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Caleb Murphy | Chapter ii

Her voice is heavy, heavier than it’s been in ages. She takes more breaks than usual, she’s hesitant to engage in conversation, but she’s still the one keeping it going. His mother has never been like that and it’s twisting and turning his stomach at five hundred miles per hour.

‘Caleb, I need to tell you something very serious’ she finally speaks, abruptly dropping whatever they were chitchatting before and he almost claws at the edge of his bed for balance. Whatever it is she’s going to tell him, he already knows it’s no good. ‘I’m really sorry… I am so sorry I haven’t told you yet, I just…’ and now she’s trying to speak through her tears, Caleb can she her so crystal clear, holding the phone to her cheek with a firm hand while the other is messing with her lower lip, pinching and twisting it while trying to find her words and her voice to carry on. It’s killing not to be able to hold her. ‘Caleb, Grandma Luma has passed away… She died two days ago… I’m so sorry, Caleb.’

He knew it was going to be bad news, but somehow it still shatters him. Caleb blinks once, and then twice, and then a couple times more and clears his throat and checks over his shoulder if Indra is over there and is the kettle still on the stove? ‘W-What do you mean she passed away?’ the question bursts out of his mouth with childlike ignorance and as stupid as it may sound it’s the truth. It has never occurred to Caleb before that his grandmother would ever die, it almost felt like he questioned her ability to close her eyes and never open them ever again.

‘I’m so sorry, baby, I really should have told you when it happened but… I couldn’t’ and then she sighs, a sigh so deep he hasn’t heard anything like it in years. In all the years since his father passed away. ‘I know how close the two of you were… I just want you to know she died peacefully. No pain… We did everything we could but her body was too weak to keep on fighting.’

Caleb nods for a while but there is nobody to see him. He’s frowning, biting at his lower lip, his mind is working so fast he’s completely awake and alert now. ‘When’s the ceremony?’ he asks placing the phone between his cheek and shoulder while reaching for his laptop at the foot of his bed.

It’s as if she knows what he’s thinking, like she’s already read the script to their conversation and never gave Caleb the chance to practice his lines. ‘Tomorrow.’ The word is heavy and faithful like a condemnation, it sinks in with the weigh of an anchor pulling a ferry full of joyful tourists safely to the shore. He’s dumbfounded and a vortex opens right up in his stomach and for a split second he wants to make himself feel angry or betrayed but he’s not sure how to handle any feelings now.

‘Why didn’t you tell me when it happened?’

‘Because I didn’t want you to put your life on hold, Caleb. You’re a smart and successful young man and you have to keep looking forward. You’ve experienced loss too early on and I don’t want it to chase you all your life’ his mother speaks, and her voice isn’t trembling anymore. Instead, there’s a renewed force to carry things all by herself like she used to before she met Atticus, although back then Luma was younger and stronger and alive, and it strikes him that now, more than ever, she’s the protecting mother figure he never found in his friends’ parents. ‘We have managed to organize things on our own. It’s alright, I know Luma would have hated to interrupt you and your sister’s lives, especially from such a long distance.’

‘But will you be okay?’ Caleb is for the first time on the verge of tears. For the first time in so long, his voice isn’t all that deep and he’s not that straight-faced anymore. He would do anything for his mother’s hug, to hold her hand, to rest his head on her lap like he did as a child and just drift away into careless dreams of much idler things.

‘Oh, baby…’ she exhales, because she knows exactly the look on his face, and her heart is breaking for him just as much as his own is aching for all the loneliness that was in store for her from now on. ‘Of course I will be okay… We’ve got friends, and our lovely neighbours, and I promised mam I would join the church choir, I have plenty of things to do! Don’t worry about me, okay? I love you and I want all the best things in the world for you, and I understand you couldn’t find them here. I do.’

 When he finally hangs up, his eyes are a constellation of bright pink veins almost doodled around his bright blue orbs. There’s barely any life left in his gaze, aimlessly analysing the objects around his own house like he is merely a visitor in passing. It feels strange for him, the day has taken such a sudden turn and frankly, Caleb hasn’t been this messed up in too long to remember how to deal with it. Maybe he never knew the key to coping with grief, but then again, Luma was the one to take care of his heart when Atticus was no longer there. And now, what?

The apartment is dead quiet. Unsurprisingly so, he thinks to himself, but then the additional set of shoes by the entrance remind him he’s no longer alone. Her door is left slightly ajar, it may have opened during the night because of the windows he’d left open, or maybe she just went to the bathroom. And with each step closer to that doorframe, the more it feels like it’s not his room anymore – his study, with his books, with his days and months of walking around between those walls of books stacked on other piles of books trying to find the right words or rehearsing speeches, all that history now feel like just that: a collection of distant realities belonging to a dawned upon era.

She’s still sleeping. With her arms around one of the pillows and her head carefully placed on the other, she hardly resembles the Olivia he’d carried home morbidly drunk just a few days past. Her face is peaceful, white and balanced and there’s not a thing in the world tormenting her dreams. Still and quiet and curled up like a child, one bare shoulder shining in the morning sun. Thanks god she can’t see him, not like this.

 It takes a while to figure out where the building anger is coming from but he finally realises his back is aching, he’s been curled up in the most ridiculous position for the past three hours now and it feels like his spine might break through his skin and assume a more decent posture without him. It’s only then that Caleb takes a moment to stretch, blinking so hard he can see fireworks going off across the blackness of his closed eyelids. What time is it? Has everyone gone by now?

‘Holy sh-t’ he mutters, hands helplessly dropping in his lap and pulling the headphones out of his ears in the process. It’s a quarter to nine. He’s been in his office for a total of almost twelve hours, he hasn’t eaten a thing since breakfast and he can’t remember seeing anyone all day. Has anyone tried to talk to him? He wouldn’t know, and shame starts biting at his ankles and slowly building his way up. The entire office seems dark from what he can see behind the half-frosted glass walls separating him from the rest of the team. God, he needs a drink really bad, and it’s not water that could quench this sinking feeling of having no idea where his life is going, but maybe something stronger. He needs something to knock some sense into him and make him go home, Indra must be so impatient to see him, it’s unlike him to leave her alone for so long. The moment Olivia’s sleeping face comes back to mind he knows it’s definitely whiskey he’s looking for.

It occurs to him how stiff his body has been feeling only when he gets up and hears all his joints cracking one after another, almost weakened by his sudden decision to move for the first time in the past few hours. Caleb’s headed for the small coffee table he sometimes has meetings at, but is stopped halfway by what seems like the dark silhouette of someone sitting at their desk, a small light mimicking an aura around their head. For a wild moment the possibility of an intruder crosses his hazy mind, because everyone at Velocity knows six o’clock is the time to go home unless otherwise announced through a company email, and yet he can’t really convince himself a burglary is going on – whoever the supposed thief may be is too still to actually be malicious.  

So he goes on to pour himself a generous amount of whiskey in one of those glasses the cleaner had placed upside down on a hideous tray he’s been hating for the past six days, and then heads over to his door, opening it to an unexpected wave of cooler, more breathable air. Sh-t, he really needed to open his own windows now. It takes a while to make his eyes focus on whoever it was sitting at their desk at almost nine in the evening, but soon enough a small smirk settles on his lips and the next thing he knows, he’s blowing a whistle.

She’s startled, yet an amused look immediately covers her entire face as she turns around in her chair to face him. ‘Well hello there, caveman’ she jokes before getting up, stretching her own arms much like he did just a few minutes earlier. ‘You look like c.rap, how long have you been in there?’

‘I think maybe twelve hours? I’m a work addict, you know me’ he replies with a relaxed smile, taking a large gulp of the fiery liquid turning his insides alive again after a day-long shutdown.

‘You should get a life, Murphy. Or a girlfriend’ Rita speaks with that striking confidence he’s always liked in her, ever since they were first introduced in college.

‘Look who’s talking. Why’re you here?’

She pokes the inside of her cheek with her tongue before crossing her arms against her chest. ‘Well, I had some errands to run earlier today so I though I might as well just come in later.’ And then she steps closer, and closer, until she’s facing him from a reasonable distance, her eyes lingering on his, like she’s about to uncover the truth and call him out, and she opens her mouth to say something and he’s convinced she’s going to ask exactly what he’s not going to tell her, but instead the most casual ‘Is that whiskey right there in your hand?’ comes out of those bright-red painted lips and they both smirk at one another because they’ve known each other for too long to fool around.

 He doesn’t remember the full sequence of events now that he’s pulling his jeans back on, but she’s still bare and still laying on his desk lighting a cheeky cigarette because she, of all people in Velocity, knows he’s deactivated his fire alarm months and months ago so he could channel his anger or stress in emptying packs of white Marlboros. There’s so much cleaning up to do, but he honestly can’t be asked to gather everything from the floor and it doesn’t feel like time is moving anymore so he just sighs and makes his way to his desk and sits down on his chair, stealing the pack away from her fingers and lighting his own cigarette. ‘Well that was unexpected.’

‘You can’t say you’re disappointed though’ she says and turns to the side, balancing her weigh on her sharp elbow and god, he could paint her if only he could find the words to later explain to the world it’s not at all what they may think and neither he can explain why this happened and why it happened in the past but he could cross his heart it never meant anything. ‘It’s just a means of stress relief’ she told him when they first did it amid editing their dissertations in their final year at university. Simply that and never anything more.

It’s maybe an entire half hour until she finishes smoking and gets up from the desk, stepping around the things scattered on the floor like she’s making her way along field mines. ‘We should go get a drink or something, don’t you think?’ Rita offers, arms reaching behind her back to fasten her bra and moves on to thighs without waiting for his reaction. ‘Just a pub or something, I’m not feeling the clubs right now.’

‘I’ve got to get home’ Caleb finds himself saying out loud, despite having rehearsed his lines of approval in his head for the past ten seconds. And sure enough, she’s halfway through buttoning her blouse when she hears those words, and she just stops and turns around.

‘Why? You just fxcked me on your bloody desk and now you have to go home?’ Rita strikes back, and she’s got a point and he wishes he could agree with her and just say yeah, to hell with it all, why not hit the pubs for the night? But his mind won’t cling to the idea, no matter how hard he tries.

‘It’s Indra, I’ve been here all day and she’s not used to not seeing me for this long’ he comes up with a reasonable enough excuse which Rita seems to buy, because she’s back to getting dressed again, collecting her items from the floor with calculated precision. ‘But we could always have some drinks at mine.’

 They reach his dark staircase with only a quarter of whiskey left in the bottle he’s taken from his office on the way out, which they carefully pass back and forth away from the eyes of passers-by or possible officers patrolling around. Rita is laughing a lot and she’s loud and she says she’s not tired at all and will probably leave by dawn and it’s then that Caleb realises he should have told her about Olivia. Is she still at his place? She must be, and she’s probably expecting him, or wondering if that’s his thing, leaving before she wakes and returning after she’d passed out, and he wants to text her to tell her his coming home but he’s no obligation to do so, or a reason for that matter, so they just keep on climbing the stairs one flight at a time.

 The door’s locked just once, a sign that someone is inside. Caleb’s instructed Olivia to close the door twice if she ever felt like venturing around town, and she looks like the type of person who’d be careful to go by the house rules at least for a while. As they step in, Indra sprints to the entrance and Rita’s laugh echoes through the house – if Olivia was asleep, then this was definitely going to wake her. It’s too late for Caleb to prevent Rita, tell her about his guest and explain the weird circumstances, because her face goes completely blank in a millisecond and he just knows it’s worth turning around.

When he does, a barefoot version of Olivia is standing right behind him, pyjamas and facemask and cup of tea in hand, and she’s just as flabbergasted as Rita is, and Caleb himself too. A brief silence follows, enough for her to say hi or introduce herself or make any kind of remark about how unexpected this whole encounter is, but her lips are sealed and eyes remain just as wide until she turns around on her heels and heads back to her room with the speed of light. Rita doesn’t say anything for a while. Indra’s wagging her tail around her and begging for attention, but her eyes keep staring at the empty space where Olivia has been standing just moments earlier. And Caleb is about to say something, but she turns her head towards him and faces him with those deep dark eyes pinned right at his own, and a small smile is pulling up the left corner of her mouth but he can tell it’s not amusement, but rather intrigue that fuels it. ‘You’re a man of many mysteries, Caleb’ she says and turns right around, opening the door he’s barely just closed, making her way out and into the night.

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Part Two  | Ziggy Damien Johnson-Collins

They’re out again, they always are, it seems as if each night spent inside is a night wasted, a night of doom and sadness, a night closer to being old and born and dying.

The club is overcrowded and hot and humid for whatever reason and the lasers are blinding him. Richie still hasn't started his gig, giving this other guy Damien has never seen before the time of his life, playing music for a shitload of people who aren't even close to listening but are glad to pretend so anyway. 

  It's his fifth White Russian and every gulp of it feels closer to the regret he'll be feeling in the morning, but he carries on almost stubbornly. Maybe things will become interesting. Maybe Sara and Richie will come out of the toilet and he'll be ready to take the stage and start his DJ set, two hours later than scheduled. Maybe Mitch could finally find one girl to at least see for a whole week, without having Damien wingmaning or supervising him at all times. Maybe he could just be home, be somewhere else, be in a place where things are quiet and have meaning. A place that feels like his grandfather's study room used to.   He downs the drinks like he's competing the bartender. The stinging, the fiery liquid, the bitterness, none of these seem to take him aback, his face is plain as ever, occasionally frowning from the stupid light designs, but he's annoyingly sober, no matter how much he tries. The bartender sees him, gives him a small understanding smile, like they've made a secret pact or something, and pours a sixth drink. 'Here you go, this one's on me' he says and Damien feels disgusted for a second. He doesn't need someone else paying his drinks and he's not some pathetic act begging sympathy from clubs staff. He stares at the drink and finishes his own, headset on not even touching the glass he's just received.   'Aye, Ziggy!' Richie is yelling his lungs out over the music and he still wouldn't have been able to hear his friend, had he not been inches away from his ear. He turns around but before he can say anything, Damien's eyes land on something other than his best friend. A girl.   She's frowning and doesn't really look like she's convinced she belongs here, her hair is long and dark and it looks like velvet curtains falling down her shoulders, Richie's arm is wrapped around them in an attempt at being friendly but he's hardly making his point, and there's Sara, smiling hopefully at Damien, more or less begging for a few more minutes alone with Richie. 'Have you met, um.... What's you name again, darling? Was it Hannah? Ziggy, this is Hannah, gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous, these cheerleaders are going to be the death of me' he then places a sloppy kiss on her temple and laughs to himself, turning around to have Sara's arms crawling around his body. God, are those two ever apart?   She's standing before him and it feels like one of them might have to start the conversation, but Damien's so bad at it. A few moments pass, her eyes are venturing around the room and it occurs to him he might as well try, there's a free drink on the bar waiting to be served.   'Nice to meet you, Hannah' he begins, and there it is again, that diplomatic shield he'd inherited in the deepest crooks of his DNA. 'Would you like something to drink, I just ordered this White Russian but really, you can have it' he offers, and searches for her eyes, although he's pretty sure someone sometime in her life has told her getting drinks from strangers could get you killed. Damien should have been long dead by now, following the rule.

It’s a matter of seconds but really, it much rather feels like ages, standing there stupidly in front of a girl he’s never seen before waiting for her to either accept or decline his drink and come to think of it, he hasn’t been in such position in a long long time. It’s usually girls who make him buy them drinks in the first place, he hasn’t been refused by anyone in ages and for a split second he’s feeling even worse about it — what kind of living is his?   ‘Yeah, sure, why not’ she surprisingly accepts, and it takes a full moment for Damien to convince himself she really did say that and it wasn’t just the music and the loud noise of Sara and Richie making out in the close vicinity. ‘And I’m Charlotte, by the way. Not Hannah’ she adds, and it involuntarily sends a chuckle to Damien’s lips.   ‘So high up already, isn’t he?’ It’s rhetorical, he’s turning around now to grab for the drink and when his eyes find her again, there’s something too familiar with her. He can’t really pinpoint what exactly it is that feels relatable, almost, maybe the uncertainty in her pose or the way her eyes wonder around, probably convincing herself there was hope with this place, if given a chance. How he wanted to tell her the optimism wasn’t gonna help much.   ‘So, are you and Richie friends?’ Charlotte asks upon receiving her drink and Damien’s hands slide back into the pocket of his jeans, a small sideways smile balanced on his lips as he shrugged a bit.   ‘I guess you could say so, we’ve known each other for too long, really’ he replied simply, eyes slowly gliding from her standing silhouette to Richie, who was now gulping down the last remains of a premium whiskey bottle, with Sara wrapped around his arm like a lucky charm. ‘What about you? What brought you to this odd place?’   Damien hates small talk and he’s naturally bad at it. He’s bad at it the way sweaty overweight high school dropouts are bad at looking at paintings and producing deep, meaningful analysis. He’s born bad at small talk and yet he’s been trained at it like a professional athlete, the diplomatic championship of giving people bull and happily taking theirs for minutes on end until either you or the other went to get another round of drinks because they felt million times better than reality.

