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It's been days.
At least, Jax thinks it has. He hasn't really made a point of keeping track, and no one's bothered to keep him updated. Kinda rude of them, honestly.
Okay, so maybe they did, kind of, but that was...how many days ago now? A week? ...Maybe he should've kept track after all.
It'd be oh so easy to find out, he muses. Just go and pester the first person he finds until he gets an answer. It's not hard. Well, it shouldn't be, anyway. But lately he's felt more than content to pass the time chilling in his room, with such "fun" activities as bouncing a ball off the wall repeatedly, moving around—definitely not throwing—the random knick-knacks scattered around and...uhh...staring up at the ceiling! Yeah...how fun...
As he lays back on his bed, hands resting lazily on his stomach, he sighs.
The ceiling looks stupid.
Rolling onto his side, he brings his knees up to his chest. He's not curled tight and hugging his knees like some poor pathetic creature drowning in sorrow or anything. What a stupid thing to assume, he thinks to a totally real audience who are clearly trying to dissect his every move right now. He's just...bored. Yeah. Bored of waiting.
They'll knock on his door again at some point. He doesn't know who it will be, or when, but someone will be there, complete with the same old spiel they've repeated countless times before about how they're 'so worried about him' and that he 'can't keep hiding in his room forever' and that he 'should get the f[%$!#] over himself and get his sorry a[%$!#] to the stage already'.
Okay, he'll admit he nearly laughed at Zooble's single attempt at getting him to leave his room. They'd definitely come closest to getting a response from him. He didn't fall for it though; they only wanted him out there so they could play hooky instead.
But then...the knocking stopped.
Why was he surprised? He wanted this.
It's still weird, though. Even Caine hasn't tried to rope him into some messed up adventure lately. The wrongness of that itches at the back of his mind.
Shifting onto his back again, the all too familiar sight of his stupid ceiling greets him once more. He cringes a little at how much time he's spent looking at it lately. Maybe he needs some new hobbies. Sitting up, he rubs a hand over his face, groaning. He could sneak out and leave a nasty surprise in a certain irritating doll's room while she's out on another ridiculous adventure, but the thought doesn't excite him like it usually would.
...Okay, there's definitely something wrong with him.
He had tried to get back on track after the whole...unpleasantness of that gun-fueled melee. Why did the best adventure he'd had in forever have to end like that? What happened to returning to the status quo? They're just characters in a cartoon, for crying out loud, status quo is king! Ugh, why did teaming up for a little not actual murder have to come with so many strings attached?!
And why did those strings have to involve a certain jester who was way too nosy for her own good?
After the awards show, nothing he did landed like it used to. Everyone bit back harder, weren't scared to take advantage of the tiniest cracks in his walls that had formed lately. He'd given too much away, reacted too strongly to things he hated, given them something they could weaponise against him. And wasn't it so much easier to just not deal with any of that? To not have to deal with the only person who didn't retaliate looking at him with the most skin crawling pity he'd ever seen?
Yeah. This is so much easier. In fact, this is absolutely fine. He had the best company with him, after all.
Thoughts crept back to Pomni and he scowled to himself for letting them in. He was intensely aware that she'd been the last person to knock on his door. A final plea for him to join them on some quest involving high explosives. Obviously she thought he would take the bait. A week—maybe more?—ago he would've jumped at the chance, but, as with every other time anyone had tried, he hadn't fallen for it, and stayed silent.
At the time he didn't know that would be her final attempt—would be anyone's final attempt. Would he have said yes if...?
Jax shakes his head with enough force to rattle his brain.
They're not coming back.
He won.
He...won?
Oh god, he won.
Wait...
An realisation forces itself front and centre.
Did he actually want to win?
What did winning mean for him?
Panic spikes through him like electricity. He bolts upright, hands firmly planted on the bed, gripping the sheets tightly as his heartbeat picks up, breath joining it.
It's fake. He knows it is.
No heart, no lungs, no air.
But old habits die hard, his mind clinging to its humanity and all the nonsense that comes with it.
He's not human anymore.
So why the f[%$!#] does his brain keep insisting he is?!
Drawing in a deep breath, with a wide grin as he releases it, he feels the tension ease from his body. He shouldn't panic, he got what he wanted.
He always gets what he wants.
He always gets what he deserves.
Static hisses behind him. His grin drops as he turns his head slowly, dread returning as a trickle down the back of his neck.
He blinks. Tries to process it.
There's an inky black pool, pulsing on the wall behind him.
What—?!
Breath catching in his throat, he spins his entire body around to stare at it, locking eyes with the darkness that should not be there.
It feels like gazing into the abyss itself.
