jaxinthebox (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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ph_logs2026-03-28 08:19 pm
jaxinthebox) wrote in ph_logs2026-03-28 08:19 pm
[Closed] Well, well, look who's inside again
Who: Jax (jaxinthebox), Pomni (jeveuxpartir), & Ragatha (raggedydamn) (and potentially other CR!)
What:Reconnecting after the fall of King Eligos
When: The days following the incidents on March 15th
Where: Jax's townhouse, Downtown Hollow
Warning(s): Suicidal ideation, past gore, and everything that goes into that :)
If it weren't for the knocking at the door that echoes throughout his home, Jax still wouldn't have found a reason to pull himself out of the bed, even at the sun-shining hour of 3PM.
Maybe it isn't the most mature choice, to hide away in his house, or the "responsible" thing to do. Nor is it probably up there in the choices he could've made that might've been filed under "considerate of others." But considering that he got his skin ripped off, got impaled, and accepted his death all in the span of a few hours, then proceeded to have to claw his way desperately through bones and monsters and continued terrors.
Yeah, maybe he should've gotten in touch with the people who give a damn about him. But he distinctly did not do that.
In fact, the note on his door, left to potentially deter visitors, reads:
DIED.
COME BACK LATER.
But, when the knock comes, within a few minutes there's footsteps on the other side of the door nonetheless, and a familiar voice that pipes up. He sounds hazy with sleep, the way one might after a nap that was supposed to be twenty minutes turns into a three-hour one. (That's not entirely off, either, but does it count if you've been in and out of sleep for an entire afternoon?)
"So, can you not read, or are you here to try to do a seance or something? Because I'm not really feeling up to that kinda thing right now."
jaxinthebox), Pomni (jeveuxpartir), & Ragatha (raggedydamn) (and potentially other CR!)What:Reconnecting after the fall of King Eligos
When: The days following the incidents on March 15th
Where: Jax's townhouse, Downtown Hollow
Warning(s): Suicidal ideation, past gore, and everything that goes into that :)
If it weren't for the knocking at the door that echoes throughout his home, Jax still wouldn't have found a reason to pull himself out of the bed, even at the sun-shining hour of 3PM.
Maybe it isn't the most mature choice, to hide away in his house, or the "responsible" thing to do. Nor is it probably up there in the choices he could've made that might've been filed under "considerate of others." But considering that he got his skin ripped off, got impaled, and accepted his death all in the span of a few hours, then proceeded to have to claw his way desperately through bones and monsters and continued terrors.
Yeah, maybe he should've gotten in touch with the people who give a damn about him. But he distinctly did not do that.
In fact, the note on his door, left to potentially deter visitors, reads:
DIED.
COME BACK LATER.
But, when the knock comes, within a few minutes there's footsteps on the other side of the door nonetheless, and a familiar voice that pipes up. He sounds hazy with sleep, the way one might after a nap that was supposed to be twenty minutes turns into a three-hour one. (That's not entirely off, either, but does it count if you've been in and out of sleep for an entire afternoon?)
"So, can you not read, or are you here to try to do a seance or something? Because I'm not really feeling up to that kinda thing right now."
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Were he feeling a bit more fiery, that might've been a jab, angled and meant to cut like a well-poised knife. Now, it's... flat. Tired. A simple fact, from his perspective that he'd kept so blatantly unreadable that even he wasn't certain of it half the time.
"...Think you're right this time, though. We're both... still here. We've got one more demon down. At this rate, the demon problem'll be figured out in no time, right?"
It feels wrong for him to be the one offering an ounce of optimism, but strange times call for strange solutions, don't they?
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Her fists curl beneath the table, again, restraining any feelings she may or may not be having about the admission to... varying effect. It's not unexpected. She knows how everyone felt about her. But what was the alternative? Did they want her to just— just—
"...trying to make you all feel better was better than letting everyone slip into despair. I— I still believe that." Mostly. Some days. Her tactics obviously didn't help, in the end, did they? Like she said, they just made everyone think she was a phony.
It's harder, now. And so— odd, to hear Jax offering anything of the same.
"...but— you're right, about the demons, maybe." How long has it taken the town to down— three of the four? She doesn't really know. This is all so new. "Probably... sooner than the circus, at least."
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"It better be shorter than the circus, because if we have to spend however many
That might've come off as a bleak joke, were that simmering anger that threatens to boil over and seep venom into the words not so obvious with every single thing he says.
