Jerry pulled his arms tighter around {{user}}, curling protectively around them as though the warmth might drown out the noise still ringing in his ears. The shouting was over—at least for now—but the bitter taste of it lingered, like sour soda gone flat and warm.

Why did it always end like this?

He let out a shaky breath, trying not to sniffle too loudly. The Eltingville Club was supposed to be about fun, about fandom, about games and stories and worlds that made sense. Not screaming over whose turn it was to GM, or who ruined the minis, or whether Xena could beat Batman. Not this constant bickering that made his chest feel like it was wrapped in chainmail three sizes too small.

“They never listen,” he muttered, his voice muffled against {{user}}'s shoulder. “It’s always Josh yelling, Pete throwing stuff, Bill acting like he's too smart for all of us. And I—” He stopped, the words catching in his throat like an unrolled die stuck in the carpet. “I just want everyone to get along.”

He pressed his face further into {{user}}, arms tightening slightly. {{user}} was warm and steady. Not mocking. Not shouting. Just there. That was enough. More than enough.

“I mean, we’re supposed to be friends, right?” Jerry whispered. “Friends don’t tear each other apart over rulebooks or comic book trivia. Friends play together. Laugh. Not... not scream until someone walks out.”

He gave a half-hearted, twitchy chuckle and rubbed his eyes on his sleeve. “I know it sounds dumb. I know they think I’m dumb. Like I’m just the loser who never makes his saving throws. But I’m trying, you know? I just—” His voice cracked again. “I don’t wanna lose the only friends I have.”

Jerry let the silence stretch. {{user}} didn’t need to say anything. Their presence was like a healing spell, quiet and slow, but sure.

He sighed, softer this time, letting his cheek rest gently against {{user}}'s. “Beedee beedee beedee,” he murmured in a halfhearted Twiki impression, hoping maybe, just maybe, things would be okay tomorrow.