch. How annoying. After a long moment, she sniffles harshly and wipes at her eyes violently, brushing her hand through her hair and gripping some of the strands in an attempt to ground herself. “Sorry,” she says, and Jax can’t be bothered to figure out what she’s sorry for. For crying in front of him? For making him feel bad? For the fact that he tried to off himself? He doesn’t know, and frankly, he doesn’t care.

“Your sorry doesn’t mean anything to me,” he tells her in response, and she only tilts her chin up defiantly at him. She clears her throat awkwardly, staring vacantly to the side before meeting his eyes. “You should hear it anyway.” 

He doesn’t dignify that with a response and realizes that he finds himself doing that a lot lately. Doesn’t matter. 

After a couple more minutes of unbearable and horribly awkward silence, there’s a gentle knock at the door that startles Ragatha more than it startles Jax, who is beginning to feel a little delirious. The door slowly creaks open and Pomni peeks her head in, smiling at her girlfriend and at the patient of the year. Jax scowls at her.

The door swings open all the way and in comes the rest of the circus. The other three, who he hasn’t seen since Monday, stare at him with big, bug-like eyes. He glares at them, before dropping his gaze and angrily crossing arms. He brings his legs up just a tad, covering himself from their view as much as possible. This is so damn embarrassing. He wishes he had just keeled over. 

“Hey,” comes Zooble’s voice from where he can’t see them, “glad to see you didn’t kick the bucket.”

There’s a gasp and the sound of fabric rubbing against fabric– Gangle gently smacking Zooble’s arm, if he had to guess. He peeks at them over his knees, not bothering to say anything; there’s nothing to say, anyway. They all know, he’s alive and dandy, and there’s nothing more to be done. He’ll just return to normal after all of this. 

“Zooble!” Ragatha scolds quietly, and Jax’s eyes flick over to her momentarily. There’s a pale hand on his knees, gently forcing them down so that the group can see him. He lets them fall, and finds that the hand belonged to Pomni. She’s still smiling at him, teasing and warm all at once. It reminds him of the past.

“What? It’s true,” Zooble immediately defends, crossing their arms as they get a good look at Jax’s figure. He must look pathetic– eye bags, messy hair, bandages, IVs, reeking of sadness and exhaustion. He gives them an unimpressed look, raising his brows with as much attitude as he can muster. 

“While I don’t agree with how Zooble worded it, I do agree with what they meant,” Kinger says from Jax’s rightside. His hand lands on Jax’s shoulders, and he pretends that it only makes him jump a little bit when his eyes dart over to look at the older man. Kinger has a pleasant smile on his face, and Jax is surprised to find that it’s the only smile he’s gotten today that hasn’t made him want to jump out the window. Kinger is odd like that, he reckons.

Zooble gives a chuckle and begins playfully arguing with the others as the group attempts to tell them that their phrasing might not have been the most appropriate thing in the world. Zooble argues back that it’s Jax they’re talking about, and they’re all smiles and jokes. Jax sits on his bed, watching from afar. He’s distant, a little hazy at best, but he can’t take his eyes off of them. They’re here– like, really here, in his room, laughing and joking as if nothing had happened. He thinks he prefers it this way; he thinks he wants to die more. 

They all find their own spots around him– Ragatha and Pomni share the chairs at his bedside, Zooble and Gangle sit on the edge of the bed by his feet, and Kinger is happy to continue standing, saying that it’s good for him to replenish the strength in his legs since he’d been in the circus the longest and is still a little weak. They all know this– their physical therapy appointments happened in the same place, around the same time. While they all finished their sessions, however, Kinger had to remain, since he was older and he’d been incapacitated for longer. 

Jax is surprised he remembers that fact at all; he’d been sure that nothing about the other members had stuck with him, but he supposes that was only wishful thinking. Ignorance, maybe. They take turns telling each other about what they all did that week, since it goes without saying that their Monday meeting is cancelled. He does what he always does during said meetings and just sits there, closing his eyes and listening. Not that he actually cares about what they did, but he likes the noise. It blocks out his thoughts. 

He learns that Pomni and Ragatha had been trying out a new dish last night, and that they were both excited for the others to try it– only, they had been distracted and never actually finished it. They promise to bring some the next time they visit Jax’s room, to which he raises his brows. Kinger goes on about how he’s recently gotten back into butterfly watching, and how he learned about the new butterfly garden they were hoping to build in the town’s park– right where they had their meetings. The others ooh’ed and ahh’ed. Jax didn’t bother reacting. Gangle talks about her new side hustle: commissions. She says she’s already gotten a good handful done and that she’s working on some more. Zooble just talks about their days at work, complaining about rude customers at the bar and making even more snide comments at their boss. 

When they all have their go, the room falls silent. Jax peeks one eye open to find them all staring at him. He groans as he sits up in bed, eyes jumping from person to person as they look at him expectantly. He doesn’t know what they’re waiting for– he never shared before, was never expected to, and he’s certainly not gonna start now. 

“What about you, Jax?” Gangle asks, very softly, and he rolls his eyes. He crosses his arms, practically pouting at them as his brows furrow, blinking lazily at all of them. “Who cares?”

“Oh, come on, Jax,” Pomni encourages with a tiny smile, tilting her head to look at him. A strand of her hair falls out of her bun in a way that reminds Jax that she’s not Pomni at all. He scoffs, fixing them all with a look. “What do you think I did this week?” he asks sarcastically, feeling a little bit of satisfaction in the way they all kind of grimace. 

“Well, let’s not think about that,” Ragatha immediately murmurs, voice heedy and high-strung, as if the thought of it all causes her physical pain. Jax rolls his eyes again, but doesn’t say anything more. “What do you want to do when you get out of here?” she asks instead, bringing forward one of the questions they’ve all been itching to ask.

Die, he wants to say. He wants to yell at them, rip his IV out of his arm and tear his bandages off so they can get a glorious look at every part of him. What do you think? He spits at them in his mind, saliva full of acid and poisonous sweat dripping down his forehead with the sheer amount of anger and desperation he feels. He wants to claw at himself so badly, but he doesn’t. This has nothing to do with them– nothing at all, so they don’t deserve to see it. They don’t deserve to see him. He doesn’t deserve to have their eyes. 

He doesn’t reply, but he does hug himself, squeezing his arms so tightly that it will probably leave marks. They stare at him, and he feels his mind melt into the floor. After a long moment of terribly drawn out silence, Zooble awkwardly clears their throat. He hates the sound, he hates this room, this bed; he hates them. He hates himself. 

“I reckon I’ll go clean up my apartment,” he says slowly, blinking slowly as he releases his arms. He doesn’t feel like himself. “Yaknow,” he continues with a rough clearing of his throat, “clean space, clean mind and all that.”

The others nod along in agreement, and it makes Jax crack a barely visible smile. Picture that, everybody in the circus agreeing with him. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad. They agree with him because they pity him. Hah. He takes it back– it’s hilarious.

“It’d be good to get some help,” Kinger helpfully suggests, smooth voice breaking through Jax’s thoughts. Jax gives him a lazy look, head falling back against the pillows as he feels the exhaustion creep into his bones. “Help with my apartment?”

“No,” Kinger shakes his head with a breathy chuckle. “Well, I mean– yes, that too– but I meant mentally. Therapy is good, you know. It might seem like a waste of time, but it would help you get back on your feet. Especially after…”

He can’t say it. Coward. Cowards, the lot of them. Jax presses his lips together, and just shrugs. He doesn’t give them a no, but doesn’t give them a yes either. Truth to be told, Kinger is right– he did see it as a waste of time. He doesn’t need therapy to tell him what he already knows. He needs help, he’s not right in the head, he needs better coping mechanisms. Well, once upon a time, his mother told him the same thing, and look how she turned out. What a hypocrite. 

He finds he doesn’t need a second– or, at this point, sixth– voice telling him what he’s doing wrong. He already knows; he knows every nook and cranny of himself, he doesn’t need to go searching any further. God knows that his searching is what brought him here in the first place. What he needs is to just… get out of here. If anything, this is a wake up call that there’s no point in killing himself if he can’t even do it right. He might as well go clean his apartment and focus on getting another job so he can continue affording stuff. Until the next time, his mind whispers to him, but he pays it no mind. Nobody is going to tell him what to do.

Not even himself. 

He hums thoughtfully. Isn’t that a thought? He thinks it is, but who the hell knows? The others share glances with one another. 

The conversation drags on for another long while before the doctor comes in, giving friendly smiles and introductions before he turns to Jax and greets him as though he were a child (“hey, buddy, how are we feeling today? Good? Oh, good! You’ll be back on your feet in no time!”). The group each take turns giving Jax their goodbyes, itching to hug him or something, before exiting the room. They all promise to visit the next day, and the day after that, and… whatever comes after that. 

The doctor asks him all sorts of questions, and then some nurses come in and… well, it’s all a blur. He isn’t actually sure what they did or how he responded. He reckons it doesn’t matter, in the end. 

True to their word, though, they did keep him in the hospital for the next two days. They put him on suicide watch and monitored his near every move, and it was getting on his nerves. He assured them multiple times that it was a spur of the moment kind of thing, that he had been upset that he was so lonely because all of his friends were dating or something stupid like that. With an exaggerated and bored tone, it’s amazing what they’d believe. The others also keep their word and visit every day. He doesn’t really care, but he does appreciate it when Pomni brings him a pair of clothes to change into when he leaves. 

On the third day, they unplug him and give him some resources for his mental health. They let him get dressed and get his act together; he cleans himself up nicer than he ever has before, just to give them one last middle finger and show them that he doesn't need help. That all of this was pointless.

He doesn’t tell the others when he gets out, slipping away silently to the nearest bus and being driven to the stop closest to his apartment. He tosses the resource pamphlets they gave him into the dumpster outside his apartment complex, heading inside and immediately feeling annoyed when his landlord comes up to him. He doesn’t say anything of value, only that it cost him to get all of Jax’s blood cleaned up, so he’ll be charging him more for rent. Jax doesn’t care about that, he has enough money to last him a while. Courtesy of the government, of course. 

He heads back up to his crappy apartment and miserably welcomes himself back into his regularly scheduled programming. The apartment is just as he left it, of course, albeit a little more tidy. Because of the cleanup crew, his mind unhelpfully supplies. He sighs and walks over to the fridge, opening it up to find an old pack of hot pockets. He tosses one into his dirty microwave and lets it hum in the background as he wanders around his home. It feels uncanny, being back here, after all of that. He spares a glance to the bathroom, half expecting to see his blood pooled all over the tile, but isn’t surprised when he sees none. The tile has been wiped clean, and just like it was with everybody else, the fact that he did all of this has been erased.

He finds his phone on his nightstand, right where he left it, completely dead. Right.

When the microwave beeps, he shoves his phone into his sweatpants and shuffles back to the kitchen, opting to enjoy his… lunch? Dinner? He doesn’t know what time it is; it reminds him of the circus. He takes a bite of his hot pocket and finds that the center is still cold, but he doesn’t mind. His microwave was crappy at best, and it was nearly impossible for it to cook food to its entirety, but it was the thought that counted. It was certainly better than hospital food.

It’s very easy to slip back into his routine from there. He plugs his phone in, and lays in his bed, staring at the ceiling. Back to his grand ‘ol life. Back to normal.

For a while, he does return back to normal. He answers their messages and tells them about what he’s doing. He even goes out with them one night, to some new coffee place Gangle wants to try. He doesn't know why he entertains them like this, but he figures he just wants to go back. He wishes none of this ever happened, he wishes he was buried down below. The others pretend it never happened, so he does too. It helps distract him, at the very least.

Three days after Jax is released from the hospital, though, he returns to his old habits. He stops answering his messages, ignoring their calls and turning down any opportunity to go out. Back to normal, after all, and this was their normal. Asshole Jax, the jerk, the villain, the– he doesn’t know. Who is Jax? Who is he? He doesn’t think he wants the answer. He finds himself feeling droopy all over again, feeling himself considering if it’s really worth it at all to keep trying. To keep moving on. He doesn’t know.

It’s hard to really know what Jax wants. On one hand, he thinks it’d be stupid to try again, to do that to them again, but on the other, he so badly wants to. He still has the bandages around his arms– it’s only been a few days, after all– and they live as a constant reminder to what he could’ve had, what he could’ve been. He isn’t sure if the thought comforts him or makes him sick.

He doesn’t find a job, doesn’t bother listening to Kinger’s advice about finding a therapist. It doesn’t matter, after all. This is who Jax was, this is what Jax is, whatever that might be. He finds himself in bed more often than not, sitting and staring at the wall or just… laying there. By the fourth day of not answering his messages and bed rotting, he starts feeling his body getting weaker. He feels like death itself, but it doesn’t matter.