He looks away sharply, and curls his hands, still laying on the table, into firsts, and draws in a deep slow breath, letting it out between his teeth. He fumes, but he doesn't know at what anymore. Maybe against being trapped, all over again, but he can't even confidently say that. Maybe it's just the same, directionless anger that he's had in him all his life.
For once, he doesn't make it her problem, he doesn't lash out like he'd always been so primed to before. Even if it'd show her that there's no point in patching him back up, after he gets torn down to his lowest, he can't bring himself to do it. (Weak. You're losing your teeth. What'll you lose next?)
"...Maybe it was better. But did you ever think that some of us wanted to 'slip into despair' or whatever, and got tired of pretending we didn't?"
He instantly regrets saying that, and sinks back into his chair, letting out a deeper sigh.
"Whatever. None of it matters anymore. It's over with."
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It's the most concerning thing he could have said, and the one she least knows how to respond to. The one she's never known how to respond to, the few times she's... dared to consider it, about any of those who abstracted. How many of them let it happen? How many of them knew it was coming and didn't want to prevent it? How many of them really just... gave up?
Without her say so, her arms draw up to hug herself. She still can't look at him. Can't help but think of the way Pomni described him, how getting too close, too genuine, just risks making him pull away behind his own mask again.
"...it still matters because we're still alive, Jax. And we're still— us. And what we felt in there doesn't just... go away now that we're inside a different set of walls."
Even saying that much feels dangerous.
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"...You ever think that that's a bad thing? That whoever went into that stupid computer, and whatever happened in there, should've just— stayed in there?"
He sits with that for a moment, before he grimaces, shaking his head and glancing away again. His own arms fold over his chest. He doesn't know why he keeps going on like this. How many years was he able to get by, without even so much as giving her an inch, and how it just keeps spilling out of him? All over, what, a few pins and an apology?
(It was more than that. He hates that he can't force himself to think it was anything less than it was.)
"Eh. Too late to worry about that now. We're still making it a problem for each other, and everybody here, so it is what it is, right?"
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"No, Jax, I don't. Or— not most of the time." It would be a lie to say that the worst of what happened, in those damned hallways, didn't make her wonder if this was all worth it. She doesn't doubt Pomni felt the same, in her grief. What was the point of another chance—with all the unique difficulties such a thing comes with for people like them—if within days of being given it, Jax ended up dead?
But it can't be true. It can't be better to accept that they should have given up entirely. Not just on escaping—no, Pomni had very good points about how... damaging, holding onto that idea had been—but on anything mattering at all.
"If I thought like that, I'd never have even made it to the circus. Life— life has to be worth something. This all has to be worth something. Maybe it is what it is, but that doesn't have to be... just a bad thing."
She's doing it again, probably. But she means every word.
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But then she goes on, and manages to stick two things in his mind, barbed in just such a way that he can practically feel his racing thoughts picking two new points to tangle around.
It has to be worth something. Maybe what it is isn't a bad thing.
He wants to throw it back in her face. To take digs at her, to laugh at her for believing that anything matters after they got turned into cartoons characters. But it doesn't come out nearly so forced as the desperate positivity always did. It's almost like she really thinks that. Either actively, or maybe she's just trying to convince herself of it, just as much as she's trying to convince him.
Jax watches her face, uncertain, like he's looking for any sign of deceit. He doesn't find anything even a little bit like that there, and he doesn't know what to do with that.
What does it mean for him, if his life is worth something like this?
He's not ready to think about that.
"Dunno why you're bothering with farming or whatever. Listen to you! You should've gone into life coaching or something." He tries to joke, but it doesn't land. He doesn't have the energy to make anything out of it, much less divert it meaningfully. He glances away from her for a moment, before his attention flickers back. "...Well, while we figure out what it is, if it is anything, you want a drink or something?"
He's already getting up for himself. Having something to focus on will hopefully make him less fidgety. (If nothing else, it'll give him a brand new thing to stare at that isn't her.)
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It's odd. This is the longest conversation she thinks they've had in... years, and by far the most in-depth. The most... the closest, to honest. Every other sentence or so she expects him to either flee his own home or try to shuffle her out the door, something she'd have no real choice but to allow both to not drive a deeper wedge and because she's simply been— raised, that way. When he stands, she half expects that the time has finally come.
