Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sweaty palms meet the floor in a feeble attempt to rise.

Searing lights above make already-tender vision blurred, a piercing shriek of ringing within the woman's head.

She blinks. Once, twice, then three— until she snaps her head up and a rush of dizziness floods through her.

Pressing one of her hands to her head, she groans to no one but herself.

Where was she? What could she remember? With the pounding through her temples, she hadn't a clue initially, the world around her devoid of the colour she'd been forced to know. Everything dressed itself in dull greys, blues, and greens— a lack of activity evident.

Sucking in a breath, she closed her eyes tight, only to open them as wide as she could.

Recollecting herself, the view of a headset comes to focus. She stares at it, body unsteady when she reaches forward, her fingers tracing over the edges. It feels cold, but it isn't dusty. When she comes to realise this a few seconds after touching it, she pulls away as if she'd been burnt.

Attempting to rise once more, she pushes herself up. She's successful against her expectations, swaying before steadying against a nearby desk.

The lights help null. They're too bright— too much— and her vision is downcast in an effort to keep her retinas intact.

Her headset lays stationary. Her headset. She's glaring at it now, eyes clearing with caution. Like one might keep watch of a spider that threatens to lunge, she's doing anything but nearing it, edging around it slowly. Her legs feel partially numb yet she tries to walk on them anyway, needing the aid of the surrounding environment to keep upright.

Where was she? What could she remember? Despite the pounding in her head, she has a vague idea. More than that, if she's honest, finally taking a proper sweep over the place. She looks down at herself, the drab clothing she'd once chosen feeling all too mute. It's comforting, in one way, but jarring in another. Who was she, without the bright hues of the uniform she'd been in prior?

One of the lights flickers above her. She flinches, looking at the headset as though it were to blame. It isn't— she knows this, subconsciously— but every effort to unlearn everything that'd happened over who knows how long wouldn't be an achieved one in such little time. Not everything is dictated by an AI set of teeth in the real world, and somehow, that feels like a foreign concept all of a sudden.

Reaching out tenderly, she takes a look to her hand. Her skin, ignoring the unsettling layer of sweat shining over it, is hers. It isn't a white glove, it isn't a cartoony shape. It's hers.

She breathes out. Then in. Then out again. Breathing feels normal, and it feels real. Necessary.

Gingerly, she steps forward. Her foot grazes against the headset. She has every reason to crush it beneath her heel, but she doesn't; she begins to walk, instead choosing an attempt to recollect everything that'd happened and then some.

How long had it been? She looks to one of the walls. There's a clock, but it doesn't appear to move after staring at it for what she assumes is an approximate minute. Prying her eyes off of it after, she glances around her, wondering if anything else will give her answers.

That's when it hits her. Among all the walls, the cubicles, the desks— she's found herself where she'd started. Easing her hands down her torso, she wraps her arms around herself, leaning forward in an attempt to stop the nausea that'd hit her with realisation in tow. It's sickening, this office.

The office.

She needs to get out. Every desire to leave and never come back pulses through her veins, and it carries her feet with haste. She's running before she knows it— swaying and stumbling, but running nonetheless. The adrenaline shoves her forward like a plane reaching maximum speed. Everything, then, flashes through her brain, her memory electrifying her, and she bites back an agonised yell as she runs.

The circus. The people. The cellar.

The exit.

They're out too, aren't they?

All of them.

Not only the 'living', but the 'abstracted', too.

They all got out, and it was thanks to her.

It was thanks to all of them.

Shoving doors open as she gets to them, turning corners left and right as if she knows where she's going by divine intervention, she pulls one last doorknob and swings it towards herself. As she does, an even brighter light blinds her, rendering her stunned for only a moment before the genuine shine of the sun meets her for the first time in what's felt like years.

Grass and dirt beneath her, an actual breeze through her hair— it's new, yet anything but. She can't move, because it feels all too real, and it is real. It's truth, and she can't believe she's happy the world is as it was when she'd left, the enchanting sensation of being alive coursing within her blood.

Her previous name comes to her, then. With the sun gracing her face, the wind blowing through her jacket, it lingers. It isn't what she'd randomly been given, it isn't a name she'd had to choose over a string of nonsensical letters.

It isn't "Pomni".

It isn't Pomni.

And she hasn't any idea why, but she begins to cry and laugh. Her name being hers causes the tears to fall, her body shaking. She's overwhelmed, she's free, she's happy, she's devastated— it's all she'd ever wanted for the longest time, and she's gotten it.

It's bitter, in a way. Being alone in this feeling. But with what she knew of the others, she wonders if they're feeling the same, too— with everyone everyone else, too. She wonders what their names are, where they woke up. She wonders what they did with the headset, or what their first word was when they came to.

She wonders if they remember her like she remembers them.

Shaking her head softly, her cheeks wet with tears, a shaky breath escapes her.

Does it matter? She doesn't know.

All she does know, however, is how warm it is to be real.

Chapter Text

Palms press heavily against the floor, bracing for the worst.

Nothing comes.

No hit that sucks the air out of him. No pull that brings him back to where he'd been before.

Where was he? What was this? A continuous shrill splits through his tender ears, skin brittle and uncomfortably clammy. It's hard to focus on one thing, his senses coming back to him all at once. Moving hurts, an aching in his bones unlike anything he's ever known, and he can't do anything but remain stationary as he adjusts.

The sensation of a hand on his back finds him. He unwilling jolts at the touch, flinching away. The action isn't pleasurable in any regard, his body rejecting the feeling with urgency. Everything is overly sensitive, with where he'd been touched feeling like pins running deep into his skin.

His eyes won't open. As much as there isn't a piercing light forcing them closed, it remains difficult to pry them open nonetheless. His 'vision' behind his eyelids runs red, hot and blinding, and a groan escapes him in discomfort.

He breathes in, weary. Struggling with pulling his arms over himself, he attempts to shield away from whatever is with him. Against all odds, he's only met with a shuddered sigh of relief. It makes him reluctantly lower his guard, but only just, uncertainty laced within every instinctive action he chooses to take.

"You're awake." The voice he hears is soft, genuine. The type a friend would use when finally knowing you're alright. It inflicts surprise, not expecting such a warmth to it, resulting in his face scrunching up. A brief laugh is heard in response.

He's on his side, pressed against the floor. There's another touch— now at his face— and he tries his best not to pull away as he finally (properly) lowers his arms. This time it doesn't hurt as much, resulting in a mildly uncomfortable warmth to his cheek. It stays there for a short moment, only to detach with longing. The man does his best to open his eyes again.

In the blurriness of his sight, he notices someone familiar. They're looking at him with concern edged into their expression, sweat running down the side of their face. He blinks at them, trying to get the picture of his vision clear. They visibly tilt their head to the side with a smile.

"We're here," they say gently, as if prompting a response, "We escaped."

That sets his otherwise wavering nerves alight.

Slowly pulling himself to sit upright, he glances to his legs. He's wearing anything but overalls, which is a much needed sight after what he deems to be the worst of times. His hands are tangible and real (albeit sweaty, to his discomfort), hidden by nothing at all, and he watches himself clench and unclench his grip repetitively as though to confirm it.

Experimentally, he smoothes his hands down his sides, making sure that he's present with what he's actually seeing. When he meets his hip with a hand, he feels something graze against his knuckles, causing him to initially pull away. Upon looking downward, he notices a headset— all too recognisable, all too haunting— and makes the impulsive decision to grab and hurl it as far as possible.

It detaches from a wire, thrown over several beds and machines. A loud crash is heard as it hits against something, though he finds that he holds no remorse for it.

Wait a minute. Beds and machines?

He squints, scanning over the room they're situated in. His fingers— those that'd been in contact with the headset— twitch restlessly, his mind running a mile a minute. That is when he realises where he is, and suddenly the concept of damaging property is far behind him.

White walls, empty beds— a sudden distinct smell that reeks of some type of cleaning chemical. Recognisable by most, and unfortunately housed by many in places other than here, he grimaces at the sight.

It's a hospital.

Not only a hospital; he's back at the hospital.

With wide eyes, he looks to his only company. They'd laughed when he'd thrown the headset, giving a small comment of 'that was needed'. He offers them a willing grin upon realising who it is.

"We're out, huh?" He's breathless, voice hoarse. Whilst he clears his throat, he's met with a nod.

"Too right." They affirm. Behind them is a window, displaying a few overgrown trees among the slowly dimming sky. It seems a little too realistic, he thinks, but he quickly recalls that this is reality. He's back, he's out— nothing here is too realistic if it's real to begin with, and that realisation slaps him in the face harder than he's convinced is necessary.

But what did he remember?

Enough, he figured, as he stumbled to his feet. With the help of the individual beside him, he stands up as straight as he finds possible. His memories are everywhere and nowhere, all scrambled in the wrong places, but they're coming to him. The relief of being here, out of anywhere, is impressively large. He can't recall when he'd last felt such an overarching, all-encompassing sensation prior— though with time, he believes there will be remembered moments to match.

Some from the circus, he's sure.

"The circus?" He ends up saying it aloud. His friend tightens his grip on him, keeping him steady.

"Not a thing, thanks to you."

Not a thing.

Those three words bounce around the interior of his skull with ease once he hears them.

The circus was not a thing anymore. In most other contexts, that'd be quite a mildly concerning sentence, but here it's refreshing. He breathes in a proper dose of air, swallowing and coughing a little, before emitting a broken laugh. It's embarrassing and, admittedly, a little too loud, but there's an absence of people to judge. He needs this— needs to feel the world around him once more— and his friend comprehends such.

They'd been through the same thing, perhaps even worse, and they both knew it.

As the two make their way around the hospital, navigating soundless halls, they remain quiet. No amount of words could be said to make up their entire experience. If he were ever asked to explain what had happened, he'd likely smash the question into pieces before thinking of answering it. It felt too personal, too real, and he didn't want to deal with the thought of what the public would do if they knew the full story.

Not that he was certain the public would know anything of it in the first place. He wasn't confident how long it'd been, although he definitely didn't feel starved (or even particularly dehydrated). Sure, he was dizzy and hungry, but if it'd been years— he'd assumed to a point— he clearly would've been rotting by now. Right?

Whatever. He doesn't want to think about the possibility of having (or not having) died right now. Alternatively, his mind wanders to an entirely different place: people.

He isn't alone here, but he's unfortunately not with the cast he'd been with either, their lack of presence leaving him with a dose of dread. He'd never admit it— not to their faces, at least— but they meant a lot to him, having allowed him to continue without direct madness in the digital world.

Maybe now that they could be themselves after all this time, he'd be able to say that to them.

It's a wishful line of thinking. He knows how abhorrent he was; the circus made him a cruel individual. He knew why he'd been that way, yet that didn't excuse anything— in the end, he, too, was a player, even if he tried to play the role of mastermind. Coping like that had helped, absolutely, but only for him. All those arguments, all those tears shed because of him— would he be able to even simply meet their eyes, now?

He stares at the tiling of the pristine floor whilst he walks. Perhaps that's something he'd have to think about more to get an answer.

When the duo reach the exit of the winding building, they're met with a hint of nightfall. The sun's crawling downward, giving him one last taste of genuine light before it rests. He's glad it can't talk here— accompanied the moon being a flirtatious piece of work, he couldn't stand going out at times. The thought is amusing now, but he can't manage another laugh, the need for a drink overpowering him.

His friend says something. They gesture to the oncoming darkness, commenting on how it isn't ideal. He's thankful, in a way, that they're making jokes with him still. It's reliable, against a world that obviously holds some secrets he couldn't have fathomed before all this, and reliability is something he hasn't been able to lean back on.

Yet, in the estrangement of it all, he can't shake the feeling of losing who he is. What he'd become.

It's only then that he registers himself.

He isn't his character— "Jax"— anymore, is he?

He'd felt like Jax for so long that he can't help but think like him. Just a little. Every thought has Jax in them, every movement has a bit of the rabbit woven through. He understands it'll be hard to let whoever "Jax" was go, because in a way, he both was and wasn't him.

But he hopes, genuinely, that's for the best.

Becoming someone other in the circus was an additional layer to build his thick skin. A jokester, a funny sort, the type to make everything his own form of entertainment. That is, partially, still a trait within him, but it isn't as cynical as it once was. All he needs to do now, with the addition of a multitude of possible apologies, is continue moving forward.

Right. Moving forward. That's the plan, isn't it? And, maybe with a bit of digging, he'll move forward with the others if he were to be successful, too.

All it took was time. And heaven knows he has enough of that to make up for.

Chapter Text

Getting back into her car felt a little too surreal.

It seemed to be as she'd somewhat remembered it. Messy, apparently having become a bit of a pit for belongings and discarded junk strewn about. A jacket or two coated her backseat, along with a relatively sizable bag among the pieces of her history. She huffed out a sigh.

This, among other things (she could only assume), was going to be a job for later— cleaning it all up, putting it away, making it presentable. Realistically, though, that'd only be if she gave herself the time.

Which wasn't completely guaranteed, if she was being honest with herself.

A half-empty can of coke sat between her two front seats. Experimentally, she pulled it towards her face, expecting a pungent smell to follow. The scent certainly invaded her, making her scrunch her nose, but it didn't smell bad in the slightest.

She did a double-take, smelling it again.

It didn't smell bad. In the slightest.

If she didn't know any better, she would've assumed the world hadn't turned when she'd been in the circus. The thought presented as insane when it first coursed through her brain, but with every new pinch of information she picked up, that very concept slowly appeared to be more and more plausible.

Turning her car on with a twist of her keys, it started with a surprising lack of difficulty. She listened to the engine for a short amount of time, reveling in the sound; this only added to her incredulous theory, struggling to keep up with everything that aided it. Even as she eyed her gas, all appeared completely fine if she wanted to drive— which she most certainly did.

But shouldn't things be broken down, ill to use, tattered beyond repair? Shouldn't she be struggling to manage her senses, having issues with her hunger, her thirst?

With a vibration of something within her pocket to distract her, she flinched, quickly attempting to fish out whatever it was in a scramble.

The sheer concept of still having her phone was a miracle. Inspecting it, she deduced that it seemed fine— no sign of damage at all— but the fact that it was turning on in the first place sent her further down a vibrant spiral. Did she seriously miss nothing?

Apparently nothing of note, she thought, skimming over the message she'd received. A simple notification for an app she barely recognised. Reading over the words again and again, she then realised a little later than ideal that it meant nothing to her— both the app and the notification in combination— and her thumb swiped away at it to remove it from her sight.

Attempting not to get caught in the machinations of her phone, recalling her whereabouts once more, her gaze trailed upward to take a needed look at the time.

Her breath caught in her throat almost immediately.

It read nine. Nine-something in the evening.

The sun had slowly begun to set earlier when she'd been scouting out where she'd parked her car. The layout of the abandoned office caused her to wander for all too long, but she'd gotten more and more familiar the longer she was within them. A while ago, she must've scoured through most of the building before getting to the headset for a climactic finish.

It feels a bit too horrific to recollect clearly now, though, her past self blissfully unaware to what she would've been signing up for. She tries not to think too much about it.

She fails of course. But she tries.

Against her curiosity, she doesn't look through her phone any further. It's around twenty percent, which feels all too much and too little in the moment. Instead, she begins to pull out from where she'd parked, driving to a nearby road and setting off.

She doesn't want to see those offices again, even if it held one of the biggest mysteries of life. In fact, she couldn't care less if she'd eventually forget where it was on the map; she didn't plan on going back. Ever.

The drive home lacks notable activity, thankfully. She listens to how the car moves, accompanied with all the stress-free noise outside. At some point, she rolls the window down halfway, allowing the breeze to pass through her car.

It's so wanted, so underappreciated, that she wonders how people live without thinking of the breeze. She ponders on if they were put in her situation, that they'd think of the breeze like a saving grace, too. She sighs when she realises that it, ultimately, doesn't matter. Just another trivial thing to have barely missed in the first place and suddenly adore when returning.

Her mind doesn't think of where she's going. It's working on instinct, taking her home without explicit directions. She's not exactly minding the regulations of the road until she finally sees someone else driving the way she'd come. Seeing another person, even briefly, permits her adrenaline to spike.

It's so ridiculous. The way the circus had caused her to lose herself and her sense of living was ridiculous. If it'd never happened, she'd never appreciate these little things, but did they really need her appreciation in the first place?

The concept of it is so pointless to think about. She shakes her head softly, paying a bit more attention to the road. It's near midnight when she reaches her apartment, but it's important that she's home at all, checking she's got everything twice over upon making her way inside.

Nothing's changed. Not that she can remember, at least. Everything's a little hazy, but she figures that somehow, the real world's time hadn't matched with the time she'd spent within the circus at all. Such a theory is so beyond her understanding that she's almost discarded it promptly several times in one day, but when she locks her door behind her, noticing that her place is still partially hers, she can't think of any other reasonable explanation.

Upon turning the light on, she squints a bit before she can properly open her eyes to a comfortable size.

So, how long was it? Seconds, minutes? Hours? It can't have been days. She would be much more hungry if that were the case— even if she were now, admittedly, craving something to eat. Her eyes dart towards her kitchen, hidden in the shallow depths of the small apartment, and she scrambles towards it with haste before her head catches up to her.

The fridge door is tugged open with force, urgency evident. When she looks within, everything appears as it should be.

Of course, she hadn't remembered exactly what she'd left in there. But, truly, none of it looks terrible— and, more to add, none of it smells off, either.

Her phone buzzes again, distracting her away from her hunger. She softly shuts the door, feeling a little bad for prying it open so quickly. Pulling her phone out, she lowers the brightness and looks through the messages on her lock screen.

Several different social media apps display notifications for non-user originated sentiments. Advertisements, reminders for things, et cetera. She scrolls past them.

One message from her roommate displays, bringing to mind that they're on vacation. How apt. Unfortunately, she had forgotten about her roommate almost entirely, but in a way, she's thankful they won't see her in this state. Coming home and being in this head space with someone beside her would be all too unbecoming. Fundamentally she doesn't prioritise what she looks like in front of others all too much, but she would like to maintain some dignity.