On that particular day, he lays in bed until there’s a steady headache building behind his eyes, digging deep into his skull and squishing his brain until he has no choice but to get up. He groans as he sits up, and bleakly realizes that it’s dark outside. It must’ve been later in the day than he thought– that, or he was just out of it for that long. He doesn’t know which answer he prefers. 

Jax swings his feet over the side of his bed and forces them to walk in a straight line to the kitchen, grabbing his phone as he passes by the nightstand. His phone is blowing up with messages, both from the group chat and from each individual member asking him about why he isn’t answering and where he’s been. He doesn’t dignify them with a response, leaving them on seen.  

He wanders back into the kitchen and digs through his cabinets for something to relieve his stupid headache. Eventually, he finds an unlabeled pill bottle, shaking it around. Jax isn’t on any prescribed medication, and he’s never been interested in taking drugs, so he assumes these are painkillers. Or something of the sort, anyway. Doesn’t matter. 

He unscrews the lid and pours a generous amount into his palm, not bothering to count how many he’s taking. If it kills him now, then good riddance. Doesn’t matter, anyway. He swallows them dry, staring blankly at his counters for a long while before his door is suddenly swung wide open, smacking against the wall so loudly that he shouts. He whips his head around to look at whoever just broke into his apartment, and grumbles when he spots multiple familiar faces. Well, crap.

“Why the hell are you not answering your phone?” Zooble immediately shouts, scolding and angry, but underlined with worry. Jax hums, pulling his phone out from his pocket and reading over his many unread notifications. Right. He’d ignored them. Right. Crap, the consequences of his own actions– they’re always out to get him.

Ragatha makes her way over to him, grabbing him and pulling him into a tight hug, one that he desperately tries to squirm out of. “I was so worried,” she sniffles, and he pales when he realizes she’s crying on him. He shoves her off, hard, only feeling a bit bad when she stumbles a bit. Pomni comes up behind her to catch her, successfully keeping her from tumbling over. He brushes his strong reaction off, standing up straight and putting a hand on his hip as he scans the group.

“Well, stop worrying. I’m fine, I’m here, now go away,” he starts, walking over and gesturing for all of them to leave, practically shoving them out the door.

“Not so fast,” comes the stern voice of Kinger from somewhere behind him, and Jax can’t help the grimace that escapes him. At some point, he’d separated himself from the rest of the group and entered Jax’s apartment. It’s his first time here– it’s everybody’s first time being in here, his mind reminds him. He feels gross all over when he briefly scans the room. Yeah… the place is a disaster. He had lied about cleaning up.

“There is absolutely no possible way you think we’re leaving just like that,” Kinger continues with a stern frown on his face, the others nodding in agreement. Pomni shoo’s Jax’s hands away from where they’re pushing everybody out and makes her way to stand by the older man, crossing arms. 

“We’re not doing this again,” she says in a confident voice, lips pulled downwards, and brows furrowed. One by one, they all move to stand by Kinger, leaving Jax staring at them awkwardly from his spot in front of the door. After a moment of careful consideration, he groans and slams the door shut; his neighbors shout at him through the walls.

He gestures vaguely at his dump of a home with tired eyes and sarcastically retorts, “make yourself at home.”

The others immediately do so, much to his chagrin; Gangle and Zooble find their place on the small couch, Pomni and Ragatha lean against his kitchen island, and Kinger remains firmly in front of Jax. They’re all staring at him, all taking in his home, his situation. They’re seeing him, and he wants to throw up. He doesn’t think he could stomach the bathroom, though, so he just swallows the nausea. 

“Jax, you can’t just disappear on us and not tell us where you went or if you were okay! We were worried sick," Ragatha gently scolds, repeating her earlier statement. He narrows his eyes at her, trying to avoid the way his vision swims when he looks at her. Her red hair makes him sick. Gangle clears her throat nervously, clearly anxious about saying anything at all. “W-we were really afraid something had happened to you again.”

We were afraid you happened to yourself again, is what she really meant to say, Jax knows.

“They’re right,” Zooble adds from their spot on the couch, and Jax has to painfully whirl his head around to look at them, “you really freaked us out. That’s unfair to us. Completely unfair, what were you thinking?”

About when I was going to try again, he almost let slip past his lips. He bites them instead, digging his teeth painfully into his bottom lip. He growls, feeling increasingly frustrated with himself and at the way his head swirls. He sighs heavily, trying to keep his voice even.

“I’m at home. Where the hell else would I be?” he questions, a little angrier than he means to. The others fix him a look, and he wants to explode; these past few days have really turned him into a bomb waiting to go off. “You were all treating me like I’m made of glass or something, and I was getting sick of it. Is that what you want to hear? I hate being around you guys, I hate being–” he chokes himself off in pure anger, “I want you all to mind your own damn business. How’s that? Is that what you’re looking for?”

They’re all staring at him, shocked by his outburst. Jax never got angry, but– fuck, he really wanted to break something. Seemingly sensing his distress, Pomni pushes herself away from the kitchen counter and walks over to him. She places a gentle hand on his arm, not feeling at all offended when he jerks back in surprise. She does it again, making sure he’s looking at her as she does so. She grips his arm, a little tightly, but he doesn’t comment on it. It grounds him, and it reassures her. 

“Jax,” she says very slowly, as if talking to a scared animal– which, he kind of was, to a degree. There were a ton of people in his house getting angry at him and interrogating him about his stupid life that he had so desperately tried to end. It’s funny. It’s all so funny. He misses the circus.

He doesn’t push her away, just staring down at her with wide, angry eyes. It reminds her of their argument, all those months ago. There’s nothing else to me, his face reads, so please, stop looking. She doesn’t think he knows that it’s only ever made her want to look harder. She loosens her grip, turning it into something more encouraging, more soft. An I got you, maybe. She hopes it makes it across to him. “We aren’t mad. We don’t want to treat you like glass. We’re just worried for you, okay?”

He shoves her off, slapping her hand away and ignoring the gasp Ragatha lets out. He points an accusing finger at Pomni, before shifting it at all of them. “Well, I’m fine. I’m just at home, minding my own business, so you can stop worrying about me screwing stuff up for everybody else! Christ, what’s a guy got to do to get some alone time around here?”

“I don’t know, Jax, maybe not get yourself hospitalized?” Zooble snaps, standing up from the couch. Gangle rises with them, holding onto their arm. They’re all standing, slowly closing in on Jax. He grits his teeth.

“I wouldn’t have been in the hospital if you had all just left it, now would I?”  

“What the hell is your problem?” Zooble argues back, ignoring the quiet hiss of their name by at least three different people. Jax is glaring hard at them, pupils tiny and brows furrowed so tightly they must be giving him a headache– or worsening the one he already had. “Suddenly we’re the bad guys for wanting to save your life? Well fuck us for caring about you, huh? Ragatha was on her hands and knees, covered in your blood, trying to save you.”

“That was her mistake,” he shrugs off, crossing his arms– or, at least, trying to; it looks more like he’s hugging himself, instead. His eyes are fiery and icy all at once, somehow, and his face looks like it has a mind of his own. His bottom lip wobbles a bit, though they can’t tell if it’s because he’s that angry, or if it’s because he’s holding back tears. Pomni has a shameful moment where she thinks, Jax doesn’t cry, but it makes her feel funny, because Jax doesn’t die either. Jax doesn’t try to kill himself, Jax doesn’t live like this. This isn’t Jax (unless it is, and they had just never seen it). “She should have just finished the job herself.” 

They all stare at him, eyes wide. His breath is coming out heavy now, teetering towards the edge of a full-blown panic attack. He looks at Ragatha, and thinks of his mom. He hates her, he loves her– he wishes she were dead. He yells in pure desperation at his mind, digging his palms into his hands so hard it makes him see stars. “Fuck,” he says, boarding on a tearful hiccup, “fuck.”

He can’t look at them, he can’t– but they’re all looking at him. They’re examining him as if they’d never seen him before, and he reckons that’s probably true. This was so much easier in the circus, easier before he found that stupid headset, when he had gone to that stupid abandoned building to do the exact thing that put him in this spot. He laughs– it’s always the same thing. Every time he tries to take control of his life by ending it, he’s put somewhere else. First, it was that stupid circus, and now it’s his stupid living room, with the exact same stupid people. It’s hilarious. 

He catches someone moving in front of him through the gaps in his fingers, and the sudden movement makes him sick. Before he can even attempt to stop himself, there’s a steady flow of vomit that tears itself from his throat. He gags, falling onto the ground as the headache and the nausea finally overtake him. He thinks some of it comes out of his nose, but he’s hardly aware of it at all. There are hands on his back, rubbing soothing circles as others brush his hair back.

It makes him think of the angels that cradled him, brushing his hair back as saliva dribbled down his cheeks– just like now, as vomit seeps down his chin. It’s so funny. He laughs wetly, coughing as he curls forward into himself. He grips his hair so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t fall out. Jax doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t know what to do now. He forces his eyes open and stares at the watery puddle in front of him, just water and acid, with small pills scattered around. Right. His stupid pills that he took. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. 

He doesn’t remember anything after that– he isn’t sure if he passed out or if his mind just blacked out, but when he comes to again, he’s laying in his bed. There’s gentle murmuring coming from all around him. He breathes heavily, inhaling the scent of his bedsheets. Unwashed, dirty, neglected, but his. Just like him. The thought makes him think of his parents.

The others come in and out of his room, trying to check in on him, but he doesn’t answer– never answers. He just curls into his mattress and lets sleep overtake him. He doesn’t care anymore; he doesn’t care what they think, what they want. They want to treat him like some stupid animal, they can go ahead. At least animals aren’t aware. He isn’t sure how long he’s out, but pretty soon he finds himself waking up again. He opens his eyes and finds the room darker than before, the only light being the one coming in through the tiny gap in his doorway. 

He shuffles his feet a bit and freezes when he hits something that clearly isn’t dirty laundry. He glances down and startles when he meets Zooble’s eyes– or, what he thinks are Zooble’s eyes, it’s too dark to really tell. They're sitting on the edge of his bed, staring down at him with an unreadable look on their face. 

“Why don’t any of you ever say something, damn it,” he complains as his heart rate goes back down, moving to lay on his back and tossing his head onto his uncomfortably flat pillow. “You nearly gave me a heart attack."

“No need,” Zooble says, voice uncharacteristically soft, “you almost gave yourself a heart attack. What the hell did you take?”

Jax blinks at them, confused. He hums, propping himself up on his elbows as he stares at them. The room is barely lit, making it difficult to properly see Zooble’s face, but he can make out the frown etched on it. At his confusion, they give a tiny sigh. “You took a shit ton of pills, what were they?”

“Oh,” Jax says slowly, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. Now that his vision is swirling anymore, the headache is bearable. “Huh. I don’t know, they were in the cabinet. Ibuprofen or something?”

Zooble lets out a humorless laugh, “Ibuprofen my ass. You took way too many, anyway. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

At Jax’s unbearable silence, Zooble’s barely visible face drops. They stare down at him, as if picking him apart. He finds he doesn’t care anymore. After a while, they turn away, staring at the floor. It’s weird having Zooble here with him. He voices his thoughts, and Zooble gives a half-hearted laugh, giving a snarky comment in return.

“Why are you here, anyway?” he asks, staring at the ceiling. It’s funny. Neither of them are looking at each other, yet he thinks this the most they’ve ever actually seen of each other.

“I figure I should apologize for what I said,” they say in response, voice low in that way of theirs that tells him they’re being sincere. “I was out of line. You’re going through a rough patch, and all I did was make it worse. I’m sorry.”

Jax scoffs, rolling his eyes. He doesn’t want sorries. He wants to go back to normal. “Stop apologizing, it makes you sound funny. That’s not how this is supposed to go.”

“Well, sorry I don’t fit into your little make-belief scenario. That’s not how things ever go; that’s not how reality goes.”

He doesn’t answer, reaching up and grabbing his pillow to pull it over his eyes. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to see anymore. Zooble scoffs at his behavior, so he yanks the pillow from under his head and throws it at them. They catch it and throw it back. They sit in silence for a long while.

Jax feels a little uncomfortable as the silence stretches on. He slides the pillow back under his head, stretching his legs a bit. “Tell me a secret,” he whispers quietly into the dark, before he can even think about it. Zooble glances up in surprise, head snapping up so quickly it’s a miracle they didn’t get whiplash. “What?”

“Tell me something you’ve never told anybody else.”

“Why would I do that?” Zooble questions, voice laced in confusion.