She takes her time with providing an answer and it's an interesting concept, actually wondering if the person before you is going to answer at all, instead of just throwing themselves at you in an instant, as soon as they learn your full name. And suddenly, this intrigues him - who is this girl? Is he supposed to know her? He's never seen her around, her face looks nothing familiar and yet, there is something in her eyes maybe that hints at some sort of defiance he hasn't seen in many people.   She finally replies and it comes out as a muted mouth letting out sounds he couldn't hear, but instead of waiting for him to come closer and listen up, she does. 'Sara' Charlotte repeats, and he can't tell whether the slight crook in her voice is because of screaming above the music or if it's just the way she sounds on an everyday basis, but it's pleasant, surprisingly so. Not the typical high pitched mess he so often finds himself surrounded by. 'She can be very persuasive' she finally adds and takes a step backward, eyes darting to her drink and focusing on it like it's something worthwhile.   'How come I've never seen you before? Are you from around here?' Damien asks, and before he knows it, his hand is extended, waiting for a casual shake. 'I'm Ziggy, by the way. Richie didn't mess that one up' he spoke, and a sideways smirk followed, that devilish look he involuntarily made and successfully wet so many girls without him even understanding why.

Charlotte returns the shake. It’s a firm one, like she means it, the type of handshake he appreciates in people. ‘Kind of’ she speaks, her olive skin still startling dark in comparison with his ghostly one. ‘I moved here so I can go to college.’   Their hands fall apart in sync and the music takes over again. It’s loud and obnoxious and it’s getting on his nerves but Richie’s waving at him something like he’s about to go on stage and finally have his DJ gig after ages of postponing. Before he even knows it, his hand reaches for her back, barely touching it but just enough to direct her towards the dark staircase leading to the backstage area, he’s been there times and times before he can do the full circuit eyes closed.   Backstage is always quieter for some reason. Considerably less people and considerably more alcohol, a bunch of staff members scrolling through Facebook absentmindedly, waiting for the whole thing to be over and have a good drink with the boys, some girls who’ve lost their way being hopeful about meeting any celebrity at all, and the people who’re actually with the band. Which was, at the moment, just Sara, Mitch, Charlotte, a fee tech guys and Damien.   ‘So what’re you studying, then?’ He asks casually after pouring himself some dry gin in a whiskey glass, in lack of better options. ‘It’s postgraduate, right?’ He carries on, taken aback by the surprising flow of small talk.

'No, I'm a junior' she replies, a victorious smile settled on her lips for a few seconds before she carries on. 'Pre-med, just like Sara.' He recognizes this triumph, he's seen it in Hannah so many times, he's seen it in other girls he mistakenly deemed older because all the piled up makeup and the little show they were putting up. It wasn't the same with Charlotte or Hannah, though, and this is what really makes this moment feel somewhat familiar: with these two, the triumph itself lies in not being placed in a box they don't want to identify with.   He's known Sara was doing premed ever since he first met her and yet, it never failed to surprise him that someone like her was getting a degree or getting it in Pre-med, of all things. Never knew Richie was the pre-med type of guy either. 'And you're in the cheer-leading team? Or did Richie just make that up?' Damien proceeded, his pale fingers wrapped around the glass of gin, while the other made its way comfortably to the pocket of his jeans. He couldn't tell why exactly, but this was entertaining, to a certain extent - sure, a bit uncomfortable and it was still very much small talk, but not half as painful as some of the black tie events he had to attend as a diplomat's son. Oddly enough, this was easy to him, unexpectedly so.   'Aye, lovebirds' Richie called out and he was so obviously joking that Damien wasn't even planning on saying anything about how he was wrong. 'You better not miss my gig, clear?' he has approached them now, his last words slurred out as his hand wrapped around Damien's, a bro hug they never really shared, let alone in the public eye. He's eyeing Charlotte right now, and had he not been with Sara for so long, Damien would have had to slap him for trying to flirt with another girl, but surprisingly enough Richie has learnt his lesson and withdraws, only to leave Sara with a big hot kiss before hitting the stage. It takes a few seconds for him to get to the DJ booth and the crowd is insane, Damien has never known what an impact Richie has on his very niched audience.

'It’s not all fun and games y’know' she finally replies after the last trace of Richie is completely gone behind the heavy black curtains, onto the stage, and there's something in her voice that sounds a lot like fighting back, or just sheer defense. And for once, Damien is actually glad Evangelina couldn't make it to the party tonight, Charlotte's next words, 'cheerleading is a sport. Wake up at dawn, practice. Go to class. Practice. Try not to fall on your head when they throw you in the air. It’s hard work' would have been a one way ticket to a fiery debate he didn't have the time or patience for. It was hard enough having Evangelina shut up about Sara's cheerleading - not like she seemed to care much about her words anyway - Damien would have hated having to tame her with a complete stranger.   'Fair enough' he replies easily and shrugs ever so lightly, heading back to where the liquor was stashed, pouring himself another glass of gin. 'So what do you do besides cheerleading and pre-med? Do you have any free time left? It does sound like a handful of things to do' he continued, by now simply juggling with politeness and curiosity, actually enjoying his drink for the first time in too long. There was no need to hurry up, gulp it down and order the next one with the previous still dripping at the corners of his mouth, like they always did whenever they went out for parties. The desperation to get wasted as soon as possible and peel off the sinking feeling of disgust, shame, exhaustion and self-loathing.   But before they could say anything more, Damien could feel a pair of eyes and a heart beating too unsteady not to recognize. It was Mitch, and it didn't take long for him to just brush past Damien and Charlotte and head straight to the drinks, only for Damien to be thrown aback by the red line zigzagging down his upper lip.   'Yeah, you can keep staring. Apparently there was this guy waiting for her outside, fxcking as.hole could use some anger management therapy' Mitch spoke, his voice hoarser than usual, nose sniffing the blood sparkling at the base of his nostrils. 'Help me out, will you' he continued, extending his hand with a soaked up napkin full of vodka, only for Damien to be baffled again that even with a bloody nose and a failed fling, Mitch was just ready to have his try with Charlotte.   'Yeah, it's fine, let me help you' he spoke a little firmer than usual, enough for Mitch to get the message, but not obvious enough to have Charlotte suspect anything. 'By the way, this is Charlotte. She came here with Sara, but obviously she got abandoned' Damien introduced her, surprisingly flashing one of his most charismatic smiles at her as he proceeded with the formalities. 'And this is Mitch, the walking revolution.'

'Hi, Mitch' Damien hears Charlotte replying behind her and before he even looks back, he can feel a newfound smirk on her lips. And there she goes, pushing him aside with her hip like they've known each other for ages and takes the vodka napkin from Damien's hand like a professional, doing what she presumably was taught to do in pre-med. 'This is soaked in vodka. Can you please get me a dry one? And ice. Oh! And I’ll need that glass of gin of yours' Charlotte is throwing orders after orders but Damien doesn't seem to mind it. If anything, he's slightly amused at the whole scene, at how her seductive side instantly came into play, how Mitch's hands are aching to touch her hips, how she's pressing gin-soaked napkins against his nose, promising Mitch it'd sting less.   Ice. Where the fxck do you find ice in a night club so hot? Is the ice all melted inside those fancy silver buckets keeping expensive wine cool? He's clueless, he's backstage, he's feeling ridiculous, he's wondering how a girl he's only just met managed to make him feel like a fool in a place he's been a regular of for ages. It takes him a while, but he finally finds a bartender and ends up carrying far too much ice than needed, but he can't be bothered and she may as well use all of it if that's what she wants, if there's any point she needs to prove him at all. Him or Mitch, he can't really tell, as he walks back to where the two were standing and finds Mitch trying to make small talk, while Charlotte keeps shushing him off oddly tenderly.   'I do have time for other things, y’know' Charlotte speaks as if she already knows he's there, and uncontrollably a mischievous smirk is settled on Damien's lips, like he's about to tell her the game is on, whatever it may be. 'Like photography. And karaoke. And poker.'   'Poker?' Mitch chuckles his prince-charming chuckle, and licks the dried up salty blood off his lower lip. 'Then you should come over for a poker tournament, Ziggy's pretty decent, although Richie always messes up' he speaks, full-on flirting with her, and it's so obvious it makes even Damien want to cringe.   'Photography? That's interesting, I love photography' he begins, leaning against the liquor table, right next to where she's constantly dabbing gin-soaked napkins at Mitch's nose. 'Have you seen Pungovschi's latest exhibit at the United Nations Headquarters?' he asks excitedly and Mitch nods, he's trying to say something about it but the napkin keeps him from doing it, so he just goes back to nodding a few more times. 'I thought it was incredible, wasn't it? Chilling' Damien continues, this time more towards Mitch than towards Charlotte, although still waiting for her reply.

But despite Mitch’s shared enthusiasm about the exhibition, there’s suddenly something heavy hovering above the room, hanging from the ceiling like a black cloud ready to burst into torrential rain. And it comes out in the form of Charlotte’s exasperated sigh as she drops the bloodied napkin inches away from his hand. ‘I wouldn’t know’ she says, and something about her voice makes his back straighten. ‘I don’t know who that is.’   It’s not that she doesn’t know who he’s talking about — Lord knows Evangelina often couldn’t care for most of the artists he’s passionate about — but it’s the way she says it. Even Mitch has repositioned himself in a slightly defensive straight-backed, low-gazed posture Damien has seen him adopt only in rare circumstances. It’s like an ice age has taken over the backstage and for the first time in eternity, Damien doesn’t know what to say.   He’s all of a sudden uncomfortable — all his life he’s been trained at being charming and making a good impression, bearing the legacy of his entire family on his shoulders around the States, and yet he feels dumbfounded by a sudden, certainly unexpected hostility. Is it his fault? He in no way intended to offend her and yet, it seems like he’s managed to do so, but the way she’s now fretting with the bloodied napkin and unused make-do first aid components does not suggest she’s gonna have any of his justifications.   So he just shrugs. ‘Here, let me throw those away’ Damien offers, going back to his most polite and friendly display of himself ever possible, but even now he feels stupid for trying to make up for something he didn’t even think was bad. Nonetheless, he takes the dispensables from her hands and finds the nearest trash bins, all the while Mitch is rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, standing awkwardly and drunkenly in silence.   ‘Right, well, I better take Mitch off to his home. You’re more than welcome to join, we’ll just have to put him to bed’ he pauses, his hand reaching for Mitch’s shoulder and giving it a small friendly shake, ‘but then Richie and Sara will come over for an after party, so there’ll be lots more going on tonight.’ Damien finishes with his characteristic charming smile, the one that always does the trick, but is stunned to find he’s not even remotely sure it’s gonna have the same effect now, in this particular context.

And it doesn’t, not in the way he’s used to, anyway. ‘Thanks, but I promised my boyfriend that I’d swing by his place after this…’ she declines his offer and is ready to go, only her feet don’t move an inch from where she’s currently standing, and in the anticipation of her next move, Damien somehow forgets his gaze upon her, like he’s still not sure whether there’s more meaning behind her words that he should be looking for. But before he’s able to divert his stare back to Mitch, she’s looking him straight in the eye, and it’s a long, almost curious gaze, like she’s about to say something more than her actual next words. ‘It was nice meeting you’ she utters, before looking back to his friend, ‘and take care of yourself, Mitch’.

But Mitch is too busy pouring another drink he certainly isn’t supposed be having to reply in due time, so Damien is left to watch her turn around on the heels of her shoes and disappear down the dark stairs out of the backstage area, and straight into the night.

‘Bloody hell, she’s gorgeous’ Mitch slurs and it’s clearer than ever he’s way past the point of being just drunk, but he’s got a point, more or less. Charlotte really is beautiful, but it’s the kind he’s seen only rarely in women like his mother and sister, who can’t seem to be bothered with makeup, going for the effortless glow instead.

‘Do you fancy her?’ Damien simply asks, collecting his things and throwing Mitch’s at him, ready to call a cab and just go home.

‘She just fixed my nose, I don’t fall in love with nurses just like that’ his friend blabbers, but there’s something about his mischievous grin that tells Damien he might as well try his best to seduce her the next time he’s somewhat more awake.

They cab drive takes forever because after one too many drinks, Mitch hates taking turns and the way home is full of them. They stop at every single stoplight even if it’s not yet red, but in anticipation of it, and the driver does his best not to lose his patience on an otherwise seven minute journey. But they eventually get home, a quarter of an hour later, and Mitch tries his hardest to look like he’s got his shit together, but the moment he walks inside his own house, he asks where the lift is.

It takes a lot of talking and encouragement from Damien’s part for Mitch to actually attempt climbing the stairs, and when he finally reaches his bedroom, changing his clothes seems out of the question. It’s stupid and degrading and really not something enjoyable, but Damien lingers around his bed until he’s fully asleep, making sure he’s not chocking on his own vomit. Once it’s clear Mitch’s safe, Damien goes back into the kitchen.

He’s making himself yogurt and granola, at half past three in the morning. He’s dressed in his party clothes, dying for a cold shower and something to change into, standing stupidly in the middle of his friend’s kitchen. What has his life come to? What is this chaos, this lack of self-respect, this vicious circle he’s been trapped into for the longest time? How are his friends so in love with their lives if their lives was made of /this/?

It’s almost four o’clock when Richie and Sara come in, he can hear them from outside giggling and laughing and swearing and they’re so wasted they don’t even notice him in the doorway of the kitchen, they just walk straight inside and headfirst into the guest bedroom, and it’s Sara who locks the door behind her, like a silent note to Damien it’s time for him to just go home and leave them mind their own business. He hasn’t even finished his cereals but leaves straight away, before he feels like puking – he knows how Sara and Richie can get, and it’s not cute.

He reaches home at the crack of dawn and really, it is a wonderful sunrise to watch, but he’s had a long night and he’s miserable and angry at himself for having fallen in this trap again. He just wants to sleep for days, but not in the ‘oh-I’m-so-lazy’ type of way, no, he couldn’t be further from that. Damien wants to sleep for days and wake up in a place less obnoxious, less toxic, less depressing. He just wants some peace of mind, some quiet, some space to breathe and feel fine again, but there he is, unable to sleep and still not in more comfortable clothing, standing numbly in the centre of his living room, staring blankly out the window.

It’s already tomorrow and he’s already dreading it.

[atomic-r0x]

Part One | Ziggy Damien Johnson-Collins

Tonight is business as usual.

He wakes up with a dreading feeling tugging at his insides until he rolls out of bed, it’s exactly half past eight in the evening and sure as h.ell time for a glass of whiskey on rocks. He’s left his phone somewhere in the living room and he can hear its muted vibrations, he doesn’t even need to look at the screen, just knows already it’s The Sick Kids In Town – Richie come up with the group name when he was higher than every single building in Dubai and nobody has bothered to chance it later on, so it keeps sending notifications to Damien’s phone like he is some thirteen year old member of a notorious baddies gang with a curfew of eleven pm.

He ignores the phone even when the possibility of his sister trying to contact him pops up in his mind – she is a fully grown adult now and if she really needs him, she’ll come knocking the f.cking door off. The thought of him being slightly jealous at the fact that it is her first time not staying over at his place while in New York City is uncomfortable and highly unnecessary, so he shakes it off and throws three ice cubes into a glass, the type his grandfather bought him when he got this apartment, gothic engraved crystal and all.

Hannah is staying at the Ludlow Hotel, Loft 405, he knows that because she’s been considerate enough to give him the address, fully detailed and invitation-y, but he’s not into that kind of stuff. Gianni booked the room and arranged all the details and it’s their first official trip to New York and by no means is Damien interested in third wheeling the most touchy couple in human history. ‘What, aren’t you like, his wife or something?’ he asked when she told him visiting the loft in Ludlow didn’t mean invading their privacy. ‘Don’t be a fool, Dam, we’re not mom and dad’ she replied casually as ever, her fingers long and tanned and bare.

But it’s still her celebratory party and she’s still his sister and his most favourite person, so he downs his drink and strolls into the living room, hand scratching at his bare back. Twenty unread messages – fifteen of which are from the group chat, another four from Hannah, but the last one is always a surprise, for some reason. It’s Evangelina – it’s always Evangelina, isn’t it? – and the message itself can pass as absolutely anything to the untrained, foreign eye: ‘ritz central, room 786, charlotte meadow’. He doesn’t have the time to smirk to himself because a new message follows, it’s from her of course, and he can bet a thousand pounds what she’s wearing tonight – ‘bring something nice, will you? champagne or whatever’

It feels ridiculous and certainly like a waste of money, because Evangelina doesn’t even own an accommodation of any sort to begin with, she lives in one of Ludlow’s penthouses, but for some inexplicable reason she avoids banging there at all costs. She once told Damien it excited her to play the role of a different woman every once in a while, booking herself obnoxious rooms and suites in obnoxious hotels, but he can hardly believe that. Her Ludlow penthouse is very much part of her trust fund and her father’s connections, Damien really can’t be blamed for thinking it has more to do with her reputation among staff members than any other kink. Although really, poor thing, what does she think living in a hotel tells about herself anyway?

