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The rule was simple: if you had a bad day, you told the freezer.
Scoop out however much pain you had. Eat it, and slap a sticky note on the lid explaining why.
Not a diary entry, just enough that the others would understand what kind of care you needed the next day.
Ragatha was the first one to use it, because of course she was. She’d been the one to start it in the first place; her sense of responsibility for everyone else was half a blessing half a problem.
That night, she received a phone call with her mother, one of those strained, polite conversations where both sides pretend everything’s fine, and everyone hangs up feeling worse.
Ragatha wordlessly pulled the ice cream tub out, scooped out three firm spoonfuls like she was rationing grief, ate in silence, then wrote on a pink sticky note:
“My mom called tonight. It's okay though :)
-Ragatha”
The next morning, the others didn’t bring it up. They just cleaned the apartment more thoroughly than usual, left her favorite tea on the counter, and kept the noise down.
That was the point of the notes: nobody had to spill their guts to get care.
Gangle used it most frequently, but never excessively. She was jittery and unpredictable with her moods, and nights could hit her like a truck.
At 2 AM, after a nightmare spiral, she’d tiptoed to the kitchen in her socks, eyes puffy.
Sometimes she’d take a pathetic half-spoonful, like she believed she wasn’t allowed to take up space with her feelings.
Her sticky notes were always small, and anxious:
“Gangle – rough night, sorry! :["
“Gangle – bad dream, but don’t worry about it, sorry ^_^"
She always added some version of an apology as if using it was inconveniencing everyone.
Naturally, the others did all they could to erase her guilt.
In the morning, Pomni would leave her a warm mug of cocoa and Zooble would slide a playlist card under her door with music sharp enough to cut through gloom.
They didn’t talk about the notes. Talking directly always made Gangle crumble. This system let them show up without smothering her.
Pomni resisted using the ice cream for weeks. She located her stress in denial and caffeine, the classic rookie mistake.
Eventually, her job backed her into a wall with human clients, deadlines, and one too many expectations stacked on her shoulders.
She snapped at Ragatha and the guilt burned worse than the anxiety itself.
That night, she yanked open the freezer like she was furious at it. She ate four spoonfuls, fast and messy, like the flavor didn’t matter.
Then she wrote, in tight handwriting that looked like it was clinging to composure:
“Pomni: I'm sorry, Ragatha.”
The next morning, nobody gave her a speech about boundaries or burnout.
Zooble simply shoved a breakfast sandwich into her hands with a “Eat. You look like shit."
Ragatha sat on the couch beside her and didn’t ask questions, just existed next to her until Pomni’s breathing slowed.
Pomni started using the system properly after that.
Then there was Zooble, they wouldn’t touch it for a while, too proud and convinced they didn’t need the comfort.
But body dysmorphia hits fast, and when it hits, it’s viscous.
They didn’t cry or break anything. They just walked to the freezer, took one spoonful and left a sticky note:
“don’t look at me today -Zooble"
The next day, everyone followed it to the letter. There were no compliments or forced pep-talks.
They treated Zooble normally, but gave them space. When Zooble was ready, they found a wordless drawing from Gangle on their desk showing a jigsaw puzzle person smiling, and Zooble didn’t throw it away.
Over time, the freezer door became a patchwork of these notes. Some blunt, some vague, and some barely more than a sigh.
Kinger wasn’t supposed to be awake at this hour. He was the first to knock out on most nights lights off and mind shut down, long before anyone else even thought about bed. The predictability kept him sane.
But anniversaries don’t care about routine.
The date sat on his chest like weight.Years since Queenie abstracted and a year since he walked out of that nightmare of a circus and she didn’t.
Everyone talked about survival like it was a victory but Kinger knew better. Survival came with debris and he’d been carrying the same piece of it all day like a thorn under his ribs.
He’d cleaned, sorted the bookshelf, rearranged the living room, and tried to read.
He pretended not to notice how his hands weren’t steady. He ate dinner with everyone, laughed at the right moments, acted fine. Nobody bought it, but they respected the performance.
By two-thirty, the apartment had gone quiet. Silence gave room for memory to talk, and Kinger wasn’t interested in hearing it.
For all the mental stability the darkness gave him he couldn't help but find it ironic that it was the reason he would start to spiral.
So he headed to the kitchen, blanket around his shoulders like armor, slippers dragging across the floor. Ice cream.
He wasn’t going to take much. He just needed a small comfort to occupy the space where Queenie’s voice used to sit.