“Humor me,” Jax answers back, and his answer seems to catch Zooble off guard. They hum, sliding up the bed, leaning back against the wall. “I wanted to take my life once, too,” they say eventually, after a long moment of consideration.

Jax’s eyebrows raise just a bit, and he lets out a tiny laugh. He feels a little more like himself when he can argue, so like an idiot, he says, “Oh, wow. Congratulations. Do you want a participation ribbon? Oh, no, wait– I forgot that’s not the kind of ribbon you’re into.”

“Shut up, asshole. You asked for this, at least let me finish my story,” they snap back, but there’s a distinct lack of heat behind their words. If Jax didn’t know any better, he would have assumed their tone was almost warm. He hates it. When he doesn’t reply, Zooble takes it as permission to continue. 

“My family and I moved to a small town when I was younger,” they say in a low voice, staring up at the ceiling through the darkness, just like he was. “It was very clear right off the bat that I didn’t belong. For one, it was a prominently White community, and it definitely didn’t help that I was the only one in my high school with dyed hair. Rumors started spreading around– they said I was a lesbian, they said I wasn’t a real girl, that I was a freak from another country, and all that junk.”

“Aren’t you a lesbian?” Jax rebuttals, but there’s a lack of teasing in his voice, so Zooble accepts the question for what it is.

“I wasn’t then,” they answer truthfully. “At the time, I just wanted to be like everybody else. I cut off the colored parts of my hair, I tried to appear more friendly, I just wanted to fit in. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Jax doesn't dignify that with anything more than a scoff and an eyeroll, so Zooble just keeps talking. “I was bullied really badly, and my parents couldn’t seem to understand how to help me. I was about sixteen, too, so the hormones were off the chart. It was shit. It felt like the world was ending.”

They let out a low whistle, brushing their hair out of their eyes. They purse their lips together awkwardly, considering their next words. “I considered taking my own life. I thought about swallowing some pills or something, or careening my car into a ditch. I pictured what my parents would say, what my bullies would do. I thought about it all the time.”

Jax perks up at that, but he still isn’t looking at them. Not much to see, but he knows that Zooble would still be able to feel his stare. “I didn’t do anything, obviously. Eventually I moved out and came here. It was better– I found people like me, and they really helped me get through it. I reached out, got some professional help.”

Zooble glances over at him, as if considering his presence. “‘Reckon you could be like that, too, eventually. Better.”

They awkwardly pat his leg in comfort, but he immediately slides it away and sits up, scooting to the other side of the bed to lean against the other wall; this was the only reason he ever liked his bed in the corner of the room. Walls. “Oh yeah? And how do you reckon I do that? By just pushing through?” he chuckles, seemingly satisfied with Zooble’s story.

“No, by getting support,” Zooble corrects, “I’ve been in your shoes, Jax–”

“No, you haven’t,” he snaps back before he can really stop himself, suddenly no longer liking the conversation. They were not the same– he was not like Zooble. Zooble was not like him. The fact that they’re even suggesting that is sickening, because it implies that he has a heart of some kind. That he has something to relate to. “You were a sixteen year old kid who was being dramatic over some bullies, and I’m a twenty-two year old adult who’s being stupid about his life. I’d say we’re wearing some pretty different shoes.”

Zooble reels back, clearly confused by his sudden hostility. “What the hell? That’s uncalled for.” 

“The fact that you think you're like me is uncalled for,” he retorts, feeling his bones burning under his skin. 

“Oh my God, what? So what, you think I don’t know what helplessness feels like?” Zooble counters, feeling their patience wearing thin. Fine. If he bites, they’ll bite back. “You think I don’t know how it feels to sink so low that I wanted to die?”

“Oh, here we go–” he groans, getting a major sense of Deja vu when the words clumsily fall out of his mouth. It makes him think of his little meltdown just moments before– How long ago was that? How much time has passed since then? Does he actually even care about the answer?

“Always putting words in my mouth, aren’t you? Didn’t we just go over this? All I’m saying is that we’re not the same, so stop trying to compare yourself to me.”

“What is your problem? Like, seriously. Are you really so far up your own ass you don’t think somebody else could possibly relate to you?” they argue, standing up and staring down at him from where he sits on the bed. He watches them as they rise. “Always so high and mighty, huh?”

“God, I wish I was high right now.”

Zooble gives a disbelieving laugh, completely devoid of humor. “We’ve been by your side this whole time, and you don’t even seem to care. What will it take to get it through your thick head that we’re trying to help?”

He stands up too, if only because he can’t stand Zooble towering over him. Too familiar, too unknown. “What will it take to get it through your thick heads that I don’t want your help?” He shouts back, feeling his heart pounding erratically in his chest. He hates arguing; he needs it.

They eye each other up and down, the light from the living room cascading through the crack in the door and falling over them.

“We all know you’re a liar.”

“You don’t know the first thing about me.”

They reach forward and grab Jax by the arm so quickly that he doesn’t even have any time to react, startling him so hard he jumps. Their fingernails dig into his hoodie. “I’ve been you, Jax. I’ve refused help, I was talked down to, I was ignored and hurt, I thought about how it would feel to bleed out on a bathroom floor–”

“Well I did bleed out on the bathroom floor!” He shouts, feeling a little dizzy. He’s breathing hard, suddenly so angry he can’t stop himself from gasping for air. He brings his hands up to– to do what, he doesn’t know. His fingers flex in front of his face, and he can’t do anything but stare at them. He wants to hug himself, he wants to tear his skin off. He wants to kill Zooble, he wants to kill himself. He wants to stop. 

Zooble watches his pathetic attempts at self-soothing (if you could even call it that, anyway), and stares at him with wide eyes. He drops his hands down to his sides and stares at the ground with envy– he should be lying in it; should have been all those days ago. 

“You don’t–” he starts, but stops himself because he feels another wave of bile climbing up his throat. He swallows heavily, and the automatic urge to push away digs through his chest. It hurts, the venom clawing through his skin. He thinks that if he had a heart, it would be burning.  

“That’s the difference between you and me,” he spits out with more hostility than he means to, “you thought about it, I did it. You think you’re like me? If you were, you’d still be wishing you were dead, too.”

“Jax–” Zooble starts, but his bedroom door swings open. The light washes over them, giving Jax a clear view of Zooble’s face. It looks scared, eyes wide and lips pulled downward. Gangle rushes up to them, grabbing her partner and pulling them to look at her, as if checking for injuries. Tch. As if Jax would ever lay a hand on anybody. 

Pomni and Ragatha enter the room too, standing at the doorway as they take in the scene in front of him. Jax hugs himself tighter. It’s the first time they’ve seen him up since his meltdown. Before anyone can say anything, Kinger walks into the room. Here comes damage control. He scans the room, feeling the energy and taking in the situation. 

“Jax,” he calls quietly, breaking the tense silence, and the said man looks up to meet his eyes. His cheeks are red with embarrassment and anger, but Kinger only gives him a meaningful look. He holds up a pair of scruffy shoes, and Jax belatedly realizes they’re his. He gets the memo and walks over to snatch them from Kinger’s hands, clumsily putting them on. As he does so, Kinger fixes the rest of the group with a look. 

“We’re going out for a walk,” he tells them softly, opening the door and letting Jax storm through the door. Completely unfitting for his anger, the door is gently closed behind them. The group listens as their footsteps fade away before glancing at each other. 

“What happened?” Pomni questions aloud, asking what everyone is wondering, and everybody’s eyes immediately fall on Zooble. Zooble looks understandably freaked out, offering a confused shrug as their brows furrow. “I don’t know. We were talking and he just– He got mad because I tried to relate to him or something.”

“What? Why, what did you say?” Ragatha blurts out, already jumping into overdrive, and Zooble’s brows shoot up. They eye her up and down awkwardly. “Told him something personal. That’s it,” they say in a stern tone, but the answer doesn’t seem to satisfy the redhead girl in front of them. She bites her lip, eyes darting around the room nervously. Gangle awkwardly rubs her arm, clearly uncomfortable with the energy in the room, and Pomni walks up when she can tell her girlfriend’s overthinking it.

“Ragatha,” Pomni calls from her side, reaching over and gripping her hand. “He’s okay. We can’t keep coddling him. You know he doesn’t like that–”

“No,” Ragatha snaps back, voice breaking, “No, I don’t know. I don’t know the first thing about what Jax wants, or– or what he needs. I don’t know how to comfort him, or take care of him, or fix this. I don’t know why he keeps acting like that or how to help him. I don’t know why–”

She chokes off the rest of her sentence, but they all know what she means. They all stand around in silence, taking Ragatha’s words for what they are. The truth, in some regards– a myth in others. She’s right, to a degree. They don’t know Jax. Not in the slightest. His argument with Zooble is a clear indicator of that– they don’t know what will set him off and what won’t. It’s hard, with him. This is hard.

“Well,” Pomni speaks up after a long moment, bringing their eyes to her. “If anyone can get through to a person as stubborn as Jax, it’s Kinger. They’ll be back soon, and we can figure it out then. In the meantime, maybe we can clean up the apartment?”

She grabs Ragatha’s hand as she speaks, squeezing it gently. The other two hum in agreement, and they divide up the work evenly between the four of them– Pomni will clean Jax’s room, Ragatha will clean the kitchen, Gangle will pick up the living room, and Zooble will clean the bathroom (if only because they can’t stand the looks on Pomni and Ragatha’s faces whenever they glance over there). Pomni leaves her phone on the kitchen counter, playing the playlist they put together one Friday night only a few weeks after escaping the circus.

They spend their time happily humming and singing with each other, and it’s peaceful. The current situation is forgotten about, if only for a moment. 

…

Kinger leads Jax out of the stuffy apartment and down the stairs to the front doors, the boy only begrudgingly following along. It’s chilly outside, the streets lit only by streetlamps. Kinger heads toward the nearest sidewalk and starts walking, and Jax figures there’s no better option than following him. It feels good to be outside, the October air hitting his face wonderfully and making him gasp for it. It feels real, in a good way. Better than when his body wanted to turn him inside out in front of everybody. That was embarrassing.

He follows Kinger all the way to their park, not even realizing until he’s sitting beside him on a bench, gazing out at the grass. He can see his breath fanning out in front of him, and he can feel Kinger’s arm press into his.

“It’s been a long while since I’ve had a one-on-one with you, huh?” Kinger murmurs, and there's a humorous tone to his words. Jax gives a half-hearted shrug. “Guess so.”

“A lot of things have changed since then.”

“Well, yeah. For one, we’re not stuck inside a kid’s rainbow nightmare, and you’re not a chess piece.”

“You’re not a rabbit either,” Kinger adds on, giving Jax a curious glance. Jax brings his knees up and hugs them, staring at the ground. “Right now, I feel like one.”

“Oh, look at that, progress already! An I feel statement,” the older man jokes, elbowing Jax gently, and Jax finds he doesn’t mind it. He doesn’t mind when Kinger does a lot of things, actually, but he’d never voice that aloud. Instead, he rubs at his arm where Kinger had dabbed him and gives him a funny look. He murmurs under his breath, annoyed by the joke.

“Jax,” Kinger says, taking a more serious tone as he curls his jacket around himself. “You have to understand that none of us are upset with you.”

“I don’t know, Kinger, Zooble was pretty mad. You should have seen it,” Jax sneers quietly, voice hoarse.

Kinger ignores him. “These past… What, seven days? They’ve been a lot for you. For all of us, of course, but for you especially. You died, came back, and now you're wandering the wild and you don’t know what to do. I can’t imagine that’s easy.”

“Making a lot of assumptions there, Kinger.”

“Correct assumptions,” he hums thoughtfully. “We shouldn’t have burst into your apartment like that. That’s part of the reason you freaked out, right?”

Jax feels his cheeks warm as the clarity of everything that happened earlier hits him. “Partially,” he admits without even meaning to (he's been doing that a lot recently, he finds), “but it was also because I had a massive headache and I think the pills I took were expired. I was sick.” He covers his mouth with his arms, then murmurs in a quiet voice, so low that Kinger can hardly hear him, “I’m still sick.”

“Okay. Well, I apologize for that. Ragatha was so worried, you know, she just–” he gives him a soft smile. “We couldn’t stop her. She was so scared of finding you like that again, she was willing to do anything to get to you. You understand that, right?”

Jax gives him a side-eye, already getting clearly annoyed with the conversation. He huffs, pulling his legs out from his arms and dropping them to the floor. “What does it matter anyway? Why does she care so much? I mean– can’t she just… bug off?”

Kinger laughs at his bug pun but shakes his head. “She cares about you. We all do.”