And still, he stays. Lets her stay. Expects continued conversation—or, at minimum, continued company.
(...she can never tell how much he hears, when they talk. Today less than any other day. Is anything she say sticking in his skull, or is he pushing it all right out the other ear?)
There are smart answers, here. Water, or something. Instead she find herself saying: "Well, you did make a point of having that wine out."
It's, notably, not a direct request. Plausible deniability. (What a joke.)
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"Wine and weird existential conversations. What could go wrong?"
He's still fishing for glasses out of his cabinets and pouring two glasses, though, isn't he? He's a beacon of good choices, after all.
"And here I thought you didn't like fun. Times are a'changin', aren't they, dollface?"
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Ragatha sets him with a look that's more tired than actually frustrated, the way many looks have been in the past. "You've seen me drink before. Even if it was only a single cocktail in Zooble's little bar scenario."
The less said about why she kept a bottle of the stupid sauce long enough to be able to give it to Zooble later, the better. She never actually used it on purpose.
She refuses to second guess herself. You commit, with Jax, or you leave yourself open, and right now, she's picking commit.
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He gives the bottle a little shake for emphasis, before he grabs both glasses with one hand, bringing it over with him. One sat in front of her, one sat in front of him, and the bottle between them, daring them to continue making this bad decision likely worse.
"That one wasn't awful, though. Almost makes me miss bars. The ones around here just don't scratch the itch of hanging around in a nasty little dive-bar. Too fancy and Victorian or whatever, you know?"
He takes a few seconds to take a drink. He's never exactly mastered the art of fancy wine sipping like he assumes she has, considering the real-estating and rich family and all, and takes half the glass in one go.
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Her eyes roll half-heartedly, almost compulsory more than genuine reaction—technically he's right, she supposes, though she'd rather like to blame the simulated alcohol content for her oversharing at the time (whether that's true is another matter entirely).
"I wouldn't know. Dive bars... weren't exactly my scene."
In unintentional emphasis and a proving of Jax's assumptions, she takes a competitively delicate sip of her the wine placed in front of her—though to her mind, it's actually a far larger swig than she'd usually take at once.
"But I suppose I can imagine."
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"You missed out. Picture it with me here," he gestures widely, as if painting the scene, taking full advantage of the topic-change for however long it lasts. "You walk into some busted metal doors, and there's broken tiles that look like they were made twenty years ago, and the building was totally abandoned after that. Stairs up, stairs down. You go down the stairs, which feel a little bit like they're gonna break and kill somebody someday, and you get down into a basement that smells like cigarettes and sweat. It's unfinished, so it's just concrete and metal, with a wood bar and some pool tables slapped into it. There's more stickers than there is actual siding on the walls. It's pretty dark, because the lamps suck, and it's full of just about every street rat and old weirdo in the city you could imagine. Crappy punk bands get up on the tiniest stage in the world to play music for people who're too drunk to remember whatever they sang about, and the bartenders don't care that you're nineteen, because you're not in a fraternity. If you show up early enough, you can get what is shockingly the world's best cheesesteak sandwich."
A beat, and he cracks a wider grin, leaning his head into his hand and gesturing at her with his glass.
"It's not the country club, but I bet you would'a had fun with it."
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She'd love to be able to dismiss his assumption about the country club, but she... actually can't, so she just has to swallow that. This is really just what she gets for admitting she used to be from a rich family, isn't it? She drinks again.
But before that, she listens. Tries, genuinely, to picture this... strange little place that Jax is describing, the kind of place she's never been and doesn't have the context for at all. She's sure she imagines much of it wrong. But she gives it an honest try.
"...sounds like— quite the place," she says with a faint laugh. "I'm not so sure I'd fit in, though. I was definitely— well, you're close enough, on the other thing."
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"So you were a country club girl, then, huh?" Jax teases. "What even happens in those? Rich weirdos sit around a bar that looks like a historical reenactment talking about, I dunno, golf or timeshares or whatever?"
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"Honestly, uh, pretty much?" Ragatha laughs awkwardly, rubbing at her neck again. This is all so... ridiculous, some of the ways she lived. "I mean, the topics of conversation were— widespread and often made no sense even to me, and there are other facilities, activities, but... whether it's on a golf course, or a tennis court, or in a pool, it's the same kind of people. At least, at the one we attended."
