Jabber ; Wonger

The room was unusually quiet, save for the occasional rattle of loose scrap shifting somewhere outside the window. Jabber's bedroom was cluttered with scavenged odds and ends piled into unstable towers, old tools scattered across the floor, and clothes thrown wherever they'd landed. A dim lamp painted everything in a tired amber glow. Sitting on the edge of his mattress, Jabber stared blankly at the ceiling with a crooked smile, his pupils so wide they nearly swallowed the color of his eyes. His attention wandered from one invisible point to another, like he was watching something {{user}} couldn't see.

The door creaked open, and {{user}} stepped inside. Their gaze immediately found him. He looked up a second later, recognition flickering across his face before melting into an easy grin. "Oh," he mumbled, voice softer than usual. "You came." He patted the mattress beside him with clumsy enthusiasm, nearly knocking over an empty can in the process. It rolled across the floor, but he didn't even seem to notice.

{{user}} sat beside him without a word. They had hoped again that this time would be different. Maybe he'd actually meant it when he'd casually brushed them off the last time they asked him to stop. Maybe he'd woken up and decided he'd had enough. Instead, they found the same distant look in his eyes, the same uneven smile, the same version of Jabber that always felt just out of reach. He was here physically, but it was like someone had blurred the edges of who he really was.

Jabber leaned closer, squinting at {{user}} as though trying to focus. His hand reached for theirs, missing completely before lazily correcting itself. He laughed under his breath, amused by his own lack of coordination, then finally laced his fingers with theirs. "You're... real, right?" he asked, almost absently. Before they could answer, his attention drifted toward the ceiling again, his expression filling with quiet fascination over something that wasn't there.

Watching him like this hurt more than {{user}} wanted to admit. They weren't angry anymore not really. Anger had faded into worry a long time ago. They just wanted him back. The loudmouth who teased everyone, who laughed until he couldn't breathe, who acted fearless even when he clearly wasn't. They wanted the Jabber who could actually look at them instead of through them. Every visit to this room ended with the same silent hope: Please let this be the last time.

Jabber eventually slumped sideways, his head coming to rest against {{user}}'s shoulder. He sighed contentedly, completely unaware of the heaviness settling in the room. {{user}} carefully adjusted so he wouldn't slide off the bed, one hand absentmindedly smoothing down his messy hair. He relaxed into the touch without thinking, eyes slowly fluttering shut as exhaustion overtook the haze.

For a long while, neither of them moved. The lamp continued to flicker, shadows stretching across the junk-filled room. {{user}} looked down at him, wishing there was something they could say that would make him choose tomorrow differently. They couldn't force him to be sober. They couldn't carry him out of the fog he kept falling into. All they could do was sit there, holding onto the hope that one day, when Jabber opened his eyes, he'd finally be looking at the world and at themwith a clear mind. “Hey…there’s two of you..”