“Sure, but why?” Jax demands, staring up at the cloudy sky. He feels like a ticking timebomb. Kinger’s words are riling him up in a way he doesn’t understand. He sits up straighter on the bench. Kinger offers a shrug.

“There’s no way for me to tell you that I for sure know why,” he answers honestly, “all I know is that you’re one of us, and we want to protect you too. You’re a victim, too.”

“Some victim,” he echoes sarcastically. He doesn't want this pity talk.

Kinger gives him a nearly scolding look. “Just because you don’t think you’re a victim doesn’t mean you’re not one. We get it, it’s a lot. Leaving the circus and being thrown into the real world without a proper support system. It’s taking a toll on you, and all of… this has made it very clear.”

Jax feels ready to explode. He stands up sharply, gesturing wildly to the air and looking at Kinger with fury in his eyes. “You can’t even say it,” he spits out, hot and frustrated as the problem bubbles out of him. “You’re all tiptoeing around the issue– ‘let’s not talk about that right now,’ ‘don’t refer to it like that,’ ‘let’s put it behind us’–  fuckin’– I tried to kill myself.” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels involuntary tears start up. He can’t stop it, he can’t– he gasps, loud and heedy, as he doubles over himself, trying to fight gravity. This can’t be it, this can’t be. Can’t, can’t, can’t. This isn’t Jax. He doesn’t know who this is. He doesn’t know who he wants to be.

“I tried to kill myself,” he repeats, voice shaky as uncontrollable tears flow down his cheeks. “Why doesn’t anybody– why can’t they just–?”

He cuts himself with a guttural groan, bringing his hands to cover his eyes. No more tears, no more pain. He only sobs at the thought, wiping at his eyes desperately. He slumps down onto the bench by Kinger, not daring to look at him.

“Why is everybody just trying to sweep it under the rug? It’s not like I’ve abstracted, this is real. I’m real. God. I’m real and I hate it,” he laughs pathetically. Kinger just sits in silence, listening to him rant. Jax stares at the ground, watching as the leaves scatter with the wind. “All I’ve ever wanted to be my entire life was dead.”

He sniffles, the cold air getting to him, but also because of the tears that wouldn’t stop flowing. “I don’t know when I first realized that there wasn’t a day that went by where I didn’t think about death, but it’s been a long time. It’s freedom, it’s warmth, it’s… everything. It was everything. I figured if I was dead, I’d be everything, too.”

Kinger spared him a glance, but didn’t reply. “It’s stupid. In the circus, I guess it was easier to live with the thoughts because I couldn’t die. I was immortal, I was important, I was special; I was finally everything I always wanted to be. Dead in the real world, alive somewhere else. Goodbye Michael. Hello, Jax. I could fly, and nobody could stop me. Life couldn't stop me. But now I’m here in the real world, and I’ve remembered that I’m nothing because I’m alive.”

He leans forward slightly, feeling his headache returning. What time is it? He doesn’t care, he doesn’t want to know. He hums tiredly. “I’m sorry,” he gasps out, breathing cold and teeth chattering, “I know that doesn’t make sense. Nothing about me makes sense. I don’t know why I’m this way.”

“You make perfect sense, Jax,” Kinger says, but Jax isn’t sure if he’s telling the truth or not. He decides it doesn’t matter. Kinger reaches a hand over and gently pats his back; the younger doesn’t pull away this time. The touch is welcome, out here, because his body feels as cold as the dead and he reckons a golden touch couldn’t be too bad. 

“For what it’s worth, I think you're worth much more than you give yourself credit for,” the older man continues slowly. “Maybe you’re not everything you wanted to be, but you're still something.”

Jax feels exhaustion weighing down on his bones, on his very soul. He looks blankly at the park in front of them, trees bare as they prepare for winter. “That’s not enough,” he says in a voice so quiet it doesn’t even sound like him. Kinger stops patting, starting a soft, comforting back rub instead.

“Sometimes it has to be.”

Jax only lets out a self-deprecating laugh. Kinger glances down at him, looking away before the younger man can catch him staring. He clears his throat a bit. “It might sound ridiculous to you, but I mean it. The best advice I can give you is to just let yourself be something before doing anything else.” 

Jax’s voice drops when he speaks, and he feels a terrible shame sweep over him. “I don’t know what I want to be.”

“You can start with being alive,” Kinger suggests softly. Jax’s head snaps up to him, and the older man gives him a smile. It’s so soft, so patient, and unlike everybody else’s in the circus, it isn’t full of pity or– or the idea that he’s something to be fixed. He feels his bottom lip wobble, but he’s able to fight off the tears this time. He’s tired of crying.

“I’ve never wanted to be alive,” he tells Kinger.

“That’s okay,” Kinger answers, “I can want it for the both of us.”

“I don’t know how to get out of this spot,” he continues.

“That’s alright, too,” Kinger nods along, “we can figure it out together.”

Jax grimaces, giving him a vaguely disgusted look. “With everybody?” 

Kinger’s smile only grows, and he lets out a dry laugh as he nods his head. “With everybody,” he confirms, laughing a little louder at the face Jax must be making. He grips his hands together, squeezing his fingers together so tightly they sting, especially with the cold air. “I don’t want them to– I just– It’s weird, having all these people worry about me and fret over me. It feels gross.”

“Well, maybe you can tell them that. They could help with that too,” the older man suggests, wise as ever. Or– err– as wise as he was before, Jax supposes. He shrugs half-heartedly. “I don’t really care about them helping me,” he says, and before Kinger can comment on it, he adds, “but I’m… tired of living like this. I guess, if I can’t die, then I might as well– just– whatever.”

Kinger actually doesn’t reply to that, and takes it as it is, just watching silently as Jax stands and shoves his hands into his pockets. He glances back, meeting the man’s gaze; there are bags under his eyes, a slight tremble in his hands that’s barely visible through the thin fabric of his hoodie. He looks like he’s gone through hell, like he’s seen better days, but also like he’s willing to go back to said better days. 

“Let’s go home,” Jax says, jaw chattering slightly as the cold seems to be getting to him. Kinger stares at him for a moment before giving a curt nod and standing up, allowing Jax to lead him back to his apartment complex. It’s a rather short walk, Jax realizes now that he’s the one leading it. He wonders if it’s because it’s always been that short, or if it’s because he spent most of the time blocking out most of it. He doesn’t care for the answer. 

When they open the door to his apartment, Jax is taken aback by the sight of it. It’s clean– like, really clean. Sure, there are a few blemishes here and there, some stains that are definitely impossible to remove, but it’s completely picked up and it smells like freshener. He glances around warily, finding the other four members on the couch. They’re staring at him. 

Kinger stands behind him in the hallway, not rushing him to go inside as he takes in his environment. He blinks a few times, surprise coloring his features. “What the hell.”

“Jax! Hello,” Gangle greets happily from her seat, letting out a sigh of relief as if just the sight of him has unburdened her of her stress. He figures it probably did, in a weird way. He doesn’t greet her back, eyes jumping back and forth around the apartment as he really takes it in. Nice of them, he supposes. He thanks them mentally, but doesn’t bother saying any words. He just rubs at his eyes tiredly, brows furrowing together. 

He walks into the room, finally letting Kinger into the apartment. Without saying much, he heads over to his bedroom door with a very clear exhaustion in his walk. “You guys can stay the night if you want, I don’t care, just– I need to sleep.”

He doesn’t really need sleep, is what nobody points out, because he’s been sleeping all day and drifting in and out of consciousness. They don’t comment on it, though, allowing him to retreat to his bedroom as he attempts to give himself some semblance of control. He closes the door behind him, leaving them alone in his– now that the mess is gone, rather empty– apartment. 

Kinger wordlessly moves to the closet in the corner of the living room, finding a large array of blankets stacked on top of each other. He pulls them out, and quickly finds that they’re a little worse for wear. They’re old, anyone with eyes can see, almost frozen in the past. Torn and used in a way that suggests they were loved, once upon a time. He silently wonders when Jax stopped loving them, preferring the cold air over the raggedy blankets in his closet. The whole closet looks abandoned, now that he’s really thinking about it, full of old boxes with faded out markers and dust particles. He doesn’t let himself dwell on the time capsule Jax has created.

He passes out the blankets, shaking them out before hand to get any dust off of them, and the group huddles around the living room. Kinger is given the couch– on account of his “old age,” according to the girls, all smiles and teasing laughs– and the other four curl up on the floor on top of a mountain of blankets. They find each other falling asleep rather quickly– it’s late at night, after all, about one thirty in the morning, and they’re tired from the events of the past few hours. The apartment falls into silence.

Jax, on the other hand, finds it difficult to close his eyes. He wonders if it’s because he isn’t tired, or if it’s because he’s afraid of the things he’ll see in his mind if he does so. For once, he wishes he knew the answer. It would be so easy to get some shut-eye if he knew. Seven days, or so, is what Kinger had said. He doesn’t want to think about it, so he turns his mind to something else.

The others are curled up in his living room, of course– he could hear them giggling to themselves about fifteen minutes ago, and their collective snoring is reaching his door. He finds he doesn’t mind– if they’re going to hang around, there’s no point in being upset about it. It will only make the whole ordeal ten times more insufferable, after all, and he doesn’t have the energy for that. Deep down, though, he knows he also just longs for somebody to be in the apartment with him. He figures that’s why he’d been so willing to let his thoughts take him over all those nights ago– there’d been nobody to tell him otherwise.

That’s his theory, anyway. He has half a mind to consider that perhaps they wouldn’t have stopped him at all; perhaps, in some sick and twisted version of this story, they might have encouraged it instead. He doesn’t know which he prefers, truth to be told. People who didn’t care enough to intervene, or an audience to watch from the front row? Indifference or hatred? He thinks, maybe, he’d prefer the latter, if it really came down to it. Not that it would, because the others aren’t like that.

They aren’t like him. Not in the slightest, and Jax thinks he’s proud of that. Or he would be, anyway, if he cared about that sort of thing. As it stands, all he feels as he stares at the wall on the opposite side of his room is some sort of indifference. Nothing, perhaps. 

He misses the circus, which is saying something because he really hated being there. To some degree, at least. He came to terms with it, however, when he learned just how fun it was to make his own identity, to be completely different from who he was before. Michael had been a pushover, he thinks, who never asked for anything and never demanded anything more than what he was given. Jax was different, Jax was powerful. Jax took. The only reason he really hated the circus is because it wasn’t where he was supposed to end up. He’d walked into some crappy old building, hoping to end it all by jumping off the roof, and decided to take a quick side quest on the computer that conveniently lit up for him. Who could blame him?

If it was going to be his last day on earth, he wasn’t going to be afraid to take risks and play a game on some crappy computer. In a weird way, he supposes the circus saved his life. He’d been in there for a few years, and by the time he got out, he’d been in the hospital being kept alive by a ton of different tubes. It’s all a bit blurry now, despite it happening only a few months ago, but he knows it wasn’t where he was supposed to end up.

Even now, this isn’t where he was supposed to end up. He was supposed to be in Limbo or something, he reckons. Not heaven, never heaven. He was not made for heaven, nor does he think he was ever sent from it, either. Heaven is for good people, honest people, and he was never much of an honest man. He spends most of his days lying through his teeth, actually. He’s sure that he’s lied at least five times in this mental monologue. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. (Number six, his mind whispers).

He’s a bad person, but– this was never about being a bad person, was it? No, it was about never being a person at all. That had been his goal in the circus, after all. Michael was emotional, Jax was not. Michael bleed, Jax did not. Michael was human, and Jax was something else entirely. What that something was, he isn’t sure. Now, sitting in his bedroom in this false body, he feels like a gross mixture of both worlds. He wonders if the others ever felt like this, but then reminds himself that he doesn’t care, and feels a little better without the turmoil in his mind. 

Turmoil, what a funny word. It’s funny, isn’t it? That he’s here, questioning this as much as he is. He needs a drink, he thinks. He wants to go on another walk, he wants some alcohol. He needs a drink. He wants air, he wants a break. He needs to go to the bathroom. He needs a drink. 

After a moment of consideration, he flips his too long legs out of his bed and awkwardly stands up, walking out into the main room. He can make out the vague shadow figures of the others sprawled over the living room, and he can’t help the eye roll that overtakes him. He makes his way to the bathroom, taking far too long to be normal as he sleepily tries to maneuver his way around. He makes his way to the kitchen and finishes his task of grabbing himself a glass of water, not particularly caring to check his volume. They’re in his house, after all. He chugs the water down like he’s a dying man, gasping for air between gulps. He turns around, ready to head back to his bed, before practically jumping out of his skin. It’s the third time someone’s snuck up behind him like this, his mind registers with annoyance.