A phrase pops into his head, something about staring into the abyss. Or was it the void...?
A neon eye opens in the centre of the black mass.
It stares back.
"S[%$!#]—!" he gasps, reeling back in a heap on his bed.
The blackness creeps further outwards across the wall as smaller eyes begin to form, an array of colours clustering together with all sights trained on the rabbit.
His skin crawls, stomach turning at the sight.
His body screams at him for action.
Leave. Now.
Launching himself off the bed and making a beeline for the door, fingers meet air as he reaches for the door handle.
It's not there.
No handle.
No key.
No escape.
Fear hits him like a truck, taking what little of his composure remained with it.
No. No no no this can't be happening.
This has got to be a joke, right?
Fingers frantically pry at the edges of the door in vain, breaths reaching staccato as static continues to invade his ears. A breathy attempt at a laugh escapes him as he attempts to pull himself together.
"Okay, Caine, nice prank." A twitchy grin stretches across his face and he can't hide the anxiety lodged in his voice. "This is some punishment for not going on whatever weird adventures you've got lined up, right? Just give me my handle back and we'll forget this whole thing happened."
Silence.
Worse than silence—he begins to wonder if anything even exists outside of his room anymore. Did everyone leave? Is that why they stopped knocking?
No. No, of course not!
It's because they hate him, right?
Hands ball into fists, his grin falters, foot thudding anxiously against the floor.
"Okay. Okay. Was this toy box's idea? I dunno how you guys did it, but very funny, ha ha." The sing-song sarcastic tone he attempts is as flat as his ears pressed against the back of his head. Fists clench tighter, shaking with tension, and desperately slam into the door.
"Hello?" he calls out, wincing at the way his voice cracks. "Anyone?!"
A glance behind confirms what he wishes he didn't already knew—the darkness has spread, more eyes filling the void. The entire wall is now covered as it inches closer towards him, consuming his room piece by piece as it bathes him in an overwhelming glowing mass of colours.
Tearing his eyes away, he bangs on the door, again and again, heart pounding so furiously in his chest he doesn't even care to argue that it's not real, because right now it feels more real than anything he's ever felt in this circus before.
The thought terrifies him.
"Can anybody hear me?!" More frantic banging, followed by even more desperate calls for someone, anyone. Hands fall limply to his sides.
No one's coming.
Of course they're not. He made sure of that.
The darkness spreads further, pressure growing in his head as a high pitched ringing joins in the fray. He knows what this all means, he's not stupid. He's been in the circus long enough to know that his time is up—that he's going to abstract.
A broken chuckle escapes his mouth, scarily close to a sob; any remains of the grin he'd attempted to mask his fear long gone.
So this is it? He didn't want to leave his room, and now he's going to die because he literally can't leave his f▰▰ing room?
What a joke.
At least it's a funny way to go.
It's so fitting for him.
Oh god, does it not feel funny, though.
"...Jax?"
He freezes.
Pomni.
Of course it's Pomni.
He wants to laugh. He can't. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, he didn't honestly think he'd get this far, thought everyone was smart enough to ignore him. She should be smart enough to ignore him. He'll tell her he's fine, that it's just a prank.
Just tell her to go away.
It's easy, he knows this routine by heart.
But he can't.
That human part of him is screaming against the static, self-preservation overriding everything else, desperate to cling onto the lifeline he's been offered.
Move.
She's right there.
Say something.
Do something.
Anything.
Words stuck in his mouth, he swallows and it feels like nails down his throat. Slowly, shakily, he reaches his hand up to the door, and knocks.
What good will that do?
This is stupid, so so stupid.
"Jax? What's happening?" He hears the handle rattle from the other side of the door, seeing the wood jolt in response as it's pulled, but there's no handle to react on his side. "I can't get in, can you open the door?"
"I..." His voice returns but...what does he even say? He manages as deep a breath as he feels able to, swallowing painfully in an attempt to calm the shudder in his voice. It doesn't work. "I can't."
Well, this is it. Jax can practically see the last thread of patience Pomni had for him snapping, can see her expression sour, finally realising her mistake in not giving up on him. Why would she ever believe something as stupid as that? Who can't open a door? The static grows louder, gnawing at his skin. He tenses at the sensation and curses himself—he should've just told her to go. She should leave him to it, it's better for everyone if he just—
"Jax? You need to breathe, okay?"
What? He was breathing, wasn't he—?
His heart hammers in a frantic beat alongside gasps for breath far too small to bring any air into his trembling body.
Oh.
Oh, s[%$!#], he really wasn't.
Okay, fine. He'll give her that.
He attempts to draw him some more air, coughs erupting from him for daring to take any more than a thimble's worth in. It's like inhaling water.