He rubs the back of his neck and closes his eyes and the image of her flashes before his shut eyelids and his insides are on fire, but not the good, groovy type – flames are eating him alive one organ at a time and he’s not protesting, not even in the least bit. He’s so tired, he could sleep for a thousand years. He is standing in the middle of his living room, half naked and in some ridiculous pants he hates and he feels like he might cry, for the first time in so fxcking long. He feels that lump in his throat and his eyes feeling a little sweaty and he’s so ready to just finally sob, let it all out there, but he doesn’t, his eyes peel open and they’re dry as ever and he’s already on his way for a second round of whiskey.

By the time he’s fully dressed and ready to go, it’s almost half past ten in the evening. He likes taking his time and anyway, if there’s anything his mother has taught him it is being fashionably late for just about anything. The kids – which is basically Mitch and Richie and Sara, more recently – will most probably skip the queue and get free entry in Black Flamingo in an hour, but that is way too early for his night-time habits. He checks his phone and considers calling Hannah, but the thought of her and Gianni having other things to do hits him like the smell of something that has gone off, unsuspected and foul and stomach twisting. It’s off to Evangelina’s, then, or better said Charlotte Meadow’s – he always found it so hard to keep up with her aliases, although she’d never asked him to – and his frame sinks down into the black leathered seats of the cab like a ten thousand ton anchor pulling a ship down into the merciless depths of endless oceans.

It’s almost eleven o’clock when the taxi driver pulls over in front of probably the most pretence-posh place he’s ever seen. Damien walks in through the main entrance and in those very few seconds it takes for him to push past the sliding doors, his back straightens, a charming subtle smile shows up, his eyes turn softer and more inviting, his overall appearance elevates so quickly that any witness might mistake it for a vision trick. This is his protective shield, the most valuable lesson ever learnt from his father, the most recognisable feature in all the men to have ever been part of his family tree – ‘it’s the Johnson curse’ his grandfather once said with a half-smile lingering on his lips, eyes emotionless before a wall of memorable meetings captured into photographs.

‘H-How can I help you?’ the concierge stutters and blushes slightly, she’s just turned around surprised by his soft voice almost whispering ‘hello’, her legs are still crossed from the twist as she sits down and regains her composure, but she still steals a look when she thinks Damien’s not watching.

‘Could you please let Miss Charlotte Meadow someone has come to visit her?’ he says ever so softly and before she can nod politely, he can catch that momentary pang of jealousy in her eyes. It was always the customers and not the staff who always had the most of life.

 He’s sweaty and panting and dying for a smoke but there’s no way these windows will ever open wide enough and he’s not some fxcking teenager so desperate to have a fag they’ll have it illegally. Evangelina is already at the makeup mirror, putting her jewellery back on although she’s otherwise so completely bare, inside out. They’re not talking, they haven’t been for a while, not since he walked into the room and she greeted him with that sultry smirk of hers that she always saves just for him.

‘What’s with that long face?’ she finally comments, eyes never once leaving the reflection in the mirror, as she’s wiping off the sweat for a fresh layer of makeup. She is so insanely beautiful and vulgar all the same, that naughty gap tooth she’s always had, those wide eyes, that rounded chest like ripe cherries, it never fails to startle Damien how something so wonderful can be so equally fxcked up rotten.

He doesn’t reply, but wraps the sheets around his hips and heads straight to the minibar, where of course he hadn’t brought her champagne – what were they, in love? Certainly not – and pours two generous glasses of gin, but he leaves hers untouched, returning to the bed holding only his glass instead. ‘You’re keeping Mitch waiting, you know?’ Damien finally speaks and as soon as the thought fills his mind, he’s nauseous again.

It’s not like be believes or cares for the so-called brocade, but it’s just basic human interaction rules they’ve been crossing for so long. Evangelina found out about Mitch’s undying desire for her ages ago and yet decided it was only fitting to have Mitch himself tell Damien the exact same thing, all drunk and angry and face fxcked up from a bar fight many months later. And even then, it never stopped between Damien and Evangelina – whatever this was, acquaintances with benefits, because she could hardly be called a friend after all, kept going fully aware of their friend’s suffering, the built-up frustration boiling inside of him every time he saw them together.

‘He’ll survive, I’m taking him to the Marriott later so he may as well have a little patience’ Evangelina speaks in perfect monotone, hands doing precise angle work on her cat eye, and the whole situation just makes Damien chuckle, if it can’t send him straight to the toilet, gagging.

‘How many hotels do you go to on a daily basis?’ he’s joking but not really, and it feels dirty to even look at her, but it’s only for a second, before he remembers how much he’d just love to stick his teeth into her flesh any time.

‘Fxck off, first of all’ it’s the first time she’s looking at him since rolling from beneath the sheets but her face is unperturbed, maybe just alluring if anything. ‘What did you want me to do? Come back hours later with another guy and have them thinking I’m some desperate night girl? Of course I booked another room, you might as well cheer for him, he gets to see prettier places than those fxcking bathrooms all the other girls are taking him to’ and then she stops, her cat eyes are done, but there’s something on her mind that just wouldn’t let her go on so she gets up, tall and naked and gorgeous, and gets her glass of gin from the minibar. ‘Sometimes I just wonder what the fxck his mom’s been doing to his head, can’t find a single girl for longer than one night. And it’s not even like he’s this weird ugly no-name guy, he just doesn’t know what women are to be honest.’

That’s a lot of talking from Evangelina’s side in the state that they’re in and had things been different, Damien might have suspected she is filling bad for Mitch or, worse, feeling actual thing for the guy, but he just shrugs and they both down their drinks and it’s time for a long cold shower.

 The club is always the same, even if the venues change. Many people packed in the darkness, an overpopulated mess eager for some friction or at least some God forsaken good time. There’s grabbing and clawing and screaming and tongue kissing and sweat and spilling drinks on the floor and on strangers and on the people you know, licking liquor off lips and hands and chests and necks and an endless queue at the toilet for any unfortunate ones who haven’t had their chance at romance and just want to fxcking piss.

He’s tired of this. The music’s so loud he can barely hear what he’s thinking and there is no way he can pull out of it now, call it an early night or anything. Hannah’s poker faced and swaying to the music although this is no music to be swaying to, Gianni’s ordering shots after shorts after shots for everyone and it’s well past four in the morning. Some people wake up at this hour, getting ready for their miserable lives doing jobs so many others find miserable, but they pay the bills and it sickens Damien to the stomach to even think about it, feel the weight of his privilege and his life wasted away with things he doesn’t really care for with people he can do without.

 It’s the crack of dawn and he’s dying. Blurry eyed and angry at everything in the world, he crawls up the stairs to his apartment, his keys are underneath the door mat and it stinks of cigarette smoke inside. His plants are dying, there’s barely anything in the fridge, and he falls dead asleep dragged by a sinking feeling.

[atomic-r0x]

Mags Rothschild | Prelude

Their feet dangling. Chewing neon pink bubble gum, they’re dressed in pristine white matching dresses. Bright red scratched knees, but from afar, they have an aura around them that gives no other choice but to adore them. Three layers of clear lip gloss and their slightly parted mouths, chewing to pass the time, hands intertwining every now and then, a perfect sync. They are so beautiful.

 Cussing in Chinese, a spit hits the ground at rocket speed. Boyish muttering and the type of slang only ridiculously rich kids now, dreaming of ghetto days.

 ‘Aye, still seeing that white dream ivy league?’ Park hasn’t been wearing a shirt for the past hour, he has it hanging from the hooks of his jeans and he’s crawling now from the bottom of the emptied swimming pool to the edge, his hands reaching for Juno’s legs, he’s making his way up, he’s inches from her mouth and there’s an annoyingly confident smirk on it.

 ‘F-ck off, Park, we’re married’ he falls back in perfect balance and his feet find the skateboard without having to search for it, he’s off doing a tour of the swimming pool in search for better words. Can’t find them so he pulls out his Zipper he got in America and lights up a cigarette rolled up in thick brown cigar paper. The fancy stuff.

 They’re ten of them. Two girls, eight boys, the Hong Kong version of a misfit clan in Hollywood series. There’s Mags and Juno, Thom who’s technically French but f-ck knows who’s been in his mom’s pants, then YumYum, whose actual name Mags never seems to remember but she gave him a hickey the summer before and in her imagination the bruise was ever-present on his throat like a stamp. Park and Billy, Juno’s alternate loverboys, though it always seemed like Park didn’t get the memo to move on, he’d been waiting for her legs to part for so long she got married in the meantime. Mags likes Billy, he lives off Cherry Dr Pepper and the best dim sum in town, he has his hair dyed a different colour every month, his dad thinks it’s gonna fall of, all of it. Then there’s Nate and Josh, identical twins with identical habits, they taste like expensive fast food and crashing their dad’s cars, their mom’s Chinese but papa’s Nigerian, they don’t know what race makes those two combined.

 The latest additions are Ling and Wei, their parents fled China because they were too rich and folks were getting suspicious, they found refuge in Hong Kong where they changed their names, brought the biggest house on the market and introduced the boys to the city’s richest’s kids, only fitting for similar friendships. Wei’s short-sighted and always horny, Ling is gay and angry and his nose is always bleeding from a fight. Neither ever got laid but act like they’ve done it times before.

 ‘F-ck me, Juno, who’ll tell him if you actually do, though?’ Park’s finished his smoke and he’s off the skateboard again, he’s doing mock dirty dancing with his shirt, pink tongue running like a blade across his pearl whites. Imaginary ecstasy, his eyes roll back at the climax.

 ‘Keep dreaming, love’ Juno half speaks, half pops her gum, and her hand searches for Mags’ again, then she shifts her position and her legs are parted for the briefest second, just enough to give Park h.ell, off again he is at doing the same old skate tricks. He hasn’t torn a pair of jeans in a decade and it’s getting boring.

 Mags watches her sister with eyes all hypnotised. There’s an ease and laziness to Juno she wishes she could steal, never return and wear it around Bryant as if her own creation. Juno could have an entire football team dying at the single accidental slip of a bra strap. Juno had her first French kiss at fifteen, second base and all.

 Six years and a half separate the two Rothschild nymphs but it feels like a lifetime. It feels like Mags has missed out on the most crucial parts of Juno’s becoming – and truthfully, that is probably right. Too busy with her childhood adventures to witness puberty, too caught up with her own growing pains to riddle out Juno’s innate sensuality and her way with boys, so now she’s stuck with being perpetually mesmerized by this creature she can’t resist nor understand, and finding a comfortable way of calling her ‘sister’.

 YumYum’s shirt is off, the hickey is gone, but there’s a new one, for a split second she wants to convince herself he fell off his skateboard and laded with his chest on a rock but how plausible is that? A pang of jealousy hits her hard in the stomach, they exchange glances briefly, she parts her legs in an attempt at what Juno’s just done but nobody witnesses it, not even her sister.

 ‘Where’d you got that from, baby boy?’ she doesn’t even have to raise her voice, YumYum has always been trash for her voice, he says hearing her say ‘baby boy’ hoarsely turns him on, but clearly, someone else is doing the job now.

 The boys all laugh and even Juno giggles a big, crossing her legs again, she’s lazily petting down the folds of her dress. It is no longer white, but she likes it that way. She hasn’t been pristine in too long anyway.

 YumYum tries to play it cool but the boys are sharks, they’re skating around him, dirty talking in Chinese and smirks so sharp they might slash tires. ‘Ain’t you gonna say, baby boy?’ Billy’s teasing, he’s using her intonation for the last part, throws a wink in Mags’ direction and she mimics catching it and stuffing it inside her bra.

 Hesitation, but it doesn’t last long, because Ling breaks the silence, he’s opening a cold can of beer as prelude to what he’s about to say. ‘YumYum’s in the process of getting a girl, but she’s virgin as fuck and he’s unconvincing.’ There’s laughter, an unopened can of beer flies over YumYum’s head and lands between Park’s skinny hands, he tears it open, gulps it down, there’s foam at the corner of his lips.

 ‘Ain’t you dating someone, doll?’ Nate asks and it’s already a declaration of let’s-get-it-down, he’s the most libidinous of the eight, he likes R&B and says his back muscles were trained while getting laid. Juno is amused, she’s biting her lips and Park is detonating a bomb inside of him, Mags is feeling betrayed.

 ‘Oh, yes I am. Don’t you know, American boys it’s what it’s all about’ she’s speaking while getting up from the edge of the emptied pool, doesn’t care for brushing the dust off her dress, her hand lands on her hip, there’s a mischievous smile spreading across her lips, ‘and some argue they fuck better than you. It’s true. C’mon, Juno, I’m bored’ their hands lock once more and her sister’s eyes are sparkling, she’s grinning. She’s amazed, but proud. Give ‘em h.ell, girl. 

[atomic-r0x]

Atlas, Eleven | We said we’d only die of lonely secrets

It only occurred to Atlas that she'd been running when she found herself in the middle of the motel's parking lot. How funny it was to think about the cold fact, that the place itself seemed to have an electricity of its own that she absolutely could not resist. Atlas tried thinking of a time when she’d walked all the way from her house to the motel.   She was walking towards the staircases she'd climbed-stumbled times and times before, often with her lips locked against Damien's, that infectious smile of his that said 'I've been waiting for you' better than any words could. Atlas shrugged those memories off and convinced herself she had good enough reasons to be once again knocking on his door, spending the last couple of stairs phrasing her words, trying her hardest not to waste his time, stutter, or dissolve before his powerful eyes.   Only, he wouldn't open the door. She tried peeking through the blinds at his window, but abandoned it quickly, settling for the tireless knock at his door, until her knuckles went fiery red, pulsating. "Damien, please..." she began, although it surprised Atlas to see she really had no idea what she was about to say next, an annoyed knock on his door filling up the gap between her words. "I know you're mad at me, I understand... I just need to know you're okay."

When the door finally opened, Atlas's mind had already done its job of projecting Damien's standing figure before her, only, the voice coming from the inside of the motel room was nothing like his, chasing the childish chimera away in an instant. It took a few seconds for her to realise it was Isabella speaking, her words causing Atlas's eyebrows to furrow in a frown. “He’s not here… And neither should you be.”   She knew Isabella couldn't stand her guts, and from a certain point of view, it only seemed fair that she should hate her this viscerally. Of all people in Isabella's life, Damien was probably the one person she held on to so badly, in hopes that Charlie's memory never faded. And Atlas couldn't blame her for wanting to protect the only living thing that could certify Charlie hadn't been just a product of her imagination, even if that meant fighting her way through life. Yet, Atlas couldn't ignore the sting of offence either, as her eyes followed the dark haired girl make her way out of Damien’s room and into the parking lot.   "Isabella, hold on" she replied, giving up on delivering a comeback for the sake of efficiency, hurrying down the stairs behind the woman she’d only recently stopped considering a girl, visibly younger and inferior than herself. "Isabella, I overheard Rick at the hospital" she said and as expected, the once dorky and petite girl before her couldn't carry on as if the name never reached her ears, but her reaction - barely visible in the night - was far from stopping her in her tracks. "Isabella," Atlas persisted, this time voice raising in frustration, stepping behind her with bulletproof determination, "stop it, Isabella, this is not about me! I think Damien's in trouble, I think he's being locked up."   The words felt heavier and louder coming out from her mind into the open, but as soon as she voiced her thoughts, the dark haired young woman seemed to have been triggered.

Bitter. She could tell the woman before her was bitter, and it was only when her own blood started boiling inside her veins that Atlas realized how neither of them was willing to give each other a chance, silently declaring war on one another. She wanted to say something, justify to Isabella why she knew what was up, but the sudden shift in position, Isabella’s back once more turned towards Atlas, the blonde’s words were cut short.   Come to think of it, Atlas always used to be the one reducing Isabella to silence before she fled town. Never intentionally, yet every other interaction was marked by a long silence, boiling blood and a cheeky kiss from Damien's cocky confidence. They were the gods and the civilians of relationships, differences so big between them Atlas could hardly ever wrap her mind around when exactly these tags had been settled, ever-defining their interactions like law. But now, ten years later with a life more complicated than teen Atlas would have ever guessed, the roles were the other way around. Now, it was Isabella making Atlas silent.   “He’s not being locked up, Atlas. He’s already in jail.” Isabella's voice was calm and collected, but somehow the words cut sharp as a knife, a twisted punishment for something Atlas had done wrong to her. "And I know that because /I/ was the one who got woken up in the middle of the night. Now, if you excuse me, I have bail to post.”   Isabella was about to turn slide inside her car, an invisible crown declaring her victory over this battle, but Atlas was far from giving up. "Wait, no" she exclaimed and maybe she should have just left it at that, but before she knew it, Atlas's hand was reaching for Isabella's arm, in an attempt to stop the woman from further distancing herself from her. "What happened? Is he in trouble? Is he okay? Did Rick do anything?" there was a cascade of questions flooding both her mind and her tongue, spitting out words as fast as she could, eyes begging for Isabella to tell her.