He squints in the darkness, trying to make out who’s standing on the other side of the counter, staring at him. He studies the figure intently, barely able to make out the curls that come from the person’s head and mentally groans when he realizes who it is. Suddenly, he wishes he’d just let himself die of dehydration. He bites back a groan, almost tempted to just pretend he’d never seen her.

“Ragatha,” he greets lowly, trying to force as much annoyance into his tone as he can possibly muster. He isn’t sure if it gets across, since he can’t exactly see her face, but he figures it probably doesn’t matter right now. He glances over at the digital clock he knows is sitting on the coffee table. 3:36am. He glances back at her figure, kind of unsettled by her silence. “Why the hell are you awake?”

“Jax,” she finally speaks, voice shaky with something he can’t quite read. Is she upset? God, he hopes not. It seems like every time he’s seen Ragatha these past few days, she’s upsetting or tearful. He’s getting sick of it; nothing was ever that serious anyway. Aren’t they past this?

“What?” he snaps back, softer than he really means to. He’d wanted to be mean. She inhales sharply at his response, and he can see her shadow reach a hand up to presumably wipe at her face. “You scared me,” she says quietly, hushed as to not wake the others. He’s taken aback, and he’s sure she can tell by the way he recoils back. “I scared you? You snuck up on me!”

“No, not–” she lets out another breath, this one clearly being her asking God for patience. “You didn’t startle me, you worried me.”

He feels his eye twitch. “I was just getting water,” he mumbles, gesturing at the glass before realizing she can’t see him and raising the cup in a very obvious manner. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and he can only imagine that she’s piercing her lips together in the way she usually does when Jax is misunderstanding her. “No, I mean… when you went to the bathroom and took a while, I thought that maybe– that you would–”

Oh. 

“Oh,” he echoes aloud. Well. He isn’t sure what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. “I was just getting water,” he echoes after a tense moment. He sees her nod, and he’s hit with a truck of guilt as she sighs in relief. What is he guilty for? What does he care? Honestly, it’s a bit of an insult for her to insinuate that he’d be dumb enough to try again while everyone was here. 

But there’s something deep inside of him that reminds him she had seen the aftermath. She’d seen his stupid decision, had dropped to her knees on his frankly disgusting bathroom floor and held his bloody corpse in her arms. There’s a part of him that reminds him that she’d been there for it all– maybe not in the right ways, but there regardless. He frowns at himself.

When it becomes apparent that there’s no more conversation to be had, Ragatha clears her throat awkwardly and turns to head back to the living room. He puts his glass down, squeezing his eyes shut as he feels the self-hatred for what he’s about to say take over his entire being. “Wait,” he whisper-shouts. Ragatha immediately whirls back around, and he can see the surprise on her face clearly in his mind. He doesn’t know if he wants to strangle her or take himself out for even speaking at all. 

“Look, just–” he sighs heavily, regretting his decision, before glancing at the group. “We can’t talk here. Just– come with me, I guess.” 

She does so wordlessly, allowing him to lead the way to his room and closing the door behind them. Jax leans over and clicks the lamp on, filling the room with golden light. They can see each other clearly now– Ragatha’s wearing a pair of pajamas he recognizes from a post she’d made a couple weeks ago, when she and Pomni had a sleepover. Jax had found it stupid (and he’d said as much) because the two practically lived together; there was no point to the sleepover at all. Not that it matters to him, of course, but still, utterly ridiculous. 

Ragatha can see him too. He’s still wearing the outfit he’d been wearing when they showed up unannounced, a hoodie and some sweatpants. She grimaces a bit; they’re probably all gross and sweaty by now, but she doesn’t comment on it. She figures he already knows. 

“What did you need?” she asks in a whisper, despite the fact that they’re no longer in the other room and they can talk a little louder if they desire. Jax mumbles under his breath, moving to sit on his bed and pulling at his hoodie strings. Ragatha can see the clear bags under his eyes, and she mourns him a little bit. Twenty two years old, dead on the bathroom floor of his one-person apartment. Only, he’s not dead. He’s sitting right in front of her. 

“Just…” he begins, before swallowing heavily. He doesn’t look at her, staring ahead at nothing in particular. She waits patiently for him to finish, not speaking up out of fear that he’d kick her out if she dared breathe wrong. She wishes he could get the words out, because this behavior is unknown to her. She doesn’t know how to tread this battlefield, if it even is one. She doesn’t know this side of Jax; she never knew Jax at all. “Look, I didn’t pull you aside to have some deep meaningful talk or anything. I’m sick of having deep conversations.”

She visibly deflates, a frown pulling on her lips. Her brows are creased with sadness, and he can’t fight off the guilt that overtakes him. He licks his much too dry lips. “Just– look, I–” he cuts himself off, clearing his throat when his voice cracks. “I figured I never thanked you for that night. For… I don’t know, sticking around. For holding me, I guess, even if I don’t see the point as to why you did it, why you still worry about an asshole like me. I don’t get you, but–”

Ragatha’s frown has been wiped off her face, and now she leans forward with curiosity. Immediately, he can tell that she fully believes his first few words were a lie, but he doesn’t care to reinforce them. He isn’t sure if he believes them himself either, anymore. Instead, he just focuses on continuing with his… whatever this is. 

“I appreciate you getting covered in my blood or whatever. Thanks, I guess,” he finishes clumsily, feeling like an idiot as soon as the words leave his mouth. He glances up to look at her, and finds her eyes filled with tears. Shit. He just stares at her as she reaches up to wipe at her eyes. She lets out an ill-fitted chuckle, a nervous habit he recognizes from years of her trying to get close to him. Tch.

“Uh,” she hums with a tiny sniffle, “Yeah, yeah, it’s– it’s no problem, Jax. No problem at all.”

“Christ. Stop crying,” he snaps at her, but again, the words come out softer than he means them to. He’s losing his bite, and he finds it bothers him more than he thought it would. “It’s not like I told you I liked you or something. Don’t get it twisted, I don’t intend to be your best friend or anything. All I’m saying is that I understand it was an asshole move to bleed out on my floor and leave you to find me. It couldn’t have been easy, so… congratulations, you have balls.” 

She outright laughs at that, as if it were any other day and she was laughing at something Pomni said. Only, he’s not Pomni. He squints at her. Out of character.

“Jax, there are a million things I’d be willing to do for you,” she says slowly, looking down at him from where she stands by the door. She clearly doesn’t know what to do with her hands, because they’re just clenching and unclenching at her sides. He feels vaguely ill at her words, and that feeling of self destruction starts up in his chest.

“Eugh,” he pretends to gag, making sure to show her just how uncomfortable he is with the thought, “why would you?”

“I care about you,” she answers, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He gives her a weird look.

“Stop that,” he tells her, with the venom he’s been missing throughout their entire conversation. She just tilts her head at him, confusion in her face. Her hands grip her pajama shorts. “Stop, I don’t– this is wrong. You’re wrong.”

“Why would I be wrong about caring for you? You’re still my friend, Jax, even if you don’t see me as yours–”

“Stop, Ragatha. I’m serious. We had our talk, you can leave now.” 

She does no such thing. Instead, she just furrows her brows and crosses her arms, making her way over to his bed and sitting down right beside him. He scoots up further, sitting against the wall to avoid her touch as much as possible. This isn’t the direction this conversation was supposed to go in. He brings his knees up and hugs them to his chest. Ragatha stares at him, eyes tearing him apart as if he were the ragdoll. He looks like a child.

“What brought this on?” she asks in a very low voice, so low that Jax nearly misses it, “I mean, why did you decide to talk to me now?”

He swallows, and she follows the action with her eyes. He grips at his hoodie strings a little harder, turning his eyes away to glare at the floor. “I dunno. I saw the opportunity and I took it.”

“So you were waiting to talk to me?”

“No,” he answers, and it’s true. He hadn’t wanted to talk to Ragatha at all, because she reminds him too much of too many things and he never really wanted to interact with her all that much, anyway. Too much positivity– it reminds him of how fake the circus was, and that in turn reminded him of how real he was. He hated it, hated her. But there was more to it than that, wasn’t there?

“No,” he repeats as he clears his throat, “I didn’t plan on talking to you, it’s just… eugh. That pathetic show you put on earlier when you guys showed up at my door unprompted– which was totally rude, by the way– was kind of sad and I felt bad for you. I figured that even if I didn’t want this talk, you needed it.”

He hadn’t meant to say that last part, and it must be very obvious because he immediately snaps his jaw shut and Ragatha’s staring at him as if he’s grown a second head. She blinks a few times, taken aback by his explanation (or maybe just at the fact that he explained it at all), and intertwines her fingers. She looks at him for a really long time– really looks at him. “Okay,” she says eventually.

“Okay?”

“Ah, well– I mean, okay enough. I have way more questions and I still don’t understand all of this, but that’s– you don’t owe me that,” she answers with a nervous stutter, as if she was suddenly made aware of who she was talking to. Funny. Zooble probably felt the same way. Isn’t that funny?

Her words honestly take him by surprise more than he’d like to admit. Ragatha was a pushy person, that’s who she was. She pressed and prodded until she was beating a dead horse, and it was really annoying to deal with. She never left anything alone, so to hear her back off is a little shocking. He isn’t sure if he prefers it this way. He grumbles a bit in response, scanning his room as if he hasn’t seen it a million times before. He thinks he has the wall’s chipping memorized.

He clears his throat in acknowledgement to her, and she immediately sits up just a little bit straighter as if she were being addressed by an official. He wonders if her mother taught her that, but doesn’t dwell on the thought long. He isn’t supposed to care, and he reckons he doesn’t, anyway.

“You can ask one question,” he tells her in a hushed whisper, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth. Ragatha’s brows shoot up, and her curiosity is clearly piqued. It isn’t very often that they get to sit and have a civil conversation like this, and it’s even less often that he lets her pry into him. But, hey, if she can break out of character for a little bit, he supposes he can too. Not that he needs anyone else’s influence to do it– he’s a man of free will, after all. She hums a bit, as if considering her options.

“What are we?” she asks eventually, voice a little quivery. His brows furrow and he looks over at her with comically large eyes, looking as grossed out as possible, as if her question personally offended him. He gives a little flattered scoff, playing up the attitude. “Wow, Ragatha, what does that have to do with–”

“Agh, stop that. You know what I mean.”

He snickers a bit, bringing his arms up to rest behind his head as he leans back against the wall. He lets his legs uncurl and hang over the side of the bed; Ragatha stays completely upright, sitting politely. He wants to shove her off, but only because it’s what he would’ve done by now in the circus. He tries to look bored as he glances up at the ceiling, but he’s sure the bags under his eyes just make him come across as sad. 

“We’re not friends, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“I know,” she responds in a quiet voice, “but we were, at some point.”

He snaps his eyes to look at her again, studying her face as he bites the inside of his cheek. He squints at her, finding a strange satisfaction in the way she squirms a bit under his heavy gaze. “Somehow, I have a feeling that’s not the question you wanted to ask.”

Mutely, she shakes her head in agreement at his words. He only scoffs, reaching up and pulling his hood up over his head to cover his eyes. “Tough luck. You only had one question. Guess you have to–”

“Why are we not friends anymore?” 

She cuts him off, but he doesn't even have the energy to be angry about it. He just presses his lips together, gripping the hem of his hood and squeezing it between fingers. He lifts it a bit to reveal one eye, and she immediately shrinks under the heat of his gaze. Hah. that’s funny, a woman in her thirties being afraid of some twenty-two year old (although he doesn’t really feel twenty-two, because he’d only been a teen when he entered the circus, and he thinks he never learned to grow). 

“Why do you want to know so badly? The answer won’t get you anywhere,” he says instead of answering, letting his arm fall at his side. The hood falls over his eyes again, leaving only the tip of his nose and his mouth visible. He makes sure to scowl.

“I think I deserve to know,” she says.

“You won’t like what I say,” he rebuttals. 

“I never do. But at least this time, it's the truth.” 

He hums thoughtfully at that. Well played, well said. He groans and yanks his hood off his head, messing up his dark hair as he whirls his head to look at her– properly look at her. He squints, narrows his eyes, frowns, bites the inside of his cheek. He looks like a robot processing information, looking for the proper response. Ragatha isn’t sure if he’s looking for the gentlest way to put it, or for the nastiest, and she doesn’t know which one scares her more.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Rags,” he says eventually, voice low and unsure, which sounds weird coming from him. “Things change. What more is there?”

