ph_logs | [Closed] Well, well, look who's inside again

[Closed] Well, well, look who's inside again

Who: Jax (

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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Yeah, that's exactly what he expected from her, and it gets a snicker from him that he doesn't elaborate on. Instead, he perches an elbow on the table, fiddling with the stem of his own glass with his other hand.

"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."

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."

That's no surprise, and between another sip, Jax listens to her try to be nice about his favorite little shithole, which in and of itself is hilarious as it is. He doesn't say as much, but it's written all over his face.

"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?"

"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.

Jax snickers and takes no motions to hide his amusement, but listens, folding one leg over the other. Sounds like he wasn't missing much that wouldn't have been completely intolerable. He still has no idea how someone from that walk of life would've gotten into the same decrepit building he did.

"So you went there, but you didn't understand half the hoity-toity

they were talking about? Sounds like torture, honestly. The pool almost puts a point on the scale for it, but if somebody talked about stocks while I was trying to swim, I would've done some unspeakable things to get out of that situation. Caine couldn't even make up something that bad."

Edited 2026-04-04 21:13 (UTC)

"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.

Wow, when is the last time Ragatha's laughed at one of his jokes? What is happening here? He's hard-pressed to complain, though, and he takes a moment to top up his own glass. And, after a fleeting second of thought, does the same for her own. Screw it. They're locked into this now. Might as well make the most of it, right?

"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.

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.)

He could so easily brush off the idea, or even point out that he obviously has, and it was called the Digital Circus, but somehow, he just narrowly manages to avoid doing so between another drink. He pulls a face like a thoughtful grimace, drumming his fingers on the table.

"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

is worth dealing with people who you wish would find a short dock to take a long walk off of?"

"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.

"Yeah, social networking. You said you did... real estate or something, right? That's gotta be a red-tape nightmare."

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

ed off out of there. So what if some people get their panties in a twist?

'em. People like that find a reason to hate you, anyways."

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.

"'Course it is! It's an option for everybody, Raggy, even if you don't wanna look at it that way yet."

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?"

"I already said it wasn't about money."

It's terser than she means it to be, now, and she all but forces herself to take another sip of wine like that alone will loosen her up. All at once, she feels inexplicably crowded—he's just... one person, one tall person at a small table, it shouldn't feel like this. He's not trying to crowd her, he's not using that usual tone of his when he's digging, but—

(Just tell him and that will shut him up. (Tell him what? It wasn't— mother was always just— there isn't anything to tell! (Don't. Don't do that.)) Like the looks on people's faces after you lost the eye. No one ever asked, then. (Or if they did, they always accepted whatever lie you came up with. You're good at that, aren't you? (Stop it, that's not what—) Telling pleasant lies?) (You're a ragdoll. Anyone who knows anything has probably already guessed what—) Tell him and—)

"I had— familial obligations. It's that simple."

familial obligations!"

All her winding, spiraling thoughts, and not so much as an ounce of thought comes before he slices through them, gesturing right at her. He can feel those shadows under the boat starting to rock it, but when has he ever stopped before they threaten to throw them both overboard? When has he ever stopped anything before it blows up in his face?

"You know, I used to have the same obligations. No rich family bull

, but the expectations, am I right? People treating you like you're some kind of a pet, or, what, like their little doll or something?" The irony catches up to his buzzed mind, and he snorts, knocking back another drink. "

it!

all of 'em, if that's how it is! And you know what happens when you get yourself out from under their thumb? Nothing! Because every single one of us—"

He points to her with one hand, polishing off his glass with the other, before setting it aside, using his now-free hand to gesture widely.

"Is a stupid little sailboat in a great big ocean, and if some

ing islands keep trying to wreck you, stop going to 'em! And then they can't do anything! They want you to think that you owe them, or that you'll miss them, or that you just can't do that, but what the

do they know?"

He gestures, she retreats. Subtle, the first time, and then the scraping of chair legs against the floor, sharp enough it pierces her own ears like any blade. (He doesn't act like her. Not really. That's the one saving grace. He's never her her temperament, just, sometimes, her ability to cut.)

He doesn't mean to do it. He doesn't know what he's talking about (that's the problem, he doesn't know and he's still just— just— agh.) He talks and he talks and it might explain a thousand different things about Jax that all tie into one big thing, that explains all but everything about his approach to the world, and he doesn't know what he's talking about.

She's on her feet without a thought. Cotton-stuffed hands slam on the table with surprising force and her glass rocks, tips, spills, wine staining wood and fabric. (Her head is fuzzy.)

"If you want to stand up to my mother then be my guest but the last time I tried that I lost a fng eye!"

Regret. Regret, regret regret— (you shouldn't have said that, you shouldn't have said anything, you should have shut him down and never let this line of questions keep going, you should have—)

She jerks back from the table like it's burning her and backs away.

Edited 2026-04-05 00:43 (UTC)

Chair squealing against wood floors, red wine soaking into a table cloth, all before he can even parse what happens. Puzzle-pieces start to fit together visibly on his face, while his attention flickers up to her, to the button eye, to her moving away.

