He blacked out. He lost time. There's texts on his phone, conversations he can't recall, spanning days he doesn't remember, and he can't remember anything beyond some overwhelming feeling of nothingness, which is a total fucking contradiction, right? How can you feel nothing, and experience it, and remember it, as a concept in its own right, instead of as the absence of something else?

He woke up in an outfit he's never seen before, a tattered suit jacket over a skeleton shirt, and it feels so wrong, he has to peel it off before he can even see Bash. He shoves it under the couch and sifts through a pile of clothes that must've come from the Spirit Halloween, before all the unfamiliarity is too overwhelming, and he reaches for the nearest things that spark any recognition. Cozy Tommy Bahama pajama pants, and a sweatshirt he'd cut up into a crop top and drew all over in markers a couple days ago.

(Weeks ago, he realizes.)

He doesn't bother to wipe the tears from his face, and he probably looks like a fucking mess, anyway, having cried so much he felt like he was gonna puke. He just drifts in the direction of Bash's room, moving with a dazed sort of purpose, like a ghost going through the motions of a half-remembered life.

If Bash is still in his bed, that's where Jeff will head, to curl up beside him with a desperate need for warmth and contact. He doesn't say anything yet, because if he opens his mouth, he's not sure he'll be able to hold it together, to get through a single goddamn word without bawling.

He has no idea what happened. Again. It's a terrible, familiar fucking nightmare.