“I don’t know.” Isabella finally spoke out and yet there still was that hint of venom between the lines, and it might have been just Atlas, but nonetheless, the feeling that she was hiding something was tugging at her nerves. “But I do know that he’s in trouble. Why else would he be in jail in the first place? Because orange looks god damn good on him?”   Atlas wanted to scoff or roll her eyes or persuade her into telling the whole truth, but instead she just stood there, dumbfounded and lost, for the first time in forever unsure as to how to manoeuvre the woman before her.   A sigh of despair and tiredness escaped her lips as her hands gripped her own hips, in an attempt to stop the world from slipping from underneath her feet. "Isabella, I know you hate my guts right now but I need to know where Damien is" Atlas finally spoke, and although originally intending to keep it peaceful, her voice took an unexpected turn, a fresh force boiling inside her throat to the point where each word was spat out like an arrow set aflame.

It was just like a young volcano exploding for the first time, lava flying everywhere, burning to ashes every little thing that had ever upset it. And Atlas was one of those little things, a wound that kept bleeding even years after the surgery.

“I just told you where he is! He’s in jail! JAIL! Don’t you listen to a goddamn word that leaves my mouth or are you just too wrapped in your own goddamn f-cking existence!?”

Maybe Isabella had every right to be this way - after all, she was the one left to witness the aftermath of Atlas just boarding the god damnned plane and leaving without a word and yes, even now, ten years later, she regretted it. She regretted everything that happened during those last few days spent in Beaufort, and how she couldn't push herself into telling Damien what was about to happen, how she left everything behind like it was none of her business to at least attenuate the heartache. Yes, Isabella was the one to provide a shoulder to cry on of the two of them, but Atlas still couldn't prevent herself from feeling offended when Isabella screamed.   For a moment there, Atlas went completely silent, face blank before the unexpected. It took a moment to actually let everything sink in, analyse what she'd just said, and the more the last couple of words rang in her head, the more Atlas felt her cheeks burning, blood pulsating at full speed underneath her thin white skin.   "So this is what it's all about? You think I'm too caught up with myself to care? That's it?" she opened her mouth to speak, but when the first words came out, Atlas realized her voice was just as high as Isabella's was just moments before. "Listen, Isabella, my dad's in hospital, okay? I could have just as well stayed there and pitied myself but I overheard Rick and -" she stopped for a second, the sole mention of his name bringing nausea to her taste buds, "and I know that fxcking monster must have done something to Damien, it must be his fault!" Atlas stopped, discouraged by the unimpressed look on Isabella's face, and she would have ripped her skin off and handed it to her if it meant the tar black haired girl believed even a third of her words. "But fine, Isabella. Whatever. Go on and save the world, the saint you are, and let everybody know how you're finally so much better than me, if that’s what makes you feel good about yourself."   The moment her last words escaped her lips, Atlas gulped heavily, chest heaving with anger, but it was too late. She'd said words she could never take back and an odd comfort swallowed her, a new confidence springing inside her. With the lightest movement, Atlas turned to the side, going past Isabella's car and off into the distance, her steps steady and stubborn, mind figuring out the route.

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It took a hot minute for Atlas to get to the other side of the town, where the police station was, on foot, and as she walked towards the building it was becoming more and more clear she'd never been there before. Sure, young Atlas had her share of misbehaving and causing havoc, but somehow, it never got so serious for her parents to pick her up from the station and now, over ten years later, she was wondering if it had anything to do with her bond with the chief officer's daughter.   It was a late hour according to Beaufort standards, and the hallways sure did support that. Oddly green-hued walls and an on-going buzzing sound from the cheap neon lights above her head, it was enough to get one dizzy. Where to begin? She read the signs on each door carefully and yet, it felt like Damien was hiding around in the most unexpected of places.   "Miss, can I help you?" a voice rang from behind her and it was only then that she realized she was already halfway across the hallway, like a deer in the headlights.   "I'm, uhm... I'm looking for someone" she managed to utter, all of a sudden nervous and angry at herself for being so. "Damien, Damien Nichols. I think he's being detained, I need to speak to him" she added, feet making their way back to the reception desk where the officer was waiting, a slight frown on his face.   "Are you here for the bail?" the police officer asked, already searching for the papers needed in such circumstances, but her childlike shake of head made him stop in his tracks. "Then?"   "I just... I need to talk to him and settle some... Well..." Atlas stopped, eyes peering up at the man before her, begging to be allowed access.   She handed him her ID card and waited to be registered as a visitor, eyes analysing the empty walls and wondering to herself how could anyone not go mad from the sterile environment.   "Follow me, please" the officer said and, without checking if she really was walking behind him, he proceeded towards the staircase, going down at such a rapid rate Atlas was struggling to follow him. Finally, they reached what felt like the basement, green and white walls pristine and quiet, heavy-set doors with only the tiniest windows showing whoever was on the other side.   "Should there be any problem, the alarm button is inside each cell, underneath your table" the officer informed in his protocol voice and before she knew it, Atlas was faced with bright light, the whitest neon lights ever known to Beaufort.   "Damien" his name escaped her lips like a gasp, eyes squinting to make out the silhouette sitting across the room, crunched up and orange and so many miles away from her.

 "What are you doing here?" his voice echoed around the room, the words like barking dogs preventing Atlas from stepping forward. She should have seen in coming, there was no way he'd find her coming over to the police station for him heart-warming, not after what she'd done back at the Flamingo Motel only days before. You can't expect people to still love you when you've stomped on their hearts, Atlas.   Nonetheless, she took in a deep breath and stepped inside the room, closing the door behind her, like the police officer had instructed. It took all her might to look Damien in the eyes - focusing on those green gemstones rather than the fxcked up face and the bleeding and the bruising and the dirt. Focus on the everlasting flame in his eyes and not on the fear and brokenness in him.   "I... I need to see you" she finally replied, although realizing only afterwards how stupid that must have sounded. But she was at a loss for words, and not for the first time in her life, standing in front of one of the few men she'll ever get the chance to say she'd loved with all her being, wondering how the fxck things had gone this bad this quick. "It was... Rick... I was at the hospital and I overheard him and... I just, I don't know Damien, I wanted to help you."   After a few seconds of consideration, Atlas stepped inside closer, almost testing the waters to see if he was about to attack, or if it was safe for her to sit down on the visitor's chair, every muscle alert and ready to jump. Like she was a mouse in a cat's cradle.   There was a terrible itch to touch him, to wash his wounds, to put band-aids everywhere, mend his bones, kiss the palms of his hands. She was aching for closeness, for the comfort of his arms, for the soul she could rely on. But they were different people now, and getting so close to him again only meant making matters worse. So, with a heavy sigh, Atlas extended her arms across the table, palms up towards the ceiling in the most open posture she could summon. "Damien, what happened?" she finally pleaded in a whisper, voice cracking in the slightest bit.

Atlas exhaled deeply when his hands landed on the table, like she'd successfully deactivated a bomb single-handedly. She couldn't dare touch them, both out of fear of not being too close to him and out of sheer horror at the disaster his hands had turned into. His hands had always been calloused and slightly harsh across her smooth skin, but now they were straight-up open wounds, ruby red and pulsating pain. God, how she wished she could wash him, her hands slow and careful, pouring cupfuls of water over his bloody body, purifying every inch of it.   “Some asshole thought it would be a good idea to make that bastard a cop, that’s what happened" Damien replied and she immediately shivered, surprised by the harshness in his voice, his startling anger, the bottled-up feelings ready to explode if only he ever allowed them to. “Look, it’s not like it wasn’t my fault, but he had it coming. He’s had it coming since the day he laid hands on...-“   And maybe that's when it all made sense to her. So much so that her jaw dropped and her stomach turned into a void, hands reaching for his without even thinking about it for a second, only to pull away the moment she realized they were holding hands. She wanted to get up and to start doing breathing exercises to regain composure, but all she could do, really, was just sit there on that chair and look straight at Damien.   Revenge. This was what it was all about. Of course it was Rick back at the hospital of all people, and of course Damien had to be locked up. This was not a coincidence, but the vengeance of a life wasted too soon. Poor Damien, he and his lion heart, Atlas was looking at him so hard it was becoming clear as day she'd never loved him as much as she did right now.   "Why were you at the hospital, though? Did something happen?” His casual small talk amused her, especially in this context, although she was in too much of an emotional mess to actually giggle at how he'd managed to change the subject so quickly, so naturally.   "My dad had a stroke" Atlas informed him as if he was questioning her alibi, and it even surprised herself to see the level of objectivity she'd managed to pull. "He was rushed at the ER and we..." she stopped in her tracks, wondering if mentioning Henry would make Damien hit the roof, but continued nonetheless, more careful and alert "we rushed to see if he's okay, which he is... That's why I was able to come here and see you."

“Your dad is recovering from a stroke and you’re here? Wow...” and suddenly, it felt like talking to a snake, wrapping itself around her until the poison was inevitable and her throat would lay helplessly before its teeth. “Atlas, you’re gonna make me think that you wanna run away with me again.”   She should have kept in mind how Damien was hardly ever the type to forgive and forget, and it was ironical of her to be reminded that just now, given the circumstances. And yet, for a reason she couldn't logically explain, not even to herself, it hurt seeing him be like that - it hurt like every word was a slap in the face fuelled by the bottled up heartache she'd caused.   Their gazes met for a split second and the man before her was clever enough to know this was not the time to give up, so he carried on, and Atlas's pulse was high on poison and despair. “Can you imagine the mess we could’ve made? Going from state to state, staying in crummy hotel rooms… wouldn’t that been a great life?"   But not even Damien's lion heart could hide away the soaring pain and tire of waiting on a fantasy that was never going to happen. He was sarcastic and trivial, repeating his same monologue from the night when he proposed for her to run away with him for the first time, only back then his voice was lively and hopeful. Now, there was barely any life in him at all.   A long silence followed. It would be an understatement to say that Atlas was hurt and angered by his words, but nonetheless, she too had grown tired of fighting Damien. Of having to constantly prove herself as the pretty little dream he was never going to reach. Of having to love him so much against all odd, against his own will.   But giving up was not an option and they both bloody well knew that. So she spoke up, her voice surprisingly steady, contrasting the heaving heart struggling to keep beating inside her chest. "And we would have done what, exactly? Fxck our brains out and then stay wide awake all night praying to God the other wouldn't just get up, grab their things and get going?"   She'd finally voiced her fears and for the tiniest moment, it didn't even feel like liberation, it felt like tango dancing inside the predator’s mouth, but she carried on, hands once more resting on the table, although this time her palms were feeling the cold polished surface like a boost of clarity for her clouded mind. "Damien, we need to set ourselves free of one another. We can't live like this. /You/ can't live like this" Atlas's voice was steady and firm, yet each word felt soft, almost as if she was trying to bandage him emotionally, however stupid that might have seemed.   "Damien, look at me" she spoke, her right hand sliding across the table a little further, so that their fingers were brushing against each other. "What's going on with your life?"

 With her eyes never leaving his face, Atlas's heart fluttered when Damien's hand reached for hers, calloused and bloody fingers intertwining with her own, locked for the briefest moment before the heavy-set door was pulled open and a voice echoed inside their perfectly silent room. 

  “Someone just posted bail for you, you’re free to go.”   It took a couple blinks for Atlas to process the information. Isabella had made it to the police station, just like she said she would, and set Damien free and deep, deep down inside Atlas’ heart there was a pang of jealousy, her Messiah complex kicking and screaming. It wasn't her the one to save Damien. And maybe it was never meant for her to be, at all.   She was trying her hardest to keep a safe distance behind Damien's back, giving him the space to stretch and adjust to his newly acquired freedom, and yet she couldn't help watching how awkward his hands still were, joints pressed against each other even in the absence of cuffs. Atlas wanted so badly to wrap her arms around him and soothe him to sleep, and yet, this was not the time or space for such tenderness. Besides, she'd long grown out of this role for him.   Just as expected, Isabella was standing by the reception desk, her back perfectly straight, hair pulled back behind her shoulders, like it was a job interview. God, this woman was younger than either Atlas or Damien and still, right there, she looked like a disappointed mother, yet tender and distressed. For a split second, Atlas was ashamed for her behaviour.   She hoped she wouldn't notice, but it was impossible not to, when her hands reached around Damien's neck, the women's eyes locked for a moment and Atlas's stomach went back to being a void, suddenly unsure whether it was time for her to leave already or not.   “I’ll… I’ll wait for you in the car.” Isabella stuttered, pulling her hands away from him quickly, gathering the papers and then turning around on her heels, headfirst towards the parking lot, like she'd witness something embarrassing from which she had to get away.   "I'm sorry, I didn't... know she'd come this quick, I didn't..." Atlas found herself apologizing, unsure what to do with her hands or her feet or anything about her posture, the distance between herself and Damien cutting her words short before they even rolled down her tongue, so she just stood there, biting her lower lip like she always did, half of her thinking she should just go, the other half begging to talk it all out, until there was nothing left to talk about.   And so, with the tiniest boost of confidence, she stepped in closer, her right hand reaching for his cheek, wondering if it hurt to lay her hand there, but did so nonetheless. With a knotted stomach, she looked up, eyes drowning in his own, thumb gently caressing the black and blue skin.

Placing his hand over her own and letting it fall in the empty space between the two, Atlas was expecting for him to remind her of all the reasons why he could not and would not forgive her. Only a few days had passed since that early morning when she tore his heart apart as well as her own, and Atlas understood, once and for all, that each action has its out consequence. She couldn't keep running from the brokenness she'd caused. 

“How about a cup of coffee?” Damien suggested and suddenly, her face lit up, like his voice was the only factor contributing to her mood. She watched him nod towards the vending machine outside and without ever thinking about keeping it to herself, Atlas displayed the smallest, most genuine of smiles.   "Of course" she nodded, and followed him out, eyes finally delivered from the painful neon lights inside the police station. It was a warm night, as warm as ever during Beaufort summers, and yet if felt light, like the air and gravity itself were much more palpable concepts, more forgiving with humans.   “Your treat,” Damien nodded towards the vending machine, a sheepish smile from the fires of hell pushing the corners of his mouth upwards, and Atlas would have accepted even if it meant paying for the world's most expensive coffee.   The coffee was unsurprisingly shit, but it didn't matter, her hands wrapped around the thin boiling cardboard cup, eyes darting between the pitch black of her long espresso and Damien's jawline, his own eyes venturing into the distance.   They sat down on the bench beside the vending machine and had the situation not been this dramatic, she would have laughed about the image they must have given - a blonde all dressed up and an olive skinned young man all beat up, enjoying some quiet coffee.   There was so much to say, and yet Atlas was at a loss for ways to begin. How could she address everything that she needed to say to him, how could she be pushing him into speaking? She'd been doing the talking for the most part and it was killing her to know what was going on inside that messed up brain of his, what he had to say, and yet, there was polite and indirect way of forcing him to speak up.   So she did, again. "Damien... I need to talk to you and I need for you to listen to me seriously" Atlas began, although only realizing it might not have been the best preface after the words had come out. "I know you're still mad at me, and I understand that. I don't want you to think that I came here because I have this weird desire to haunt your or follow you around to prove anything at all..." It took a moment for her to formulate the next words, her eyes finding concentration in the emptying cup of vending machine coffee. "I want you to know that I care for you deeply. I always have and I probably always will and it's not something I can help. That's your effect on me, even now..."   Another gulp of coffee was needed to carry on, as if the caffeine was, in fact, a booster for her courage to say everything that'd been heaving down her chest the past few days. "Henry and I are leaving soon, next week actually." The statement felt hard, like a prison sentence, but also oddly freeing, like it was her ticket back to a life where crying every day didn't fit in the schedule. "But I can't leave knowing you're ruining yourself, Damien... I can't do it. And go ahead and say it, this might as well be the only time during our... relationship, that I thought about you more than I didn't about myself, but I cannot leave you here like this. Look at you, Damien..." she spoke, and although her voice trailed off as if searching for the right following words, Atlas found herself at a loss for words, resuming to silence and involuntarily glancing over to Isabella's car, wondering if inside the darkness of it, she was staring right back.

It was almost annoying how much of an impact his words had on her, never failing to fill her eyes with tears, not even this time. There was a certain type of candidness about Damien discussing her sudden departure from more than ten years before and it hurt seeing him go through those memories - it hurt because she knew she'd broken his heart, cowardly leaving without a word because she had no idea how to face him with the truth before boarding that damned plane. 