That is, if she can.

Another message buzzes and displays a DM. It's from one of her socials.

It won't display the actual message, so she unlocks her phone with her fingerprint. Clicking the notification itself brings her to her most-frequented social media from however long it'd apparently been. Which, in fairness, she only presumes to be the case considering she actually put effort into adding pictures and a description to her account. Usually she leaves that to God, and she knows (personally) that he isn't helping her with her analytics.

Ah, well. Disconnected from her inner monologue about God and social media, she finds herself staring at her phone screen, stagnant.

She should read it, right? It's probably just a scammer, or a poorly-timed message from one of her friends that she surely has. Still, she pauses, uncertain. Her finger hovers over the screen, just nearly daring to tap where it'd open the direct message.

She doesn't open it. She turns her phone off instead. In an effort to try and ignore her pulsing heart for the umpteenth time today, she fills a glass with water, swallowing it down in one swig.

Eventually, she finds her bedroom. It's as she'd presumably left it— some strewn-about clothes, among the otherwise tidy place. Her desk rests to the side, opposite a wall with her window, and she glances at her laptop.

It's plugged in. Likely fully-charged. She sort of wants to see something.

She doesn't fulfill that whim, though. She's tired— or, more so, her body's tired. Tomorrow, she knows she'll get something to eat and do several of the things she's interested in doing, but tonight she wants to actually sleep in a bed that isn't all primary colours.

She has a white simple bedsheets, a plush simple mattress, with some comfortable (and simple!) pillows. A genuine recipe for sleep without struggle, she hopes.

There's several thoughts running in her head, but she's too drained to process them. That's a future issue she'll combat. For now, all she wants to do is curl into bed, the colours of the walls having a lack of vivacity in them— which she does quite soon, rivaling that of a cat's passion to rest.

That night, she falls asleep in her clothes, having put all of her taken belongings from her escapade on the desk beforehand. It's the best sleep she's had for a hot minute— which says both a lot and nothing at once.

The lack of dentures to wake her the next day is a blessing in it's own right.

Chapter Text

The thing about her was that she'd mentioned something very important.

Several of the members in the circus did remember parts of their past life. That wasn't a secret in any regard; they often shared little tidbits of themselves with one another, bonding over what they missed or what they didn't miss. Unlike the rest of them, he never shared his own portion of his life— that slice was private, and his form of grounding was pretending as though he'd never existed before the circus in the first place.

Nowadays, if he were to meet any of them, he wouldn't mind talking about it. In fact, he'd be quite happy to— if they'd even listen. Getting on good terms with those he'd previously caused strife towards would be difficult, and as much as Pomni had helped him in a way, he knew it'd still be a lengthy process. He wouldn't blame them if they didn't want to talk to him at all.

He's not ashamed to admit that he would be pained if they didn't, however.

Emotions aside, he's working on what he knows. Getting home with who he'd once called Ribbit was a fun ride, considering neither of them recalled who had driven them where, or which place was whose. At some point, it became a joint classification of places and belongings, neither of them particularly caring.

He didn't remember at any point during the circus that he'd known Ribbit prior. It felt obvious in retrospect, but with everything that'd gone on, he'd only comprehended that they'd clicked right away. That was that, no extra discussions needed.

All they had now were discussions. Conversations about what had happened, late night talks describing the different (and painful) adventures, along with what they'd missed in their loss. Thinking about the grief he'd gone through for a person that stood before him felt a little humiliating at times, but they reminded him that it wasn't a crime to feel compassion.

That wasn't the issue, at the root of it— though he never told them that. Getting into those details was its own demon.

One evening, they'd asked about the others. Directly. It caught him off-guard, considering he'd been doing nothing except laying lax across their couch. The two hadn't spoken too much of the other members, and admittedly it was less than he'd have liked, but he also didn't know how to bring something like that up.

They didn't know them like he knew them.

Gaze drifting over to them, he notes how they linger nearby, shifting from one leg to the other.

"What, the people who didn't—" an undeniable hesitance filters through the air, and he just barely quietens in volume—"abstract?"

"Yeah." Holding a can of something, they fidget with the tab, fingers grazing over it in uneven circles, "Like… what did they tell you? About their lives?"

His focus edges over to the ceiling. A lot happened, obviously, but there were things he could never forget. A light tug at his lips reveals a soft smile, and he hates the way he immediately tries to wipe it off his face, forgetting the reason he'd ever closed off in the first place.

"Nothing too specific," with a sigh, he pulls at one of the strings of his hoodie, nestling in the fabric, "Stuff like jobs. Or hobbies. Real niche shit at times."

Getting used to the lack of a censor every time he swore was a new-found freedom in itself. He'd catch himself swearing like a sailor more often than not, doing so under his breath whenever he chose. Sometimes, he was convinced he'd hear the noise of it echo in his ears, a wince in response being all-too-unintentional. He hated it.

What a strange thing to be 'fearful' of, alongside all else.

"Jobs might help."

"What are you thinking?"

They approach the couch, sitting on one of the arm rests. Peering down at him, he can see a glimmer of an idea in their eye. He shuffles backwards to sit up straight. A non-verbal way of saying 'go on'.

"Did any of them mention being on social media? Or working with it?" His friend drums their fingers against the side of the couch in an effort to not speak with their hands. It's a little distracting by itself, but he knows them— they'd be in full theatrics if they pulled their hands into the fray.

It didn't really stop anything, the drumming. Their other hand, occupied with their still unopened drink, moved in conjecture with their words.

"I mean—" cutting himself off, he gets to thinking.

A certain privileged dolly liked horses. Not much there.

A bartender-tattoo artist combo. That wasn't as private as horse riding and rich-people softball, but he wasn't sure he'd gain any effective results with the amount of bars there were around here— or, honestly, anywhere.

A bundle of ribbons as a retail worker popped into his head. He scoffed to himself— he'd never find Gangle just by her descriptions alone, would he? (Maybe that was good for her sake?)

Who knows what the king chess piece was. Did he mention computer science, or something else? Kinger never specifically mentioned his job. It wasn't ever a topic of conversation when he was lucid.

And then there was…

With a quick start, he shot up to his feet.

The thing about her was that she'd mentioned something very important.

Something, in this instance, that could help— if he was right about their plan at all.

"Actually," he shuffles around, suddenly scavenging for his phone; his friend eyes him, amused, "We're pretty lucky there."

"How so?" They lean forward from where they're sitting, viewing the way he digs up his phone from his room and rushes back to them in less than a minute.

"Pomni—" he unlocks his phone, sifting through the multitude of apps he has— "You know, the jester? She has a whole thing for abandoned buildings."

He opens up YouTube, fingers quick to locate the search bar. Since returning from the circus, he hasn't had the time to watch anything from his 'watch later', his previous interests having barely come back to him. A shame, really, because he apparently was obsessed with 'top ten' videos to a concerning degree.

"Now, get this." Typing into the search bar, he enters in 'abandoned building'. A vague attempt. "She said she posts them to YouTube. For herself. Which means she isn't a big shot at all."

"Which isn't very helpful." They point. He shakes his head at him, meeting their eyes.

"The opposite." He goes to the filters of the search, sorting them by view count. The most popular show up, all being quite typically click-bait-y titles. "Because she isn't popular, we can look for low view counts. Stuff that isn't engaged with much. Get rid of all the big guys, and you've got—"

"The small guys." They finish with a smirk, pulling out their own phone.

"I was gonna say the small-fry, but that works." His grin spreads wider, excitement in his blood. "If we find Pomni this way, I'm sure the others can, too. She's like our beacon."

And not only in the real world, he thinks.

Pomni, amidst everyone, gave the cast the hope they needed to continue. She might've been an anxious mess to begin with— and he could admit, the promise wasn't there initially— though as time went on and more adventures were worked through, the circus members recognised that Pomni had guts. She did what others couldn't, somehow working around Caine's AI and messing up his 'permissions' (he wasn't remarkably sure on that front what exactly happened, he wasn't even there)— with a much desired result: pulling the abstracted people out of the cellar and returning them to their former selves.

From there, things only got better. Caine, struggling to keep things under his lead, lost it— both literally and 'mentally'. Somehow, he ripped a large chunk of the code in-half, rendering it irrecoverable. Without the code, you can't play the game; without the game, you can't exist within it. That was when they'd made their escape, jumping through a literal maw of broken code and waking up in cold sweat within reality.

Pomni made it real. Pomni made reality real. Nobody in the waking world would understand how much influence she held— nobody would be able to understand why it was so important that Pomni figured out how to fuck with faulty VR.

Yet he knew. He knew so very well, and he held her to the highest degree of his appreciation because of it.

Which is why, "Ribbit" knows, he wants to find them all again. To make sure they thank Pomni.

Well, they don't know that's his exact reasoning. And when he says it like that, it's undeniably a little cringe. He means it well, however— getting to see them all as people is important to him, even if it isn't to them.

He hopes deep down that it is, in defiance of reason.

"We can spend a while looking," they offer, "It'll be kinda easy if we both search. There's a lot of it on here, but searching by low view counts, it can't be impossible, can it?"

He shrugs, though he so desperately wishes it won't be.

"We'll see." Scrolling through a few of the popular 'abandoned building' videos, he runs his tongue along his teeth before continuing, "But I'll be damned if I'm not trying."

In the deep hours of a later night, he sits on his side of the bed, scrolling through endless pages of "exploring abandoned places" content.

He severely underestimated how much there would be, but he knows it isn't impossible.

This is his one lead. This is his one true attempt at doing something good. He knows damn well there aren't many other options, also understanding that if he did attempt the other ones that came to mind, they'd be a lot more tedious. The sheer idea of finding the others felt beyond his reach at this stage, and unless they'd beat him to the punch, he'd have to wait another day for a better plan.

At around three, his friend had tapped out to sleep. Unconscious beside him, a white-noise video of rain playing on their laptop— he couldn't blame them. The two of them had been scouring for almost a combined total of twenty-four hours at this point, and as much as he did want to quit, he couldn't bring himself to.

He felt so close. With every check of each new page, he felt so dangerously close.

Batting away sleep with a few blinks, he paused to take a swig of his friend's discarded drink. They hadn't even taken a sip prior, and he didn't want to let it go to waste— at least, that's what he'd told them. They'd given him an eye-roll when handing it to him earlier.

He scrolls for another thirty seconds. They feel shorter and longer than thirty. He wonders if time sometimes warps here, like it had in the circus. He tries not to think of those implications.

Then, he sees it. A solitary video with about fifty-seven views. He feels an adrenaline rush when he stares at it, the thumbnail incredibly bland. There's little going on, a simple image of what he assumes to be in the video showing a barn house. He wonders, quietly, how people find these places, and why the hell they'd bother with something like this at all.

Biting his lip, he finds that he doesn't really care enough to surmise too much on it— at least, further than that. If Pomni found it interesting, it was interesting.

He bites his lip harder. Denial runs deep in his teeth.

Clicking on the video, he braces for an all-too familiar ad (by this point, he'd seen hundreds), but it never comes. Instead, the video just starts playing.

There's a lack of words for the first three seconds of the video. What fills the silence is the sound of footsteps crunching through dry grass, accompanied with a faint wind drafting over the camera (or what he assumes to be a camera, in the very least). When the individual behind it appears to comprehend that it is, indeed, rolling, they begin to speak.

That is when his heart beats harder than he could've ever imagined.

"So, I found this." A pan up to the barn house. It's a reasonable distance away. "Cool, right? Hah."

He can't move as he listens, watching the screen intently. Gripped by the sheer sound of a woman's voice.

"A barn? I'm half-sure." The camera zooms in. The individual is approaching it. "I've never actually been in a barn. I, uh— it's just one of those things."

He has no idea what 'one of those things' means. He still nods to himself.

"I did some research before coming here," a brief rustle is heard, and it's assumed to be from a bag, "And, like… usually barns get bought, or something?"

She sounds so unsure that it's amusing. She sounds so familiar that it's intoxicating.

"I'm thinking— uh, or, I planned on, like— going in and just, you know, looking around? Might be cool? Nothing, like, crazy..."

The video continues to play. He doesn't move an inch, listening with a genuine smile itching at his lips. It's about twenty minutes, half of it being silent with the occasional comment on what's inside, yet he can't help but watch it over again when it ends.

It's so undeniably her. Every mannerism, every word— it sounds and feels like her too much not to be her. If it isn't her, it's a drastically accurate impression of her.

The channel name doesn't give an actual name, nor does it detail anything specific. It's just two words merged together, followed by a '9'. There's no comments, predictably, and only two likes. He makes it three.

The initial plan was to comment and pray she sees it. As much as he still intends to fulfill that plan, he ends up deviating from the upfront scheme a little, clicking on the channel and checking through the selection of uploaded videos. A multitude of places come up, all abandoned and incredibly strange to be poking around, yet all befitting of Pomni as a person.

Like the channel name, the description holds no personal information except a short sentence.

"My new home."

He shivers. How ironic.

And cringe. Obviously cringe.

Going back to the original video he found— the most recently published video, having been a few months old— he proceeds to the comment section.

Clicking on the bar to write a comment, he then stops, unexpectedly unsure.

Of course he's going to do it. He'll write some great comment and make it clear who he is. But when he tries, he's met with not knowing what to put, his fingers shifting over every letter of the keyboard until he hasn't a clue which letters make what words anymore.

What do you say in a situation like this? What makes it evident he's him? Obviously he could type "It's me, Jax, here's my Instagram." but is that the move?

Why is he stalling it? Why does it feel so strange, so foreign?

What if, unlike him, her memories are gone? What if, everyone apart from him is still in the circus, and he's putting in the effort for nothing? Why, of all times, does he suddenly care so much about how she sees him?

Is it because he's finally him? Because he's suddenly not hidden behind a purple rabbit of a persona?

Swallowing another swig of his drink, he sighs shortly after.

It doesn't matter. Not really. If it's dumb, he can play it off; if it's weird, and this somehow isn't her, he can just make something up.

Overthinking doesn't suit him. While he writes his comment, he convinces himself of such, even if it's so unmistakably stupid to do so. Getting back into this mentality harms him, he knows that, but it's so easy to do. Nothing makes sense anymore— ever since the circus, life has become very hazy in every aspect, and that point only rang true the more he thought about it.

He hesitates to send the comment. Soon, he does, but it takes a short amount of bargaining. Arguing with himself again, like always. When will he grow out of that?

Maybe never. Maybe tomorrow. Nevertheless, he doesn't read over the message after it's sent. It's there, under the video, and that's all he needs to know.

Before he heads to sleep, nearly six in the morning, he puts on one of her other videos. It's only half an hour, but with all the little comments she makes, it's the most familiar anything has felt in a while.

With "Ribbit" by his side and Pomni talking near him, he feels strangely content. His covers aren't particularly warm, yet he falls asleep relatively easily.

What a pain it is to feel emotions. What a pain it is to be real.

How blessed he is to experience them again, though.

Chapter Text

About a week had passed since she'd 'left' the circus.

Getting back into a normal routine of things was tough, to say the least.

Accounting, out of all things, remained a difficulty to dive back into. She'd been given a day to herself following the initial throw-back into real life, and when work rolled around the next morning it just… didn't function normally in her brain.

Thankfully, she somehow (with all things) didn't make too much of a fool out of herself, but having forgotten some specifically important details wasn't a great impression. A lot of 'gentle reminders' had headed her way not-so-gently.

At least getting home after the day to simply exist was enough of a reward.

Her room was a lot less headache inducing. After searching for things she'd either misplaced or simply forgotten the whereabouts of, she'd actually made an effort to clean the place up, keeping everything important within a reasonable position. She never thought she'd forget where she'd put her charger, her laptop, or even her wallet— yet upon being gone so long, it all felt alien for a while.

One weekend, the evening rolls around graciously. She knows for at least another seven days she'll be the only individual in the apartment, but that's a good thing. Seeing her roommate again will be nice, even if they aren't close. She hasn't spoken to another human being socially aside from passing conversation with coworkers for… well, a while, to put it lightly.

Leaning her back against the headboard of her bed, she pulls her laptop towards her. Since when did it have so many stickers? What were these all references to? Grazing her fingers over a few of them, she lingered, attempting to recall her previous interests. Of course, not all of them had escaped her, though she definitely lost a few memories along the way.

If her situation was explainable— which it most certainly wasn't— she would've attempted to see a therapist, or even a psychiatrist. Unfortunately, the issue lied with how she would even attempt to have everything make sense. How would she explain how she'd suddenly developed gaps in her memory, in addition with new ones that technically both did and didn't happen? What words could be chosen to detail the time she'd dually lost and gained?

Always with the unanswerable questions; she finds herself asking way more than needed as of late. Even more so than she did in the circus, somehow.

Doing her best to not complicate the stickers any further, she turns her laptop on and checks through her emails. A few advertisements still, along with a reminder to cancel a membership to something show themselves. She makes note of some work-related instances, marking them for later. She doesn't have the capacity to truly process anything accounting-wise right now, so that's a future-her problem. She'd thank herself later. Not.

A notification she'd somehow missed the day before stands unread in her inbox. Something from YouTube.

She narrows her eyes, skimming over it quietly. Assuming it's a subscription-related upload, she ends up ignoring it.

YouTube, huh? That's right. In a sudden bout of curiosity, she opens the website, checking her channel. A grand total of six subscribers, paired with videos that never reach over sixty views— how humble. A subtle chuckle escapes her as she scans over the thumbnails, her memories of each place having miraculously remained in-tact.

She supposes it's because she'd recorded them, played them back several times, and even reviewed them upon upload that she remembers them. Half the time, the effort she put in wasn't exactly impressive, but she definitely tried her best to make it enjoyable to watch if anyone actually wanted to. It was her little thing, though she honestly wasn't opposed to being discovered by others (which was her typical thought process for most things, admittedly).