He opened the freezer, hand already reaching for the familiar tub.
It was light.
Kinger frowned and pulled it out. It weighed almost nothing. The lid came off, and he stared into the scraped plastic bottom. Not even a spoonful left clinging to the edges. Just a purple sticky note flattened underneath the tub, as if the writer didn’t dare put it somewhere visible.
“- j”
Two tiny characters, but Kinger knew exactly who they belonged to.
Jax.
A half tub gone in a single night? That wasn’t just a “had a rough evening.”
For Jax to eat that much, something must’ve cracked deep and hard. And the fact he only signed with a single initial, he didn’t want questions.
He didn’t want comfort. He wanted the act acknowledged but not dragged into daylight.
Kinger leaned on the counter, thumb brushing the sticky note. It’s strange how heavy sadness can feel when it belongs to someone else.
Tonight was already fragile for him, and seeing proof that Jax had hit the wall too brought an unexpected sting.
Of all nights for someone to fall apart.
He stood there a long moment, breathing slow, holding the empty tub like it was something he could make sense of if he stared hard enough.
The anniversary had him raw. Now his mind twisted too easily.
'Someone needed help and you weren’t there.' An ugly, unfair thought.
He closed his eyes and exhaled. Ice cream gone meant no relief for him tonight. He wasn’t about to run to a 24-hour store for a replacement; the only thing worse than breaking down at 3 a.m. is doing it under fluorescent convenience store lighting.
He peeled the note off the tub and stuck it neatly on the freezer door beside the others. The cluster of memories and confessions grew by one more quiet pain.
There were unspoken rules here:
No interrogating the person who used the tub.
Jax didn’t want sympathy. The best they could do tomorrow would be subtle, meeting him halfway where he’d tolerate it.
Maybe Zooble would distract him with spiteful banter, Ragatha would sit next to him longer at breakfast without naming why, and Pomni would hover around him all day in her worried way but not speak of it.
It wasn’t much, but it was the kind of care Jax actually accepted.
Kinger closed the freezer and grabbed a glass of cold water instead. If he couldn’t numb the night, he’d just endure it. He was far too used to that.
He swallowed, tightened his blanket, and kept moving. This was just another night to survive
And on the freezer door, a small purple note stayed lit by the fridge’s dying bulb, proof that someone else’s heart had cracked open before his did.
Kinger wasn’t expecting to deal with anyone else tonight. He’d planned to crawl into bed, stare at the ceiling for an hour or two, then eventually pass out from exhaustion. It wasn't healthy, but it was the only plan he had left.
He dragged himself down the hallway, blanket still around him. As he passed Jax’s door, he noticed the thin bar of light leaking out under the frame.
Jax never slept unless the room was pitch black. Complete darkness, no exceptions. He didn’t say why, but the pattern was noticeable.
Even a sliver of light meant he wasn’t sleeping.
Kinger stopped. He stood there longer than he should’ve, debating with himself.
He didn’t want to do this tonight. He barely had the bandwidth to hold himself together, let alone someone else, but walking past would sit on his conscience like a weight.
Especially when the last time he had walked past a door years ago it had ended in...
He sighed through his nose, lifted his hand, and gave a soft knock.
The reaction was immediate. Something clattered inside, maybe more than one thing. A messy shuffle followed, like someone scrambling to hide evidence or pull themselves together in four seconds flat.
Then a very congested and poorly disguised:
“…come in.”
Kinger pushed the door open just enough to peek inside.
Jax was sitting up in bed, one knee pulled up. The lamp on his nightstand was dimmed to its lowest setting, but still too bright for someone who claimed he was 'just about to sleep.'
Kinger stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He didn’t comment on the redness around Jax’s nose or the slight swelling under his eyes.
“You know,” Kinger started, voice low to avoid sounding lecture-like, “sleeping at a normal hour wouldn’t kill you. It might even do you some good.” He kept his tone dry and gentle, but not sugary. Jax hated sugary.
Jax snorted, or tried to. With how congested he was, it came out more like a stuffed-up grunt. “Yeah, well, maybe I like the quiet. Ever thought of that? Some of us don’t pass out like grandpas at nine p.m.”
“And some of us don’t stay awake until dawn for no reason.” Kinger countered. “You’re up later than Pomni half the time. You're barely any better than Zooble.”
Jax sniffled sharply and shrugged. “Not my fault I’m built different.”