“What changed? Did I do something wrong? If I messed something up–”

“There it is,” he cuts her off, using a tone she can’t quite read. She presses her lips together, snapping her mouth shut as he leans forward, away from the wall. “You know, Ragatha, you’re not nearly as thoughtful as you pretend to be. You want to know what your problem is? You want to know why we aren’t friends? Fine. At some point, you changed, and you never even realized it. Is that what you want to hear?”

She doesn’t reply to that, looking oddly perplexed– an expression that just pisses him off because he’s seen a million times before. It was the expression she always made whenever he got overly emotional or distant. It was the expression she always made when she thought he was being unnecessarily cruel, acting like a monster. He wishes he could feel as in control now as he did during those conversations. 

“I– I didn’t– I’ve only ever wanted to help you, Jax–”

“Yeah, but that’s not entirely true, is it? You just–” he cuts himself off, swallowing heavily. He scoffs, turning his eyes up to the ceiling in annoyance. He lets out a breath. “At some point, it stopped being about helping me, and it became a way to help yourself. It’s like you were so worried about letting somebody else down, that you clung onto me to be the living proof that you were doing something right. Well, sorry to disappoint, but I turned out to be the worst of us all.” 

“No,” Ragatha shakes her head, curls falling over her face and shoulders as she denies, “No, Jax. No, I was just trying to–”

“You wanted to put me in his spot.”

“No, I’d never do that–”

“You wanted to do what you didn’t do before and be there.”

She can’t muster up the words to reply to that, bringing a shaky hand up to her mouth to cover the sob that’s probably threatening to spill out. He just stares at her, lips pressed into a small frown as he sits on the edge of his bed. She squeezes her eyes shut, shoulders hiked up to her ears as she curls in on herself. After a moment, she composes herself and wipes at her eyes and nose.

“Jax,” she croaks slowly, “I never intended to put you in Ribbit’s spot.” 

His name sends an icy chill through Jax, and he forces himself to ignore it. He’d avoided saying it for a reason, but it seems Ragatha doesn’t have that kind of preservation. He just makes a tch sound and brings his legs up to his chest.

“I know you won’t believe me, but that was the last thing I wanted. I need you to understand that. I need you to know that–”

“Stop. Stop that, you– you’re doing it. You’ve turned it about you, about what you need me to understand, about what you need me to believe. All this is doing is making me pity you even more because you can’t even believe yourself.”

She makes a terrible throaty sound, sounding like a wounded animal. Her hand is frozen in the air from where she’d tried to clasp onto his shoulder in a show of support, and it immediately retracts back toward her body. She clenches her hand into a fist, biting gently at her knuckles. She doesn’t look at him, brows furrowed. He almost thinks she’s about to leave, about to forget the conversation ever happened, but she just lets out a mournful sigh.

“I don’t want second-hand support,” he adds, making sure to put as much disdain in his voice as possible. She offers a nod, which is more than he expected of her. 

“Jax,” she starts again, swallowing heavily when her voice cracks. “It was never my intention to do that to you, but that’s–” her voice cracks, and she clears her throat before continuing. “That’s not what you want to hear. I can only say sorry. I’m sorry. I-I know I changed, and I know that perhaps I wasn’t helping you in the best way. I just… I was so scared.”

She fiddles with her fingers nervously, eyes jumping from every spot in the room but avoiding Jax's direction altogether. She reaches up and twirls her loose curls around her finger, bringing her hand up to her mouth to muffle some of her shuddering breaths. Jax looks away, if only because he can’t handle being so close to such raw emotion, and opts to look at the ceiling once more. They’re well acquainted anyway. 

“I was so scared,” she echoes, and she knows he’s listening by the way his lips narrow into a thin line and the way he squeezes his legs a little tighter to himself. “I jumped into overdrive, because if something had happened to you too, I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. I tried everything to make sure you were safe, to make sure it wouldn’t happen to you like it did to Ribbit, to make sure you were better off. I just wanted… I wanted to prove to myself that I could keep at least one of you safe.”

Her pure honesty surprises him. It’s weird, hearing her talk like this, talk about him like this, and it makes his skin crawl. He looks over at her, and nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees her staring at him with the biggest, most vacant eyes he’s ever seen. She tilts her head forward with purpose, brows raised as if willing her words to burn into his core.

He only hums, blinking lazily at her. He sits up straighter, feeling his palms begin to sweat. He spends a long time just staring at her, processing. She stares back, and they both sit in pure silence as the moon continues to lower outside his window. His phone dings with a notification from his bedside table, and his eyes briefly flicker down to look at it. It’s a reminder to let the others know how he’s feeling once he wakes, an alarm set by Ragatha herself back when he’d first gotten out of the hospital. He lets his legs go, dropping over the side of the bed, and starts to feel a small pit grow in his stomach.

“I’m sorry that I… forgot myself,” she finishes, distracting Jax from the notification, and she sounds so sad that it makes a part of him twitch. His hands grip onto the edge of the bed, and he feels a frown pulling at his lips. He squeezes his eyes shut, and wills his mind not to shut down at the feelings coursing through his entire being. 

Well. She certainly clarified a lot of things. It makes him feel a little guilty, because he knows their relationship’s fall wasn’t solely Ragatha’s fault, and he should take some ownership of the problem too, but he can’t get the words out. He still doesn’t want to be her friend, and he still thinks that she’s annoying, but he supposes that she deserves closure too. He pulls his next words out of his throat.

“Okay. I’m sorry too,” he replies to her, a sick echo of her own words. This is the only encouragement he can give–  showing that he’s human after all. He holds his breath for a long moment, before speaking in a quivering voice. "Look, I’d lost Ribbit and it pissed me off– I mean, really pissed me off– that I’d lost you with him. You made me so angry. You reminded me that things were real and I hated it. I hated you.”

She sniffles pitifully when his words slowly begin to fill with anger, bringing her hands up to wipe at her eyes once more. He lets out a frustrated groan, before sighing heavily. He rakes a hand down his face. “But now I’m just tired,” he continues, “I’m tired of hating other people and I’m especially tired of hating myself. I just want to rest.”

Her head snaps up to look at him when he stops speaking, eyes wide but still filled with tears. She lets them fall down her cheeks this time. She folds her hands politely in her lap once more, as if to pretend she didn’t have tears and snot running down her face. He grimaced at her. “I don’t want to be friends with you. I don’t even want to get close to you, but I can understand. I understand why you did what you did, I guess, so I can’t be too mad. I’m tired of being mad, anyway, so here’s the deal. I will tolerate you, only if you stop putting up this caring facade and let yourself just feel. Got it?”

She nods vigorously, a smile on her face. “I can tolerate you too, only if you stop putting up walls and let yourself be a normal person.”

“I’m hardly a normal person,” he comments with an unimpressed look, but there’s humor in his voice as he gestures vaguely to his arms. He gets up and she does too, letting him lead her to his bedroom door. Ragatha just grimaces a little bit, standing outside his door now. “Well, you can work on it.”

“Yeah. Maybe we can actually fix me this time,” he jokes, but she just scolds him for it, quietly now since there is no barrier between them and the others. She gives him one more look over, before giving him a tired smile. “Thanks for the talk, Jax. I know you probably didn't want to have it, but I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, well, you probably didn’t want to spend the night in the hospital, so now we’re even.” Neither of them point out the fact that those two things are not at all comparable. She hums in acknowledgement. “Well, goodnight.” 

He doesn’t audibly reply, but the way he lingers at the doorway as she walks away tells her enough. She hears the door close behind her, and she carefully members herself back into her spot beside Pomni on the floor. She stirs a bit, but Ragatha just pulls her close and squeezes her. On any other occasion, she’d be rushing to wake her and tell her about the conversation, but she figures she can keep this one a secret. If not for herself, then for Jax. 

Jax, on the other hand, snuggles into his blankets and finds that sleep doesn’t come. He feels a little bit of misery and annoyance. So much for being sick of deep conversations.

…

The next morning goes about as well as you’d expect. Jax didn’t have any proper food in his cupboards and fridge– which was frankly concerning, but a topic for another day– so Zooble and Gangle had offered to go to the convenience store down the block and bring back some eggs and other basic foods. Now, the group sits huddled around the living room coffee table in Jax’s apartment (the table being too small for the six of them), as Kinger fixes them up with breakfast. They’re all talking animatedly to each other, and Jax just watches them.

Every once in a while, Pomni will ask Jax for his opinion on something, and he’ll make a purposefully idiotic statement to argue with Zooble, and things feel normal. He feels normal, and he tries to ignore the fact that he knows it’s because he’s with them. He doesn’t want to imagine how he’ll be when they’re gone, back at their respective homes. 

For now, he’s content to have them all in his apartment, even if he’s a little sick of being inside of it himself. Kinger’s cooking is pretty good, and he takes the liberty to ask him about it. Kinger jumps into a long, lengthy story about his wife. Something about how he almost burned the kitchen down once, but she’d jumped in and saved the day. They spent the next few days making different dishes together, and Kinger enjoyed the experiences so much that he eventually became the sole cook in their household. 

It’s sweet, and it leaves the girls and Zooble gushing over it very enthusiastically. Jax agrees– or he would, if he cared about that sort of thing, anyway, which he really doesn’t. He really only feels a little moved by it. He only lets out a scoff in response, which he covers up by sipping on the tea Gangle had made for him– a drink he’d only taken because she was insistent that he was having stomach problems and that’s why he threw up yesterday. He didn’t have the energy to correct her, so he just took the cup. At least the tea is good.

“Well,” Pomni clears her throat, bringing everyone’s attention to her as she snaps her fingers. She scans the group, before her eyes land dangerously on Jax. He narrows his eyes back in return.

“Clearly,” she says as she puts her fork down onto her emptied plate, “Jax can’t be trusted to his own devices.”

He immediately opens his mouth to rebuttal, to tell her to stop babying him, but her eyes only sharpen. “Before you start, I don’t mean that we can’t trust you to live your own life. You’re a grown ass man who knows better, and I won’t act like you aren’t. That message has been received. What I’m referring to is that you clearly won’t go out and get help on your own.”

His mouth slams shut, and he only grumbles under his breath, sinking into his seat. The others’ gazes jump between him and Pomni. She sighs, playing with the buttons on her pajama shirt, the way she used to play with the pom-poms on her jester outfit, and it makes him reminisce a bit.

“We talked a lot while you were out yesterday, Jax,” she says, directing the conversation to him alone. “Clearly, you aren’t in a good Mindspace. You haven’t been for a while– and that’s okay! But it’s very obvious that we clearly haven’t been the best help.”

He shrugs, not really caring about any of this. He doesn’t care that they didn’t help, he didn’t really want them to in the first place, and he doesn’t want to put the blame on them. It was his own stupid fault that he failed to take his own life. They don’t owe him an explanation for his shitty behavior over the past few days.

“We really do want to help, Jax,” Zooble says from the other side of the table. The others hum in agreement, as if they were sheep following the shepherd, and he fights off the urge to roll his eyes. He hums, leaning forward a bit and resting his elbows on the table. “So what do you suggest I do, then?”

“Kinger has a lot of connections,” Pomni answers, taking over the conversation again. Jax sees Kinger nod out of the corner of his eye. “We thought that maybe he could get you set up with a therapist? If you– if you’re up to it, that is.”

She says the last bit in a tone that’s strained, and Jax knows that it’s because she doesn’t want to give him the option; she knows that if given the choice, he might definitely opt out. It’s a risky thing, leaving it up to him. He almost wants to laugh at her foolishness, wants to laugh at her for not just leaving that bit out. He would have done it if forced, and she knows that. 

He must take too long to answer because Ragatha gently elbows him, looking at him with concern. He blinks a few times, taken aback by all the eyes on him. He ducks his head down, brows furrowed as he weighs his options.

He’s not nearly as repulsed by the idea as he usually would be. His parents forced him into therapy once upon a time, and it was an overall very unpleasant experience. But this is different– Kinger’s the one setting up him, and Kinger is nothing if not reliable, and Pomni’s giving him the option to say no. The fact that Pomni didn’t want to leave the decision in his hands, but still did, makes him more inclined to go through with it. It’s up to him. 

It’s all up to him.

He lets out a terribly mournful sigh, stressfully running a hand through his hair, an old habit from childhood. Funny. He’s the only one whose anxious habits didn’t come from the circus. He very slowly meets Pomni’s eyes, and gives one curt nod, the action so small that she nearly misses it. She lets out a very terribly concealed sigh of relief. 

Kinger clears his throat, bringing Jax’s eyes to him. “Okay,” he says, voice a little hoarse. He clears his throat and gives him a sympathetic look. “I have someone I think you’d like. Her name is Dr. Ming, and she is a trauma therapist. She specializes in things like PTSD and stress- and trauma, obviously.”