She was crying now, but quietly, biting at her upper lip so that he wouldn't notice, eyes finding refuge in the intangible distance. His voice trailed off and Atlas knew it was time for her to say something, but her courage turned to sh-t when, opening her mouth bravely, instead of words a sound of pain escaped her throat, like a thunder announcing a sudden rainstorm.   With pouring eyes she set the cup of coffee aside, breathing in to regain her composure, although it was hardly successful. "You know, I used to think for the longest time, even while I was with Henry, that our lives would have been so much different. That we would have graduated from high school and moved as far away from Beaufort as we could, living in this studio apartment where you'd laugh at me for not knowing how to cook and I'd help you develop your movies in the bathroom. We would have been happy, you know? Not the most luxurious life but we wouldn't have been needing much, just each other and we'd have kids, two of them, but like, later on, and they'd look exactly like you," Atlas suddenly stopped herself in her tracks, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her pristine white shirt. She didn't know why she'd said all those things, but they were out, and now there was no taking back - with a sad small smile, she looked at him, locking eyes with his own for the millionth time that summer.   "I've loved you so much, it was bothering me, I had this perfectly composed guy with a bright mind and with such a generous heart and all I could think about was, would I be ever to love him as much as I loved you? It kept me up all night, I was hurting him all the time because I didn't know what to do with myself, with my own feelings."   Atlas wasn't crying anymore, but her eyes were still wet, falling from his gaze to his hands, then her own, exhaling deeply as she wondered what there was to say next. A short silence followed, her mind phrasing and rephrasing possible ways to formulate her feelings, although overwhelmed as she was right now, it felt as if she wasn't making sense anymore.   "I never thought things through with you now, because if I did I would have never crashed in your bed, not even as a friend. I would have stayed away because I knew so well the way I felt ten years ago I would now, too, and I didn't want to hurt you again..." Atlas spoke truthfully, her hand reaching for his own again. "But I did and I need to fix that, but I don't know how and you're such a maze and it horrifies me to think what's going on inside your mind because I..." but before she could say anything more, her voice broke, and she had to take a moment to clear her throat and breathe again, hand pulling away from his slowly.   "You never told me what happened to Charlie, you know..." Atlas suddenly changed the subject, although she didn't know why, because it was all so clear now, the picture was so real and obvious that even she could feel a pang of guilt at not having opened her eyes when she should have.

“He… uhm, he…” Damien began, but before he could continue his words were cut short by an unsteady breath. “Do you remember sophomore year, a few weeks before you left? He had this bruise on his face and… - Well, that was the first time I found out those morons from the football team had been using him as a punching bag all year long. Charlie was quiet and I guess that made him an easy target, but after that he got really quiet. He didn’t have a nice childhood, that’s why he and Harvey moved a lot and he struggled… he struggled a lot and… and I guess years of abuse pushed him to the edge.” 

A silence followed, so heavy Atlas felt like she could almost touch it, feel it between her fingers, crush her knuckles against it. “Charlie over-dozed with anti-depressants. He was short on his so he took some of mine too and went to bed and never got up… Everyone thought that he had slept in. So I went in his room, teased him about making Isabella wait and when he didn’t do anything, I began pulling him out of bed…”

No preparation could have prevented Atlas's heart from breaking at the sight of Damien recounting the tragic story of his brother's s-uicide. There was something about the whole picture that just disturbed her to core - she'd never seen him so broken, so vulnerable, there was not a trace of his generally cocky and in-charge attitude. He was raw and honest and so broken it was hard to even fathom the extent to which he must have suffered, a pain Atlas wished she could wash away, at least half of it. 

"He was so cold, Atlas. Usually it took me more strength to pull him out, but this time he just fell. Harvey told me get out of the house, my mom was crying, the ambulance came. It was a mess. I spent the entire day with Isabella. She couldn’t stop crying, I had never seen her like that. She cried for days.” It was at this precise moment that tears started streaming from Atlas's eyes again, having lost the fight with the strong feelings his story stirred up inside of her. Charlie must have died shortly after she left and the realization didn't make things any easier - instead of being there for Damien, she was bathing in the Italian sunlight, frowning at her mother's new partner and drinking faux-virgin cocktails with her aunt, gossiping about sh-t nobody cared about at the end of the day. So infuriated at her own pain she'd been oblivious to the tragedy she'd left behind.   “I left her Atlas. She needed me the most and I left her with all those morons that made Charlie’s life a living hell…” With these final words, Damien broke down completely, his eyes swollen from all the tears and the fight he had earlier that day yet somehow, save for all the wounds and the bruises and the messy tears, he was still breathtakingly beautiful and raw, and right there, Atlas could have sworn Damien had the power of a phoenix, reaching his ultimate low before blinding her with his strength to push himself back up. God, how she wished this was the truth.   She had no idea what had managed to get her limbs moving again after having cried at the story of Charlie's death, but Atlas found herself moving closer to Damien across the bench, arms flying around him in a protective, motherly hug, something she would have never deemed herself capable of before. And yet she held him tight, so tight their bones were grinding against each other, her cheek resting against the back of his head, eyes tightly shut in a failed attempt at teleporting them into a time and space where things were less fxcked up, less desperate.   "But you can make up for that, Damien" she finally whispered, a new-found power to formulate her words emerging from god knew what. "You're not going to leave her again, are you? If there's one thing Charlie wanted was to see Isabella safe and happy and it's in your power to ensure that."   Atlas pulled away from the hug ever so slightly, straightening her back a little, clearing her throat to find a voice that resembled her own more than a motivational coach's. "What I'm trying to say is... I believe you it's been tough and I know it's mostly my fault and I wish I could change that, but... We're dragging Isabella down this spiral too, and it's not going anywhere..."   Now she'd pulled back completely and, with the heaviest of sighs, she placed her hands on either side of her thighs, gripping at the wooden bench as her gaze wandered off into the parking lot. "Damien, do you think... Do you think seeking professional help would be of any use?" she finally asked, turning her face back towards him, perpetually surprised at this protective, almost motherly role she was performing.

“I’ve been seeking professional help since I’ve known about myself. It was all those guidance counsellors recommended to my mom whenever I would act out. So... no. I don’t think it would be of any use. I don’t exactly like talking.” She should have expected for this reply, especially coming from Damien. The troubled kid in town causing havoc and turning every good girl out there into a bad one should have known better than a helpless past fling suggesting professional help. Now it felt silly to even think he might turn to a therapist to get his mind sorted, but at the same time, Atlas knew all too well there were other remedies he much preferred. 

Before she could say anything about her doubts and her worries concerning his means of relief, Damien spoke again, this time pulling an unlikely smile, tugging at the corner of his lips like he was having pleasant small talk under the warm Sicily sun with a glass of prosecco by his side. It took her aback to be faced with a face as bright as he was, given the circumstances, but nonetheless, he'd managed to melt her, trick her brain into thinking maybe worrying so much didn't make sense. “So, what now? Are we friends?”   "I don't know, will /you/ be my friend? After all this?" Atlas was pushing at her luck now, but god was it true how she was hoping Damien would give it another chance. She knew all too well this time, she was asking for the moon and half of the stars - Damien's honest friendship in return for the broken heart she'd given him, a true act of selflessness, improbable and precious, yet so much desired.

"I don't want to be your friend, Atlas" Damien finally replied, and her breath froze, trying her hardest to keep a straight face, moving her eyes from him to the dark parking lot, imagining how angry Isabella must have been for her keeping Damien this long. 

Atlas wanted to ask why he'd brought being friends up in the first place, if this was his type of punishment for everything she'd ruined in and for him, but before she could build up the necessary anger, he spoke again, completely disarming her with the mere sound of his voice. "Never did, never will. But I wanna try… maybe not right now, but later in life? Yeah, sure – let’s be friends."   There it was again, the warm fuzzy feeling inside her stomach, the need to touch his skin and feel it and be gentle, but not the type of tenderness she'd presented between the sheets. No, this feeling running through her veins like fresh pith was more than the rush to make love to him - it felt like wanting to collide her bones with a life-long partner, a non-romantic companion she'd spent ages with. It felt like loving him enough to not be needing his physical presence wherever she was. It felt like peace.   "And I want to try to be your friend, too..." Atlas replied, encouraged by that million-dollar smile of his, brightening up his whole face like Christmas lights. It couldn't be helped, and a smile found its way across Atlas' own lips, widening by the second as she looked at Damien, and for a second there she truly felt endless, stretching the notion of time to such extent seconds felt like hours, and she was forever living this moment of relief.   They spent the next following moments in silence, Atlas biting at her lower lip in an attempt to tame her smile, hands gripping at the wooden bench with a newfound hope pulsating through her. It must have been well past midnight, into the early hours of morning, but she felt like she'd just woken up from the most restful slumber, ready to stretch her limbs and courageously take on the day.   "I think you'd better be going, Isabella must be exhausted" Atlas found herself speaking again moments later, her eyes rolling back to Damien's profile, a soft smile still lingering in her eyes. With a soft sigh, she got up from the bench, brushing off the invisible dust from her backside, standing before him in anticipation of Damien getting up to his feet as well.   A hug would have pushed things too far and she was still walking on thin ice, but god did she want to at least squeeze his hand and let him know things were going to be alright - they were going to be alright, life was going to move on and send them god knew where and she was going to obey destiny with a peaceful heart, knowing deep down the wound was finally going to heal, leaving a mark only for the sake of memories and stories to tell to children and their children too. "Damien? Take care, please" Atlas added, this time her voice unintentionally lower, a softness familiar to the way she had always spoken to him. Peering up, a final small smile adorned her lips before stretching ever so slightly on her toes to place the purest of kisses on his bruised cheek, a farewell to everything they'd gone through, to everything they had so special.   Turning around on her heels, Atlas folded her arms and started walking away, closing her eyes for a split moment to feel the night breeze against her complexion, making her way back home again, her heart beating at a thousand miles per hour.

[atomic-r0x]

Atlas, Part Ten | All of the things that I offer you, and all of the shit that we harbour

There was no need to knock on the door. She knew perfectly well where to find him, that the door would be unlocked, and he’d be dressed in that exact white shirt with the sleeves carelessly rolled up, shit room service gin in a fake crystal glass.

When Atlas walked into Beaufort’s only hotel, the lightbulbs behind its three stars were flickering, a dry buzzing sound letting everyone passing by know it had been ages since the last electricity check. Stepping inside the entrance hallway felt like time travel, paintings of long dead owners adorning the walls, and Atlas fantasized about having Henry and hers portrait done after the wedding. Tennis skirt, matching white polo shirts and his veiny hands slid inside the pockets of his perfectly ironed trousers. Henry’s characteristic quizzing frown, a signature of his cool.

She dismissed the concierge with a polite nod of her head and headed straight to the elevators, flats sinking in the overly puffy carpets, probably the only things in the whole building justifying the hotel’s ranking. Floor four, room four hundred and four. The same room they briefly lived in back in Italy, while their diplomatic accommodation was being refurnished to suit the young couple’s taste.

Atlas had been walking with confidence and determination towards her destinations, she had all the right words and all the perfect lines ordered in her brain like the script of an actor getting ready for the big show, but the moment her feet dragged her out of the shaky elevator, her stomach turned into a void. There were roughly three feet separating her from the inside of his room and yet it felt like hours of walking were ahead of her. Maybe this was the kind of terror people kept romanticizing in love songs on the radio. Maybe she could finally relate.

She wasn’t surprised to see him sitting on the floor, back against the bed frame, elbows flat on kneecaps. Nor did it surprise her to see the dark circles underneath his eyes, or the way he turned his head towards the balcony to avoid eye contact. Nor the way his shaking stomach gave away the fact that he was crying.

It felt as if she’d always been right there, next to him, on that puffy carpeted floor, when she kneeled down to press her cheek against his, Henry’s unsteady breath brushing the sensitive skin in the crook of her neck. “I’m here,” she whispered, low enough for only he to hear, although really there was nobody else to listen, and her hands found his and his face nuzzled in her hair and their lips crashed together and suddenly he wasn’t wearing his shirt anymore, and she wasn’t beside him now, but on top, back resting against his folded knees as his mouth discovered new dimensions across the pale skin on her chest.

There was a reinvigorated strength in the way Henry’s hands wrapped around her torso, despite the delicacy with which he maneuvered her around, like a precious china doll he’d inherited from an eccentric Bolshevik great-grandmother. She was having trouble breathing normally now, but more so was overwhelmed by the unpreceded feeling of equilibrium and the whole universe falling into place as she bounced and gasped, hands clawing at his back leaving catlike red marks, eventually referring to the bedsheets when flesh wasn’t satisfying enough to tear apart. A scream, a groan, a simultaneous I love you.

Two pairs of bare feet on the tiled balcony floor, the hum of late afternoon dripping like thick honey. Atlas was wrapped in his white shirt now, and Henry’s trousers were back on, and the ridiculously well-preserved line on his pants might have had the chance to succeed in tricking any beholder they were perfectly fine had there not been the luscious messiness to themselves that gave away her lack of clothing was not just a fashion statement, and that his messy hair was not, technically, bed head.

“Thought you said you were off cigarettes, huh?” Atlas’s voice was barely audible, yet loud enough for the intimacy of the scene, hand stealing the stick from between his lips to take a long drag herself, bright red polish starting to chip at the tips of her nails.

This might have well been the summer of 2012, when they’d just moved in together and couldn’t spend longer than roughly five seconds apart from each other. The familiar way with which their hips crashed together like clinked glasses when his arm pulled her close to him, the way her head rested perfectly in the crook of his neck, the way her toes accidentally stepped on his toes and neither of them would care.

Henry was walking backwards now, and Atlas’s giggles were filling the room, her eyes darting every now and then from his mouth to the way to the bed, screaming childishly when he was about to run into something, the thrill of damaging things without it actually meaning more than a couple bucks extra on the checkout bill. Her back hit the mattress and a falsely offended groan escaped her lips, although her mind was too preoccupied with the sight of him above her to care about the ridiculously hard bed, and how it felt like the carpet might have been a more comfortable place to do the deed. And then the phone started ringing.

They shrugged it off and decided it would eventually stop, but it kept going. From the pocket of her hot pants thrown across the room during the previous heat, her ringtone refused to let them have a second longer of intimacy, until Henry finally rolled aside and Atlas crawled towards the source of disruption, halfheartedly gathering the sheets around her bare body. “Hello?”

.         .          .          .

Atlas could think of less annoying things than the cold, green-hued light flooding the sterile hallways, her eyes trying to find refuge in the ground below her feet, although it proved not to be of much help either. Why do they always have shiny sparkly floors in hospitals?

She’d been pacing back and forth for a while before the doors slid open and Henry came through, extending his arm to wrap around her shoulders, before leading the way like a protective shield. There was moaning and sighs of pain, muffled cries flattened by the dry hard bite at alcohol-scented pillows. Runny noses of grieving relatives and the repetitive stern beeping of heartbeat tracking equipment working in simultaneity throughout the ward.

“Miss Collins,” the doctor began once Henry pushed the blinds around her father’s bed, exposing a weakness Atlas had never seen in him. “Mr. Collins is stable now, fortunately his body was strong enough to overcome the stroke. He’ll be needing a lot of rest these following days, but I’m confident he can go back home as early as tomorrow” his voice was hushed, her father sound asleep, Henry’s hand holding her own tightly, as if waiting to see if she needed help with standing up on her own two feet.

Instead, Atlas simply cleared her throat and nodded, eyes not once leaving her father’s face. “Thank you, doctor” she spoke, and with the caution of a burning floor beneath her feet she stepped closer to the bed, stumbling-sitting on the chair next to it. It took a hot minute to grasp the frailty of it all, the way colour had left Mr Collins’s cheeks completely, how his face was expressionless, but so tired it made one wonder how many years of suffering he’d been through. An experience so close to death was sure to leave its mark on him, but not even once had she ever imagined having to witness the decay of the planet’s strongest man.

When she finally turned around, millions of years later, Henry was no longer beside her, standing at the foot of her father’s bed. Her eyes were stinging from the artificial lightning and her dad, deep in slumber, had turned his back towards her, sighing like he’d just overcome the most difficult obstacle known to man and in a sense, he really had.

It never once occurred to Atlas she could just pull her phone out and call him, so instead she set on a quest to find Henry based on the traces of perfume left behind him, or the longing in her limbs for a pair of arms to fall into, drawing the intuitive map of the hospital with childlike steps. Beds being rushed back and forth, lime green medical garments, loud conversations between PAs on duty, purposeful footsteps.

Beaufort’s hospital was nothing close to an institution of relevant size and yet, Atlas found herself long at crossroads between hallways that led to hallways that looked the same, all identical and sterile and religiously kept quiet, the same duplicate artworks on every corner until the brain tired of finding new exciting things about the place.

“Fucking hell, that bastard” Atlas couldn’t tell if the sudden obscenity or the uncanny similarity with a voice she used to know had stopped her dead in her tracks, body functions on pause until her mind formulated a clear statement regarding the new stimuli. “Bloody junkie, bet he’s done so much he doesn’t fucking know who he is anymore, that piece of trash” there was a chilling hatred behind each word, every syllable pressed hard enough until the sound it produced resembled heated steel on bare skin. Tobacco hissing and a vulgar guttural spit, and Atlas found herself realising her feet had a life of their own, dragging her unwillingly towards the curtains from behind which these words kept pouring, until she was close enough she had to control her breathing from not being caught. “No wonder the whole clan’s gone to shit, huh, with that woman locked up along with all the sick – and what’s Nichols doing, anyway? God damn them all, those bastards.”