“That’s part of why your immune system is tanked,” Kinger said plainly. “You never sleep properly. Nobody’s body likes that. Not even yours.”
Jax shot back instantly, defensive reflex clicking into place. “Oh please. Like you’re one to talk. You’re awake right now too, aren’t you? What’s the matter, can’t sleep without nagging someone first?”
The jab wasn’t cruel. It was just a shield, and it landed harder than Jax probably intended.
Kinger went quiet.
He could’ve said a dozen cutting retorts. He could’ve pointed out that tonight wasn’t a normal night for him. But he didn’t have the energy for verbal fencing, and Jax’s tone lacked real bite.
After a moment, Kinger let out a slow breath. “Fair enough,” he said, almost a mutter. “You’re not wrong.”
Silence hung for a few seconds. Jax sniffled again, louder this time, and tried to tilt his head so his hair fell over his face, like that would hide the evidence.
Kinger’s gaze dropped. A box of tissues sat beside Jax’s pillow, half-crumpled tissues scattered nearby.
He didn’t comment right away, he simply observed, then chose a tone that stayed neutral.
“What's with the tissues?”
Jax bristled immediately. “Allergies.” he shot back, too fast to sound believable.
“Ever heard of them? Didn’t think so. Idiots don’t get sick after all.”
There it was, the sarcasm as armor.
Kinger let the insult roll off him like dust. “Mm-hmm,” he said, unimpressed.
Jax crossed his arms, trying to look unbothered. “What, you a doctor now? Gonna diagnose me with the sniffles?”
Kinger didn’t buy an ounce of it. He studied him quietly for a beat.
“Well, that’s what happens when you eat too much ice cream.”
Jax froze.
The reaction was immediate, the way his body stiffened, the way his eyes snapped to Kinger’s face, pupils shrinking just enough to reveal the spike of panic. His breath caught in his throat, as though the words hit harder than they should have.
He went utterly still.
And that was where the façade finally cracked.
“Oh geeze, greaaaat, we’re doing this now”
Jax snapped, voice wobbling just enough to betray him if someone listened closely. He shoved his blanket off like it offended him just by touching him.
“Because I want a midnight snack, suddenly everyone's barging into my room for an intervention? Seriously? You think I’m in here what—crying? All sad and boohoo, poor me? Who do you think I am, Gangle? That's hilarious!”
The sarcasm came out too sharp, like he was trying to slam a door that was already splintered. His nose scrunched and he kept blinking too fast, like that would stop the burning in his eyes.
Kinger didn’t move. No folding of arms or disappointed sigh. He just stood with the patience of someone who’d lived long enough to recognize a meltdown when he saw one.
Jax’s theatrics didn’t intimidate him. It didn’t even irritate him. He’d seen far worse coping mechanisms than a sarcastic kid trying to scare off concern.
So he let him rant.
“Seriously, what is it with you people?” Jax kept going, sniffling between attempts at outrage. “I can’t even eat ice cream without it turning into some charity sob-story. Maybe I was just hungry. Maybe I like ice cream! Maybe I like a lot of ice cream. Shocker, right?”
Kinger remained silent.
Jax’s foot tapped against the mattress. His breathing hitched, then he raised his voice again, desperate to fill the space before the silence swallowed him whole.
“And if I was crying—which I wasn’t, by the way—what, I’m not allowed a breakdown? Is that it? You gonna put it on the chore chart? ‘Jax cried today, everyone do a group hug intervention!’ ” He mock-wiped at his eyes in a dramatic gesture.
“Newsflash, I don’t need babysitting. I don’t need a pep talk. I’m fine. Better than fine. Stellar. Amazing! On cloud—.... Whatever.”
Kinger stayed quiet through the whole tirade, his face unreadable. He wasn’t feeding the fire. He was letting Jax burn it out.
Jax huffed, frustrated that the silence wasn’t cracking. He wanted pushback. A reaction. Something to fight so he didn’t have to face the real reason he’d downed half a tub of ice cream alone in the dark.
He ran out of steam all at once, shoulders deflating. His next words came smaller, thinner.
“…You think I’m pathetic or something?”
Kinger’s head tilted, not exactly judging.
Jax clenched his jaw and looked away, voice dropping to a mutter. “I’m not— It’s not like—I’ve handled worse. So today was just… whatever.”
He pulled his legs in, curling around his pillow like a shield. The tissue box toppled slightly with the movement, spilling out a few used ones. He glared at them like they personally betrayed him.