Jax doesn’t reply, beginning to feel vaguely embarrassed. He didn’t think he’d ever be having this conversation, especially not with them of all people. He presses his lips together, gripping the edge of his coffee table as he gives another nod, encouraging him to continue. Kinger offers him a smile.

“I’ll call her and see if she’s able to work with you. If not, well, then we can figure it out from there. The government offered to pay for any kind of therapy or counseling after the circus thing, so we’ve got that covered,” he explains slowly, and the others are respectfully quiet. Kinger gestures to the door with his head. “I think it’d also be good to get out of here every once in a while.”

Jax hums noncommittedly at that, biting his lip as the others turn to look at him expectantly. “Well, tough luck. I don’t exactly have anywhere to go.”

“Um,” Gangle squeaks from Zooble’s side, startled when everyone’s heads snap to her. “Uh. Well, I’m a part of an art program. We go out to different spots around the city to practice drawing backgrounds and scenic stuff. They let anybody in– experienced or not. It’s helped me a lot.”

“Oh, that sounds fun,” Ragatha exclaims with a big smile. Gangle, encouraged by the positive reactions, nods excitedly. She taps her fingers together anxiously, brushing her hair back and turning back to Jax. “We go out Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s not much, but it’s a nice break from the usual routine. You’re… welcome to come with me.”

He quirks one eyebrow at her, clearly confused but also intrigued. “You’d want me to impose on your fun? Geez, Gangle, I didn’t think you were that much of a masochist.” 

At the stern look everybody gives him, he lets out a scoff. “I’m joking. I’m not gonna screw anything up, relax. Despite popular belief, I actually understand that my actions have consequences.”

Ragatha rolls her eyes– rather affectionately– and turns back to Gangle. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Gangle. If Jax doesn’t want to go, I will.”

“Hey now, I never said I wouldn’t go.”

Gangle’s eyes seem to brighten up at his words, and she gapes at him. “So you do want to go?”

He backs up a bit, giving her a weird look. “Want is a bit of a strong word. I’m willing, is all. I’m a bit tired of being cooped up in here– makes the uh–”

He cuts himself off, opting to sip on his tea as he avoids their eyes, intently watching him as he avoids finishing his sentence. Makes the bad thoughts go away for a little while, is what he was going to say, although his mind is shouting, makes me want to bleed out all over again. He swallows heavily. 

“Jax, we won’t judge you for being open,” Pomni gently reminds him, and he just gives her a weak glare. He shrugs a little bit, putting the glass down. Zooble stands, picking up their plates and stacking them in their hand to take them to the kitchen. The others thank them, but Jax just remains silent. The others all stand and help pick up the living room from the mess they’d made last night during their sleepover. They put the blankets back, sweep the floor and put all the food away in Jax’s fridge.

Gangle pulls Jax aside and tells him that she sent him information about the art program, and he meekly thanks her. They all give their sincerest goodbyes, Kinger promising him that he’ll get back to him as soon as Dr. Ming replies, before leaving. He’s left alone in his apartment, and he feels his shoulders relax.

Although he hates solitude, he hates all the personal conversations he’s had in the past twelve hours even more. He’s tired, but not physically. Never physically.

He walks over to his kettle– a present from Gangle, back when they first got out of the circus, which had surprised him despite the fact that she’d gotten everyone a gift because he hadn’t expected her to get him anything– and flicks it on. The tea was good, but he lives off of coffee and energy drinks. He dumps the rest of the tea, now cold, into his sink, and waits for the water to boil.

He doesn’t have a television in his apartment, a fact that he’s now resenting because the apartment is too quiet without the group’s presence. He feels entirely awkward and out of place sitting on his own couch, so he opts to awkwardly stand by his counter instead. The kettle bubbles beside him, and he tries not to picture himself drowning. He would have totally drowned himself in the bathtub if he had one, but alas. He only has a shower.

Speaking of a shower… he doesn’t think he’s been actually cleaned since his stay at the hospital. Once he’s made aware of the fact, he becomes hyperaware of each piece of grime on his skin and hair and cringes. He probably smells like shit– really, it’s a miracle the others stuck around for as long as they did, because his entire apartment was just shitty. Everything about him was shitty– his body, his mouth (in every way possible), his bed, his living room and kitchen, his floor, the area.

He doesn’t think there’s a single clean part of him, but he figures that’s just life. Messy and disgusting through and through.He abandons the kettle in favor of a shower, heading over to the bathroom and turning on the shower. He listens to the water rain down onto the tile, and drip down the drain. He stares at it, almost feeling memorized, as he tries to remind himself to not feel guilty about being so gross. He’s depressed, isn’t he? This is a side effect of depression– if anything, this is just proof that there’s something wrong, after all. That he’s not faking. Well– this, and the suicide attempt.

He slowly takes off his clothing and hops into the shower, the water burning his skin the way his coffee would have surely burnt his tongue if he had gone through with the action of making and drinking it. It digs into his skin, but it feels wonderful. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s in the rain. He likes the rain, likes a lot of things he would never admit. 

The water glides through his hair, cleaning the grime off to the best of its abilities without shampoo. It makes him feel like the water is cleansing his mind, taking away the nasty and leaving something pure, something he was sure had been lost so long ago. Sounds pathetic. Sounds poetic. It sounds like hatred, it sounds like love.

Jax wonders if he was ever made for love. He wonders if he had ever been loved– in heaven, before life, during conception, during his birth, maybe a few years after that. He doesn’t know if he’d rather live with the knowledge that his parents never loved him or that they loved him once upon a time. He thinks the latter would make him throw up. If he cared about that sort of thing, anyway.

He scrubs some shampoo into his hair and lets the soap that falls from the strands clean his body. He doesn't have the energy to properly clean himself the right way (not that he ever did– those 3 in 1 shampoos do wonders, you know), so he just stands there, continuing to close his eyes and picture himself lost in the rainforest. Lost, lost– always lost.

He isn’t sure how long he stands like that, but before he knows it, the water has run cold and he’s shivering. His teeth chatter, but he can’t get himself out of the water. He brings his hands to his arms and rubs them harshly, shoulders hiked up to his ears as he quivers. He thinks he likes the cold; it feels familiar. The cold burns much more than the warmth ever did, anyway. It feels like ice digging into his shoulderblades.

Eventually, when it seriously starts becoming painful, he steps out of the shower and stands in front of the fogged up mirror. He doesn’t want to look at himself, anyway. He retreats to his room, finding a change of clothing that doesn’t smell like absolute ass, and dressing himself. As he rolls the sweater over his arms, however, he finds a new problem.

The bandages wrapped around his wrists are soggy and are peeling off. Crap. He’d forgotten about those– and that idea makes him pause. He’d forgotten about them? No, that doesn’t sound quite right. He couldn’t forget them, could never forget what caused them, just like he could never forget the circus and what it had stopped him from doing all those years ago. 

He wanders into the kitchen and digs through his vacant cupboards until he finds the one with the bandages the doctor had given him after teaching him how to wrap himself up. He heads back to the steamy bathroom and sits on the toilet, just in case he bleeds out again once he takes the old ones off. He unwraps himself with more gentleness than he’s ever willingly given himself, swallowing heavily when he sees the scars on his arms.

They’re not quite healed yet, obviously, so they look very disgusting. He presses his lips together, willing himself to not get nauseous and throw up all over himself after having just showered. He takes the new bandages and tries to avoid the sight as much as possible, carefully wrapping himself back up. Cover yourself. Hide away.

He stares at the new, pristine bandages for a long while after his arms have been properly wrapped. He just spaces out there on the toilet, as he recalls that night all those days ago. It feels like it’s been months, it’s jarring to see how little time has actually passed. He wonders if the others feel the same way, then he reckons they don’t. They weren’t counting the days like he was (although he’s too ashamed to say he’s already lost count). They were just… seeing it as something to overcome. He wishes he could see it like that, but right now, it just feels like he’s surviving. 

He’s not overcoming, he’s adapting, which feels like two entirely different things. He isn’t sure he could ever get that across. Not to them, anyway.

He’s brought out of his thoughts when his phone dings in his pocket. He pulls it out of his sweatpants and looks to see who texted him. It’s Kinger (go figure), who has just sent him a very enthusiastic message that just makes Jax roll his eyes.

Just talked to Dr. Ming! She said she has a spot open for you if you’re still willing! She’d like to get your information and then you two can decide when to meet up! She’ll work around your time!

At the bottom of the text, sits what Jax assumes to be the office number. He saves the number and tucks his phone back into his pocket. He needs a cup of coffee.

…

Jax isn’t sure how he ended up in this stupid cafe again.

He’s sitting with the others, of course, because he doesn’t have any other friends, and playing with the ice in his drink. It’s the cafe they visited last week, only a few days after Jax got out of the hospital. He doesn’t remember liking it very much, but maybe he was just too out of it to remember.

“How was the program?” Zooble asks from somewhere on his left. Jax’s eyebrows perk up as he raises his eyes to look at them.

Right. Gangle's stupid art program thing that he– rather embarrassingly– actually went to. He sips his drink, gazing to the side. Gangle takes his silence as bashfulness and speaks up for him.

“Oh, it was very fun! We painted on the bridge over on the other side of town. I could tell Jax was really enjoying himself!” She says, practically giggling into her own glass. She’d ordered some lemonade or something, he can’t be bothered to remember, but the pink color mesmerizes him as it sloshes around.

The others break into smiles, looking over at him expectantly. He pulls the glass away from his lips, dropping it onto the table with a gentle clink. 

“Okay, yeah,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I guess it was a little fun. If only because I was so good at it.”

And it’s true— he’d been miraculously good at it. He got a grasp of watercolor fairly well (though it took him a couple of minutes of glaring at the canvas and making snarky comments under his breath when the watercolor wouldn’t work out), and he found he did quite enjoy the experience. It was nice, having the brush glide against the canvas.

He expects Gangle to call him out on his lackluster attitude, but she only nods enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah! You should have seen it! He really did a good job for his first.”

He wrinkles his nose at her, playing up his attitude in the way he had with Ragatha. “Ew. Don’t say it’s my first, you make me sound like a virgin.”

The others roll their eyes affectionately, and he tries to pretend it doesn’t make something stir in his chest. Whether it’s disgust or appreciative, he isn’t sure.

“Glad to see you had fun, Jax,” Pomni comments, and Ragatha nods her head vigorously from beside her, reaching over to grab her girlfriend’s hand. He shrugs in response, not bothering to dignify her with a response. 

They fall into their usual routine of the group talking about anything and everything while Jax listens. He swirls the ice around in his drink— some sugary concoction that reminds him a lot of the watercolors he’d used earlier. 

What he didn’t tell the group, or Gangle, was that the sight on the bridge reminded him of far too many things from his past. He’s found himself standing on a bridge one too many times, but it’s been a long time since he’s done so. The last time was around the same time this year, now that he thinks about it, back when he was only sixteen. Funny, isn’t it?

He swirls his drink again, feeling oddly reminiscent. He feels as though he’s forgetting something, but isn’t sure what. Did the bridge remind him of something else? Some separate occasion? Or was it just the time of year that is making him feel nostalgic? Fall. Not his favorite season, but he enjoys it. He watches the ice spin around the cup as his straw moves the bubbles around.

Maybe he’s just being reminded of all the separate ways he could have died, all the separate ways he should have died. Sometimes it’s still hard to believe that he’s still around, a thought he knows he’d never share with the others. He doesn’t see the point, they’d just worry, and he’s tired of having them worry over him.

He stabs his straw into the ice cubes, melting into the beverage as it remains neglected. It’s been a week and a half since he attempted, he thinks, and he still isn’t sure what to do with the fact. He figures he should just let himself be. 

His thinking is interrupted when Ragatha clears her throat. He glances up at her, brows raised as she gives him a broad smile. She reaches to the empty seat beside her to grab something, bringing her hands back up to reveal a cake. He watches as she takes the plastic off of it and slides it across the table. 

Happy birthday, Jax! Is what it reads. 

He blinks at it over and over again, in a bit of a state of shock. His eyes jump from member to member as he processes it. Right. His birthday. He doesn’t have a calendar anymore, but he knows it’s late October. He just didn’t think it was that late. Scorpio baby, you know.

He startles when a string snaps under his neck and a hat is placed in his head by Pomni, who had gotten up when he wasn’t paying attention in order to sneak up behind him and place the cheesy, colorful hat over his head. He stares at the cake in front of him.

Kinger leans forward and lights the candles. Twenty-three, what a feat. He didn’t think he’d make it this far.

“Look at that,” Ragatha says with a gentle smile, “the big two-three. Exciting.”