Nichols. The name rang inside her brain like a massive gong, letter by letter vibrating inside her skull until the echo faded away completely, and Atlas was left begging, although unwillingly, for the voice to carry on, until her eyes spotted the small tag pinned on the curtains around the ER bed, and her blood turned ice cold. In the bad calligraphy of a person busy saving other people’s lives, `Sherriff Richard’ read across the blank, a brief description of his injury below. Incisions, a black eye and multiple bruising, the type of wounds you’d see in Fight Club, the cool kind of having your ass kicked.

“So, ‘re you plannin’ on filin’ a complain’ against the lad?” a voice she hadn’t heard before spoke from behind the curtains, a lazy southern accent turning each word into a little melody of its own.

“’Gainst Damien?” was all Atlas needed for nausea to fill up her mouth to such extent that she found herself in desperate need of a bathroom or a sink to spit in, the acid burning at her teeth. “They’ve gotten him locked up, all I can do ‘bout it, but hell’s getting that junkhead out.”

Next thing she knew, Atlas was shuffling through the hallways, a new frenzy in her bones, a new need to find Henry and forget about what she’d just heard and maybe call check at the Flamingo if things were all good, but it turned to dust the moment she ran into Henry, and his eyes fell on her. “All good?” he asked and she almost couldn’t stand herself before such grand display of kindness, wanting to shrug it off and replace her frown with a smile but these kinds of tricks had never worked on him anyway, so she just exhaled and took his hands in hers and prayed to heaven and beyond he wouldn’t get it wrong.

“I need to run to the Flamingo and check if things are okay.”

[atomic-r0x]

Atlas | Part Nine

That’s all it took. One sentence, and her life was officially ruined, in the most literal sense of the word. “I never knew you were the type for morning runs.” Henry’s voice was dry and awake, but there was no feeling behind the words, almost like he’d said it matter-of-factly.

And with those words, Atlas completely froze. From her feet, suddenly cemented into the tiled floor, to her heart skipping two beats and sending out a wail of pain inside her whole being, she just stopped in the doorway between their bedroom and the bathroom she’d spent the last thirty minutes washing away the remnants of Damien’s lovemaking from the night before. “I’m not. I just got sweaty under the sheets and I couldn’t sleep” she tried to shake it off, convincing herself that a step forward wouldn’t hurt anybody, hands clinging to the towel wrapped around her shrinking body.

“You weren’t here tonight though” His voice was still calm, Henry standing with his hands slid in the pocket of his sweats like it was nothing. “I couldn’t sleep last night, that’s how I know you weren’t sweaty under /our/ sheets.”

She couldn’t remember at which point she’d lost her voice, but it must have been around the time when her glass of water, silently waiting on her side of the bed, crashed against a wall and Henry’s bloodshot eyes pierced her until she curled on the mattress, wanting to scream, but not finding the energy to do so anymore. They’d been fighting for around four hours now, the world outside was approaching noon and they were still there, locked up in her childhood bedroom, spitting out words lovers should never tell each other. Atlas’s head was dizzy with tears and shouting, Henry was weeping for the first time in forever.

When he picked up his jacket and stormed out into the hallway then down the stairs and into the streets, she didn’t get up from the bed, asking where he was headed and if she’d ever seen him again. Instead, she lay on the mattress, trying her hardest not to burst into tears again, planning her next steps. It had never before occurred to her how dependant of Henry she was, the stability his existence brought in her life, how much he felt like a lifesaver that she was currently in painful need of. What would happen to her life now that Henry wasn’t going to be a part of it anymore? It seemed impossible to figure out even the days that would follow, counting down the hours till Henry’s plane took off and she’d be waving him goodbye for the last time.

Damien. His face popped up in her mind like a dream, a hallucination she couldn’t shake off. She imagined his face, beaming with happiness and euphoria, stunned by the sudden realization that Atlas was, finally, once and for all, his to love only. Before she knew it, she was punching the air, her troubled tired mind wanting so badly to make him pay for all of this, for all the words left unspoken those ten years ago, for all the heartache unresolved, for all the loose ends that led to this affair. But until the imaginary Damien got to feel the helpless punches, her mind completely dozed off.

*

She woke up to the sound of Henry walking in, a polite ‘good night’ throw in her father’s direction before his steps, heavier by the second, made their way towards the staircase, and up towards her bedroom door. Atlas got up from the foetal position in time for him to push the doorknob and find her sitting on the bed, hollow-eyed, but waiting for him. Only, the door was still closed. Holding her breath, she crawled closer to the edge of the bed, senses acute – a small sound was all she could make out, and even with this barrier between them, Atlas could see his furrowed forehead resting against the painted white wood, fingertips feeling the hard surface in an attempt to clear up his mind, or build up the courage to tell her something heart-breaking.

When Henry did step inside the bedroom, Atlas’s eyes were already glassy. He closed the door behind him carefully, as if not meaning to disturb anyone else in the house, as if they hadn’t been screaming at each other like crazy in the most ridiculous hours of that morning. She didn’t ask where he’d been all day, and he didn’t look like his whereabouts might have been worrisome to her.

He didn’t approach the bed, well-calculated steps carrying him to the windowsill, where he finally turned to face her, eyes meeting only for a brief moment. “I’ve been thinking…” he began with a ten-ton heavy sigh, “and maybe this is something I should have realized a while back.” Atlas wanted to vomit, watching the man she’d completely given her whole self to serving her a speech too similar to the ones he’d give in diplomatic contexts. “You’re not a woman to be forced into things, Atlas” he continued after having formulated the words in his brain for the past couple of seconds. “And that’s fine. It’s alright, I really can’t blame you…” another brief moment of silence followed, Atlas’s eyes desperately wanting to find his, until they finally did, and she couldn’t hold his gaze. “I want you to be happy, even if that doesn’t involve me, or our wedding, or any of our plans together. I don’t want to force you into loving me.”

She wanted to stop him, to erase the past twenty four hours of their lives and start over, come clean, confess how she could not love anybody as much as she loved him, no matter how much Damien or anyone, for that matter, tried to trick her into thinking. Atlas wanted to cut her chest open and pull her heart out and give it to him, the ultimate proof of her helpless adoration. And yet, she couldn’t push herself into saying anything of the sort, so she just waited, following his Adam’s apple to determine whether he was going to carry on with his speech or not. He did. “I think it’s better if I… I think maybe I should just give you some space, sleep on it, talk to anyone you feel like talking to” he cleared his throat, but found himself pushed into being more explicit, the confused frown forming on Atlas’s face like an incentive for him to put it bluntly. “Atlas, I think I should get myself a room at the hotel before you… Well, before you make up your mind. I just want you to choose without feeling pressured by my presence here.”

There she was again, losing sense of time, trying her hardest to let the words out from behind her clenched teeth and the wet lines on her cheeks, hands desperately gripping at clothes and throwing them at him as if Henry was the real, sole reason why they were fighting, for the second time in twenty-four hours. She was trying to make him stay, but too caught up in her thoughts to realise how much it looked like pushing him away. When there were no more clothes to throw or to stuff in an overflowing backpack, he shut the door behind him and she threw the remote control at it, the only remaining object in her whole room that could break into pieces and satisfy Atlas’s need to destroy something less meaningful than her life and her lovers and everything around her with a heartbeat.

But this time, she couldn’t daze off. She couldn’t curl up on the bed again and fall asleep until he came back, charming and lifesaving and forgiving. The mind is something not to fool around with, and although she’d always been weary of that, Atlas was only now facing the real consequences of her actions. /You’re a goddamned adult, get a grip of yourself, learn some self-control/

Before she knew it, she was pacing around the room. Not really thinking about anything, she was just moving, feet burning with the red tickle of needing to know things weren’t completely fucked, that she could fix this. Barefoot, bloodshot eyes, runny nose and strands of golden hair sticking to her pale cheeks like those tears were superglue, Atlas kept wondering whether this was what Christians thought about when they created purgatory – not yet going to hell, but certainly not heaven bound. Just lingering around, rotting in her own damage, the front-row seat to her own decay.

Atlas was walking again. Walking on something that was not her bedroom floor, somewhere with no walls and natural light and even a little bit of wind, something that felt oddly similar to reality, but it couldn’t be. This did not feel like outdoors. This did not feel like the streets she knew so well, the streets she used to walk up and down all day until she boarded that damned plane and left everything to turn to shit behind her. This did not feel like home.

And maybe that was so because her brain was doing a really good job at overheating itself, turning and twisting the same problem on all edges until there was no problem left and just the maniacal mechanical exercise of turn, twist, tear apart, repeat.

Maybe the choice had already been made. Maybe she should have just ran towards Henry’s new hotel room knock on his door until her knuckles were nothing but small ponds of blood, and tell him she’d made up her mind. Atlas’s mind was trying to recall whom she’d heard saying that if you really did love the first person then the second would have never been more than just a friend and she thought of Damien and him being just a friend and it felt like such a travesty. But then again, she was going to /marry/ Henry. She, Atlas Collins, who’d been convinced her whole life that love is a losing game not worth the hype. Maybe she should have listened to herself back when she believed those words, and maybe all of this could have been avoided. Henry’s cheeky smile popped up in her mind and she was crying again, for the countless time since returning to Beaufort, for the countless time walking headfirst towards the Flamingo Motel.

*

It was four o'clock in the morning now and she must have been crying for almost a whole hour on those stupid stairs leading up to Damien's room. She needed to see him and fall into his protective arms and be reassured that things would eventually look up, but all the while she knew there was no way she could face him in such a state - he'd smell it on her, somehow, that things were fucked. Instead, Atlas just allowed herself to pour her eyes out, hoping that drowning all those tears would make her calm down eventually, and allow her to walk inside his room, door unlocked so that she wouldn't have to knock every time she managed to sneak out and see him.   Her eyes had gotten so puffy it was almost a pain to keep them open, and her head was dizzy, like a weird high she never asked for. The more she thought about Henry, the harder she cried, and it took all her might to push him away to the back of her mind and come to terms with the cold hard truth - maybe the time to flee was right now. God knew Damien had been waiting for this to happen for too long, and it seemed like she was finally ready to accept her fate. A six-year long relationship gone to sh.it, a wedding that was never gonna happen anymore, a sense of dignity she couldn't feel was still in her. 'You did this to yourself' Atlas's mind kept reminding her that over and over again, like a broken record. 'You asked for this disaster to happen'. And probably, this was the truth.   Her body immediately jolted up when she heard the door open, hands frantically wiping at her face to get rid of all the tears, only to redden it with the violent moves. She knew Damien was probably awake, waiting for her, but it surprised her to hear him walking out of his crib. Only, they weren't Damien's familiar footsteps she heard, but a voice she needed a second to associate with a face. It was Isabella, and the mere realization of the fact surprised Atlas like an unexpected full-blown kick in the stomach. She had no idea why she'd done that, but she turned around nonetheless, only to see Damien standing in the doorway too.   "If you want... I can stay" he speaks and Atlas's knees weaken, but collapsing to the ground only became an option when she heard his next words. “For a few more days, I mean.” The same man who would constantly remind Atlas of his car and who'd check airdnb every two nights, making plans for pit stops on their way to New York was now gladly postponing the escape of a lifetime, and her tears immediately stopped flowing from her eyes and her body temperature went back to normal and she was calm as ever, the sort of tranquillity you'd see in horror movies with criminals having quiet coffee after slaughtering a whole building.   But then, his following actions paralyzed her body, and she was sure as h.ell her feet must have been cemented to the staircase she was standing on. That hand she could still recall wondering down her body, those calloused fingerprints, were now caressing someone else's skin, and it was only now that Atlas really understood what jealousy meant.   “Damien… Atlas is here and she’s watching us.” Isabella spoke, and the way she phrased things made Atlas feel like an intruder, an impostor boycotting their moment of secret tenderness. Nausea was forming in her mouth, making her teeth burn from the acid, tongue like a thorn, but it proved to be the only fuel she had left in her, feet moving before she could process it. She was walking quite fast now, elderly marathon style, running even, running like her life depended on it, and there was a voice in the far distance who was stabbing her, each 'Atlas' more violent, causing a deeper wound to pierce though her wrecked body.

Eventually, her lungs gave in and she had to stop, and now they were in the middle of the highway that was connecting the Flamingo Motel to the rest of the town, and she was trying to make a point out of not facing him, but Damien kept trying to seek her gaze, reaching out his hand to catch hers. "Don't touch me" she hissed, and now she was a snake, a hybrid between a wounded falcon screaming though her final moments and a snake who was ready to attack. "Just go" Atlas added when she heard him stopping right behind her, facing the back of her head stubbornly. He was about to say something, she could tell that by the sound of his mouth opening, but she wasn't going to have any of it. "No, no, don't. I don't want to hear anything. I'm going home."

But then he fought back, and it startled even Atlas to hear such a force coming out of the lungs of a decade-long smoker, the man she’d shared her first cigarettes with back when things were still alright and there was no sign of change. “No! No, I’m not going to do that, I’m not letting you go, not again” he so stubbornly replied, and even with her back turned at him, she could feel his frown, those piercing eyes creating hot holes in the back of her neck like laser. A small silence followed, Atlas too stubborn to say anything, he probably too puzzled by her sudden coldness, but when he spoke again, Atlas wished she were deaf. “I love you, Atlas…”

He didn't need to be physically violent, because his words were hurtful enough - bringing up their unfinished business in the past felt like a mockery now, like he was using some pretexts from a how-to-get-a-girl-back book, like those were lines he'd simply learnt that she knew all too well, didn't mean shit. Not anymore, at least, with the taste of Isabella on his lips.   What a fucking traitor, she kept thinking, walking stubbornly like her legs were something to put her trust in, but judging by how things were going, her body was everything she had left. Everything.   It was a tough time not meeting his gaze, because his eyes were so forceful and determined to lock with her own, but they're both too proud and none giving in, so she walks right past him, hands tightly crossed, eyes so filled with tears it felt like walking blindfolded. She wanted to kick him so bad, to do something that would give him an idea of the pain she was going through, but at the same time, she couldn't blame him. All this heartache, and she still couldn't find a blame bigger than her own - she was the monster of this design.   And then he said that, those words that felt like bullets shot straight at her head, heart and stomach, so there was no way she could survive. Those three words she's spent her entire life waiting for him to say, words she'd only heard Henry say when it was already too late for Damien to catch up. 'You fool, you could have been so close' she wanted to say so desperately her teeth were aching, but there was no way she'd leave her guard down.   "Don't fucking say that" she snapped instead, with far more anger and frustration than she'd previously deemed possible of herself, considering how tired and desperate she was. "Is this what you're really up to?" and now she was facing him, and it took all strength for her to meet his gaze. "I must have been such a convenience to you, it only struck me now - how comfortable it must have been to be entertained every night without even having to search for fun" Atlas was red nosed and glass eyes, but nonetheless she persisted. "Go run away with Isabella, God knows you both need to get the hell away from here." It failed her to understand how she'd managed to spit out all those words, but now that they were out there in the open, it felt like her shoulders were made of lead.  

“You think I f-cked her!?” He croaked, a tiny ironic laughter making its way out along with those several words. His hand was extended now, index finger pointing towards the direction of the motel’s parking lot like he was trying to separate reality from that mythical place where anything could happen, where she’d given herself away to him, where he’d presumably turned down Isabella’s moves. And yet he persisted – shaking his head as he kicked an invisible rock with his bare foot just for the sake of demonstration, a showcase of frustration. “Atlas, she needed me! I needed to be there for her!” He was the one yelling now, and it made her flinch, the unexpected force of his words aiming at her with invisible forces. “Nothing happened, Atlas! Nothing! I… I don’t… I could never look at her like that.”

The mere recollection of that moment sent a fresh wave of uncontainable tears to her swollen eyes, hand reaching up to cover her mouth as she stared him dead in the eyes, gasping for air desperately before carrying on. "She needed you? How is that? Did she need you like I needed you? Or was it something to clear her head, get you both high?"   There was only one time in her whole life when Atlas felt truly jealous, and that was four years ago, when Henry had a brief moment affair with a woman he'd met while working with a charity in Africa. She remembered how the bed was burning and how she couldn't sleep anymore, how her skin would itch with hurt and frustration, how she felt the mental, completely abnormal need to follow Henry around the town, watching him from afar as he battled with his own shame. Of all things, Henry was mortified and ashamed of this affair, and what it'd done to Atlas. When he came back, he was a changed man, the type of change people associate with seeing god. The bed was once again a safe place to find herself in.   "You know what? Never mind it. Just, go, your feet are gonna freeze" she suddenly found herself dismissing him, wiping the tip of her nose with the back if her hand before starting to walk again, the first fee steps backwards, still facing Damien, before turning around and biting her lips until little beads of blood popped up, anything it took to prevent that animalistic cry of pain and desperation from escaping her throat.