She hovers over her most recent video, posted several months ago. It isn't that long, and a bit of reminiscing doesn't sound too bad, so she clicks on it.

It plays instantly.

"So, I found this." A pan up to the barn house. It's a reasonable distance away. "Cool, right? Hah."

She cringes. God, is that how she spoke in these? That part definitely wasn't something she recalled. In a way, though, it's quite sweet— the absence of her putting on an act being clear. She keeps an eye over the video, idly playing with the hem of her shirt as she does so.

"A barn? I think." The camera zooms in. She's approaching it. "I've never actually been in a barn. I, uh— it's just one of those things."

Half-true. She's sure, ages ago as a child, she'd ventured into a local barn house. Maybe that was what sparked her desire to look into abandoned places? The thrill of the unknown, the discoveries of things left behind? To be fair, she rarely found anything "cool", but there were certainly times where she caught herself taking little small, meaningless things as keepsakes. Reminders of doing something outside of the usual grain.

"I did some research before coming here," a brief rustle is heard. She assumes it to be from her bag, "And, like… usually barns get bought, or something?"

Research. She liked doing research, genuinely. A lot of it assisted her to keep her head off the stress of work, or the overthinking mess that was her mind. Researching her next abandoned place adventure always helped her figure things out ahead of time, and sometimes she'd even get lost in the history of what she was looking into. It was fun.

She's glad she can do it all again. Perhaps not soon, but definitely something for the future. She's had enough snooping around for a while, the offices she'd spent much too long (yet somehow barely time at all) within giving her enough trauma to put her off.

Still, she did enjoy abandoned places, as much as one turned her life on its head.

The video continues playing whilst she looks through a few of the recommended thumbnails on the side. Nothing takes her interest. It's all stuff she might've clicked on a while before, though now it feels like a droning repetitive noise. All similar content, yet vaguely different.

It's only when she briefly glances over to the comments beside the video's description that her attention is captured. That is, by the presence of one lone message.

Last she checked, nobody ever added comments to her videos. It didn't bother her as much as it should, considering her amateur hobby was hers and hers alone, but there was always a little notion in the back of her mind that liked the idea of getting feedback— in any regard. There was potential for good and bad when it came to comments, and experiencing neither was pretty alright in terms of her content.

Somehow, with all this considered, the fact that she'd been contacted at all still causes her heart rate to race.

Blinking once or twice, retreating from her dissociation, she takes a second to read over it. The words don't register the first time, so she reads it again, only to find that they're jumbling into themselves. Third time's the charm as she processes each word in conjecture with each other, and when she realises what's being communicated, her heart lodges into her throat.

It's unbelievable. It's a prank. Right? But nobody would know how to make such a convoluted prank. Nobody knew of the circus except the members, so this is real, isn't it? And still, she stares at the comment with a shaky gaze, her fingers frozen at her keys. The circus would never leave her, obviously, yet she'd tried so hard to forget it this past week. It felt almost like getting back to normal, even if "normal" wasn't going to be any sense of the word.

Rubbing one of her feet over the other, she stared at the screen. The comment remained, tangible and existing. She bit her lip as she read over it one more time.

@user5721 1 day ago
cool video. and you had the nerve to tell me you weren't a youtuber?
unbelievable.
how's accounting? if you wanna tell me about it, @████████.
ignore this if you don't know what i'm talking about. i'm sure you do though.
you sound exactly like a specific jester (anxious. and on the verge of tears.) <3

Now, it must be said— she hadn't made any effort herself to try and contact the others. In the daze of relearning her life, that concept had only grazed the surface of what she'd wanted to do. Of course, she'd love to meet the others— seeing who they were behind the avatars was quite an opportunity— but there was a hidden underlying edge of worry behind it.

What if, considering everything, they didn't want to see her? What if, just because they'd shared such a bizarre experience, they felt obligated to? Reading over what was undeniably a Jax-coded message, she shrunk in on herself, anxiety bleeding into her troubles.

Him, too? Out of everyone, beside the several individuals she'd bonded with in the worst fucked-up place created, he had spent the time to find her? It felt both bitter and sweet, the mixture fizzling on her tongue, and she swallowed out of impulse.

Indeed, Jax had built himself a reputation, but he'd slowly been crumbling it a short while after they'd figured out the whole 'de-abstracting' thing. He'd actually tried (on several accounts!) to make amends, and she'd supported him in every one, having taken his apology with a grain of salt and applying that forward.

He didn't magically turn 'good'. He still liked to make a poorly chosen joke or two, along with casually nudging against the others in an attempt to bother them. But he certainly wasn't as bad as he once was. And, considering he'd been so enthusiastic when she'd figured a way out, she couldn't blame his mix-match of behaviour.

They were all just trying to survive.

So, maybe it wasn't so farfetched of him to message her? She had told him about her YouTube videos in passing. Only once or twice, yet she knew his memory. A crazy trove, that one. She envied him, even if just a little.

His username made her laugh quietly. 'User5721', huh? Not an actual name but not a 'custom' user, either. Just another moniker given to him. She wondered if that was on purpose— he felt like the type to care little about that stuff. Then again, he also seemed to value his own individuality. Duality in him ran deep, not only in personality, but in predictability and intention. She rarely ever knew his next move; that's what made him fun.

She brushed a piece of hair from her face. Her knuckle partially met her cheek, and she nearly flinched at how warm it felt.

Thinking about Jax was dangerous. She tried not to, against her own discernment. She liked him like people liked the colour orange. Nobody really talks about enjoying the colour orange, and it isn't usually someone's immediate pick, but there's people out there who die hard for it. Jax doesn't immediately buzz in as 'orange' in her head when she thinks of him, yet when the sun sets and hints of sunlight poke through the trees, she swears it speaks of him.

It's only then that she registers that she, among other feelings relating towards the man, misses him.

She'd busied herself so much with her work, her home, her memories. Subconsciously, she'd been repressing her feelings about the circus as much as possible. Unfortunately you can't exactly suppress such a big thing for too long, the sensations and longing catching up to you when you least expect it— but she'd tried anyway. Fending for herself for so long, even if it was within such a cartoony place, made her body rigid, her head elsewhere. Finally being with her own whims and will was freeing.

Anything other than the circus had begun to feel freeing.

In a way, that's why she thought little of it. As little as possible. Never letting it clue in, never allowing it to drag her back.

But what did that give her, in the end?

She looked over to her desk. She hadn't moved any of her belongings apart from her laptop and chargers. All of her 'abandoned building gear' laid in a jumbled mess of a pile.

It hadn't given her anything at all. No peace, no virtue. Just a looming threat of grief.

Losing people that she could find.

Her head snapped back to the screen. She copy-pasted the username she'd been given, now logging in to several different social media sites and checking if they housed such an account. She didn't believe he'd give her a faulty username— what would the purpose of that be?— but she was undoubtedly worried about if it wouldn't work, or if it was actually a hoax, played by the most coincidental prankster in the world.

Twitter didn't work. Neither did Discord or Tumblr (which, somehow, she knew it wouldn't). When she grabbed her phone, she didn't bother with Snapchat, ignoring the app entirely. A few other options were picked and didn't function as intended either, which eventually left one option. Instagram.

She didn't use Instagram often. A grand total of five pictures had been uploaded to it by her own accord. All relating to the places she'd ventured through, they weren't met by more than two likes— and that was totaled between all five posts, mind.

She hadn't predicted Jax to use it either. Social media wasn't really something she expected a guy like him to be too savvy in, but when she typed the username he'd given and searched it up, a lone user appeared and she immediately knew it was him.

No pictures displayed his face— something she'd involuntarily looked for instantly. Instead, a total of ten posts displayed before her, all including different places. One from what she suspected was his place, one in a field, one on what appeared to be a farm; all unique, never displaying the same thing twice.

They weren't exactly the best pictures either. Almost four of ten appeared to be a little blurry, and some had a hint of a thumb at the rim of the picture itself. Nevertheless, she looked through each of them earnestly, checking the captions and the interactions, musing over what Jax had taken the time to share.

His latest picture— apparently posted nearly half a year ago— threw her even further down the rabbit hole.

Captioned with "how about that", it displayed what could only be described as a hospital. Clear white walls, pristine floors; it was hard to mistake it for anything else. Nothing indicated if he was visiting or actually within the hospital for a reason regarding himself, and as much as she stared at the image for longer than absolutely necessary, she couldn't figure out if that was the point or not.

Pulling her eyes away from it, she looked over his profile picture and description. When initially opening the profile, she'd skimmed over it, having been hooked by the possibility of revealing what Jax looked like. She didn't know why that mattered so much to her— maybe she didn't have the time to process it, then.

Alternatively, now, she checks over them. The profile picture is some sort of cat meme, which she feels as though she's seen before. His description beside it is curious. A lack of actual name displays, instead showing 'User5721' again as his display name.

So it was intentional.

"the pinnacle of masculinity and committing to the bit." read his description.

She scoffs. He was always unbelievably dumb, too?

For someone like Jax to exist in the real world feels beyond her. He's such a character, which was his goal, but it worked so well. From the very beginning, he always appeared to be cooking up schemes and devious little plans, which ultimately never worked in anyone's favour except his; but that was the whole gag, wasn't it? Jax's whole "character" was being mean, not funny— though she found it endearing at times when he finally lowered those cartoonish walls.

Here, he seems normal. Whatever "normal" constitutes. Apart from the lack of identifying information (maybe if she dug deeper for a short while, she'd find something, but that wasn't her prerogative), his profile appeared typical. A piece of him that he hadn't gotten rid of, a part of him stuck in time.

A fragment of him that he shared with her, if she so chose to look into it.

Running her finger up and down the side of her phone, she debates how to contact him. What to say, what to write. It's so difficult to put what she's thinking into words that no words at all seem to be enough. Amidst her thoughts, she navigates to Jax's direct messages, staring at the blank textbox. Her teeth capture her lip, nibbling anxiously at the flesh.

Would he care? Does it really matter? As is her usual nature, she overthinks the semantics.

He must've written his message with ease. Just a casual text to someone he knows, right? No second thoughts, no worries. That's him in a nutshell, isn't it? Not thinking about his actions, working on instinct. She wishes, in a way, she could be the same. A lot about Jax, to her, are traits she wishes she had. It's a little silly to think about, considering she also knows him underneath the mask, too. A thinker, a yearner, a rival of mazes. Twists and turns.

A plethora of corn, maybe.

She chuckles to herself. That's stupid. It's stupid to think about the things she wants to say to him, along with the things she doesn't. He's been in her thoughts for a while, just repressed in a way. Now that the cage she'd kept him in is unlocked, it's unavoidable to continue thinking of him. She's startled when she realises how long she's been staring at the unwritten message she wants to write him.

Leaning back, she sighs, musing. Deciding to suck it in, she figures she shouldn't linger much longer on it, needing to contact him in the moment if she were to do it at all. It isn't that she'd forget, it's more that she finally has a clue of what to say, knowing that later her mind wouldn't be so kind with the words combining in her head. Her fingers, finally (thankfully) begin to write.

When the message comes together, she checks over it once. Twice, maybe. Even thrice, if she dared. No mistakes, no unintentional grammatical errors— no making a fool of herself, too. At least, she hoped. It all seemed to be as she liked after way too many edits to her message, and soon enough she was at the decision of sending it.

It only took a press of a button. A very intimidating press of button.

She looked away upon pressing it, immediately shutting her phone off and throwing it across her bed in case it exploded. It didn't of course, but she was prepared.

It's all she thinks about when she later decides to sleep. Her laptop plays a video of some sort of gameplay that she isn't paying attention to.

Instead, she's thinking of Jax— in every sense.

hi jax. the fact you found my video is both embarrassing and VERY impressive. how long did that take? don't actually tell me please.
i guess you don't go by jax really, do you? what would you want me to call you? i'm not convinced i'll get out of the habit of saying "jax" anyway.
but you're right. this is, technically, pomni. i'm glad you're alright.
thanks for finding me.

Chapter Text

His phone blinked with a notification.

In response, he grabbed it embarrassingly fast.

For the past few weeks, he and Pomni had been texting back and forth. And, as much as she didn't go by "Pomni" anymore, he still couldn't get out of the habit of calling her such.

Old habits died hard and he quickly fell back into line with a lot of them. Nicknames, as well as general ways of dealing with someone he considered a "friend" in the circus came back in full force, meaning he had to rediscover (to a point) how to restrain himself to be deemed a 'good person'. Not that he thought of himself as 'good' in the first place.

It didn't seem like Pomni minded, thankfully. In fact, it felt like she was just happy to talk to him at all.

For several days, they exchanged considerably tame conversation. Sort of like how old friends reconnect sometimes, it took a while to get back into the groove of things. He couldn't blame her— she was practically built to be awkward— but in a way, it endeared him to her. That wasn't a terribly new concept, however.

His friend, previously "Ribbit", laughed at him on occasion when they caught him texting her. A few teasing comments made his way, a bit of banter regarding how guarded he was about her; he began getting annoyed at the very claim that he was thinking about her texting back. It could all be boiled down to trauma bonding— that's what he convinced himself it was, anyway— and it bothered him that he couldn't just be normal about it. Whatever normalcy was anymore.

Eventually, the texting became casual. Friendly, even; back to how they were in the circus before everything went to shit.

He knew behind the screen that she wasn't a cartoonish jester anymore. Whilst that notion felt bizarre to him, he always amused himself with mentioning her previously assigned avatar. "Are you tugging on your hat in rage?" and "Don't hold your breath, Pom Pom. You'll be all sorts of colours." were very real sentences he'd sent her. It was a distraction of sorts, since imagining her as a real person both bothered him greatly and made him incredibly warm, to his confusion and annoyance respectively.

It itched at him, though. The idea of seeing her outside of what he'd come to know her to be. What she looked like, what her mannerisms were in-person. He wondered, ideally, if she'd want to meet him at all.

All he had to do was ask, he supposed.

He didn't, however. Not as soon as he would've liked anyway. Weeks rolled by and he'd been pondering on seeing her face by the third text she'd sent him. It was such an obnoxious line of thinking— it didn't change anything, did it? Regardless of if he was enthralled by the idea; the very premise of seeing her, knowing her, being with her; he fell annoyingly fast to such concepts.

Seriously, though— he didn't want to freak her out. Against how entertaining it might be, he couldn't risk things here. Not like he had in the circus.

It haunted him, the way he'd pushed her from him on several different occasions. He didn't want to bring that into reality. Not now, not again. He wasn't like that here— no, he wouldn't be like that here. Not anymore.

Instead, he took things slow. He tried to stick true to texting, but texting was only alright. An eager part within him proposed to him the delicious idea of something more.

So naturally, he offered to call with her. After he gave her his number. It'd be a bit difficult otherwise.

"You look like you wanna kill something."

Jolting upright, he snapped his head to the voice, spotting the previously frog-themed individual. They lean against his bedroom's doorframe, a blanket lazily draped over their shoulders.

He thought about how his own expression might've looked to elicit such a statement, resulting in an internal grimace.

"Just thinking." With his phone in hand, he glances back to it, messages open. He'd texted her an offer to call to no response— yet. For some reason he believes waiting on the screen will make her respond faster.

"About killing something?" They maintain a smug grin on their face, pressing their head to the doorframe. He gives them an eye roll, paired with an entertained smile. As if to say, 'sure'.

Shuffling his own blanket off of him, he sits on the edge of his bed, looking at them directly. If he knows them— which he does, thankfully— they want something.

"What's up?"

His friend frequently seeked out his company, especially when they felt a bit too overwhelmed with things. He couldn't fault them for it, he found himself doing the same at times, but it got a lot more complicated considering they were supposed to be a college student. An off-site student, thankfully, and fully remote for the time-being, though launching themselves back into that sort of thing after the circus 'situation' was a whole other can of worms.

The hospital had given them a little leeway for some things— he knew this, considering he didn't have to think about work for a short while longer— but soon enough the world wouldn't wait for them anymore. That, in itself, was a stressful reality they had to prepare for. Neither of them had planned ahead very far, admittedly. In combination, they weren't the most serious of people.

He tried to help them wherever he could regardless of such a fact.

"Just wanted to see what you were doing." Their eyes scan over him clearly. Once they take notice of his feet they scoff, "You would be the type to wear cow-themed socks, huh?"

He stares at them, then glancing down to his feet. "Uh, yeah? It's called fashion." He mimics a hair-flip, giving them an entertaining look, "You can't be saying anything. You've got socks with holes that rival the one you put your foot into."

They can only shrug, evidently bested.

He grins.

"I'm—" thinking about a normal way to say he's texting Pomni, he checks his phone once more before putting it down beside him, "Looking at Instagram. Just random bullshit memes."

Half-true. He was, in fact, doing that in the short intervals that he hadn't earned a response.

"Believable," they tease, "How's Pomni doing?"

If he was the type to gawk he would've. It wasn't unusual for them to ask about her— as a matter of fact, they always seemed curious about her well being among other things. For them to have somehow clocked him without knowing was ridiculous still. He feels compelled to chuckle briefly to himself, nerves nestled within.

"Hasn't texted back for a bit."

Doing his best to act casual about it, he adds, "Probably busy."

A shared silence falls over the duo, and he can't help but feel as though he's being eyed by a hawk. "Ribbit" clicks their tongue then, and before they can say anything, his phone vibrates audibly against his sheets.

He grabs it with alarming haste, not thinking before doing so.

They laugh. Loud.

"Probably." Is all they say, seemingly satisfied with their occasional check-in and bowing out of his doorway, "Have fun flirting!"

His cheeks run hot. God he's lame, isn't he? He does his best to call back a playful 'Fuck off!' before actually looking at the message she'd sent him, eyes scanning over each and every letter.

i'm free tonight, if you wanna do it soon. or, if you don't (which is completely fine obviously), later this week? idm!

He reads over every word again and again, only for it to compute in his head a lot more delayed than ideal. His face swiftly brightens with an excited smirk.