“You’re only two years away from having a fully developed brain!” Zooble comments, rather unhelpfully. Jax just rolls his eyes, staring down at the loopy letters.

Once the candles are lit, they immediately burst into song. It’s the usual birthday song, of course, and they sing it rather terribly— clearly playing up the bad singing voices just to embarrass him— but it doesn’t bother him. It’s hard to be bothered when there’s fire sparkling in his face and a warm atmosphere around him. 

After the song, he leans forward and blows the candles out, watching as the smoke floats up to the ceiling. Huh. So that’s why they demanded he go out to eat with them tonight. Well played.

“Did you make a wish?” Ragatha asks, and Jax just raises his brows at her, unimpressed. Of course she would believe in that kind of crap. He shrugs, picking up a candle and licking the frosting off the bottom. 

The frosting is just a tad too sweet for his taste, but otherwise pretty good. He can tell from the residue on the candle that the cake is carrot, which makes him let out a tiny, amused laugh. The others smile at him, feigning innocence about what it’s clearly referencing, as he cuts the first slice and takes a bite. They’re lucky he likes carrots (he questions if he ever shared the fact, or if they were just hoping for the best. He assumes it's the latter). 

He cuts the rest of the cake into poorly distributed slices, and Kinger takes up the job of handing slices out to everybody, even going as far as asking the waitresses if they want a slice, to which they agree. What a big heart, Jax tells himself, and it’s true. Jax thinks Kinger’s always had a big heart, even when he didn’t have the mind to share it. They all down on the cake, except for Zooble, who is apparently allergic to carrots. It’s good. He’s never had anybody celebrate him before.

If you had told him a week ago, when he was supposed to be dead, that he’d be sitting at a table with people he might consider friends and eating a carrot cake with his name on it, he would’ve laughed in your face. Slapped a knee, too, perhaps.

But it doesn’t feel like it was so far-fetched after all. It’s only been a week and a half, and he feels… he doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter, he reckons. He takes another bite of his cake. It’s just so funny, in the sense that it makes him want to giggle like a giddy child. He wonders if he’s still able to laugh like that.

The rest of the night passes rather quickly; the others hand him a gift each, to which he says he’ll open them in his apartment, because despite being an attention hog, Jax isn't the biggest fan of opening presents around other people, and they all agree. Zooble, Gangle, and Kinger bid their goodbyes at the door of the cafe, heading to their own cars to go home. Ragatha and Pomni give Jax a ride to his apartment and wish him goodbye outside the complex, to which he responds with a see ya, losers.

He watches as they drive off before heading inside, two bags in one hand and three in the other. He passes by his landlord, who just raises a brow at the presents, but otherwise says nothing. Jax is thankful for the fact– he hates talking to that guy, more than he ever hated Orbsman. What an asshole.

His apartment is cold when he enters, and one look at the window reminds him why. Right. He’d left it open before leaving in order to dry his watercolor painting faster, but now he slightly regrets it; he’s freezing his balls off in here. The painting sits on the window sill, and he leaves it there when he slams the window shut. He shivers, dropping all the presents on his coffee table so he can hug his sweater closer to himself. Jax has never done too well in the cold, despite Winter being his favorite season; he reckons he just liked how it hurt.

He sits himself on his couch, gazing forward. The presents sit on the table, unmoving but overly tempting. Jax doesn’t know if he deserves to open them, but then he rationalizes that he’s done the impossible by making it to twenty-three and figures it’s okay if he does so.

The first present is Gangle’s. It’s a sketchbook with an anime sticker he doesn’t recognize on the front, some canvases, and a whole pack of watercolors. There’s a note on the box that says, for Jax! Can’t wait to see you in the next session! He hums, finding himself oddly pleased with the gift. The next gift is Zooble’s; it’s a pair of new headphones, clearly customized by Zooble themself. There’s purple and yellow all over them, with some accents, and they truly are a harmonious mess, but Jax likes it. He’s a harmonious mess, too. He tries them on for size, and finds they sit rather nicely. Jax was never a music guy– unless you count the years of choir he did in middle school– but he reckons these headphones could get him into it.

Pomni’s gift is nice, too. It’s a new sweater (Jax loves his hoodies, after all), and a purple beanie with bunny ears stitched onto the top. Jax wonders if she made it herself, but figures against it– Pomni never had good hands when it came to making things, and she tended to overthink things. Maybe Ragatha made them, then? He doesn’t know, and he finds he doesn’t care for the answer. They’re made with love, and that’s all he needs to know.

He opens Ragatha’s, and he feels his heart practically fall to his ass. He squeezes the little plushie in his hands so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and suddenly his vision is blurry. His hands shake, though he can’t tell if it’s because he’s cold or if it’s because of the emotions, and he has to grip the plushie to his chest to stop the quivering. He thinks tears fall down his cheeks, but his skin is so numb from the air. It’s a frog– a stupid frog with rosy cheeks and a big, grand ‘ol smile. It’s the same color as Ribbit, and if Jax pretends hard enough, he can imagine it feels like him, too. 

That confirms it. Ragatha most definitely made the beanie, but this– this is… he doesn’t have the words. He’s suddenly very thankful that he decided not to open his presents in front of the group. He cries like he’s never cried before, bringing a sleeve up to desperately wipe at his eyes. Suddenly, everything feels so silly. Pushing everyone away, trying to take his life, wishing he was dead at all, still hating himself. He sobs into the air, and his breath is visible in front of him. 

Jax has never wanted to live, he said so himself, but there’d been a time where he considered wanting it. Ribbit had been by his side, and Jax had felt like a person for a while, and it didn’t feel too bad. He wondered if perhaps he could continue to feel that way when he escaped the circus with Ribbit. He never told either of them, but Ribbit and Ragatha had been his rock. When Ribbit abstracted, Jax was angry. Angry because he hadn’t helped Ribbit like he needed, angry because Ragatha had stepped onto a pedestal and he didn’t know how to get her down, and angry because he’d dared give himself the idea that he could be alive. 

He gasps for air and pauses. That… he pulls the plushie away from his chest and looks down at it, as if searching. Suddenly– so suddenly that it takes his breath away– it reminds him that he’s always human. Disgusting, cruel, mean, distant, but also hopeful, loving, funny, and it makes him cry. Loving is a human emotion, laughing is a human emotion, crying is a human emotion, anger is a human emotion, depression is a human emotion. Suddenly, he realizes that wanting to die was the most human thing he’d ever done. 

It doesn’t matter, he always said. But, no, no it– it’s always mattered. He reckons he’s always known that, but he figured he didn’t deserve to. But people don’t need to deserve to receive. He didn’t deserve to lose his friends, but it happened. He didn’t deserve to live, but he still is. He doesn’t deserve to be happy, but he will be.

Everything feels so clear. He takes a breath and puts Ribbit– the plushie– down on the couch. He still hasn’t opened Kinger’s present, and he wants to.

He slides the purple (the same color as Kinger’s robe, he notes) bag across the table to himself, and removes all the tissue paper– hah, tissue paper. It’s soft. He furrows his brows, sniffling a bit in the cold air and wiping at his eyes one last time. He pulls the thing out– it’s a large blanket. Huh. It’s soft, and with a bit of squinting, Jax briefly makes out the slight shape of Zooble in the fabric. He frowns, standing and letting the blanket fall open. It’s a picture of the group in the circus, stitched into the blanket. He lets out a dry laugh. It’s a rather silly gift, he has to admit, but he finds he still loves it. Very on brand for Kinger, at least.

He shivers a bit, suddenly made very aware of the temperature in the room, and brings the blanket over his shoulders, hugging it to himself. He squeezes himself into the warmth, and it almost feels like they’re all there, in his apartment. He can picture them sitting around him, arms wrapped around him as they squeezed him in the middle, filling his space with a different kind of warmth. A nice, loving kind.

He thinks he wants that, and maybe– just maybe– he might deserve it, too.

…

Jax clicks his pen, trying his absolute best to come across as annoying to the other people in the waiting room as he fills out his information sheet. The lady next to him snaps her head to look at him when he clicks it for what seems to be the 50th time in a row, but he just sticks his tongue out and pretends to concentrate.

Two weeks. Two weeks have passed since his attempt, and there’s a different kind of energy around him lately. The others told him as much, when he thanked him for the gifts a couple days ago, after his birthday. He’d given them a grossed out face, but didn’t comment on it any more than that. He figures they're right, in a way. He scribbles out one of his answers– what is this, a quiz?-- and refills the blank. How honest is he supposed to be?

Half the sheet is filled out with scribbles and doodles, one of which being a little bunny that Gangle had taught him how to draw after their little meeting on Thursday. It was only his second time at one of those things, and he was already pretty much an expert. Seriously, the instructor only corrected a few things and was thoroughly impressed by his skill despite his lack of experience and knowledge. He just smiled at her, not bothering to admit that he’d actually just learned everything from watching Gangle. He thinks Gangle knew that, though, because she’d just stayed silent with a tiny smile on her face. Tch. Typical– always too afraid to call him out. It works out for him, though.

The lady beside him suddenly stands and moves across the room, and Jax can’t stop the mischievous smile that spreads across his face at the action. Got ‘em.

He reaches up to fix his hair under his beanie, feeling rather annoyed by the strands that keep getting in his face. He needs a haircut, he reckons. He hasn’t cut his hair since he got out of the circus, so it’s grown quite a bit, but he doesn’t know what he wants to do with it. He used to have it short before, but he doesn’t think that kind of hairstyle would suit him anymore. Hm. Maybe he’ll keep it long– but he definitely has to pick up some sort of hair routine. His curls look more like spirals than they do actual curls. 

His phone dings, distracting him from his thoughts, and he glances down to see who texted him. It’s just Ragatha, asking if he wants to join her and Pomni for dinner tonight. He hums as he opens the messages. 

Is Pomni cooking? He asks.

Typing…

He prays she isn’t. The girl would live off of ramen noodles if it weren’t for Ragatha– a bad habit from before the circus, according to her, when she’d been so burnt out over her job and life that she hadn’t had time for anything else. He reassured her that he didn’t care and wasn’t judging, because he was still like that. Maybe he should pick up some better eating habits…

No, Ragatha responds after a moment, we ordered takeout, actually. Chinese, your fav.

He feels vaguely surprised that Ragatha knows that, but then again, he probably shouldn't be. It’s Ragatha, after all, and that girl always knows more than she should. He raises his brows thoughtfully.

Well, butter my biscuit and consider me invited.

You could just say yes like a normal person.

I did?

He’s left on seen after that– though he knows that Ragatha probably rolled her eyes at his response– so he just puts his phone in his pocket and resumes filling out the sheet in front of him. He taps his pen to annoy the lady across the room, a much more effective sound than clicking since she’s so far away. She scowls at him.

After a couple of seconds of dreadful silence, save for his pen, a door opens and out steps a sweet, middle-aged woman with dark hair. She scans the room before her eyes land on him. “Michael, I assume?” she asks him, smiling spreading across her face. He stands up and takes her hand when she offers it out. “Jax, actually,” he tells him.

“Oh? How did that come to be?” she asks, and it reminds him of the doctor in his hospital room. He shrugs. “It’s a long story.”

“A story you’d be willing to tell, I hope?" 

She holds the door open for him, gesturing for him to go ahead and letting him into a more private room. He shrugs at her as he walks in, giving her an almost bashful smile. 

He reckons story-telling is his strong suit, and he never minds talking about himself– and hey! There’s someone who’s being paid to listen to him, so he’s not wasting anyone’s time; what a bonus. Dr. Ming seems nice enough, at least. 

She closes the door behind them and sits down in the chair in front of Jax, staring at him for a long while before giving him a gentle smile. He raises his brows at her, and she takes it as a sign to explain what their sessions are going to look like. He has only half a mind to listen to her, but he gets the gist of it. The main points make it across, anyway.

He tells her about the circus incident, which she was apparently already aware about– which, yeah, makes sense, because it had been on the news when they woke up– and jumps into the story about his suicide attempt a couple of weeks ago, not sparing any details. She nods politely and reacts rather calmly, much to his surprise.

He tells her about the other members of the circus, and how their relationships have changed so much since then, and she asks all sorts of questions. All in all, a rather successful session and it makes him feel just a tad bit better to get all of that gunky stuff out to somebody else. He leaves the session feeling a little lighter than he did before, and starts heading over to Pomni’s place. He passes by their usual park, surprised when he sees they finally built that butterfly garden Kinger was talking about a while ago.

He should ask the others if they want to visit it next Monday during their weekly meeting. He figures they’d enjoy it, especially Kinger. Who knows, he might have some fun too. 

If he cared about that sort of thing, anyway.