jaxinthebox (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jaxinthebox) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
...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.
no subject
"—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.
no subject
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.