She texts so in-character. He can practically hear every one of her texts in his head clearly, her voice so predictably recognisable. Everything about her is so concrete to him, even if she's a wavering mess, and he loves the fact that he can assume her next moves with ease.

Not because he wants to predict her, but because he likes knowing her this well.

He presses his tongue between his teeth and bites down. One day his brain won't be so bold.

'Tonight' came rather quickly.

They hadn't specified an exact time but he'd allowed himself patience. Waiting for Pomni to choose felt a lot more apt, all things considered. He didn't want to rush her, despite the fact it would be in-character for him to do so— the idea of her cancelling on him felt a little too sour a taste, so he avoided any possibility of it happening.

He'd been scrolling through his phone when he'd gotten her message; checking through some social media he didn't really give a shit about. A lot of it swept right past him, gaps in his memory to thank for it. A shame, really, because he was sure all these meme pages about poorly chosen political concepts were funny to him before the circus.

Not.

Scrambling to sit upright on his floor, back pressed to the side of his bed, he opened up their shared DMs.

are you free right now?

He messaged her back with an embarrassing amount of speed. He would've tried more about 'not looking desperate' if he'd thought about it for more than a grand total of five seconds.

like an eagle. call me.

Who says that? Free like an eagle? He cringes, wishing he could just erase the text before she'd gotten the chance to see it. The damage has been done though, his message marked as read incredibly fast. He wonders if she'd kept their DMs open specifically to wait for his response or not too.

He inhales. Whatever. It doesn't matter, does it?

(It does. To him it does.)

Somehow, the vibration of his phone ringing in his hand catches him by surprise. He soon stands, rushing to shut his door before collapsing back to the comfort of his floor, pulling a pillow to his chest before answering the incoming call. There's a few things he likes, but being uncomfortable in his own room isn't one of them.

It's absolutely not nerves that cause him to clutch the pillow like a lifeline.

Just room comfortability. Obviously.

A brief second of silence is heard on the other side of the phone when he answers. He pulls it tight against his ear, trying to see if it's an issue with volume or simply a lack of noise. When he's convinced it's a volume issue, raising the bar a few times, he hears a subtle hint of movement, immediately making him lower it again.

"Can you hear me?" A voice asks. He breathes in, hoping it isn't too audible after the fact.

She sounds as she did in the video. She sounds as she did in the circus. She sounds as she did as Pomni.

For some reason, even though he certainly expected it, it throws him down a spiral that he has absolutely no chance of climbing anytime soon.

He realises he hasn't actually responded to her question— not for several seconds now. He hears shuffling on the other end. He lets out a breathy laugh.

"Clear and crystal, Pom Pom."

"Jax."

It should've sounded like a scold. He assumes as much. Yet with the way she speaks his previous alias, it feels a lot more relieved if anything. As though she'd worried it wouldn't be him, as though she'd feared for the worst.

His heart tightens. Painfully so.

"Not my name, but we can work on that." He's teasing her, running his tongue across his teeth in amusement. He hears her scoff over the phone.

"It isn't my fault you haven't told me your name."

"Touché."

It's intentional. He hasn't told her on purpose out of some weird sense of fear. Every time she'd (not-so-subtly) asked, he'd diverted the topic, falling back into shitty habits all the same. He knew, realistically, he couldn't— wouldn't— hide it from her forever, but the way she kept trying was captivating. He liked being asked, he liked being at her forefront of attention. He liked —

"So." Her voice promptly interjects his thoughts, "How was your day?"

It's a simple question. Normal, in fact. Harmless.

Which is why, out of everything, he reacts by instant, hysterical laughter.

He clutches his phone tight, his nails pressing against the screen harmlessly as he laughs, everything about the situation hitting him all at once with one cruel slap.

She waits for him to stop. Of course she does. He practices breathing in then out, a few chuckles escaping him as he does so. God, why is he like this?

Normalcy, as he'd learnt it to be, was oh-so-hilarious. It tested the way he'd learnt to live. It made him realise where he was and what he was doing. It pushes him to tears, it tears frantic laughter from his throat. He hated how normal everything was, and yet he loved it all the same. It pained him to be real. He loved being real. It pulled him apart and made him anew.

"What?" He hears a smile in her voice, and he can't help but shake his head to himself; alone.

"Are we gonna talk about the weather or something actually interesting?" He clicks his tongue, leaning back against the side of his bed. The pillow in his hold is suffocating.

"You're an asshole, jeez." She says it, this is true, but she also appears beguiled in tone. He figures out then that he's absolutely missed her banter.

"I might be." Glancing down at his feet, he notes his ridiculous socks once more. He taps his feet aimlessly.

One of them starts up a conversation about work. Another mentions their recent discussions about the best places to get drinks locally. It's familiar in the weirdest way, and somehow he's unsure how they never mention a lick of an adventure. Every verbal conversation prior had included a circus member, or one of Caine's ploys for venture, or the fact that they'd rather be anywhere but in a vibrant hellscape. Instead, these talks shift into very human-like topics, detailing interests and exchanging passions in earnest.

He feels weird, being even slightly vulnerable. Yet as the hours roll by him, talking with Pomni late into the night, he finally notices the dumb grin he's been holding on his face the duration of the call.

Vulnerability doesn't feel as scary anymore. Especially not when he has Pomni talking to him about the next upcoming song from her favourite artist she's excited for, nor when she's asking him what his favourite dish has been since leaving the circus. He answers every query, he listens intently to every explanation, and he finds that he isn't all that terrified of being around someone like this as much as he once was.

The lingering fear of Pomni dying tomorrow isn't as real as it was in the circus. It lets him de-stress, even if only slightly. Sure, death lingers in the real world, but it isn't so easy as losing your mind. Pomni's smart, not careless— the reaper isn't taking her from him anytime soon.

"Jax?"

"What's up?"

Having transitioned to his bed he lays stationary, his phone beside his ear. In one arm, his pillow is still clutched. He'd argue it's for stability but he's not actually sure why he maintains it now.

"What time is it for you?"

He turns his head, picking his phone up briefly to check the time. He sucks a breath in through his teeth, an audible sound exposing itself.

"Four?"

He says it playfully, as to not allude to wanting to go anytime soon. He then adds: "Not too bad, I'd say."

Pomni scoffs. He hears more shuffling on her end, doing his best to avoid asking.

"Same for me." She hums, "We should really sleep soon, right?"

The realisation of the duo sharing a timezone dawns on him. He shuffles up a little, sitting a bit more upright than prior (although not considerably so).

"What, you live in █████████ or something?"

It comes out as a joke really. He doesn't expect her to live in his state, neither does he anticipate a genuine answer. Still, a shared timezone is good. If he ever wanted to meet her, he'd get a chance.

Definitely better than being halfway across the world at least.

She's quiet for a moment. More rustling on her side. God, she moves, doesn't she? Then again, he always noted how Pomni would fidget a lot. Nerves, or maybe anxiety— whatever it was, when in the circus beside her, he distracted himself by watching her jitter and move. In a way, it grounded him to her. Truthfully, a lot of things grounded him when it came to her. (Un)fortunately.

"Close." She says. He barely registers it before she continues, "Like, an hour away? Maybe?"

He stiffens, making the effort to push himself even more upright. He pulls the phone towards him to make sure he can hear her, as well as being audible.

"Seriously?"

"… Yes? Do you live in █████████?"

It's his turn to fall silent. He hasn't a clue what to say, his head rushing with ill-timed adrenaline. His fingers feel hot and cold at the same time, his mind running a mile a minute. She lives close enough to visit now. He could drive to her place in an hour and see her tonight. Practically, he wouldn't, but he could, and that's what sets his thoughts alight.

His breathing turns jagged.

"Jax? Are— Are you okay?"

"Peachy." He responds all-too-quickly, making sure to include— "I do."

They're both lost in quietude. He knows, in classic Pomni fashion, she's thinking up something. He wants to know it before she says it— he wishes he could see her face. He can't of course, but the mental image of her jester-adorned avatar comes to mind, a lost-in-thought expression gracing her features. He hates that he remembers every little detail about that stupid cartoon representation of her.

He's thinking too. What he should say, what he could suggest. He shouldn't be so quick to offer to see her, right? That'd be ridiculous. He isn't the type, is he? What type is he? Who is he, now that the mask no longer remains? What is he meant for, in the real world? How should he act, who should he be?

Where is he? What is he doing here?

"We could—" Pomni pulls him out of it.

He shakes his head violently, his head suddenly hurting. Bad.

"We could, like… meet up. If you wanted."

"Hah! Do you hear yourself?" He grimaces at his words as soon as he says them, "Don't you know the basics of internet safety, Pomni? Never meet a strange man on the internet. I could give you drugs!"

She laughs bitterly. It makes his less-than-genuine smile falter.

"To be fair, you are strange. Not sure on the drug bit, hah. But— But it could be fun. Right?"

It could be. All the things they could do, all the places he could see. With her. With only her.

His breathing swerves into sharp territory again, soon covering his mouth to counter it. Why does he feel like this? Why does his body hate his excitement? Why, now, does he want to throw her a few ill-chosen insults and block her on everything? Escape, run away, quit— what is he thinking, why is he doing this, why is he letting himself be happy?

"We don't have to." Pomni urges, her tone both bothering him and charming him. He wishes she'd stay silent and ramble her heart out at the same time.

She's so thoughtful. So kind, so sweet. She genuinely thinks about the people around her and it pisses him off. In the circus, she humanized everyone, making everything to her liking. She fucked up his coping mechanisms, she threw him down the stairs of evasion, and now he's bound to her. Every thought includes a hint of Pomni in them, every whisper mentions her name in a hushed tone.

It's no longer "Jax" he harbors. It's her in her entirety. He hates it. He hates it so much, because he loves it. He loves to know her, he loves to understand her, he loves to be with her. He hates it so bad it hurts. He loves it so bad it bleeds.

He can't focus his eyes on anything. His room feels like it's shifting. Everything's hot and cold, there's too much and not enough, he can't focus his eyes on anything! Shit. Shit shit shit. Say something, do something, be something, help yourself; what're you doing, why are you like this, what made you this way? How do you stop it? Stop it. Stop it, now. Stop feeling, stop doing, stop—

"Jax? Hey—" His arm holds the pillow so tight it hurts. "Did— Did you watch all of my videos?"

What?

He thinks about the question. Genuinely thinks about it. His mind can't come to an immediate answer, but the fact it even diverted away from his spiral says something. He thinks desperately about each of the places she'd ventured to on her channel.

"In one of them— God, it's so awful, man. In one of them, I went to an old house. Haunted, apparently.

Didn't see any ghosts, thank goodness. But at one point, I found a bird's nest in the attic. Really small, made with a lot of string… for some reason. I assume the bird just— Ugh, nevermind. The point is, that was the first video I made, but I uploaded it after some of the others."

She's rambling.

"I guess it's because I was embarrassed? I didn't know if I wanted to upload it in the first place— But! Then, I thought, 'If anyone's gonna watch it, they're probably interested, even a little, right?'"

She's rambling.

"I debated with myself for so long about the footage. Do I keep it, or throw it? Sorta— Sorta stupid, really. But when I uploaded it, that was the first video to get any views. Not that I, like, cared… But it was nice. You know?"

He takes note of the pillow in his arms. He soon unlatches it from his grip.

"Yeah." He breathes out, his throat tight. "Yeah, I get that."

"Hah." She pauses for a second before continuing, "Good. That's sort of— I guess— how I apply myself to stuff now. Like… If it sucks, oh well.

At least I did it, right?"

He's sweaty. Uncomfortably so. He takes a short moment to pull his shirt off his back, throwing it off his bed. The pillow follows.

There's space given for thought. He doesn't say anything right away, simply relaying what she'd told him. The memory of watching that specific video comes to mind then resulting in a snicker. It was, admittedly, a pretty 'cringy' video. He still replayed it once or twice, checking every minute of footage and listening to each word she spoke until he memorised them. He'd done the same with a majority of her stuff, making up several of the views.

She's right, isn't she? She's always right. She was right when she joined the circus, she was right when she talked to Caine; she was right when she came on adventures with him.

She was right when she exploited the game's code. She was right when she reformed the abstracted people. She was right when she told everyone to escape, even if there was a chance that she'd be forgotten in the process.

At least she did it. She had always applied herself to that sort of thing, hadn't she?

His body aches but he settles into his mattress nonetheless. A satisfied exhale emerges from him.

"Right," he's grinning,"Right you are, Pom."

Chapter Text

Rain splashed against the window, painting it with slow-falling droplets. Each ran down with haste as if participating in a race of nature.

Thankfully, warmth resided inside, away from the damp outdoors. Cordial music softly played, a lack of unnecessary energy within the cafe she'd chosen for their little meet-up. The rain hadn't been planned— something she'd absolutely worried over in the morning, in case he wouldn't be able to make it— but their plans were to follow through regardless. Thank goodness.

Admittedly, she was early. She sat in one of few seats beside the front window of the cafe, watching unrecognisable people walk by within the sweeping downpour. They'd planned to meet at one yet here she was at twelve, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee she'd barely drank from.

She wasn't worried she'd get there late. He was the one who'd have to drive the hour, not to mention locate the place. Her worry, if anything, was that he'd get here first and she'd be torment to a barrage of comments on how she'd 'left him hanging', no matter if it was for five minutes at best. He was the type to say so leastwise.

That, alongside the hammering heart she held in her chest.

'Nervous' didn't describe the feeling well. She wasn't nervous. Nerves naturally coursed through her, but nervous wasn't a powerful enough word to detail how she couldn't stop the shake of her hands even if she'd tried.

Anxious, maybe? Skittish? A subtle shake of her head revealed an acute 'no'. Whatever it was, she wished it'd calm down; meeting Jax of all people wasn't something to treat like a much-needed interview, let alone a date.

She raised the cup to her lips, sipping slowly. The flood of heat from the coffee coursed down her throat, distracting her from her thoughts momentarily before she partially choked, coughing a few times.

What did she mean with a date?

That wasn't what this was and she knew that. It was a reunion, a coffee meet-up, a friendly get together between very obviously platonic friends. This was something that, lately, she'd wanted to see if she could do with the others, too— the idea of knowing Ragatha's order or seeing Kinger's ideal selection of baked treats was quite a domestically sweet one— so this didn't mean anything except for a heartfelt reconciliation, right?

She tore her hands off her coffee cup, readjusting her hair for approximately the fifth time since arriving. Time was moving too slow and too fast, a part of her wishing she could just get this over with. Why'd she come so early? Did she really need to seem so eager?

Oh dear. Oh no. He was going to tease her for that, wasn't he? Having been so caught up with being mocked over being late, she'd absolutely forgotten part of Jax's character— the reality that he would find a way to tease you no matter what. Especially, she knew, if you were formerly known to be a type of cartoon jester. He adored annoying her of all people.

To be fair, it wasn't just annoyance from him. When the tail end of the circus was in motion, Jax spent a considerable amount of time with her, even though (and somewhat especially after) Ribbit had thankfully reformed. The three made quite an unbreakable trio.

Against a few expectations, the frog character was pretty friendly if you ignored that they also threw a few jabs in certain people's directions. When Jax had mentioned over one of their late-night-calls that Ribbit lived with him— something he hadn't recalled in the circus, somehow— she was glad. They were a good pair.

Let alone the fact that Jax appeared a lot happier with them around.

The rain began settling heavier. Streets before her ran fresh with water, drains struggling to catch up with the speed of which it poured. She watched as a frantic older couple huddled beneath an opposing cafe's awning, laughter escaping the woman as her (presumed) husband smiled brightly in her direction.

A fond smile of her own found its way to her face. They reminded her of something regally lovely.

The cafe's door chime rings and her head snaps over to it. It isn't him, to her undeniable dismay. She soon flicks her head back to the window.

Only once had Jax shown his face to her before today. A few days ago she'd mentioned how it was important that they know what each other look like in case they accidentally approached someone random with nonsense about a circus (or, in Jax's particular case, nonsense in general). Begrudgingly he'd agreed, although he'd mused over and over about how entertaining it would've been to watch her address some random guy with the expectation of the rabbit. She hadn't considered it as funny.

They'd had one video call. One. Confessedly she hadn't been paying attention to half of what had happened in it either, taking into account that she hadn't expected Jax to look the way he did.

It was distracting. Why a guy like that was so pretty, she hadn't a clue.

"My eyes are up here, Pom." He'd joked at the time, a grin cemented on his face. It reminded her of the bright yellow smirk he commonly held before then. She'd rolled her eyes knowing full-well her face was warm with a blush.

She'd hoped, in full belief, that he wasn't able to tell.

"You're wearing a cat shirt," she'd defended, a spellbound smile on her face, "It's impossible for me not to look."

The fact that she found him easy on the eyes wasn't too much of a shock, really. Of course it'd thrown her off, but in a way— deep down— she'd known him to be attractive in some sense. Maybe her taste was her own (it was possible, really, that she'd just become accustomed to him to the point of finding him alluring), or maybe she was just crazy. Whatever it was, she welcomed it. Sort of.

The cafe's door chime rings again. She does her best not to look.

She does anyway. It isn't him, but it looks kind of like him. A guy with similar hair, she supposes.

Checking her phone briefly, she comes to find that the time reads twelve-fifteen. She has to stare at it for a short moment before properly processing the numbers on her screen and what they mean. Has it seriously only been fifteen minutes? Unbelievable. She glances back outside, hoping the busyness of the street will make the time pass quicker.

It does, but only a little.

To his disappointment, he had to admit: he was flooded with anxiety.

The word suited him perfectly. Jittery hands that produced sweat much too easily, eyes on the time that wasn't ticking all-that-fast, and a lack of knowing where he was headed all attributed to it. Just because of one simple thing that he absolutely wasn't shitting bricks over: the fact that he was meeting Pomni. Today.