“It’s stupid anyway, why do you care? I'm just waiting for....” he said, voice cracking on the last syllable.
"... It's not like anyone's waiting on me now."
There it was.
Kinger’s expression didn’t change much, but something in his gaze sharpened.
Jax didn’t notice. He was too busy trying to swallow down the thickness in his throat.
Kinger stepped closer, not looming, just closing the distance enough to show he wasn’t going to let that line pass unaddressed.
“No one's waiting on you now?” he repeated quietly in a neutral tone, but not dismissive.
Jax froze, eyes widening slightly. His voice came out too quick, too defensive.
“I didn’t mean like—” He swallowed, eyes darting away. “Big deal, s'nothing new.”
And suddenly, everything threaded together.
The date, Jax eating half the ice cream, the dark room, the tissues, the refusal to sleep, the meltdown disguised as attitude.
Kinger inhaled slowly. He felt the landing of truth settle heavy in his chest.
Ribbit.
The same day as Queenie.
The frog's was a couple years after her, enough time that he hadn't even put two and two together
Kinger spoke for the first time in several minutes.
“…It was the same day for you, wasn’t it?”
Jax’s breath caught.
"Same... day?"
The walls he’d been kicking up between them didn’t crumble, not yet. But they shook.
And for the first time that night, Jax didn’t have a comeback.
Kinger didn’t press him. He just let the weight of the question hang in the air between them for a moment, long enough for Jax to feel seen, but not trapped.
Then Kinger exhaled, tired and quiet. He gave a small nod, more to himself than to Jax, and turned for the door and he was gone with a soft click.
Jax stared at the door, stunned. For a heartbeat, relief rushed in. Good, it was over. Kinger wasn’t going to push. Perfect. That’s what Jax wanted.
…Right?
Silence swallowed the room again, and Jax’s thoughts immediately started spiraling, filling every inch of the space Kinger had left behind.
He left.
Well, obviously. Why would he stay? Jax practically forced him out with that attitude. That’s what he wanted. Less people sticking around. Less to lose, less to miss.
Except his stomach twisted in a way that didn’t match the script he’d memorized for most of his life.
Kinger got sick of him. He had to. That’s what that sigh meant, right? That tired, fed-up, I can’t deal with this right now kind of sigh.
It's fine it was all in his mind.
Still… his throat burned.
Pathetic. Was that really his big cry for help? Was he actually expecting someone to see the sticky note and magically care?
He ran a hand through his hair, a disgusted laugh coursing through hjm.
He didn’t even know what he wanted Kinger to say. But leaving like that, calm and quiet, felt like an answer anyway: I can’t do this with you.
Jax hugged his pillow, trying to smother the thoughts, but they grew louder.
You did this to yourself.
Stop thinking. Stop—
A metallic jingle snapped him out of it.
Jax’s ears perked. Keys. Not house keys, they were heavier. Car keys.
His door cracked open again.
Kinger reappeared, blanket now gone, jacket thrown over his shoulders. His expression hadn’t softened into pity, thank god, but there was something settled and certain in his eyes.
He held up the keys with a little shake, voice low but clear.
“I’m taking you out for ice cream.”
Jax blinked. “What.”
“Get dressed,” Kinger added simply. “Put your shoes on, wear a jacket too."
Jax stared, brain short-circuiting. That… wasn’t the reaction he expected. At all.
Ice cream.
Jax opened his mouth, scrambled for sarcasm, found nothing but static. “You—you’re serious? It’s almost four in the morning.”
“Yeah,” Kinger replied. “That's good, there wont be a line.”
Jax swallowed. His chest tightened with something unfamiliar.
“But… why?”
Kinger gave him a look that was painfully straightforward. “Because you need it.”
Jax didn’t trust his voice, so he just nodded.
The convenience store’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, sharp enough to sting tired eyes.
The automatic door announced them with a half-hearted ding, and the teenager behind the counter didn’t bother looking up from his phone.
Just a flat, “Welcome,” like he regretted saying it the moment it left his mouth.
Jax shoved his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, shoulders up near his ears as if the bright lights hurt.
Kinger walked with the unhurried steps of a man who’d lived through worse than a graveyard-shift convenience store.
They stopped at the freezer aisle. Frost clouded the glass in uneven patches, products stacked behind it like cold trophies.
Kinger slid the door open, the hinge giving a complaining squeal. He rummaged with purpose, then pulled out a familiar box.
He held up a rocket pop and gave it a little shake. Red, white, blue, layered like a garish toothpaste ad.