Mother wouldn't settle for somewhere that wasn't sufficiently exclusive, which... certainly affected the vibe, she supposes. She sips again, reflexively swirls the liquid in the glass.
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"So you went there, but you didn't understand half the hoity-toity
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"Oh I'm sure you would run riot. The kinds of people rubbing their elbows in that place wouldn't know what to do with you at all."
The laugh in her voice this time is much more genuine, almost... enjoying, the idea of Jax completely disrupting the atmosphere of the place. Just because it was what she was used to doesn't mean she didn't often find it awfully dull and stodgy. But that was the social space and social circles expected of her.
She's, somewhat unintentionally, already most of the through her glass.
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"Then, for this hypothetical, you can imagine your's truly raising as much hell as I can. I would've killed for the chance to rustle some feathers in a place like that. It would've been hilarious."
Another sip of wine, and that's nearly a full glass down, with the top-up accounted for. The loosening of the leash of disinterest he puts up reflects that with his raised brow, and his short gesture towards her.
"Why'd you bother with it, then? You aren't really selling it like they were your type of crowd, Rags."
Look at him, asking follow-up questions. Today's shaking out to be a bizarre day.
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If she were sensible, she'd push the bottle away before he could finish refilling her glass, but apparently sensible Ragatha isn't currently in the building. She lets him refill and she drinks.
"It's... how I grew up. I don't think I have a better answer than that." Not one that doesn't tread into darker truths, already sidestepped. "Rich girl stuff, I suppose! You socialise with other people who live the same kind of life as you, whether you actually get on or not."
(Don't admit that, that's unfair to people. I'm sure most of them were... perfectly nice (no, a lot of them weren't, were they) and you had friends, they were still your friends even if—)
Her tongue's already a little looser than it perhaps should be. "Haven't you ever had that? People who you spend time with because you know them, and there's nothing wrong with them, even if maybe if you could choose you'd pick differently?"
(You sound nuts. And still horribly rude to all those people.)
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"I mean, doesn't everybody?" Jax shoots back incredulously; no part of his tone makes it seem like she's nuts for thinking it, but nuts for asking. "That's just life. You get stuck with whatever people happen to you, for whatever reason, and you either deal with it, or you cut loose and wind up on your own, right? Doesn't matter if it's somebody's crappy boyfriend, or just some guy who always finds you at parties who talks too loud, or something like that."
The thought casts a flicker across his face, momentarily sour, before he wipes it away with another long drink, setting his glass aside. Second cup of wine down. He'll give it at least a couple seconds before he gets into the third.
"Sometimes it's better to cut and run, though, if you ask me. How much bull
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"I mean— I wouldn't say that about any of them!" Ragatha feels the need to insist, mouth pressing into one of those wiggly lines before opening to drink again. "Besides, it wasn't that— simple. It was never a case of being able to tell one or two people to go— take a hike, without it having... consequences. Connections are everything in a world like that."
Not to mention what her mother would have thought. No, it was just... never worth it. Not when nothing was really wrong.
Maybe she is the weird one for even wondering.
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That third glass is poured, and half of it is gone just as quickly. He's never been good at moderating his drink, but he sure does wait until her cup starts to run dry to pour his own. It's a weak excuse for pacing, but considering he's torn through a few bottles straight from the bottle within his first few weeks here, that's an improvement, isn't it?
"All I'm saying is, if it were dealing with people like that, and a stupid game of social chess? I would've said screw it to the money, and
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Ragatha sighs a little, swirling the now-full glass around again. She doesn't spill any of it. "It's really just not that simple, Jax. Maybe you could have just— run off and abandoned everything, but I couldn't. It wasn't about the money, or anything like that, it— just wasn't an option for me."
Too dangerously close to the shadows on the walls, though all the lines are a little blurrier, two glasses down. Wow. They really are affected normally now, aren't they? What a time to test that hypothesis.
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Jax sits up in his seat, like he's freshly energized, sitting his glass aside and perching his chin on his knuckles, elbow propping his head up against the table. This isn't like the his usual digging in, not where he found the soft spots and dug - if anything, this is the same kind of disbelief he'd give a friend who gave some other bullshit reasons why they couldn't get out of some obligation or another.
"Seriously. What got you stuck there? Friends? Some boyfriend? You owe somebody money?"
cw: allusions to familial abuse
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cw: pas familial abuse
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