Otherwise, the rain wouldn't bother him this bad, nor would constant pings of his frog-inclined friend about how the trip was going have his head spinning. The two, in combination with the way he was desperate not to make a fool of himself, proved difficult. He'd even taken his own car, but had he remembered how to drive? Sort of, in his own make-it-up-as-you-go way. His license being in-date continued to feel like a lie.

He liked traveling but he hated the unknown of it, as much as it may be entertaining to a point. This wasn't really the biggest or best travel experience in the world— going an hour over, barely out of state, never felt anything more than a lazy road trip— but his weighted thoughts might as well make up for that fact. He couldn't sit still. He couldn't keep his grip on the wheel firm enough. When he came to a red light, he held in a breath he hadn't needed to take.

In instances like these he'd usually turn around and take his leave. Uncomfortability wasn't worth his time. He hated being out of control with his emotions, no matter which ones they were. Unfortunately for him, however, his overwhelming need to be a part of this— to know her, to be with her— overrides all of those instinctual actions he'd take. Regardless of his position he feels obligated to do this one thing, even if it puts him in a position of vulnerability.

When he parked, he debated taking an umbrella with him. Miraculously he'd held one hostage in the backseat of his car among several other disregarded items. It wasn't an 'embarrassing' pattern, nor would it be silly to simply use it considering the downpour, but for some reason he chose against it. Getting drenched was humiliating in its own right, though the image of Pomni commenting on the umbrella in the first place made his stomach turn.

She'd given him a good idea of where he was heading. The name of the place, as well as directions if he got lost were both things she'd thought about when it came to explaining where he was going. She'd also offered to meet him half-way; he insisted otherwise. He was, ultimately, capable of navigating his way around new places, wasn't he? Any indicator of needing help was beyond him. He wouldn't 'succumb' to it, no matter what his brain thought of that fact.

A 'coffee' meet-up was the plainest thing. It wasn't exciting, it wasn't dangerous. If a coffee-based adventure had ever come up in the circus, he most certainly would've established a way to make it difficult for the others. He wasn't necessarily a coffee person to begin with. Rather, the only reason he'd agreed to go to such a place was the fact that Pomni seemed so keen to show him it. He found himself unable to say no.

On their singular video call— singular, he lamented— she'd talked about different places they could go. A lot of them were quite boring food establishments if he was being blunt. To be honest, though, he hadn't remembered a single one. His focus was elsewhere.

Elsewhere being her.

"Oh! Right. That one— That one's sort of got cakes, I think. I mean, I haven't gone in, like… a while." She'd nervously laughed. He'd tilted his head slightly as if trying to hear it better. "Or, maybe, just… the corner shop? They've got, oh— they've got cakes there, too."

"I don't give a shit about cake." He'd shrugged, noting the way her eyes had flickered over to him once he'd spoken. To be fair, he'd only noticed because he was focused on where she was looking in the first place. "Just choose a place you like, alright?"

That was when she'd stared at him for a moment, possibly dazing out. He hadn't said anything further than that, although his grin visibly spread a little wider.

Until, of course, she'd suddenly brightened up.

"Oh!" Clicking her fingers, she held a delighted smile— one you'd only hold when figuring a great puzzle out after so long— "There's this really nice coffee place I went to about a week ago. I think I talked to you about it? Really good."

He'd shifted a little, moving his legs to a more comfortable position. "Oh yeah?"

"Mmhm." He remembered watching her grab her laptop, swiftly tapping in something. Presumably the place. "It's called The Grounds. I think you'd like it!"

That moment was when he'd truly cemented his decision. With the way her eyes lit up, alongside her excitement in showing him something she'd previously been before— he couldn't say no to that, could he? Not to mention the fact that she'd thought about him regarding the place prior.

"Fine," he'd thrown in an apathetic tone; his grin gave him away, however, a warmth to his face formerly only being a threat, "Let's just go with that one."

With rain splattering over his head, he wondered if he should've chosen somewhere else. Something a bit less in-tune with Pomni as a person, something a bit less personalised to his own tastes. Don't get him wrong— the place wasn't where he was particularly in-arms over, rolling around in his head like a multicoloured marble, but instead it was her intrigue over it. If he'd agreed to something a little more boring or dull, maybe he would've been able to pretend he cared a lot less for it.

He found himself applying compassion to a lot of her interests nowadays.

She had such curious things that she liked. Certain musicians, a few choice places regarding history as their main component. And, not to mention, her strange infatuation with some specific animated movies. He hadn't taken her for the type to enjoy things like that, nevertheless to be the type to share them with him, but he took it with a silent dose of pride when she did.

Was it that she trusted him, or that she had nobody else that understood her? He hadn't asked because he didn't want to care; he hadn't asked because he desperately wanted to know.

It doesn't take him too long to find The Grounds. It's a quaint little business sandwiched between a nail salon and a pizza place. Neither of them takes his interest for a significant length of time, a simple glaze over to make sure where he is allowing him to make such assumptions.

He checks the time on his phone. Water scatters over it until he ducks under a nearby shelter for a bus stop. It reads twelve fifty.

He's early, surprisingly. Maybe he'd been a bit too keen to get here? He wipes his phone curtly with his shirt, gently biting down on his tongue in thought. Arriving early wasn't a crime, but he didn't want to seem desperate. He decides to check through some of Ribbit's messages with an annoyed smirk before defying his brain and figuring that he doesn't care all that much.

If Pomni was here, he'd be able to tease her for being earlier than him. If she wasn't he could make a comment regardless.

He needs to stop overthinking this stuff anyway.

Taking a brief look-over at The Grounds once more, he suddenly notices something. A bar-height table pressed to the window, several seats aligned to it. Only one is occupied.

Looking at the person for several seconds— possibly even a full minute— allows him to recognise that it isn't a stranger. In reality, it's the most familiar-yet-unfamiliar individual he could see. Leaning forward, looking out to the drenched world around her; she sits with a coffee in her hands though she makes no effort to drink it. He questions to nobody but himself what her order is.

Her face is as he'd seen it on the video call yet it feels anew, too. Recognisable enough but completely new territory. She's thinking, and the face she holds is reminiscent of a jester's deep-in-thought expression. He wonders if she knows how similar she looks. He hates that it doesn't ultimately matter.

She's sort of ordinary, sort of unique. A blend of different things. A little bland, a little distinctive. She's cute.

An all-too-familiar warmth reaches his face, easing over the tips of his ears.

She's cute.

Slipping his phone into his pocket, he subconsciously adjusts his attire alongside his inevitably soaked hair. He hopes it doesn't look too bad. He wishes he didn't care about her opinion so much. With a few lengthy strides, he makes his way towards the cafe, making a note of the way the door chime alerts the people within of his presence.

He doesn't bother making his way towards the counter. Instead he turns, bee-lining for her.

Another ding of the door chime. She doesn't look up this time considering every other time was a bust.

Probability-wise, that meant it was more likely to be him, but she still didn't want to get her hopes up. Ironically, the one time she tells herself such, she's at a loss for words when she realises that, in fact, that was time she'd been bested by chance.

When she hears the noise of someone pulling out the chair beside her, she tries to nonchalantly twist her head to meet them. 'Nonchalantly' isn't the word that she'd apply, however, since she practically snaps her head in their direction.

Only to be met with him. Jax.

"Sitting all by yourself?"

He props himself on the chair. It doesn't take much difficulty considering the first thing she notes about him is that he's tall.

"Sort of lame." Jax leans an arm on the counter, his fingers immediately reaching for her coffee. She instinctively pulls it away from him, a smile tugging at her lips.

Her eyes look over him quickly, trying not to be too obvious. He's staring down at her, not having a problem with eye-contact— as always.

Obviously he looks as he did on the video call. A bit rugged, a little clean around all the wrong edges. Aside from the fact he's evidently gone through the rain with nothing to cover him, he's— once again— very easy to look at. This allows her to repeat her ponder on if she's the only one to see his attractive side or if she really is just crazy. The answer isn't something she wants to reveal any time soon.

What comes to her somewhat observant attention (besides his unfortunate good-looks) is his hair. It is, what is best described as, a sopping wet mess.

"Your hair." Is all she says at first, a pointed finger gesturing to it. He appears to grimace but only just. Emitting a dry laugh, he hums.

"I certainly have some." The response he gives is teasing, her awkward nature at the forefront of the interaction so far. It's not every day you meet someone you'd had a life-changing experience with and she undoubtedly hasn't a clue how to navigate it.

Thankfully, he's being himself. That's an icebreaker, if nothing else.

"Hah— shit, you didn't bring an umbrella, did you?" She finds herself leaning a little towards him. In response, she promptly reels back a little, the action appearing intentionally sour once she thinks about it for more than a minute. It's her turn to grimace.

"Peak masculinity like myself," he gestures to his form, his attention directly on her otherwise, "doesn't require a shield for the rain. I can brave it myself, thank you."

She rolls her eyes, a threat of a chuckle in her throat. He's as ridiculous as always. Thank God.

"Right. And that's why you're wet."

"Don't say it so loud," Jax pokes her arm, "That's a private matter, you know."

The dirty joke doesn't miss her but she chooses not to give it any more reaction other than a mild shake of her head. She doesn't fail to notice the way her smile won't leave, either, resulting in a wish that she was a little more casual about this whole ordeal.

Knowing him, he likely isn't thinking any deeper about this situation. Not in the way she is anyway. Jax has layers but they're completely beyond simple things. Liking her, out of everything, is probably something he's either settled with or still battles beyond. Finding her attractive, though? Thinking of her as more than the girl he knew in the circus? Having indulged in her further than just pity? She can't be certain he feels anything regarding such things.

Somehow, that's a good thing. In other places, she isn't sure why she's so high-strung over it.

"What'd you order, anyway?" He's the one leaning forward now— something he'd do a lot in the circus with her; she assumed it was an intimidation-related thing, if anything.

He was always indulging a lot in the psychology of movement, whether it be towering over the others or simply wedging someone between himself and a wall. She hated that she remembered vividly how that'd gone for her in the past. A flurry of complicated emotions, followed by questioning. Lots of questioning.

"Oh, uh— an espresso?" She gives him (what she considers to be) a convincing smile, though he still chuckles a little anyway.

"Are you sure?"

"Y— Yes???"

"You always sound so unsure of yourself, Pomni." Jax takes another distracted glance over to the counter. There's a short line, but he hasn't made an effort to go to it yet. "Did you say it like that when you ordered it, too?"

She narrows her eyes at him, somewhat amused.

"No. You just ask me questions like you're interviewing me."

"You don't want a job at my company?" Feigning offense, Jax presses the palm of his hand to his heart. She wonders if his hands are cold, all things considered.

A rush of warmth pulses through her. Why does she think of such strange and embarrassing things when it comes to him? Are they even as strange and embarrassing as she thinks they are?

"What company would you even own?" Deciding to play into him a little, she has a full view of his evident thought process. The cogs behind his eyes practically turn right in front of her.

"That's confidential. Until you sign the contract, of course."

She rolls her eyes again.

They go back-and-forth with several things. The weather being one of them, followed by a short talk about Jax's trip. As expected, she gets very little details on things since his innate desire to never want to share his process with things genuinely. She receives a lot of directed jokes, as well as several different judgemental points to her outfit— which, after the fact, she realises aren't that judgemental at all but, instead, quite sincere comments.

His body language reads peculiar. She isn't the best at comprehending body language in people as a whole, but when it comes to Jax she'd somewhat consider herself an expert (if that notion wasn't a little bit flustering). He keeps leaning towards her when he talks, later sitting back when she responds. He remains to smile a majority of the time yet when she asks him a question, it falters for a second as he processes it.

On occasion, he looks at her lips when she speaks and she wonders if she's not loud enough. In an effort to see if that's true, she begins leaning closer when he speaks, resulting in him reeling back. She hasn't a clue how to begin to determine what that means in the slightest.

Still, she's enjoying herself. His voice, now no longer buffered by a shoddy WiFi connection, is crisp and real. Hearing it from actual lips instead of a tooth-filled maw proves refreshing. It hasn't changed in the slightest, his cadence remaining the same, but that's a nice constant that she revels in.

It makes her alert to if she's acting any different. To be honest, she probably is but isn't aware. That's a good thing, really. She doesn't want to be too aware of herself. Not anymore.

"Hey," she nudges his chair rather than his arm, the concept of direct touch not feeling casual enough in her head to justify it, "Did you, uh, wanna grab a drink? At all—?"

Jax, having previously been looking at her, glances to the counter again. Her eyes trail down to his chest for a second.

When he looks back at her she snaps her head up.

"I guess," announcing it like an obligation, he hops off of his chair, his height barely changing. There's a lengthy pause for a few seconds before he continues, "You coming with me or what?"

To that she soon gets down from her chair too. She'd long since finished her drink, having been taking sips of it between anxious moments whilst he was talking about things. The invite is unexpected, but she takes it with haste.

He appears to stifle an audible laugh all of a sudden. She gazes up at him. She realises, now, that their height difference is a lot more striking.

In the circus she was, unfortunately, an obnoxiously short height. Comically so. It hadn't reflected her true height in the slightest, making her ponder on how the heights for the circus members were determined. She supposed it'd be Caine's doing, huh?

Nevertheless. She's still shorter than him, coming up to his chin. It isn't as bad as it was, but she can see it in his eyes that he wants to make a comment. She won't allow him to.

Beckoning him with her, she makes her way to the counter. If he's going to be a little shit in her presence, he might as well have coffee in his system, too. She evidently doesn't think about that plan all too much, because once she realises the implications of Jax and coffee in combination, she almost gives herself a headache.

Keyword: almost. In all honesty, she's just glad to have him there.

Ordering coffee shouldn't have been as hard as it was.

Pomni had stood beside him. A comfortable distance away, yes, yet still lingering.

He didn't know why it bothered him so bad. Perhaps it was that it hadn't bothered him at all? Her presence, ever-there, barely took a toll on him and he disliked it?

Uncertainty weaved itself within his head rather easily. What the hell was he supposed to do? She affected him so easily and didn't even know it. What a pain.

Regardless. The cashier tested his patience. They'd reminded him of Gangle in a way— a shy individual who couldn't speak up enough. He'd repeated his order twice before adding a bit of venom to it, earning a nudge to his side from Pomni. He'd looked at her with a 'seriously?' smile, and she shook her head with her own tested smirk. Evidently, she'd gotten a little annoyed with the worker too.

Sitting back down and resuming conversation wasn't difficult, thankfully. She was still easy to talk to, her demeanor calming to a point. They bounced off each other well, and as much as he'd been, admittedly, nervous for her to see him as himself, he'd been graciously awarded with a girl who understood him enough to reserve discernment for him.

He'd taken a good look at his phone once they'd sat again. It read three, nearly on the dot. The time hadn't felt as though it'd passed so quickly, but maybe that was a good thing. Time was already a warped-up mess between them— they'd had several late-night calls on that topic— but if it was a good piece of time lost to them, he didn't find himself caring as much.

As long as it wasn't the circus he was fine.

"Didn't take you for someone who liked caramel." Pomni metaphorically nudged, fidgeting with the empty cup that'd once housed her espresso. He gave her a shrug.

"You don't know me well enough, then. Caramel is too good."

Her brows had raised at that one.

"Oh? You're a caramel fan?"

"You could dip me in caramel and I'd—" his face displays a smug expression, as though he'd thought of saying something a little too explicit for such a public place at first— "Well. That's a whole other thing."

She snickers. "Uh-huh."

Taking a sip of his coffee, he dramatically exhales once he swallows, a charmed smile to his lips. In all honesty, he wasn't crazy about caramel. Entertaining Pomni was a lot more fun compared to sharing his interests. Half of their conversations so far had included jokes on his end about things he couldn't care enough about; when they were of Pomni's interest, though, he lessened them— but only a little.

"By the way," Pomni starts with a smile that's a little too sweet to swallow, "I was wondering if you'd, like, wanna go shopping? With me? There's some really nice places around here, so…"

He thinks about declining. It's such a mild thing to do, yet the offer is so genuine that he hates the thought of denying her. A weighted pause plays on him, his vacant stare directed towards his coffee cup. The ding of the door chime plays behind him but he doesn't turn.

"You need something?" He decides to ask, eyes flicking to her. She scans his face visibly, allowing his heart to flip on its rear end. What an annoying thing to like.

"N— Not particularly!" Pomni begins to wring her hands. He mentally slaps himself on the wrist. "Just thought it'd be, like, fun? I don't know. We— We don't have to! Obviously."

There's something present within her he can't pinpoint. Something hidden just barely beneath the surface, and yet it's hard for him to clue in even a little. He could ask— as awful as that conversation would go. He knows he won't, but he could. There's so many things about her he could ask about, all of them coming and going in his head like a train departing each stop within milliseconds of arriving, but he won't.

Vulnerability, as it always did, crept up on him at the most inopportune moments. He tried his hardest to best it yet it held itself over him like a dangling spiral whenever it deemed fit— which, honestly, was a lot of the time. Not only was he trying to be more vulnerable (a feat that required a lot of unlearning in some aspects and severe research in others) but he was also figuring out at what point it was appropriate for him to extend himself to her.

The circus built his walls up in violent purples and yellows. He hated the colours now, fingertips drenched in them. Tearing them down wasn't as easy as applying a hammer to them.

He needed to face them. He hated that he couldn't.

So whilst Pomni looks at him, a nervous mess of a woman before him, he genuinely debates the premise 'shopping' with her. He knows it'd be more than that— shopping with someone you aren't the closest with is mostly about getting to know their style and what they like, right? He's sure he's heard that somewhere, at least. He wants to know Pomni beyond the virtual life they'd lived together, this much is true, (especially taking into account that he hasn't thought of much else) yet it's oh-so-daunting.

He suddenly can't look directly at her. Instead, he goes to down his coffee, soon met with a burning on his tongue that makes him scrunch his face up uncomfortably. She gives him a concerned look that he wishes he'd missed.

"Yeah, alright." He surprises himself with what he's saying. Didn't his brain just deny the concept of closeness? Vulnerability? Knowing someone more than just on the cusp of acquaintances? "Not for too long though. I'd rather kill myself than stare at racks of clothes all day."

Pomni offers him a scolding gaze. He simply gives her an easy smile before her features soften.

"It won't just be clothes, promise." She's hopeful. He's glad. "We can check out some nerd shops, if that's more your thing."

He assumes it's supposed to be a dig, but with the smile on her face he's made unsure. She's got this wide grin that spells out mischief (in the tamest way possible). He mirrors it without knowing.

"You calling me a nerd, Pom? My poor heart."

"Hah! Whatever. You know what I mean."

The two exchange a jokingly tense piece of eye-contact. It results in his smile widening and a laugh escaping her throat in earnest.

It's a genuine and warm laugh that's filled with airy softness. He observes her instead of usually joining her, his eyes focused on her face. His hands, previously cold and without warmth, move to his legs, gripping his knees to stop the full-force of the feeling that's being thrown at him. It isn't filtered through a phone, it isn't hidden behind a clownish avatar— it's her and her laugh, ringing in his ears like an obnoxiously pleasant bell.

When they get up to leave, his drink never finished, he settles in that feeling. It fills him to the brim, electrifying him and setting him ablaze. It makes him uncomfortable in his jacket, the warmth all-encompassing. He hasn't the word to distinguish it— not yet— but he makes a conscious effort to try, navigating words and sensations within him that he already knows. Pinpointing it with nothing other than a fleeting moment of watching her.

They peruse different shops, Pomni offering her umbrella to him in a kind form of pity. He denies it all the same, but she somehow tugs him beneath it, her arm outstretched to cover the both of them as they walk. He calls it amusing, yet he knows what he really feels about it.

His heart moreso.

She points out things to him. Things that she thinks he'll like or that'll annoy him. He always gives her a reaction, making sure to look at her when he does. The gratifying smile on her face is worth it every single time.

Her behaviours are the same. Movements, tones of voice, everything. It worries him, just a little, considering he'll never have any clue if that was the way she'd acted before the circus or if the digital hellscape had imprinted them onto her. He's a little glad he won't know. He doesn't know what he'd do if he did.

Nevertheless, he has the overwhelming urge to comfort her anyway, sticking directly by her side throughout the rest of the day.

When the time on his phone reads six, the rain now a light drizzle, he takes her to his car. It's not the flashiest thing in the world (anything but, really). He still pretends like it is. It makes her smirk.

"How long does it take you to get home?" He muses, leaning against his car and away from the umbrella. She still tries to cover him even if the spill of the clouds above is light.

"Like, ten minutes?" Adjusting part of her hair, she shrugs, "It's not that big a deal really."

"Hmm." Tilting his head to the side, he watches as she falls silent. Her breathing, her fidgeting- it all quietens. It'd be humorous if he hadn't a clue what it meant.

"Um. Do you, like, wanna head home? I don't wanna keep you."

His mind throws something at him that he'd thought that earlier morning. An idea of sorts. It's a bad one— he's tried to convince himself that it isn't smart by any means. And, yet, here it is, rolling around in his head as if it pays rent. He bites his lip mildly, turning his head away very slightly as he does so.

He shouldn't. Really, he shouldn't.

"I was actually thinking—"

Seriously. It isn't smart.

"If you wanted,"

She'll reject him, surely. There's no other place such a question could lead.

"You could come with me, instead? Sleep over, or something."

He's dug himself a grave, he's sure.

He looks at her anyhow. A hopeful glint in his wild eyes, a noiseless prayer easing on his lips. He's unsure what she wants to say, her brows raised and her mouth opening and closing a few times in disbelief(?). He tries to convince himself he's fine, that she won't deny, that she actually wants to, too.

In a way this is him being vulnerable. Indulging in what he wants for once. Making the course of his life his after living so long in a place that made decisions for him. It's freeing and scary and overwhelmingly, undeniably needed that he fears to live as himself after so long.

It isn't in vain, though.

"You know?" She gives him a daring grin. His heart finds the word that'd failed to come to him prior. "I'd like that a lot, actually."

A word known as adoration. Surging in and out, diving through the depths of his complexities. He tries to deny it forward but it carries through anyway.

He can't help the way he lights up as he invites her into his car. He even has to stop himself from opening the door for her.

A word known as love.

He swears to himself as he gets in the car. She gives him a curious look but doesn't question him.

Chapter Text

"When you get out, what do you think you'll do first?"

Such a question was one that'd been asked several times over the course of the circus. Pomni, initially, had a very direct idea of how she'd answer, but she soon found that it changed across each designated 'day'.

One day it'd be "eat something". Another passed and it'd be "cry my eyes out". Once, she'd even answered with "sleep for days", and, to be fair, all of them were true at the time of answering— though they barely remained consistent.

Whenever someone asked Jax such a question, he'd also answer differently with each query. Just not in the way she did.

"I'd kill someone."

"Probably eat a bug."

"Jerk off."

They weren't ever serious to say the least.

Pomni still wanted to know. To actually know. She'd always been curious, leaning nearer to Jax when someone asked. He'd glanced at her once, then giving another satirical answer to entertain the situation. She'd laughed a little in truth, though she was undeniable agitated that he'd never be willing to tell. He seemed pleased by that at least.

A little while before the mess that was Caine's overthrown code (and their inevitable escape after such), Pomni had taken the time to know of Jax more. She'd learn little things about him, spend a bit more one-on-one time with him, and, somehow, pull some 'confidential' information from him.

From his corn phobia to the job he had prior— things he hadn't told the others became details privy to himself and her alone. She wasn't sure if it was because he'd gotten comfortable with her or if he just had 'good days', but he certainly didn't seem all too upset that she was trying to get to know him.

Admittedly, there were times where he'd push her away. Not answering the door to her on specific days or completely ignoring her during adventures. She wondered if, truly, he was just trying to keep his peace. She'd never asked and he soon went back to being buddy-buddy with her, so there wasn't much harm in it.

That rung true for only a short while. One night she'd learnt a little more than expected.

"When you get out," she'd nudged his side, sitting beside him at the digital lake, "what do you think you'll do first?"

To her credit, she'd expected a joking answer. They'd previously been going back-and-forth with questions, asking harmless things about favourite dog breeds or how much they knew about foreign countries. Inexplicit details were Jax's favourite— knowing something about someone that wasn't 'important' appeared to work well for him. She got it, in a way. Not wanting to be too close to the people you could soon lose was a difficult but viable way of coping. Somewhat.

Still. She'd asked and he'd paused. The cogs turning in his head weren't loud but they were present, her eyes glancing over to him after he hadn't immediately answered.

She hadn't needed to wait long, though.

"Something dumb." He'd sighed a little, "Just. Stupid stuff. Things that don't matter."

Pomni, admittedly, was a bit too curious.

"Like?"

Jax snapped his head to her. Their eyes lingered, connected for only a moment, just for him to scoff. She hadn't a clue what he was thinking. If only telepathy was a trait she held.

"I dunno, like—" He’d vaguely gestured with a hand, "Going out. Talking. Meeting people."

Oh.

To say she was surprised was an understatement. Rarely did Jax admit his true intentions, nevertheless something relating to others. She'd waited for a second, wanting to know if he'd add anything.

Answering her silence, he did.

"It's so stupid." He'd groaned a little, somewhat knowing he was digging a deeper hole and yet continuing, "I want to just know people. Not cartoonish freaks. People. You, as people. The others, as people."

He'd sunk backwards, his back hitting the grass.

"I don't want to know you. Not like this."

Pomni had twisted her body a little, looking down at Jax. He'd splayed his hands on either side of him, the grass framing his otherworldly appearance. She'd given him a hint of a smile— a mistake, on her part— resulting in him avoiding her gaze, getting up and 'brushing himself off'.

"Whatever. It's a stupid question, I don't know why everyone insists on asking it."

He'd looked as though he'd wanted to stomp off, then. Avoid the situation completely. Pomni had, confessedly, expected such. Once it hadn't come, however, his body idling in the dark of the grounds, she'd shrugged a bit.

"I— … I don't think so. I wanna do that too, you know?"

Jax wouldn't look at her but she knew he was listening. His face, unfortunately for him, was quite expressive.

"I want to meet you in the real world, too." She'd urged, "As people."

He'd scoffed to himself again. A whisper of 'whatever' falling from his mouth. She knew better than to believe his mannerisms, noting the way he waited a few seconds before leaving.

He was so easy to read if you cared enough to look.

During the drive to Jax's place, she'd spent a lot of time jabbing at him for his music taste. Alongside other topics, she found it interesting that he kept CDs in his car instead of utilising his phone for music. It both was and wasn't her thing, her intrigue to his interests fueled by the way he'd been so cagey before.

He didn't appear to mind. With his eyes mostly on the road, he'd occasionally look at her and give her a jokingly snide comment about how the current song was 'one of the better ones'. She never agreed or disagreed, his opinion his own, even if some struck her as a little old-fashioned (for someone like him, anyway).

The rain no longer fell. As nighttime drew close, she thought back to the lake. She missed it only slightly, the beauty of unreality having nestled within her head after a while. The circus was an eyesore in most cases, but being able to appreciate the parts that were kind on the eyes was important.

Her time with him near it even moreso.

"Jax?" She'd asked, leaning back against the car seat. It made a subtle squeak beneath her.

"Pomni." He'd answered, tapping his fingers on the wheel along with the current choice of song.

She'd debated with herself on talking about it. Generally, she knew he didn't really want to recall the circus. Neither did she in most regards, as much as she battled internally over 'missing it' and never wanting to see it again.

She was a curious soul, however; the cat who was bought back from satisfaction.

It was difficult for her to back down once she had something in mind.

"I'm glad we got to meet," she'd given him a smile, watching the way he'd glanced over to her wearily, "as people."

A brief laugh had escaped him once he'd processed what she'd said. He shook his head, not responding any further than that for several long minutes. She wondered if she'd made a mistake.

Once enough time had passed that she felt he no longer wanted to speak on it, a diverted topic on her tongue, he interrupted her. Thanklessly. Thankfully.

"Me too," small and self-conscious, he met her eyes for a second, still attempting to drive moderately safely as he followed up the sentiment with a quieter repeat of, "me too."

The thrum of her heart echoed in her chest. In this body it's real. She decided against mentioning it.

"Cool." Was her response. She'd cringed directly after.

He'd laughed though. That was worth it.

Chapter Text

"Just a warning," he turns his keys, a distinct 'click' being heard, "Froggy's still home."

"Froggy?" Pomni chirps at the nickname. He snickers.

"Mmhm."

A lot could be said about where he lives. When opening the door, he hadn't recalled how it'd been before he'd left, or if it was his 'turn' to do the dishes that, usually, ended up stacked beside the sink. And yet, as he meandered into his and "Ribbit's" decidedly now-shared abode with the saunter of a coy thief, he found he cared a little more about those details. Especially in the company of his jester.

He had thought about holding the door open for her. Politeness would have its day with him. He hadn't, though, his fingers slipping from it at the very moment she'd stepped forward, allowing him to both have exhibited some form of kindness but, ultimately, maintaining his usual composure.

Not that he had to. Not that he needed to.

"Look who's home!" A voice calls from within. He grins, briefly noting the way the woman beside him glances over in his direction.

(Strangely swiftly, mind) Ribbit made their way towards the entrance hallway, soon lighting up when taking in the presence of Pomni. They give him a knowing look soon after, which he combats promptly with a narrowed set of eyes, lax grin tightening. A threat of 'don't'.

Unfortunately for him, Ribbit makes it their every goal to tease.

"Oh! Back from your date? Together?" They lean against the doorway to the living room, eyes scanning the two of them. He felt the urge to stand in-front of Pomni— to 'shield' her, as if that made any sense— but (of course) he didn't. Rather, in an effort to rid of such an urge, he edged behind her, removing his jacket and allowing Pomni to brace the previously froggy individual herself.

To his genuine surprise, she does just that. As she allows her bag to fall from her shoulder to the floor with a graceful 'thunk', she steps towards them.

"It wasn't a date," Pomni says with genuine amusement, a subtle laugh to the start of her sentence, "We just got coffee. Oh—! But, um. It's nice to see you!"

She steps forward, a hand outstretched to prompt a handshake. It goes down well, Ribbit returning it.

"Coffee, huh?" They smile. He nudges Pomni slightly to motion to the rack of mismatched jackets. She gingerly begins to remove hers. "Was it good? Ah, well— must've been. Took you half the day."

It's said in a joking tone, but he takes it personally for whatever reason. Who cares how long they were out? Admittedly, it barely felt like any time at all, even if they'd talked about anything and everything. Somehow, whenever accompanied by Pomni, he reasoned that time sped up. Though he couldn't catch a moment beside her without being interrupted or inconvenienced by the universe itself.

Upon noticing his clenched jaw he eases slightly. What an annoying thing to get riled up over.

"We went shopping." Pomni shrugs. "Though— I don't think we agreed on buying anything, really."

"You have a strange sense of fashion, Pom." He decides on teasing, too. Keeps the edge off. "If you'd pointed out one more pair of striped pants I was gonna lose it."

She laughs. He's certain Ribbit laughs, too. The combination of the two is calming; familiar.

When they eventually meander over to the living room— a mess of a place with an expensive television and second-hand everything else— Pomni doesn't comment on it. She makes conversation with Ribbit instead, nodding and smiling with most words they tell her. He doesn't listen in to the conversation too hard; several other things swim within his head, threatening to drown him. He doesn't know if he remembers how to stay afloat, so to compromise, he lets his overthinking be an anchor.

Or was it a lifebuoy?

Same thing, right?

He's distracted by his feelings. Feelings that, unlike graceful butterflies that make you feel warm and anxious, buzz around his body similar to wasps with a vendetta. Angry and noisy and overwhelming. Only once or twice had he encountered such sensations, yet those times, too, Pomni was the culprit.

His life in the circus not only voided him but made him a lot more sensitive. Every single thing he felt was heightened and softened. It was as though someone had given him a knife only to occasionally take it to sharpen or dull it. It made no sense and, yet, he had to utilise it all the same, facing certain things with a cutting blade or a rounded edge. Neither were of any use when it came to it.

Shoving the knife in his back pocket worked well enough.

When Pomni came around he wanted to stab her with it. He hadn't known why— it wasn't as though he were the explicit violent type. But violence wasn't at the core of such an action. When he wanted to pierce her stupidly endearing avatar, he'd be met with a blunt weapon incapable of damage. Every single time.

Then again, when he was alone and playing with the thought of 'harming' her, he'd pull the knife from his back and witness the sharpest blade one could see.

The universe had an interesting way of making his life a storyboarded metaphor.

Nevertheless. When Pomni glances over at him after Ribbit comments on something or other, he does his best to look as though he hadn't battled with himself for the duration of the day. Over her, no less.

"So this is technically their place?" In place of the pronoun, the slip of Ribbit's actual name slides off her tongue a little too naturally. He wonders how she does it. "Do you just share things now?"

It sounds more like a joke than anything, but before he can shrug and nod, his frog-inclined friend snickers.

"Oh yeah." They sit on the edge of the couch, leaning forward with their arms at their thighs, "It got kinda difficult to keep track of stuff, so we've just been 'borrowing' stuff constantly."

"Apart from the obvious shit," he feels the need to add, noting the look he's given when he does so, "Like clothes. After we established whose was whose."

"How'd you do that?" Pomni's curiosity evidently catches her in a hold. He desperately attempts to feel anything but endearment towards it. Annoyance, please? Dissatisfaction, even just a little?

Neither answer his call.

"Vibe." Ribbit grins like a scheming kid, smoothing out their jeans in an attempt to do something other than look between the two of them. Pomni gives a questioning expression, assumingly expecting more, but neither does he nor they give anything other than that.

After shared conversations that take a little longer than he would've liked— especially considering Pomni's attention is more so on the two of them than just him— Ribbit takes their leave. He knew they would eventually, a planned D&D night between them and a few of their college friends they'd 'reconnected' with having been a conversation that very morning.

However, when posed with the opportunity of being alone with the previously jester-looking individual once more, he finds himself rigid where he stands.

"So," she starts within the now-silence, the door that Ribbit had closed behind them having locked ceremoniously, "Didn't you say you had something to show me?"

He perks up. Did he? He hadn't remembered saying so, and even then, it shocked him that she remembered. He turns almost comically towards her, a curious smile on his face.

"Someone's eager." He teases, his tone alluding to something. She stares, blank for a second, only to scoff and hit him playfully. It's soft.

"I'm just nosy," she argues, quieter than he's used to, "You were eager to show me."

He shrugs. Possible, he thinks. Annoying that she remembers that, he sighs.

"Sure," it slips off his tongue as he moves, removing himself from the living room and turning a corner; he hears the shorter of the two stand and scramble to match his pace, "C'mon then."

Their shared place isn't big by any means but it isn't small either. It doesn't take long to reach what he constitutes to be his bedroom. The door is a little ill-kept though he doesn't make an effort to mention it, waiting for his jester to catch up for him to open it.

When she's beside him, he switches the light on, exhaling softly at the sight. He has a reasonably humble sized room that was once something else entirely. Not that you could tell anymore, any signs of such being covered in haste once he decided he'd wanted his own space in Ribbit's abode. They'd been rather generous and he hadn't let that go unmentioned, though his form of giving thanks was… unorthodox, to say the least.

When Pomni edges into the room— having waited for him to keep the door open for her, he notices— she doesn't say anything immediately. His bed is a mess, along with everything else scattered around. He hadn't made an effort to clean his room because he hadn't expected to follow through with inviting her over. Curse his indecision.

She doesn't appear to care. If she does, she doesn't show it at the very least. He's thankful for that. Rather, she shows intrigue in his posters, his desk, his window and the sight it allows to the darkened street they'd driven down. Some smaller things too— trinkets he's acquired for no specific reason, a box of jewelry he doesn't wear. She lingers over them as though they're hers.

He finds he doesn't mind the thought of that.

She turns, looking at him with an expectant glint in her eye.

Right. He's supposed to be showing her something, isn't he?

Trudging forward, kicking his shoes off that he'd failed to discard earlier, he approaches his desk. She stands close to him, watching his movements.

"Don't get too excited for this," he chimes, leading down to his knees. She chuckles a little, though she makes no comment.

Swiping a hand beneath his bed, he fishes something out. He grunts a little at the movement requiring a bit more effort than expected.

"This is it." He thrusts whatever it is in her direction. He doesn't look at it himself, and she gingerly takes it quick enough for him to lose sight of it before he can truly think about what he's doing.

Moving to stand, he mocks a brush-down of himself, glancing briefly towards Pomni. She's staring at the item he's given her, fingers edging over every shape and curve.

Of a camera.

He dislikes looking at it. It's something he hasn't used in ages, genuinely leaving it to 'rot' beneath the dust and grime of his under-bed after taking it from his previous place of living. She doesn't appear too bothered by its mildly worn appearance, instead figuring she can flick it on and take a look. She isn't stopped by him after all.

"Lots of shit on there." He feels the need to say something. She gives him a gentle look up from the camera, a fleeting smile caught by him and him alone. She doesn't verbally respond, voice unneeded. He wishes she'd say something anyway.

When it comes to him, sharing his past isn't something he'd ever considered doing. At least in the circus. That wasn't unknown— you could've asked anyone at any given time if they knew of 'Jax's' real-life past; they would've offered a shrug in response. Now that he's out of that colourful circle of hell he feels the lingering effects of being guarded, even when he tries to allow vulnerability in. It's been knocking for so long, he can't keep listening to it, can he?

The camera was one of few things he'd taken from his previous place. He didn't like several of his memories for a multitude of reasons and he wasn't about to answer questions regarding that fact. Thankfully, nobody did. Except him.

He hadn't even recalled owning a camera like that, let alone using it. It was one of those digital cameras that you could transfer onto other things— a mix of old technology and modern uses. He'd gone through it very briefly when he'd found it only to stuff it in one of his few moving bags and shove it beneath his bed when he got the room.

It had several pictures. Almost fifty.

A majority of them included the hospital.

In itself, the hospital was a blurred memory. Nothing was clear or concrete when he tried to think about it. Upon asking Ribbit once or twice regarding such a place, they agreed that such memories felt 'hazy'. He hadn't needed to guess much as to why. All he felt when it came to it was dread.

Regardless, that was where the headset was. Perhaps that was it, or maybe it was something else that made him so cold when he saw evidence of it being real?

Whatever it was, he fucked with it none.

Watching Pomni skim through each picture feels all too overwhelming and yet not enough. He wants her to know every inch of him and yet nothing at all. He wishes he could remove or place memories in her head at will, because then he'd be able to take back any distinct hints of vulnerability whenever he'd want to.

That, however, would be controlling.

He doesn't want to control Pomni. He's learning that he wants quite the opposite.

"These are…" She trails off, clicking towards another photo. Against the ruckus in his mind, he maintains quietude.

"… These are incredible."

His gaze finds itself on her— only her— as his eyes widen. He tries not to look too pleased, though when she looks at him, her smile widens in amusement.

"You think?" He sinks to his bed, sitting on the edge with spread legs. She's in the forefront of his view.

She nods.

"They make me feel something. I don't know what— Sort of like, worry? But I like it."

He decides against making a teasing comment. "Uh-huh."

"I mean it!" Pomni walks towards him, standing between his legs as she shows him what she's seeing on his camera. His eyes wander away from it, unwilling to view his previously taken pictures. That, paired with the nerves tingling under his skin, simmers intensely within him.

"Stuff that makes you feel things is so good." She urges.

He doesn't need to be told that twice. Or maybe he does, considering everything that's ever made him feel alive doubles as terrifying for him. No matter who or what it is— although who certainly puts a few things into question— he struggles to reach comfortability when it's emotion. They're all so unexpected and uncontrolled that he feels a bit like a paper bag in a typhoon. Helpless, frail, and tearing at the seams.

Pomni makes it look easy. Sure, she has her moments; everyone's due for an episode. But she makes those look graceful in comparison to his usual dance with emotion, too. Admiration runs thick in his blood for Pomni— she's everything he's wanted to be and he's afraid to admit it— but he wants nothing more than for that to stay a secret. She's already too much to him; letting her in further would only uncover the bed he's made.

God forbid she lay in it.

Speaking of. He slowly reaches for the camera, gently pulling it from her grip. She gazes at him curiously. It only rockets his heart deeper into his body.

"You still wanted to sleep over, yeah?"

She stands rigid. A few absent blinks of silence reveal to him that she hadn't recalled such a thing until now, resulting in an entertained smirk on his end. The whole reason he asked in the first place was to change gears, but perhaps a part of him knew her (somewhat) forgetful nature.

"Oh! Right, yeah. If you'll still have me."

"Don't have to be polite about it." He pokes her forehead.

Ah, right. That too.

Pomni's still standing between his legs. She's close enough that if he fell silent he'd hear the subtle rhythm of her breathing. Maybe feel it, even. He wonders if she thinks about this sort of stuff— would she ever?— when it comes to the situation itself. She never seems one-hundred-percent aware of how she makes him feel. That's a good thing, he's convinced himself such, but maybe it wouldn't kill anyone to alert her to things like this?

He sinks his teeth into his lip. What was he thinking? Letting her know what he feels when it comes to things like this? Unheard of, seriously.

And yet.

A part of him feels inclined to pull her closer, by the waist. Feel the curve of her hip, trace his fingers down her body. It's a fleeting, perverse sensation that makes him run hot. He lingers a little too long on the idea before ultimately leaning back and sinking into his bed.

The shorter of the two makes an alerted noise before regaining whatever she considers to be composure. He chuckles to cover his somewhat-exposed nerves.

"Then, yeah." She peers over at him from beside his legs, having moved around a little. He's thankful. "I mean, we're here now, right?"

He doesn't look at her. An easy smile pretends to play on his lips.

"So we are."

He arranges a mattress on the floor for her. It's nothing fancy— he actually has the thought of apologising for such a thing, for whatever reason— but it works. She's happy with it nonetheless.

The night plays its part as they talk. He ends up explaining some things regarding his bedroom, she talks about her own (even offering for him to see it sometime). She's surprisingly excited about the idea, visibly lighting up when she talks about it. He keeps his eyes on her a majority of the time when she talks. That's the only reason he knows she's beaming after all.

At some point, they bring up relationships. To people, to things, to the world. Pomni's both expectedly and surprisingly compassionate regarding the people in her life. He listens to her as she talks about her parents. She mentions her roommate, her old childhood pets that're (presumably) alive. She even talks about a stuffed toy she has at home that she feels a little silly for mentioning. He doesn't comfort her over it, but he thinks about it.

Somewhere along the line she asks him about his family. He's vacant at first, responding on autopilot. "We don't talk anymore", and all that crap. She looks like she believes him, though he can't help but feel guilty for that, too.

So, he sighs, rolling his head to the side and avoiding her (adorably) intrigued look.

"My dad," he grimaces, unfortunately knowing he can't stop then and there, "He, uh. Fell ill. Y'know."

He doesn't look at her at all. His body's so unbelievably hot. Everything's ablaze. He's working completely against his typical way of interacting with others and yet he doesn't feel all that dreadful. The flames and sparks are uncomfortable, yes, yet they aren't killing him. They aren't killing him.

An unsettled silence finds them. Though not for long.

"Shit." She says, a heavy pause after before she repeats it, "Shit, I'm sorry."

"Nah, don't say that." He knew she would say something like that. She's never been the comforting type— not conventionally. He likes that, however. Feels a lot more genuine than… well, some sewn-together things. "We weren't close. Not— Not really. Just… stupid shit happens, right?"

A build in his throat makes him readjust his position on his bed. He continues not to look at her. He fears what it might do; if he catches her staring at him, what would he do? He feels the disgusting urge to cry. He has no reason to cry. And, yet, he has every reason to.

That notion in itself is what breaks the attempts he's made to stop himself. He sucks in a heavy breath, holding it for a moment, before a cough escapes him. It turns into a small fit of coughs, only transitioning into tears staining his face. He hates the way he looks at his mattress as if it'll hide him any more than he's trying to hide himself.

From where she's sitting on her makeshift bed on the floor, he hears her stand, the movement somewhat startling him. In that moment he makes the mistake of looking at her. Pomni— not even Pomni, but the girl he once knew as Pomni. Someone else, someone by a different name. A woman he knows he loves dearly and feels great worry for because of such.

Seeing her makes him want to cry more. He tries to suppress it, a strangle of a "'m fine" barely pulled from him. It isn't convincing in the slightest; her face is where he reads it.

She idles for a moment. Presumably not knowing what to do. She did that in the circus, too— if someone got a bit too emotional, she'd stand around looking lost. He remembered when he was new to the circus too, he was like that. Whenever someone showed anything more than a basic emotion it was awkward. Fear, anger, mania— everything in the 'strong feelings' category. He couldn't handle it.

Then again, here, she's approaching him. Slowly, softly. He pulls a hand up, signalling for her to stop— she heeds it. She continues to look at him though, a suffocating edge of contact between the two of them. He tries to breathe steadily; it's difficult. She attempts to move towards him again. His hand shakes in front of him.

She says nothing. No words are exchanged. Instead of doing what he'd initially assumed— perhaps hug him, or even give him some soothing words of comfort (which, honestly, he hates both choices and how they so easily visualised themselves in his mind)— she sits on the edge of his bed. A short distance away, a comforting measure from him. He settles with the feeling of confusion in his blood, but he doesn't bleed it. He says nothing.

They stay like that. He finds himself edging towards her, very lightly resting his shoulder on her back. She lets him.

When his breathing calms, his body relaxing ever-so-slightly, he wipes his face with his hands. It's a little messy and gross. She doesn't let it be known if she finds it to be so, however.

He sort of wants to apologise. A little, at least. Enough to get it across that he didn't mean to cry— he didn't want to cry. Although it feels a little empty. Ingenuine, even if that's what he truly feels.

So, instead, he stays where he is. Leant against her, looking at his feet. He isn't wearing any stupid socks this time, simple red ones pulled over them lazily. They were warm and comfortable— and previously unseen when he wore his shoes earlier. He hadn't thought much of them when he put them on in the morning.

It's a bit grounding to gaze at them now.

He feels stupid. Gross, stupid, and messy. If he was on fire before, he's ice-cold now. His fingers feel rigid— frozen— and he hates…

In all honesty, he doesn't hate the situation as much as he thought he would. Yes, he feels dumb. Did he just cry in front of the only person in a long time that he's felt romantic feelings for? Of course. Did he overwhelm himself to the point of breaking simply because he allowed himself to be vulnerable? Indeed.

Did he regret it?

Did he regret it?

Even after a few minutes he reaches no concrete conclusion. Rather, in its place, he distracts himself from it. He nudges her a little (though it feels a lot more like a playful shove) and clears his throat. She glances at him, a worried gleam in her eye, but she appears to notice the way he's no longer sorrowful.

He swings his legs off his bed, moving to stand. She shuffles to the side, watching him.

"I'm hungry." He says.

He makes a beckoning motion.

'Do something with me.' He means.

Chapter Text

A tidy kitchen is a functional kitchen.

At least, that's what they say.

She's not sure such a saying applies to every situation. Back home, when she lived with her parents, everything was always in the right place when you weren't cooking. You would clean as you cook; her mother had taught her such. Cleaning it otherwise wasn't mandatory.

Once she moved in with her roommate, the kitchen underwent semi-regular cleans. She kept to her mother's word. It wasn't the cleanest— it didn't take a genius to notice that. But, in essence, it was functional.

Here, she can see it's more than functional. Jax and Ribbit's place is lived-in. A place that's utilised, a place that works for them. She's a little envious, if she's honest.

She didn't take Jax as the sort to clean up much. Maybe that rang true with how his bedroom looked, though it wasn't messy. Again, just lived-in. A place between clean and not where one could just exist.

In a sense, that's the best way of going about things, isn't it?

Regardless; the lights are dim. Her vision is no longer tender nor blurred, clear eyes taking in the room. The street lights outside aren't glowing anymore, the night before them in earnest. She's thankful, really, because she enjoys the quiet and the calm of the night. It's comforting.

Back in the circus, she loved the fireflies. Though they were digital, they were an imitation of the real world. They weren't ridiculously coloured, nor were they horrifically distinct from the environment around them. They existed in the memory of reality. A reminder of what was.

She hasn't seen fireflies since then. Ironically enough, she wondered if she were unintentionally avoiding places she might see them in fear of resurfacing the life she'd lived in the digital plane. It was a silly thought, but one she harbored nonetheless.

Which, in truth, she held a lot of 'silly' thoughts to her heart.

"What'cha got?" An inquiry slips from her tongue. They'd talked little since Jax's tears, only mild comments shared between them to navigate what they were doing and why. She didn't want to press on the matter, already bewildered by how he'd reacted. She hadn't expected him to cry in front of her ever, let alone then. He wasn't that sort of person.

Although, to be fair to him, she'd been categorizing him in one place the entirety of knowing him. Unfortunately she'd subjected herself to a part of his ideology— the coping mechanism of applying archetypes to real people. Perhaps it was because he was the one to suggest it to her, or perhaps it was that she wasn't as close to the others, but she felt almost obligated to do so with him.

Seeing him as more than a character wasn't difficult, but had she even made the effort to do so?

Thinking on it? Not really. It made her feel guilty, even if a little bit (or, honestly, more than a little bit). And, then again, they weren't at any sort of decency to know which of the two of them were more of a guilty party. She could be nearly as bad as him sometimes.

Whatever "bad" meant now.

Jax turns, revealing a cereal box. He shakes it in front of her, a clutter of noise interrupting the previously tranquil space. It bothers her none.

"Can't be bothered to mess around with other stuff," he shrugs, moving to the side to grab a bowl from a cabinet with sticky notes plastered all over it, "All this needs is milk. That's as good as it gets."

She smiles slightly. He's making light of it, but she wonders if he's actually hungry or simply putting on a front. She wouldn't blame him, really, if he did want to eat more than cereal this late at night— she hasn't seen him have anything since their pseudo 'date'.

Thinking of it as an actual date makes her face warm up slightly. It's so silly because she knows Jax didn't consider it a date himself. A small part of her wants to do so, even by a tiny measure, just to feel something towards it that she already comprehends as more than a platonic feeling— but would she be able to carry the strange form of guilt alongside that'd come with it?

For some reason, when she thinks of Jax as more than that, she feels bad. Maybe it's because she knows he isn't the type to do so too— but, there it is again: her vast need to put him into a box. Perhaps he is the type to do that, perhaps he does think of her that way. Who is she to know him inside and out?

But what would that mean for her?

She leans against the counter, glancing at him. He's pouring cereal into the bowl, spilling some and making fruitless attempts to reduce the mess. It's a little amusing but she doesn't laugh, hoping that her silence won't coax him into her mind. Such an effort in itself heeds little result, yet she tries anyway.

He moves, soon maneuvering around her. It's only then that she notices she's beside the fridge, shifting away from it to give him the space he might need.

The concept of Jax, of all people (box, once more), liking her further than tolerance is a strange sensation. It sets her nerves alight. It marks a fire in her heart, it burns down the entire system she's built regarding relationships. It's foreign.

She isn't the romantic type. Not by any means. That isn't to say she dislikes romance; it's a lot more like apathy in her case. Romance isn't anything she's fantasized about. Even when she underwent the portion of her life where she questioned her attraction, she truly wondered if she could live without romance. She didn't reach a striking conclusion, though she did find it interesting to think about.

Never— not like this— had she daydreamt of someone. Never has she felt giddy over the concept of a date, never has she felt the fluttering of her heart when looking at someone.

He doesn't make her heart flutter. He makes it pound like a drum, hammering against her chest. It feels more like anxiety than heartthrob.

To her dismay, anxiety would be a lot easier to work with.

"Did you want something?" He asks. She perks up, her train of thought brought alive once he looks at her.

He's finished 'preparing' his 'meal', a full bowl of cereal on the side as he fishes out a spoon from a drawer. It's his turn to lean against the opposing counter, facing her directly as he waits for an answer. She isn't sure what to say on immediate response. The fact he'd even asked brings her to an impasse.

"Uh—" Her pause is evident, a fidget to her feet revealing nerves, "I'm fine! Thanks."

His eyes narrow at her, a spoonful of cereal entering his mouth at the same time. She silently scoffs at the sight.

"If you say so," said after he swallows, he slides the bowl a short distance away from himself. She catches herself looking at it. Her gaze feels unable to stay in one place anywhere else.

The dull yet comfortable light of the kitchen feels warm. She can't exactly explain it, but she likes where she is right now. As much as she isn't familiar with his apartment or what she's supposed to be doing in her life as a whole, there's a semblance of dissonant normalcy lingering before her.

In the form of a man who is very real; something she's coming to realise in time.

The next few minutes are spent in silence. She checks her phone once, a lack of messages or updates from anything or anyone taking little notice. She wants to look busy— like she has something to do or something to say— but she hasn't anything to occupy herself with.

She's alone with him and her thoughts, and as much as that combination doesn't usually fare problematic for her, she's suddenly having a hard time maintaining composure.

He's dressed so… casually. A shirt draped over him, baggy sleepwear hanging from his hips. It feels so characteristically him. She can't help but think so.

As much as it is casual, it's human too. Something people wear to be comfortable; something people dress in not to impress, but to live in. She wonders what his life was before the circus— more than what she knows already. There's such a mystery to him that's alluring, but knowing the mystery wouldn't put her off him, either. A part of that version of him lives within her.

A part of him that just said something to her in her haze. She looks up. Lost in thought prior, she searches his face for answers. With a hint of something there, she gives him a curiously apologetic look. How annoying it is to overthink yourself in arguably crucial moments.