"I-it's okay, Jax. Try it again." Pomni encourages. He wants to yell at her not to baby him. Maybe he will when he can actually breathe again.
He manages not to cough this time, but it's nothing more than a series of shallow, stuttering rasps. The air in the room has chilled, cold seeping deeper into his body with each passing second. His lungs can't hold onto whatever air he tries to give them. He doesn't even need air, why is this so hard?!
Then he sees the darkness—the eyes—in the corners of his vision. It's a mistake to turn around—the abstracted darkness has him completely surrounded, edging closer on all sides. The minuscule progress he's made is shattered, his eyes the size of pinpricks. Static enters his lungs, desperate hands grasp at his ears as dozens more eyes lock onto him. So many eyes, he can't escape them, can't hide, can't run—
"F[%$!#]! No no no—" he gasps out in a pitiful whine, spinning back around, hands gripping onto the door frame for dear life. His head is spinning; he knows his legs will betray him if he lets go now.
"Jax, please, listen to me. Focus on my voice." She's sounding more desperate now, so much more distant to his ears.
Wait...is she leaving?
She's leaving, isn't she?
Of course she is of course she is of course she—
"Jax?"
He scrunches his eyes shut, tears pricking in the corners as his head limply thuds against the door, resting on the cold wood. He's so tired, he shouldn't have called out, should've just accepted he was on his own and face the mess he made instead of being a coward.
But...he's not on his own...is he?
Pomni is on the other side, refusing to let him face this alone...
He doesn't get it. She doesn't even know what 'this' is. Why is she fighting so much to help him?
But...he's still fighting too...isn't he? Guess he's not ready to call quits on himself either.
"Try to match your breaths to my counting. I'm not going anywhere, I promise."
"...Okay," a breathy reply escapes him, barely a whisper. He doesn't risk opening his eyes, he can't handle seeing what awaits him if he looks.
Pomni begins to count, and against every fibre of his panicked being, he tries his best to match her. He fails, again and again, jaw clenching as he tries once more. The cacophony of static and ringing eases a small but wondrous amount, leaving him with the thunder of his heartbeat and strain of his lungs begging for air. It's not much better, but it lets Pomni's voice in that little bit easier, that little bit less distant. His arms and legs tingle, his entire body trembling from the cold—he's sure the dark abyss on his back now, ready to envelope him at long last.
Is this how it feels down in the cellar? How much time does he have until he finds out? Minutes? Seconds?
Don't look.
Don't think about it.
Focus.
How long were they stood there, separated by this stupid door? He doesn't have a clue. But his breaths gradually deepen, and he becomes more aware of the doorframe death-gripped in his cramping hands, of the wooden door against his forehead, of the floor beneath his feet...
...Of Pomni's voice fighting valiantly through the fog that had wrapped around his brain, gradually dispersing as the seconds tick on.
With one final deep shaky breath, confident that his knees won't buckle, Jax steps back from the door, aching arms lowering by his side as he turns around, and tentatively opens his eyes.
His room is clear. Blurry, but clear. No darkness, no eyes. No abstraction. Just as it had been for the last few...how many days?
He can find out later.
A knocking on his door. His ears perk up.
"Jax? You still with me?"
Pomni's voice is small, cautious. He turns back to look at the door, blinking once, twice, three times.
A door handle and a lock greet him, the key waiting to be turned. A laugh escapes him, half confusion, half relief. That pesky sob almost escapes his throat this time.
He reaches shakily for the key, but hesitates. He's bound to look an absolute mess, what is Pomni going to think? Is she going to tell everyone what happened? ...He's going to get forced into some sappy heart to heart to talk about his feelings, isn't he?
He drags a hand over his face, sighing.
Y'know what? He doesn't care.
He just doesn't f[%$!#]ing care.
He can backtrack on this whole mess later—an abstraction prank to make everyone feel bad for ignoring him. Yeah, that'll probably work.
He's not convinced in his resolve to follow through with that plan, though. He doesn't even want to yell at Pomni anymore, if he's honest.
More than anything, right now he just wants to see his door open. Fear pangs in the back of his mind as his still trembling fingers grasp the key.
Turning it, he reaches for the oh-so familiar door handle—there as it always should have been—and, with a sudden rush of calm he opens his door at long last.
Pomni greets him with a smile so staggeringly warm, he feels any lingering chill in his limbs melt away instantly. The grin on Jax's face is small, holding far too many emotions to pick apart. It was awkward, but the most genuine it's seemed in a very long time.
He leans on the doorframe, a hasty yet futile attempt at appearing casual.
"Hey, Pompom. So...you knocked?"