How's that for all of that she could be difficult talk from the bar?

His mind reels, but he stands, and even stunned in shock, he's still talking. (God, he's always talking. He's always making a greater mess of these things. He could stop now, he could just—)

"Why'd you want to get out of the circus, then?" He's jarringly deadpan, any signs of that grin on his face vanished. "So you could get caught in all that again? Get caught under her thumb again? Let her get a chance to get at the other one?"

Why did he say that? What's wrong with him?

"You don't stand up to that. You get your f

ng brain back together and you leave. When she leaves, middle of the night, who cares? Cut her breaks before she goes to work or something. It doesn't matter."

He's not overly harsh. He's grave, like it's the only possible solutions he could possibly think of, even if it's firm. (If nobody's going to get it through her head, it might as well be him, right? No, she didn't ask for that, he needs to stop before he—)

The world feels fuzzy at the edges. He leans a hand against the table.

"Sooner you get it through your head that nobody's looking out for you but you, the sooner you'll stop getting torn to pieces. You should'a figured that out by now."

He's not talking about her anymore. The feeling of hands pulling him back together makes the words feel like poison on his tongue. He lets out a huff of air, and drops his attention from her.

"F

k."

He talks. He talks and he talks and he talks and she can't say a word, throat feeling as solid and clogged with stuffing as it truly is. All she can do is stare and feel the words thread through her brain, fresh tangles in an already knotted mind.

(Maybe he's right. Maybe you should have known better. (Maybe it is your fault, maybe— (No, no don't think like that, don't—) maybe—) Where has trying to reach out to other people ever got you? Look at you now. Look at where you are. Why did you come here? (You were trying to show you care! (But since when has Jax wanted you to care?)) What's the point? (Since when was there a point to anything?) (Maybe it was all your fault. (You were an adult, you were an adult, you could have—)) What the fuck is wrong with you? (You should never have said a word.))

She's silent for too long, even after he shuts up.

"...right. And where was this commitment to just leaving when you hit that button, Jax?"

It's a low blow to counter a barrage of low blows and she doesn't like the taste of it in her mouth. That should already be behind them, after everything. It was all a lie. (And really, what did she have to look forward to, on the outside world?) What Jax did doesn't—shouldn't—matter, now. But it's all she can think of. It's the hole in his story.

The question stops him in his tracks, and he finally faces her again. For a long few fleeting seconds, he stares at her, expression as unreadable as the jumbled thoughts in his mind are. The meager traces of rationality beg him to stop doing this, to stop grabbing a shovel when the hole he's dug himself is already deep enough.

Why would he do anything that sensible, though?

Instead, square pupils wide, his small frown pulls into a grin. A mask pulled back on. But he doesn't lie to her. That'd be too easy.

If she wants the truth, he'll drop the match on this gasoline-soaked bridge and let her have it.

"You really haven't figured that out yet?"

His grin widens impossibly. It strains the edges of his face.

"That's exactly what pressing the button was for. I left it all behind. And I don't care that it dragged you all in with me."

...she— wishes she was surprised, she thinks. It'd be kinder to be surprised.

This was all a mistake. Coming here was a mistake. Believing anything that happened meant anything to him was a mistake. Opening her own, stupid mouth was a mistake. (Why tell him? Why be so blindingly stupid as to tell him like that? Now he has more ammunition. Ammunition that might actually hurt, where so much else has become routine, almost numbing.)

She backs up a step. Two. Her chair skids, half-tips, lands with a thud. The sound is enough to snap her back to reality.

"...right. Of course. Why would it be anything else," she mutters, dropping her eyes to the floor. "...well, then. I-I'm sorry for— taking up your time. I should go. This was—"

A mistake—she can't quite bring herself to say it, even now. And yet she really doesn't know what she expected. Any moment with him that has ever felt like something might change has always ended up like this, back where they started. She should know better, by now, he's right about that much.

She pushes her chair back into place and walks past him.

Jax's attention follows her all the way across the room before he speaks back up, taking a step after her.

"—for the best," he cuts in, flat and firm. "You know it was. Maybe not for everybody. But for me and you, at least? You know it was the right call. It's better this way."

Maybe if he keeps telling himself that, it'll be true someday.

He doesn't move to stop her, instead just lingering in the hallway that leads to the front door.

"See ya, Rags."

If she were wise, he wouldn't see her again. It'd be better for her that way, too. He doubts it'll go that way, but maybe this was one wake-up call enough to get her to see that.

There's nothing else to say.

She can find her own way out. Down the hall and out the front door, too polite to even slam it behind her like she so badly wants to. She ruined everything again (god, listen to yourself, even now you still can't help but take the blame—) and now she's out in the streets, tipsy at an unseemly hour (what would mother think?) and trying very, very hard not to cry.

She should know better. She does know better, and yet still it keeps happening, and somehow, it only ever gets worse. Why can't she stop trying? Why does she have to care when he's so determined not to care at all?

In the end, maybe neither of them know how to stop playing their parts.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Closed] Well, well, look who's inside again

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw: allusions to familial abuse

no subject

cw: pas familial abuse

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject