Chapter Text
When he first appeared in this strange, brightly colored place, it didn't really register as something important. Nothing did.
Nothing mattered, at that point.
He moved on instinct alone — breathing because it still happened, avoiding people more out of habit than intention. His body felt hollow, devoid of any ability to care past not snapping at anyone who was unfortunate enough to get near him.
The bizarre ringmaster — Caine, apparently, what a joke — tried to drag him into "an adventure", speaking with an enthusiasm that sounded distant and unreal. But Jax didn't even have the energy to refuse properly. He just retreated into his room and stayed there for three days straight.
Because there was no room in his brain to think about anything else.
Only "l will never see you again".
Only "There is nothing left to fix".
Only "I will die in a universe where you cared about me
—and yet, somehow, without you".
Those thoughts used to come in waves. Sharp at first, unbearable, like something tearing through him from the inside.
The worst part was when he got tired of thinking about that, too. Even grief becomes familiar in time. And familiarity dulls everything it touches.
And then there was nothing.
Nothing to think about at all.
He would lie there staring at the ceiling, watching the light change without really seeing it, slowly accepting his new role — without resistance, without drama — that this was what remained of him now.
Not a person moving toward anything. Just something having to continue going because it hadn't figured out how to stop.
At some point, the hunger got the better of him.
Even though — he would only learn later — they didn't actually need to eat here. Convenient, really. His body still insisted on being human out of sheer stubborn habit though.
At least there was some kind of bonus to it, he supposed. Would've been nice if his brain had caught up to that detail before he went through the entire performance of surviving.
And here came the twist — he couldn't just brood the entire time; he had gotten enough strange looks for that back in real life. No need to repeat the pattern.
It was quickly discovered that "real names" weren't a thing either, no one really knew them.
So he choose the name he wanted.
Jax.
He didn't remember why it mattered, why it felt like it fit — only that it did — but in a place where almost nothing felt real, remembering anything at all was already a victory.
Diving into self-discovery, or “healing,” or whatever people in situations like this were supposed to do… wasn't on the table. It just wasn't what he wanted.
Mostly, he intended to just scout out the perimeter and figure out what kinds of people he had to deal with now.
Imagine that, another group of strangers who would try to mold him in something with their bigotry. Something acceptable, something useful, something less inconvenient.
Bigotry with a smile, maybe. Or something worse — bigotry with good intentions.
Ha.
If that isn't funny.
…
— Jax! Why would you do that?! — The ragdoll squealed at the top of her non-existent lungs, frantically brushing off the confetti from her hair. — That was so loud, what if —
— Aw, come on! You're no fun! — He grinned unapologeticly, twirling the confetti launcher like it was a gun. — Next time, it will be bugs!
— Don't you dare! — Her eyes widened in genuine horror as she stilled, staring at him like he just crossed some invisible line that absolutely should not be crossed.
For a moment, the reaction didn't register as funny. Just as targeted.
For a moment, he felt like a bug himself.
Some small decapitated creature under a microscope, pretending to be alive even though it isn't.
A bug, he thought distantly.
Yeah. Something like that.
So he laughed anyway.
And walked away, before the feeling could settle properly into his bones, resisting the familiar pull to retreat — to simply turn back and lock in inside his room again.
Vibrant walls swam, spots of color jumping around in front and behind each other. They were too too loud in their color, as if trying to compensate for something. Spots of that brightness drifted and overlapped, as if reality itself couldn't decide where to focus.
He wandered.
An hour, maybe more. Time didn't hold itself together very well in places and states like this.
He ate something sweet from somewhere he couldn't be bothered to remember the name of. He memorized the layout of the game map — corners, doors, blind spots. Turned out old habits didn't die; they just adapted to new scenery.
Until something happened.
He thought it was her before he let himself look twice.
That's the problem.
That's always been the problem.
Every time someone laughs too loud, with amusing snort, or turns too elegantly, stands in the wrong kind of light… his brain fills in the rest. Dainty stature. Crooked smile.
That same—
No.
He's not going there.
It's the reason he avoided her like a plague.
As something not worth paying attention to.
Seeing her smile across the room felt strange. It made his skin itchy with goosebumps, and in this strange form, he could feel short, purple fur along his shoulders standing up.
It's strange. It's just strange.
The more he looked, the more sick he felt. Dizzier. Like something is not how it's supposed to be.
Like he isn't supposed to be more than an inch apart from her.
And yet,
He keeps looking anyway.
And this one time—
She's already looking at him.
Intrigued. But a little guarded.
He makes a snarky remark, just to prove it isn't who he thinks it is.
Just to force reality to obey him for once.
But his brain betrays him the moment her voice reaches him.
— Go drown yourself in a swamp, you twat! — The short girl bit immediately, stomping her foot like some stubborn spoiled kid having a tantrum in the middle of a toy store, face twisted in exaggerated outrage.
No—
No, it can't be.
And yet something in him recognizes it before he's willing to admit it. Not her face, nor name. A rhythm. A tone that doesn't belong to strangers. Determined attitude that never allowed others to pray on her confidence.
He remembers thinking she looked ridiculous, all sharp edges and louder-than-necessary anger packed into a frame too small to contain it. He remembers her insults sounding like they were stolen from anime dialogue and weaponized without permission.
He remembers —
Jax's breath caught hard enough to hurt.
He stared at her frame, eyes darting to catch every detail, every movement, every shift, like if he missed one she would turn into someone else.
Before his heart can fully betray him with hope — stupid, reckless hope he thought he buried four months ago — he tilts his head instead. Just a fragile, rehearsed motion. A painted smile forms, trembling at the edges.
— That is awfully offensive to say, wouldn't you agree, lightning bug?
A beat.
Another.
The air doesn't explode into recognition the way stories usually promise. No cinematic collapse of time.
The frog in front of him simply halted, the anger draining out of her face so cleanly it's almost unsettling, replaced by something lighter, sharper — interest, maybe, or amusement wearing the same shape. Her shoulders relax in a way that feels practiced rather than accidental, like she's already decided what kind of moment this is.
No dramatic pause with vivid flashbacks.
No confusion.
No "do I know you?"
Her head tilts slightly, dark freckles catching the strange lighting of this strange place. Her expression narrows with deliberate scrutiny, eyes scanning him like she's comparing a memory against a badly drawn sketch.
Then she leans back just a fraction,
— Wow, — She smiles, stretching woo-u in that same manner only she does. — Somehow you look worse.
And there it is.
More than seven years crushing into one fleeing second.
And for Jax, it isn't relief that hits first.
It's the way everything else collapses into it.
They sat in silence for a minute
Too many things were trying to exist at once and failing to fit through the same narrow moment. The wall clock kept ticking with an irritating steadiness, each second clean and indifferent. In the corner of the room, an aquarium hummed softly, digital fish drifting through programmed currents, quietly shifting color as if emotion had been reduced to a lighting scheme.
Ribbit decided to lead towards her room instead of back to his own — a decision he wholeheartedly decided not to question.
To be completely honest, she had practically dragged him the moment tears threatened to surface in a way he absolutely, definitively did not want witnessed by anyone else. Especially not now.
And for that alone, he was grateful.
Jax still wasn't sure how he managed to not do something catastrophically stupid.
Like reach for her too quickly. Or say something unbearably honest, like how missing her had hollowed him out so completely that, at some point, he felt like dying would be easier than living another moment without her.
Now they were out of sight.
Out of reach.
Away from prying eyes and whatever performance he was supposed to be maintaining.
And his mouth—
His mouth was still dry.
Completely empty of anything useful.
Completely devoid of anything to stay.
Ribbit gave him a few seconds. Not long. Not enough to collect thoughts. Just enough for her to settle into the space beside him, to let the silence stretch until it stopped feeling like a void and started feeling like pressure.
Then she sighed.
Softly.
And crawled over to the corner of her bed where he sat, patient in a way that didn't feel real for someone like him.
He didn't dare move. Not even to take a full breath.
— I really missed you, idiot, — She sobbed at last.
Her voice cracked on the last word.
A wobbly smile tried to follow it, but it didn't fully form — like it wasn't sure it was allowed to exist without collapsing.
And something in him gave out completely.
Just— everything at once.
That's embarrassing.
That's so fucking embarrassing.
He should've stayed composed. He should've said something clever. Something controlled. Something that didn't expose how badly he had been holding himself together with nothing but stubborn refusal.
But instead—
He pulled her into him.
Fast. Clumsy. Completely unplanned.
And then he was crying too.
That was not how he was supposed to act. Not how he was supposed to be.
But everything be damned — she mattered more than whatever rules he had built around surviving without her.
She made a small, broken sound that might've been a chuckle if it wasn't shaking. Then her arms weaved around him, like she'd been waiting for this exact mistake to happen.
He could only bury his face near her shoulder, arms trembling as they held on, and when the words finally arriving, they were only a jumbled, incoherent mess.
But she stayed there anyway
Holding him like she hadn't disappeared from his life at all.
Like she had just been late coming home.
They didn't let go after that.
Not really.
Not even when the tears finally ran out of strength and left behind that exhausted, hollow quiet that always follows something too honest, neither of them moved away. As if distance itself had become a suspect — something that couldn't be trusted not to steal her again.
Ribbit shifted first, letting out a small hiss as she repositioned her legs, clearly numb from staying curled up too long.
— Get further into the bed, it's uncomfortable like this.
It wasn't a request so much as a command.
And there was no version of reality where Jax didn't listen.
There was no world in which he would not listen, so he did just that, stopping in the middle, cross-legged, and completely still as Ribbit followed without hesitation.
And he wanted to cry again.
Because it was familiarity in a place that had none.
Because it was the kind of intimacy he had never wanted from anyone else, because there had never been anyone else it could belong to.
And more importantly—
he wouldn't accept it from anyone else.
Not in this life. Not in this world. Not in this universe that had already taken too much and still somehow expected him to continue like it hadn't.
— How… did you get here?
His voice ringed hoarse, as if he didn't drink for a several days. He probably didn't. It didn't matter. What mattered is just continuing talking.
Ribbit was silent for several moments.
Her eyes trailed across the room instead, unfocused, as if she were trying to read something written into the air that only she could almost remember.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than before.
Less sharp. Less certain.
— I am not sure.
A pause.
— I remember… being very sad. Probably the most sad I've ever felt.
Her fingers tightened slightly in his overalls, not quite conscious of it.
— …And then everything gets blurry.
That was all.
No explanation. No clear line of before and after. Just a gap where reality should've been, spoken about like it was normal here.
She closed her eyes, slumbering against him as if it was the safest place in this galaxy. Her breathing evened out slowly against him, slipping into something close to sleep.
Jax didn't close his eyes.
He couldn't.
Because if he did — even for a second — he was certain the universe would take that as a permission.
Permission to undo it again.
To make her go away the way she did before, without warning, without explanation, without anything he could argue with or throw his pain at.
So he stayed still.
Arms around her like a held breath.
Listening to her exist.
His voice came out quieter this time, almost detached.
— Your sister missed you a lot. — He said dryly.
If only I could remember her name.
Ribbit let out another small sound — half laugh, half exhale — but it didn't last long enough to become anything recognizable.
— Still trying not to be mushy, huh? — Then, softer, almost disappearing into the space between them. — …It's okay. I know you miss me too.
You can't even imagine how much.
Something in him twisted hard enough that it almost broke through the restraint he was clinging to.
He wanted to scream.
Or hug her tighter, trap her, never let her out of his sight again.
But he didn't.
He stayed still instead.
Terrified of disturbing her peace.
There was nothing more important than this.
There is nothing more important than her.