But he couldn’t care about that, so he followed her for what seemed like ages, although in reality it was only couple of seconds before he began running after her, catching up in a matter of moments. “What do I have to do?” Hands raised as if he was defending himself from an unseen force, Damien bravely fought to find her gaze and looked like he’d never let go of it once their eyes locked. “Tell me what do I have to do to make you believe me and I’ll do it.” His voice was cracking again, but he continued, making it so hard for her to stand it. “I’ll do anything… /anything/.”

Atlas's tongue kept licking at the drops of blood that were springing out of her sore lower lip, and in that moment, she looked so defeated, like a wounded animal in the wild, seeking refuge until the pain was over. Only, the pain wasn't over, or wasn't going to be so in the foreseeable future, because the Atlas's mind seemed to fail taking in the lengths to which her damage had gone.

"But that's exactly the problem, Damien. This is where you're wrong" Atlas finally replied and she wanted to be angry, she wanted to be able to let everything out and be light-headed for once, but instead, she was speaking in a lower voice now, exhausted and helpless. "Look at us, Damien, look how fxcked up this is, this is not what happiness looks like. This is not the type of love you deserve" she spoke truthfully, and as soon as the last words exited her mouth, a new wave of tears threatened to roll down her cheeks, but she held them back, determined to make a point. "You'd do anything for someone who's so far away from what you need, Damien. You've placed your love in a love that will kill us."

“Bullshit.” He cussed under his breath – eyes glued on hers with no intention of leaving them any time soon. “All of that is bullshit and you know it! Atlas, what don’t you understand?! I love you! I love you so much that I hate myself for it!” It didn’t occur that he started yelling once again, his own eyes filling with bitter tears that clouded his vision and made him spat his words in anger. “I haven’t this happy in years! Atlas…”

She watched his reaction without breathing, trying with all her might to keep a grasp of herself, at least keep a standing position if nothing else. He was closer to her now and she just wished things were simpler and the only things he could do were either give a friendly pat on the back or have her children. His monologue went on and she was getting dizzy from shaking her head, sucking down on her lower lips to both keep herself from saying anything she might regret and stop the blood from coming out, and when it finally did, her teeth were stained with the salty taste.   Atlas desperately wanted to be able to prove how wrong he was, have scientific proof of his misery, of their inevitable doom, of what a monstrous thing she truly was for letting any of this happen. She wanted him to hate her, resent her, push her as far away as he could, so she could pack her bags and flee the town and go back home and cancel the wedding and call Matthias and ask him whatever she was going to do with her life now. Empty, drowning in self-resent, heartbroken beyond repair, but ultimately free?

But then it didn't matter how she was feeling and whether her lips were bleeding anymore and how she'd pack her bags and go, because it must have been a meteorite or the actual moon might have fallen off the sky, hitting her right in the head when he spoke those crucial crucifying words. "I would do anything for you. I’d settle down, get a boring job and health insurance and wears stupid shirts and ties and maybe even quit smoking and ask you to marry me. Is that what you want? Do you want me to marry you? Because I’d do that, Atlas I’d do that in a heartbeat..."   A gasp was all she could summon, and a muffled "oh my God", almost lost in the mess that was her tears and her hands trying to hide the wetness of her face. She squatted down, because her legs had given up on her the moment he proposed, much like the air filling her lungs. She was staring at his feet, through his feet, through the pavement and down towards the magma, the fiery core of the Earth, something to compete with the burning sensation inside her chest.   "You don't know what you're talking about, Dam, you really can't marry me, I won't let you do that..." she barely whispered, falling on her butt, dumbfounded and weak, goosebumps all over her skin although she knew for a fact it wasn't the cold morning air, but the ugly truth she was finally facing, after ages of chasing around. She was exasperated and tired, but still trying her best not to give in to his words, and how close their lips were, once again for the millionth time those two weeks. It took nothing but raising her chin a little, and they would be kissing again, but Atlas couldn't allow herself to do it again, no matter how much he wanted it.   But god, she was sinking in the crevice of his calloused hand resting on her dry cheek, the warmth it radiated, how her tears rolled down and melted on his fingers, confused and angry at the sudden barrier keeping them away from the rest of the tears forming a knot underneath her chin. She was about to say something when he started again, words making her thrown in agony, words that meant more than either of them could really wrap their minds around.   "Why not? Am I not good enough for you? Is that it? Because Atlas..." his voice was crooked and his breath hit her lips following the rhythm of his words. "I can change. As a matter of fact, I already am changing. And it’s all because of you! I want to be a better person because of you. I want to be…-" Damien stopped dead in his tracks and she immediately covered his mouth with her fingers without even thinking through this action. It felt as if the natural state of her eyes was to be glassy and her nose to be runny from all the crying, and she was disregarding any of it, because the truth needed to be out there, although Atlas had neither the courage nor the heart to put it bluntly.   "Dam, listen to me..." she began, her hands cupping his jaw line in an attempt to touch him, the first of its kind in what felt like ages, although it really must have been just twenty-four hours. "Don't you see what I've done? What I've turned you into? Dam, we can't be married, because..."   She paused for a few moments, hand once more covering his mouth in a precautionary attempt at stopping whatever words might come out from his side, because this was really important. This was something she'd been wanting to tell him for so long, but only realised now, when it was too late and too much damage had been done.   "Damien, I love you. I love you so much it's conflicting with my principles, with the life I have back home. Fucking hell, with the man that I learned what love is" she spoke, and again, just thinking about Henry sent a few more tears down her cheeks. "But no matter how much I love you, it's just not right. We cannot be together, we cannot be married, we..."   It took all the strength in the world not to break at the sight of his eyes, and so she placed a soft kiss on his forehead, before resting her own against it. "I really thought it could work out. I was ready, tonight, to give myself away, to you..." she paused, biting her lower lip before continuing. "But I know, and I realised it now, that neither of us deserves each other. God knows I don't deserve your heart, and you... you don't deserve to let your demons come out and be entertained by me, only to make them worse, because Damien, you know this is the only way things are gonna happen. Look at us now..." finally, her voice broke, and she pulled away from his forehead, terrified of what might come next. But there were no words coming out of his mouth, nothing breaking through that impenetrable frown dangerously forming on his forehead, those eyes suddenly made of broken glass that she was never going to be able to fix.

“Just go” he finally said, and it seemed as if he’d spent a million years to produce those two words. “Go back to your loving fiancé and the villa you share in Italy and have all the things I can’t give to you…” His hands were in his pockets now, but Damien still wasn’t walking away. There was something holding him back, something mighty and frightening that Atlas wasn’t sure she wanted to know of. “I’m never going to be good enough for you, am I Atlas?”

"Damien!" It was like a swan's song, or the last cry of defeat you'd hear from dangerous birds with bloody wings, landing on the ground with a crash, although still proud and hopeful they'd survive. She screamed his name from the top of her lungs, disregarding the tears and the tiredness that had settled in her bones like cold air, freezing to the back-bone.   They were face to face now, a few meters away, and all she wanted to do was jump into his arms like she'd done so many times these past two weeks and let him take anything and everything he wanted from her. Instead, they just stood in silence for a few moments, his venom activating her own. "Damien, you know just as well as I do that it's not about being good enough. Fxck, if you really want the truth, you may be better than Henry. But not for me - I will not let myself ruin you" she found herself shouting the last words, anger building up by the minute in a very twisted and inexplicable way. "Damien, look at us now - if this is love, than why are we so bitter? If this is love, why is this so painful?" Atlas retorted as if they were at war, and it broke her heart to realize she was actually fighting the love of her life. Only, she had grown to learn, the love of her life wasn't the same person she was meant to spend the rest of it with, and the mere thought of having to move on and forget Damien seemed like an impossible task now. Because, as much as it sucked, he was a part of her now, he was so deep inside her skin and so stubbornly stuck inside her bloodlines that it was impossible to pull him out. No matter where life was going to take her, Damien would always be a part of Atlas, however small, and she knew all too well this would haunt her to her grave.   She was about to say something, but found her mouth all clenched, and it only occurred to Atlas then that she was crying again, so hard her whole face was paralyzed. "Damien, I never..." she began, but her voice completely abandoned her, so she just took the bravest few steps forward of her entire life and pressed a kiss on his lips, the most honest and sentimental type of goodbye she could come up with.   Atlas could have sworn he'd pull away, but he didn't, probably too tired to fight anymore. And the kiss wasn't bitter, like all the other things they'd said - it was truthful and emotional and it made Atlas want to curl up in a bowl and die, because having to choose between Damien and Henry only meant killing a certain part of herself: there was no easy way out.   But she kissed him with all the feelings she'd grown for him, all the things left unsaid, all the emotions she'd locked up ten years ago. When she pulled away, his eyes were glassy too, and the mere sight just broke her heart into countless pieces. "Damien, I want you to know that I love you, I love you more than anybody in this whole damn town had ever loved you. But I can't do this to you... I can't keep contributing to your decay. I don't want to be a part of that..."

His gaze was now on the crown of her head and she inevitably began biting her lips again, anxious and mortified but nonetheless willing to hear whatever it was he was going to say. “Fine…” He pushed the words out of his mouth – hoarse and tired and emotionless. “… It’s fine.” Damien repeated, but he was now glassy eyed and it was breaking her just to see him like that, let alone realise this might well have been the end of everything. The last day of her life. “Goodbye Atlas.” The words exited his mouth with unexpected smoothness and the smallest, most genuine of smiles in the midst of all that chaos that was taking over her mind, and now her vision was clouding with tears that she was desperately trying to push away because she needed to see this. She needed to see one of the greatest loves of her life walk away forever, into the great unknown. She needed her eyes to be clear to remember him beautiful and strong and charming and undefeated, the one who got away, the one who managed to escape her poison. She wanted her vision to be as clear as possible to remember him like he deserved to be remembered – Damien Nichols, the boy searching for a fire.

*

Atlas would have never believed it if someone had told her she’d find so much comfort in crawling on her childhood bedroom floor, hollow-eyed, lacking sleep, heartbroken and hopeless, but there she was, in her underwear and a t-shirt, hands dirty from having felt the ground beneath her for the past two hours, moving around four-legged like a baby. There was smoke clouding up towards the ceiling, and an emptying pack of cigarettes laying on the floor, and the only light creeping through the solemn darkness was the blue-toned Skype app waiting for Atlas to get a grip of herself and finally make the call.

When he did reply, he was joyful, starting with a celebratory ‘hellooooo there’, those friendly eyes and bearded grin from the lux of his sun-kissed balcony overlooking a bohemian garden, but his face immediately changed one the connection was stable enough and he got to see her face, all painted with black mascara tears, smoking the butt of a cigarette like she was on the brisk of a nervous meltdown.

“Matt, I need to tell you something but it’s a long story and I need you to listen to me carefully because I think I am dying, I think this is it, I think I’m never coming back to Italy, and you’re gonna burry me and you and dad are going to be the only ones crying at my grave because I am the most horrible human in the whole history of mankind and I deserve to be alone and sad but I’m not strong enough to face the consequences of my own actions and the ground is slipping from underneath my feed and Matt, oh my God… I have fucked up so bad this time, so, so bad…”

[atomic-r0x]

Nebraska Jones | An Introduction

It’s the same thing every day, five days a week, if you don’t count the times Nebraska finds herself riding the elevator up to the eleventh floor on a perfectly peaceful Saturday morning, wearing off a soaring headache from the last night’s too many drinks and heading straight to her desk with words phrasing and rephrasing in her mind. She can see the New Yorker red light sign from where she’s seated, she’s the only one facing it in the whole office, everybody else just fucking dreads being reminded about all the greater places where they might have ended up working.

Sure, Cosmopolitan is cool, and judging by the distance between her window and the red letters, it’s based where every other big magazine has its headquarters. The same road, and yet, once you climb down the stairs and step out into the streets, you can see how much closer to mediocrity their building is, compared to all those enterprises she used to dream of working with as a student. The fine line between high street and a crossroad that heads into the average no-big-deal neighbourhoods, not hip enough to be considered edgy, not bad enough to be looked down upon.

It’s Monday now and the streets are packed and Nebraska is inevitably running late, but according to her own timetable, which is religiously set ten minutes before everybody else’s clocks, although she keeps reminding herself she should just drop it, it’s New York City and nobody shows up on time on a morning like this. She pushes her way out of the subway station and she’s the only person among hundreds who looks like she woke up in 1974 that morning, with oversized round brown sunglasses shading her eyes from the blinding light of the May sun. She’s frowning, like she always does when walking, and she’s shotgun towards the Cosmo building, her backpack carrying quite possibly the most important article she’d ever written since her time spent in university.

They’re supposed to be meeting at half past nine but Emilia, the mastermind behind the Cosmo world, is late and the whole editorial staff knows all too well this means she’s just too busy fucking her ridiculously young lover, but then again, who are they to judge. Max makes it on time, but he’s the only one, and he’s confused and German and too polite to ever disregard the calendar notifications on his high-tech-not-iPhone phone. They attempt polite conversation but give up immediately because he’s the layout guy and she doesn’t want to break it to him first before everybody comes in. Everybody meaning Emilia and Thomas, the second most important person in the whole building.

This is huge and she’s been working on this article for so long, she’s attached to it like a mother to her first new-born. Three months of walking the streets of New York and using map apps more than she’d ever done her whole entire life and talking to people she’d grown fond of, or at least whom she started to understand while writing the actual piece. A total of twenty-four women, all artists, all marginalized for different reasons, all of them absolutely brilliant, leaving their mark on the city and changing it for the better with their boldness, with their life stories, with their powerful souls. It was so important for their voices to be hear and to be sent further into the world through the media, even if that meant a four-page article in Cosmopolitan magazine. Nebraska is finally proud, for the first time in forever.

When she storms in, Emilia’s hair is still slightly messy, but not the chic way, makeup chastely applied in the back seat of some VIP Uber. She is doing her best to look composed and in charge, but Nebraska can see the trail of women behind her holding back their judgemental smirks – they all know, just as well as she does, that sex reeks on her like bad, nose-numbing perfume. Closing the door behind her, Thomas doesn’t even look in Emilia’s direction.

“Good, I’m glad everybody managed to make it on time” Emilia starts, making herself look busy in the seat forever assigned to her, shifting through files on her brand new Macbook like she is trying to tame the amount of workload waiting on her. Her hair is greying, something that must be exasperating her, judging by how every three to four weeks she’d make a business appointment to re-dye her roots. The complexion is still spotless and fresh, although not as tight as it might have been ten or fifteen years ago. Emilia loves clothes that show off as much skin as it is ethically allowed, and for this reason alone, she has grown to be one of the most loyal customers of Mr. Bratt, whom Nebraska only knows of because she’d been asked a couple times to make the appointments for Emilia, who was presumably too busy to get it sorted herself. Mr. Bratt’s phone robot has this stupidly cheerful jingle that has absolutely nothing to do with the actual motto, something along the lines of “we’ll get you fixed like a Michelangelo”, but apparently, he’s the best plastic surgeon in town, and he’s back from a five-year experience in Korea, which sells better than anything else.

“Right, Nebraska, dear, I believe you sent me the article yesterday, didn’t you?” Emilia continues with her characteristic I-learnt-this-from-career-coaches voice. “Has everybody read it?” Thomas is the first to nod, and then Max follows up quickly, eyes moving up from his sketchbook. “Good, that’s very good” she says, and Nebraska could have bet ten thousand dollars she’d immediately excuse herself for not reading the article, like everybody else was supposed to. “Unfortunately, yesterday was an unexpectedly busy day for me, you all know I went to meet with a couple possible new partners and the mailbox simply exploded, so to say, while I was away” she speaks with faux-regret, making eye contact with each of her three spectators, before checking her laptop screen again. “But I suppose you wouldn’t mind if we looked at it right now, am I right?”

Nebraska nods to hide the dread in her eyes and shrugs a modest ‘sure’. It feels strange, but it’s finally an article she doesn’t want to hide away from while someone else read it. She’s confident about it, and Thomas even sent her a one-line reply early that morning that he liked it, and thought it was a good piece. Coming from Thomas, ‘good’ is good enough.

Judging by the way Emilia’s hand is working on the keyboard, she isn’t actually reading the article – she is merely going through it with a quick glance. Nonetheless, she clears her throat and looks up from the laptop, eyes going to Thomas first, then to Nebraska. “I must confess it’s…” she stops as if looking for the right word, and Nebraska allows herself for a tiny moment to believe Emilia was deeply touched by it. “I must tell you I am a little bit surprised. Mind you, when I got the email, the urgency with which you spoke about this piece… I suppose I was expecting for something” she sighs, looks at Thomas, and then finds Nebraska’s gaze and holds it. “I was waiting to read something that would blow my mind completely.”

The New Yorker building is exploding in the distance, the thud so loud it manages to cover the violent beating of Nebraska’s heart. She must have gone completely white, because Max is looking at her with a somewhat worried but reserved look, and Thomas doesn’t look at her at all, writing down something on his agenda, the paper squeaking underneath the pressure of his pen. “Okay…” she manages to say, after taking a masked deep breath, and rests her right hand on the table, mimicking relaxation, just because her left hand is clawing at her knee. “What do you think it lacks? Maybe it’s something I can work on.”