Without ceremony, he placed it in Jax’s hand. “This is your favorite, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t a jab. Just a quiet acknowledgement.
Jax felt heat crawl up the back of his neck anyway. He cleared his throat, regretted it instantly, given how raw it sounded. and mumbled, “...Yeah. Whatever.”
He accepted it like it was more fragile than frozen sugar.
Kinger turned to close the freezer, but Jax’s gaze lingered.
The cold air brushed his face. He hesitated, longer than necessary. Then, with a subdued sort of certainty, he reached in and picked out a rocky road drumstick.
He looked at it for a second too long, then nudged it toward Kinger. “This is—uh. Y’know.”
Kinger blinked, surprised. Jax didn’t look directly at him, just held it out, expression flat to hide the intention behind the gesture.
Kinger took it with a small nod. “Thank you.”
The cashier beeped the items through without lifting his head. Bags weren’t even offered.
Change was handed over like it was an inconvenience. The automatic door parted again with a dull whoosh and a second beep as the two stepped into the cold blue hours of almost morning.
The parking lot was empty except for a flickering lamp and the distant hum of a street sweeper somewhere down the block. Their breath fogged faintly in the chill.
Jax hunched deeper into his hoodie and sniffed, more congested than he wanted to admit.
Kinger unwrapped his cone first. The crisp crackle of the paper sounded too loud in the quiet.
“You ever wonder,” Kinger started, voice low enough that it didn’t invade the moment, “How you end up with certain favorites?”
Jax shrugged, pretending to focus on peeling the wrapper off his rocket pop. “I dunno. You like it, you eat it. S'that deep enough for you?”
Kinger huffed an amused sound, not quite a laugh, but close. “Maybe. But mine’s got a story behind it.”
He leaned lightly against the side of his car, thumb tracing the waffle cone through the wrapper.
“Rocky road was… ours.” His tone shifted.
“When my wife and I started seeing each other, our families weren’t exactly thrilled. I was—” he waved his free hand vaguely, “—well, a white man. And she was… vibrant, colorful, kind, and loud in all the ways I wasn’t allowed to be.”
Jax didn’t interrupt. Didn’t crack a joke. He just listened.
“Queenie... she liked hot cocoa, full of chocolate chips and marshmallows. I always kept nuts on hand as a snack. One day, we found this ice cream that had all of it.”
Kinger gave a small smile at the memory.
“We shared one on a bench outside a shop, and it felt like the whole world backed off for ten minutes. Eventually, when our families saw us together they came around.”
He finally took a bite of the cone. The chocolate cracked softly.
Silence sat between them, not uncomfortable. Jax shifted his rocket pop to the other hand, gripping it loosely. The colors were bold under the streetlamp, red, white, blue. Too cheerful for the hour.
Kinger looked at him with that same level, patient expression. “What about you? Why rocket pops?”
Jax’s jaw tightened. The question was simple. The answer wasn’t.
He stared at the popsicle like it might offer him a cue card. His brain scrambled for something casual, throwaway, sarcastic, anything to dodge the weight of the moment, but nothing came out.
He scraped his thumb over the wrapper. “...I dunno.”
And it was the truth, or close enough to it.
Kinger didn’t push. He didn’t press or probe. He just watched him for a moment and nodded, like the non-answer was something he understood all too well.
Kinger watched him from the corner of his eye, not intrusively, just enough to notice the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he stood like someone bracing for impact.
The colors weren’t random. He was sure of it. Bright, bold, impossible to ignore, like a certain someone who had crash-landed into all their lives and set his orbit spinning off-kilter. Someone Jax pretended not to watch.
He kept that thought to himself. Saying it out loud would spook him.
Jax sniffled once, swallowed hard. The question lingered, unfinished in the air, and he could feel it demanding something he really didn’t want to hand over.
He stared at the popsicle again. Three stripes. Clean. Simple. No blending. No overlap. Everything separated so nothing bled into the other.
He spoke without looking up.
“Maybe… it’s easy.”
Kinger didn’t move.
Jax licked the red tip, expression unreadable. “Tastes the same every time. It doesn’t… change on you.”
There it was, the real answer peeking through the cracks.
He exhaled slowly, breath fogging in the cold. Voice nearly lost to the empty parking lot:
“In any case, there's no green in it.”
He didn’t elaborate.
Jax froze then finally took a bite. The cold wasn’t the thing making his eyes sting.