"Did you—"

"Nothing."

"What?"

He's leant against the counter right in front of her, and as much as that is fact, he feels miles away. His eyes are at the floor and he isn't making any attempts to look at her. It's distant, cold— but still familiar, unspoken. What had he said?

Did she actually miss something important?

Slower this time, she reiterates her attempted query— "Did you say something?"

He continues not to look at her. She glances to her feet, a pang of guilt enveloping her.

"Just asked if you're tired." He half-mutters, his tone betraying the way he attempts to hide his nerves. A small smile finds its way over her face. Was that it?

"A little." She admits, "I'm… sort of thinking. About a lot. But, ah— I mean. I can stay up, really."

"What're you thinkin' about?"

She looks up at him. He looks back at her now, the sudden eye-contact hitting her right in the gut. For a known reason she refuses to elaborate on, her face warms up considerably, the sensation of him simply staring back at her suddenly more than she could've anticipated. It's embarrassingly trivial.

"Do you actually wanna know?"

"Kinda, yeah." His looming presence is anything but trivial. The fleeting image of him pinning her back against the counter and trapping her against him shoots through her head and spreads like wildfire, though she immediately attempts to put the blaze out; thinking about such things isn't new— she's embarrassed to admit it. And, yet, they'll never be lived-up to.

She can't think of him like that. She just can't.

"I'm also, sort of…" He continues, unaware of her mess of a brain, "Wanting to talk?"

Huh?

She perks up. He avoids her gaze again, but this time it's a lot more endearing in comparison to concerning. A curiously warm tint captures his face, deepened in hue and noticeable to her. She wishes she could capture the image, though then again, such a thought makes her embarrassed.

"Oh. Oh, yeah. Of course." The prior-jester fumbles a little with her words, fingers meeting the hem of her shirt. Why is she getting shy? This is all so unlike her, but then again, she isn't unfamiliar with feeling this way. Perhaps it's been too long, or perhaps she hasn't had the time to fully process things.

Whatever it might be, she knows she needs to ease into it instead of plunging into the deep-end. Unfortunately for her, she knows her mind isn't so privy to such suggestions.

"I mean. I've been thinking about, like," trying not to sound too eager, she softly suggests the topic, "You know. Your name?"

His brows raise.

"You've been thinking about that? Really?"

"Is that so weird?" She smiles, intrigued, "You know mine, not that you use it. I just think— Like. Jax isn't you anymore, right?"

She hopes, in the back of her mind, that she isn't pushing any sort of boundary. With the way he pauses she can't be sure. The inner workings of his mind are so complicated, even without seeing within it herself. A lot about him holds the title of 'mysterious'— that's been a fact for the longest time.

But here she is, living in it. Here she is, longing for it, wanting it, needing it. Needing him— whoever he is, truly. Not Jax, but whoever the man is before her. The one who she trusts, who she cares for, who she—

He stands in front of her. Surprisingly close. She'd been unaware of where he stood until his hand caught her shoulder, pulling her out of her wild train of thought. She hadn't been paying much attention to anything.

He dips his head down slightly. She looks up at him with wide eyes.

Wait—

"You're right." He says, voice a lot lower than anticipated. It's almost a whisper, "You're right, Pomni—"

He corrects himself with her name this time, replacing the word 'Pomni'.

Her heart forgets to beat for a second.

"But it's weird. Because it's hard to tell you it. Because there's parts of me I like you not knowing."

Her brows furrow, a confused smile on her lips.

"Why?"

He looks at her. Really looks at her. His eyes scour over every inch of her face, taking in the details she knew he'd hidden away from before.

"Because—"

His pause is lengthy, an edge to his silence becoming sharp and jagged. She doesn't say anything in its wake, knowing she hasn't the mind to.

All she's thinking about is him. All she has been thinking about, is him. It might've taken her an embarrassingly long amount of time, but she knows it now. She knows what he means to her, she knows why she's the way she is with him. She knows so much and so little of him— to the point where, at night, she lies awake and wonders on the day he'll tell her more.

Her peace with him— her yearning. It's been engraved into her very being from the start, and yet she was so consumed by reality that she dusted it over. She let the grains settle, cushioning the letters and making it hard to read. She didn't brush them off until she found him again.

Even then, his name stood idle. It settled within her like smoke to a fire. It was natural, unyielding. It was burning. It was alive.

It is alive.

His grip on her shoulder tightens. She hasn't the urge to move, aside from all other rational judgment. She doesn't want to— does she need to? He wouldn't have the thought to hurt her. She knows that. She knows him.

By God. She knows him.

And he knows her, too.

"Because I—"

Overwhelmingly so.

"Because I like you."

To the point it concerns him.

"Too much."

Chapter Text

He's done it now.

Saying too much, saying not enough. All of it, none of it. Saying everything, putting it all on the table— wiping the table clean, deserting it.

He's an expert of it all. He's a master of none of it.

His grip loosens on her shoulder. He wants to apologise for touching her. He doesn't, but he looks at her arm as though it knows just by doing so. It's a feeble thing to think.

She's staring at him. God, she's staring. It's unnerving but difficult to look away from. That longing for telepathy kicks in very briefly, only for him to shut it down immediately. He doesn't want to know what she's thinking.

But oh, fuck. He really, really does.

"It's late, anyway." He finds himself saying, pulling off of her, stepping away. The urge to dig a hole and lay inside of it for eternity scratches itself all over him. "I should—"

"I like you too."

It's sudden, interrupting his pessimistic train of thought. There's determination in her tone— something he's familiar with, especially from a while ago in the circus, defining the way she interacts with him. She doesn't let things slide when it comes to him; she's never allowed him to get away with his shameful self-sabotage.

In fact, she's the one who pulls him out of holes, filling in the dirt and dusting him off. She cares for him in her own way. She doesn't let him rot.

She never lets him rot.

"You don't have to—" he says, quieter. She grabs his arm, pulling him closer, maintaining the eye-contact he so desperately wants to edge away from.

"It isn't pity," she returns, interrupting him as if reading his mind, "I'm not saying it for your sake."

She breathes in softly, close to him, "Fuck your sake."

He scoffs. She smiles at him, squeezing his arm gently.

"I like you too."

He can only nod. She nods back, making sure she's heard. Between them they share a silence, looking at each other. His eyes trail over her features— the content smile she holds, the wandering eyes. She's looking at him too, her gaze drifting in triangles over his face. A beat passes and he knows what he wants, but he doesn't dare act on it.

Not until she's leaning forward. Not until his heart's caught in his throat, her face so dangerously close. He hears her breathe, soft but paced. A part of him loses his patience and he rests a hand on her shoulder again.

"I wanted to," she whispers, talking of something beyond now— something vague but absolute, "Back then. I really did."

"It's hard," he admits, quiet, matching her tone, "I wanted to, too. And I did."

She lends a hand to his face, feeling the way he instinctively goes rigid. She looks as though she thinks of pulling away, but he soon relaxes into her, leaning against the touch and watching her.

Another beat passes.

"Can we…" she speaks again, gentle, "Can we make up for lost time?"

His heartbeat plays in his skull. It vibrates and escalates, the warmth on his face heightening in temperature. Her thumb leads back and forth, caressing his skin. He doesn't know how to react.

So he nods, slow. He doesn't speak, fearing he'll say something he doesn't mean. He wants this— he wants this so bad he aches, his mind racing a mile a minute. The urge to make the situation worse resides in the very corner of his core, yet he pushes it back, condensing it, making it a tiny speck of overthought. He doesn't look at it again.

She takes his silence as a positive. Leaning forward, their skin touches, her hand squeezing his arm once more as she kisses him. It's short, experimental— he finds himself trying to prolong it as she pulls away from it a second or two after, hearing her chuckle slightly at the action. He looks at her with blown pupils, needing her, wanting her. She stares into the abyss that is his want and smiles.

He could die here. He could be set to rest, knowing he'd kissed the girl once called Pomni, knowing he'd reunited with his previously frog-adjacent friend. He could never rise again now knowing her touch, now seeing his life for what it was and what it could be. He could die here. He could be set to rest.

He won't though. For her sake, for theirs. For the sake of the ones he hasn't met yet, for the sake of himself. 'Fuck your sake', he recalls, though he knows it wasn't for this. He finally knows he'll be alright. That's enough for him to continue— that's all he needs to carry on. That's all.

That's all.

But this isn't all. His hands move down, holding her upper arms. She looks at him longingly, curiously. It isn't tight— he doesn't keep her there. He just holds her in his hands, not wanting her to up and go, not able to manage the concept of her leaving him like this. Vulnerable, desperate— wanting.

Wanting more. Needing more. Embarrassingly desperate, he asks for it.

"Did you… just want to kiss me?" He breathes. Her brows raise.

She hesitates a little. Her own hands move, one resting to her side as the other hangs on his arm.

"No," she says, her fingers light against his skin, "But— hm."

She thinks for a moment. He waits.

"I don't want to rush," she grins then, "We have time now, right?"

"Yeah," he agrees, quiet, "That's… yeah."

She smirks a little, tilting her head to the side, "But you wanted more than a kiss, huh?"

He raises his hands up to the air in mock-surrender. A coy look crosses him, twisting her smirk into a smile. She looks as though she wants to laugh at him. He wouldn't blame her for doing so— he likes hearing it.

"It's very possible." He says, underplaying himself by a considerable margin. All the things he's thought of doing with her, regardless of if he was able to restrain himself from them or not, threaten to spill from his easy lips. Gentle touches, longing glances— a kiss. More than that; close encounters, pressing proximity. Nighttime activity.

He feels his face flush further than it already has, a colour so warming that he combats a hint of dizziness. It's imperative that he doesn't show his entire hand immediately, but Jesus, she makes it hard to think of anything else. The way she waits for him to continue, the way her hand gently caresses circles against his skin— she's killing him in ways he likes.

He's overwhelmingly needy for it.

"Buuut," he tilts his head to the side, a lax nod shared as he ignores the part of him that aches, "I agree with you."

He then decides to carry that sentiment on with a quip, evidently teasing— "As surprising as that might be."

She rolls her eyes, but her smile remains.

Returning back to his dimly lit room doesn't take too long. He'd decided to 'speed-run' finishing his cereal, regretting it almost immediately by choking on milk of all things. She'd said nothing about it, a mere laugh coming from her direction as she watched him, but the yawn soon after gave him enough to suggest actually heading to bed.

If he was honest with himself, he wasn't tired. The idea of acting like all was normal and falling asleep was far out of reach at this point— he knew that from a mile away. But he tried his best to pretend, not moving as fast as to let her in front of him when entering his room, watching her get comfortable on the mattress he'd pulled for her only for him to nudge his head to the side when she looks at him.

It's subtle. A nod to her being allowed to move to his bed, if she dares. She narrows her eyes slightly, asking wordlessly if he's serious. He gives a look that says 'bite me'.

Needless to say, she bites.

Pulling herself up, she shifts to his bed, dragging socks off and disrobing accessories. He shuffles towards his closet, grabbing a shirt he rarely wears and throwing it at her head.

"Hey—!"

"Wear it."

She pulls it down from her head, holding it with both hands.

"You're being concerningly considerate right now." She points out. He turns his back to her, doing the same mock-surrender he'd done before without a word. In a turn of events, it's refreshing to actually do things for her. To allow himself that freedom, to give himself what he's wanted for so long. The way he cares isn't conventional, but there's parts of it that certainly fall into a stereotype.

"Do you want me to leave, or—"

"No. Looking at the wall is fine," She hums, the noise of clothes shuffling narrating what she's doing, "Gives me a bit of satisfaction. I can pretend you're in time-out."

"And what'd I do to deserve that?" He asks, half-genuine.

She doesn't respond immediately. As she presumably undresses, he begins to crack his fingers, bending them down one-by-one. The noise distracts him enough from the fact that he's trying desperately not to think of her undressing, though not entirely. He bites his tongue from saying anything stupid, knowing damn well it's the wrong time.

"You've done enough in the past. You can just be making up for that now."

He hears the smile in her voice. She's playing with him, but unfortunately for her, he likes to do the same. He won't let go of this until she gives in to him.

"Haven't I done enough, Pom Pom? I thought I was being a good boy for you."

A noise of annoyance comes directly and instantly from her. He scoffs.

"Absolutely not."

"I can't believe it."

A tap on his shoulder allows him to half-turn and he glances down. She holds most of what she'd been wearing prior, likely unsure where to put it for the time being. Draped over her almost to the top of her knees is where his shirt lies, his eyes taking in the way their height difference makes up for a few different things. Even if it isn't as dumb as it was in the circus, she's still small. He stifles a chuckle.

"Don't say it." She warns, smiling. He sticks his tongue out.

"Put your shit on my desk." He gestures to it, her feet immediately taking her there. He notices she hasn't taken off her pants, though he figures there isn't much to do about that. He can't exactly give her anything of his and be normal about it, let alone tell her to remove them in fear of being considered a pervert.

… He is— don't get him wrong. But he isn't ready to admit that just yet.

"You gonna be comfortable?" His voice lowers in volume as she moves back to the bed, sitting on the edge of it as she looks at him. A softening of her eyes catches him, and he stares a little, admittedly forgetting immediately what he'd just said.

"I'll be fine," she insists, smoothing part of the bed sheet beside her, "Just lie down, weirdo."

He complies, near-sprinting to turn off the light before returning. Pulling up his sheets after she stands briefly, he gets in, her soon following. They maintain a slight bit of distance between them, not wanting to make the other uncomfortable in their own way, but she finds his hand in the dark. She squeezes it once, him returning the gesture, their fingers interlocking tightly after a bit of playful difficulty on his end.

Her palm is a little sweaty. He makes a small comment on it, teasing her about being nervous. She shushes him, closing her eyes and nestling into his pillow.

He looks at her for a minute.

It makes him feel weird initially, being here, living in the moment.

That is, until he shifts a little closer, taking in her details that he can make out in the limited light.

She peeks an eye at him, giving him a questioning look. He just smiles at her.

The next day, she wakes up first.

Their hands remain locked. Her fingers are pulled into a stiff hold.

She doesn't mind.

His other arm is draped across her sleepily. The light from the window catches his hair.

She rises slowly, softly. It's calm.

In the midst of his sleep, he pulls her closer, his arm clutching her side.

He's preventing her from moving further. She scoffs a little, wondering what he'd say if he was awake to see himself.

She wonders further, then, what the old him would say to them now. What Jax would say.

It makes her lean forward, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. His hand shifts, resting on her back.

Whatever it would've been, she would've fought him on it. No question of it.

Chapter Text

A flickering evening. A meet-up at a local bar.

A young man texts someone briefly, only to bump into that very person outside. They give him a smirk, mentioning something about how he looks similar to a purple rabbit upon greeting him. He retorts back to them about their 'familiarity' to being the embodiment of a box of toys, giving them a playful grin. They can't help the smile they hold.

A short woman stands to his left. To his right, his best friend. The woman waves warmly at the individual, exclaiming about their good choice in place. They chuckle, thanking her.

The man's best friend gives them a fist-bump. They question if any others are inside to them, and they return a swift thumbs-up.

Inside, an anxious-looking woman sits by the bar.

The individual sits next to her, introducing each other one-by-one.

The prior-jester goes first. She gives the woman a friendly smile, saying she looks good. The woman laughs nervously, genuinely. She says it's wonderful to see her.

The man goes next. He pauses for a second, almost unsure what to say. The woman asks if it's really him, to which he approves so. She doesn't move from where she's sat, though she gives him a smile. She says he looks like he's changed.

He has.

His friend goes last. They ask if she remembers them, to which she makes it known that she does, taking their hand in a shake. Conversation begins between them warmly, talking about which table to take.

The woman beside the man nudges him. He looks at her, nervous. She gives him a nod.

I wanted to apologise.

He says it when the others reach a conversation, speaking on a certain husband-and-wife duo who're yet to come.

He hopes she doesn't hate him.

She doesn't.

She doesn't accept the apology outright. Instead, she thanks him, her eyes a little softer.

He gives her a nod, understanding.

A thirty-something woman comes in with a duo in tow.

They approach the group, asking gingerly if they're 'from the circus'.

The young woman approaches, affirming the question. In return, she receives a swift hug, several different giddy reunion-related words.

The two women cause a bit of a fuss, but they're earned laughs. The young man grabs the two women and hugs them in tandem, referring briefly to a certain dolly.

She playfully smacks his head. Another laugh is heard, from the smaller of the two women this time.

The couple behind them give introductions. They're polite but incredibly familiar. The young woman greets the older man, friendly and warm. He calls her by the name she'd been given before, to which she corrects him playfully. He emits an 'ah, of course!' before using her real name. She chuckles.

His bug-loving partner greets her, too. They speak briefly, conversing over little things like drinks and the destination chosen.

The older man approaches the younger man. He says his old name, too, getting familiar with who he's talking to. In return, the young man offers his actual name.

A smile pulls wider at the young woman's smile to hear him say it.

The group gets a table. They order drinks, they talk. The night pulls on for much longer than intended, others joining them throughout it, a true reunion taking place.

The girl once called Pomni sits beside the man once called Jax. She nudges his hand beneath the table, saying his name softly. He looks at her with his signature grin, returning her name on his lips, just for her.

Before they head home, they all establish a group-chat. One that, as soon as the husband-wife duo leaves, gets a formal message from him saying he enjoyed the night and hopes they can meet again soon.

Everyone responds to him individually, warmly. It's like a group of young adults texting their father that they adore.

Once the young man and woman head home to the woman's place, a little before one, they do their best to be quiet in favour of her roommate.

The two of them share light comments and chuckles before getting into bed together, smiles exchanged.

They sleep soundly through the night. The morning comes, but they sleep through most of that, too.

When she rises near the start of the afternoon, she immediately sinks back into the bed.

Finally, at rest with everything within her.

Now she can start living, she thinks. Now she can start.