Emilia bursts into a quick laughter, the type you’d hear from an adult being baffled at something funny a kid said, and looks Nebraska dead in the eye, but when she realizes she means it, the woman just shifts her head to the side, trying to find Thomas’s eyes and exchange a did-you-just-hear-that type of glance, but there’s not change he’s looking at her. “Well, I don’t know…” she says, almost exasperated and exhausted. Emilia pauses for a second, eyes once more falling on the screen of her now sleeping laptop. “I seriously think there isn’t much you can work on, with this article, Nebraska. Believe me, I read it thoroughly and just couldn’t take it, it’s not…” she pauses again, because she’s now ready to play the part where she has to face her dearest child with the cold hard truths of real life, “it’s not good enough for what Cosmopolitan stands for.”

Nebraska is trying her best to hold back a bitter laugh and cross her arms against her chest, but instead she just stares Emilia dead in the eye. “And what is that? Am I missing something?”

“Honey, nobody wants to read about…” she stops in her tracks because she needs to reopen the Word document and find an example, “… about women who’ve been living their whole lives in shelters taking photographs of the other inmates –” she wants to continue, but Thomas cuts her off with a simple ‘inmates are in prisons’, and she’s visibly annoyed by this contribution, but carries on. “Do you think Cosmopolitan became this successful and renowned for promoting women who make a big deal of their body hair? Or stick it in everybody’s face that they’ve been on drugs even before being born?”

Thomas wants to say something, but Emilia raises her hand, dismissing even the mere intention to state his own opinion on the matter, probably because she knows it too that he is completely opposed to every single word she has said. Nebraska looks over to Max, who catches her gaze and immediately shrinks in his chair, pulling his sketchbook even closer to his chest. This may be the worst fever of her life, or maybe it’s just a very bad dream made up by her overly intoxicated mind in anticipation for the alarm clock to go off and for her to have the real meeting with Emilia, Thomas and Max, the actual humans, not the products of her imagination. But the riot inside her chest was too real for it to be a dream.

“I’m sorry, Emilia, I don’t think I am following you” she finally speaks, calm as could be, playing the role in which she is genuinely interested in the woman’s opinion. “What is it expected of me to write, that is according to the Cosmopolitan standards?”

She thinks Emilia is guessing she’s being taken for a fool and really, this is exactly what Nebraska is up to. Nonetheless, she crosses her arms on the table, finally happy to have even more things to blame Nebraska for. “It has come to my attention, for example, that you turned down Margery when she asked you to write something on, hold on” she stops yet again, because she clearly cares so much she has absolutely no idea what her staff is writing about. “Right, she was interested in getting an article from you on the correspondence between astrological signs and sex positions, and to my understanding, you just dismissed it.”

“I hope you’re joking right now” Nebraska snaps without meaning to, but she can’t help it, and it send Emilia off the roof.

“Well, I am most definitely not and as far as I know, Thomas and I are the only two people in charge of making decisions of whether or not something is good enough to be written and I am telling you, if you don’t take a moment to re-evaluate your behaviour and how you carry yourself as if you’re so superior, I might be faced with the unpleasant situation of firing you” she speaks and her anger increases with every word, because her neck is turning bright red, and she acts as if she’s caught Nebraska sleeping with that stupid lover of hers.

Emilia wants to start speaking again but Nebraska’s mouth opens before she knows it, and a bitter, poisonous “Fine. I quit” escape her lips. It’s too late to take it back, because Emilia’s neck is ruby red and Thomas’s eyes are glued to Nebraska’s face, and Max has stopped drawing, he’s just staring at the paper.

“Good. Then, I guess this meeting is over” Emilia speaks through her teeth almost, gets up and storms out of the room, leaving the three of them in complete silence. Max gets up from his seat and politely says goodbye before retreating to his desk in the far left corner of the floor, where he’s built up a safe space for him to create and be left alone.

“Nebraska, you really shouldn’t have done that” Thomas starts and takes his round glasses off, rubbing the marks on the bridge of his nose. “You know how Emilia is, she won’t forget it for the whole world.”

“But I meant it” she replies, finally crossing her arms in defeat, looking him in the eyes because unlike Emilia, he’s human, and she appreciates him. “I really am quitting” she adds, but this time it doesn���t sound half as angry and bitter as the first time, and more like a sorrowful conclusion. And truth be told, her heart is aching – all that hard work, all that emotional involvement, all of it for absolutely nothing.

They sit in silence for what seems like a horribly long time, until she gets up from her seat, testing if her knees still work. “I think it’s a very good piece” Thomas speaks up again, placing his round glasses back on, “if that makes any difference at all…” he adds, getting up from his seat as well, hands sliding down to the pocket of his perfectly ironed trousers. Nebraska gives him a small smile and nods, gathering her things and heading for the window, but she is stopped in his tracks by his following words. “Would you mind it if I showed you to the door? It’s the least I can do…”

“Sure” she allows herself to display the most modest of smiles, “thanks.”

Back into the constant hustle of the streets below the Cosmo headquarters, the New Yorker sign can barely be seen, and Nebraska’s heart is aching, pounding, screaming, rolling on a floor carpeted with shreds of glass. She wants to cry but is too proud do allow herself that, and sitting down is not an option, because the pavement is still as packed as it used to be when she headed inside the building that morning. In broad daylight, the street couldn’t care if you’re heartbroken.

Her feet start moving and before she knows it she’s taking the long road to Conrad’s home, because the streets around his apartment are always pretty and it’s May so the cherry trees are in blossom and those are one of the few places in New York where she can cool down and stop thinking about and for fuck sake, she just needs a long kiss and some wine. It takes approximatively forty five minutes for her to reach his place, and it doesn’t even surprise her anymore how she can walk all the way there without even thinking about it, just instinctively crossing the right roads and going the right direction towards that stupid face of his which makes her want to constantly kiss him or punch him or anything that is punchable, for that matter.

She knows the entry code so she doesn’t need to call him up, plus they sort of share this apartment anyway, so it’s her home too, technically speaking. The keys are patiently waiting where she last left them, underneath the obnoxiously door mat they bought after Conrad had a five-minute long monologue on the brutal injustice that bathroom rugs are overlooked, and how most of the people just settle for extremely ugly normcore entrance ones. Nebraska opens the door and tries her hardest to keep Baby, their tar black cat, from escaping into the big bad world, and as soon as she steps inside, she can hear Conrad’s in the shower, singing bits of the bridge he’s been trying to write for the past few days.

It takes a hot minute for him to finally get out of the bathroom and by this time she’s already poured herself a glass of wine, finishing up a bottle they bought just days before, while shopping for food, and truthfully, she did spend a few minutes looking at herself in the mirror wondering if they were both functional alcoholics, but before jumping to any conclusion, her glass was empty Conrad’s wet face was nuzzled up in the crook of her neck.

They have quick couch sex, like there is a plane to catch or an appointment to be on time for, and dress back up in record speed, gym-class-is-over style. It takes just a quick exchange of glances for them to silently head over to the generous balcony overlooking the pretty streets below them, glasses they’ve left in the freezer to frost overnight in hands, bottle of gin freshly opened, pressed orange juice just to trick the tastebuds into thinking it’s not really alcohol.

Nebraska contemplates telling him about the resignation, but his hand resting on the inside of her thigh helps her make up her mind: it’s better if she keeps it for some other time. Instead, the sit on the floor in comfortable silence, sipping at the gin, although it’s barely half past one in the afternoon and this is clearly something anybody else would be worried about. Are they functional alcoholics? She doesn’t know but probably not because this is a term she’d made up herself and is most definitely not legitimate. Right?

“Do you have plans for tonight?” Conrad asks and it may be one of the few times when he actually suggests a date, which surprises Nebraska, there’s a small smile peeking through nonetheless.

“No, not really” she says, resting her head against the wall, afternoon light making her feel stupid for sunbathing fully clothed, already feeling the hot, almost crusty feeling of sun-kissed skin.

“But do you wanna go out?” he continues, and he’s definitely asking her out on a date, which makes him look goofy a little, teenage-y in her eyes.

“Are you suggesting we go on a date?” Nebraska asks playfully and nudges him with her elbow a little, because they’re not the romantic type of couple. Well, they’re not a couple in the first place, but whatever it is that makes them have a cat together does not identify with cheesiness. It was clearly stated in the terms and conditions when they first started fooling around exclusively with one another, and they both agreed on it without thinking twice.

“I mean, you can take it as a date if you want, but I was actually thinking more of like, going out, watching some friends play a private gig, have some drinks, that kind of stuff” Conrad tries his best to make it sound romantic and she bursts into a small laugh, not because she’s amused, but surprised at the huge difference between reality and expectations. Going and having some drinks is something they do on an almost daily basis and her liver is fucking raging because of this affection they carry for one another. Her insides have seen better days, but then again, those were probably in high school.

“Who’s playing?” she asks casually, half-interested, knowing they will most probably end up there because they both hate regular clubs where people know them from Facebook and act like they should be considered acquaintances.

Conrad takes a moment to reply, but masks it with the apparent desire to down his glass, putting it down to the side after swallowing the very last drop of their almost-healthy juice that really wasn’t juice. “It’s Mira’s band. I think it’s her birthday or something and they’re doing this small gig at Hutton’s.”

Two years ago was the last time either of them had sex with anyone besides each other, which brings back cringe worthy flashbacks of careless one-night stands from her side, and a very painfully clear memory of wanting to go to the bathroom at a house party, only to find it was locked, Conrad and Mira doing their thing like it was nobody’s business. Which it wasn’t, yet Nebraska still vomited in the kitchen sink, and immediately left with bloodshot eyes, only to scream and cry her frustration before the loving eyes of Jean.

And besides this two-year long exclusive treatment, they after, after all, in a self-proclaimed open relationship, if by self-proclaimed one understands Nebraska making Conrad swear on his pinky they wouldn’t turn into the type of couples movies are made about, clingy and sloppy and dependable on one another. They promised to stay true, while not getting jealous at the other having occasional adventures with someone else. In theory, that sounds great, but right now, they almost share an apartment and are the proud parents of a black cat, so maybe their openness is somewhat biased.

But still, the mere sound of him saying her name, Mira, triggers something in Nebraska that she can’t explain, not even to herself, although there’s a chance she might as well simply be jealous, but she’s too proud to even take it into consideration. A groan escapes her lips as she rolls her eyes, downing her own glass before getting up, pretending washing the dishes was something of great importance right now.

Of course he follows her inside, and without facing one another Nebraska can tell he is furrowing his brows. “What?”

“Nothing.” There’s never enough soap on the sponge, and the water is too hot, and the dishes aren’t actually dishes, but just glasses of all sorts, because in an apartment such as this one, there’s no time for cooking. The whole takeaway food industry is grateful for the existence of a pair such as Nebraska and Conrad.

“Right, nothing” he mimics her voice and she stops washing the dishes, hands gripping at the sides of the sink for a few moments. “Is it Mira? That’s what it is?”

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

“Well then how about letting me know if you find out you’re fucking bipolar? It might come in handy to know if you’re into that sort of thing” he groans and wants to head back onto the balcony where his guitar is waiting, although it’s bad for the wood to stay too much in the sun, but he doesn’t get to take more than a step in that direction because Nebraska is busy hitting the fan and he needs to be the witness to that.

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t be feeling exactly the same about me seeing people I’ve fucked over the year, okay, Mr. Balanced?”

He turns around on his bare heels and his brows are raised in surprise, although there’s a certain type of perverse satisfaction in his eyes. “So it is about Mira, then” and it’s a big mistake to say that because Nebraska drops a wine glass on the floor and she’s barefoot and it goes to shit, pieces of glass all around her red polished toes, and yet none of then flinches at that.

“You know what, fine, I don’t care, do whatever you want” she speaks through her teeth, throwing the towel to the side, before tiptoeing out of the kitchen and towards the living room, where her bag and shoes were waiting.

“Don’t you dare leave like you’ve made a point, Nebraska” he quickly follows her into the living room and tries to grab her hand, but she gives him a death stare, and it’s safer to just keep the distance now. “Isn’t this what you wanted, though? Isn’t this what you swore you would be up for, that both of us would be up for?” he was defeated now, or tired of solving the puzzle that was her mind, or just simply confused at what was going on with her, and truth be told, so was she, because Nebraska was not the jealous type. And still, a little voice behind her head kept whispering ‘anyone, just not Mira’.

“I’m tired, Conrad, it’s been a long day. Send her my best birthday wishes, will you?” she says, hurrying to tie the shoelaces before picking up her bag from the floor and making her way to the door, then out into the hallway, down the stairs and into the streets again. She doesn’t dare look up right away, but when she does, Conrad is standing in the balcony, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, watching her walk further into the city.

It isn’t until eleven o’clock when Jean makes her way back home, and Nebraska couldn’t be happier, because spending the whole day indoor on her own only made her mind go back and forth between the shitty day she had at work and the completely unnecessary fight she had with Conrad, which was ridiculous of her to start, but ego stopped her from apologizing yet. She needed to pour her heart out to someone, and Jean was always the perfect person for that sort of stuff.

“You won’t believe the day I’ve had” they say in unison, the purest of coincidences, the most perfect synchronisation, and it’s now or never for Nebraska, because her heart might burst, and she needs to prevent that from happening. So she starts talking until her mouth runs dry, until there’s nothing more to say, until she finally notices the absent minded look on her best friend’s face. “What happened with you?” she finally asks, brows raised in curiosity.

Jean hesitates for a moment, but then states simply. “Keith proposed”, which in their own coded language only meant trouble.

“And?”

“And I ran.”

[atomic-r0x]

Atlas, Part Eight | “Baby, did you forget to take your meds?”

She'd gotten really used to the nauseous feeling of waking up with a self-dread induced panic attack. Jolting up with a strong spasm, naked skin burning next to Damien’s quiet figure, and oh God, how she wanted to hate him for being this peaceful, in his sleep at least. The common anger in his eyes, the broken pieces in him, everything was gone once his mind drifted off into slumber, flesh licking sweat coating him like a protective shield.

She wanted to hate him, but couldn’t.

She’d been playing this mental game of hide and seek for two weeks now, and it came as a great relief when, one morning, she found the mirror in Damien’s bathroom was no longer there. She’d gotten weary of reflective surfaces, terrified to catch a glimpse of herself. Before the mirror disappeared, she’d spend as long as fifteen minutes just staring at the person before her, trying to remember and find similarities between Atlas Collins and the hollow-eyed woman standing naked in the blue hued lightning of a cheap motel bathroom. It was nearly impossible to consider herself the same person, especially with this whole affair going on – it felt acting. She loved Damien, and she showed him that, but at the same time, there was no way Atlas could be anything but the woman counting the days till her wedding with the love of her life. And as brutal and crude this realization might be, this person was not the one laying asleep in the middle of the messed-up motel bed.

Ever since the mirror disappeared from her morning routine, it felt as if she’d completely lost track of who she was acting as, like the reflection of herself was the constant reminder of the costume she was wearing and the lines she had to say. She’d get up, fish for her clothes around the visibly-shrinking motel room, she’d get fully dressed, checking her body for new love mark to hide, and then annoy herself for stopping herself in her tracks to turn around and gingerly kiss his lips before heading out, imaginary sound effects of a building collapsing to the ground deafening her ears.

It took two cigarettes and a short, silent cry for her to become Atlas and sneak inside her home, washing herself before sliding underneath the sheets. Sometimes, Henry would wake up before she did, and he’d rest his head on her shoulder, patiently waiting for her to open her eyes and start the day together. Every other Tuesday and Thursday, he’d wake up shortly after she’d slid back underneath the sheets and take her father to the hospital for his heart treatment, and she’d lie in bed wide awake till she heard him unlocking the front door, following his steps around the house until he knocked on the door, and then she knew what would happen next. Henry was so polite and respectful of her father that he would never even attempt to sleep with Atlas, not even if she’d done that times and times before during her teenage years, and nobody knew.

But the moment her father was out for a safe amount of time, Henry allowed himself to be the tender, passionate lover he was back home, where it was just the two of them in their wildly spacious diplomatic house, and Atlas had no intention of stopping him from loving her the way he did, no matter how guilty it was making her feel. There was something disgraceful about the way she rolled around the sheets between Damien and Henry, and it wasn’t the actual act of having sex that felt dirty and foul, but the way she selfishly kept the truth for herself in each situation.

“What’s that?” Damien’s breathless voice rang as he pushed himself away from her slightly, eyes glued to something below her ear. Atlas couldn’t see it, but she knew he was asking about the mark, his calloused index finger tracing its outlines without knowing it sent small jolts of pain all the way up to her jawline.

“Um… It’s…” she began whispering, voice failing her yet again, for the millionth time that week, but decided in a split second that he knew all too well what it was, so she reached for his mouth, blocking his following words from coming out with her frantic lips. 

It was funny how Damien kept track of every mark he’d left on her skin, while Henry couldn’t care less about it. Maybe it was a sense of property that was making him want to remember every place where the natural colour of her flesh had been modified by his teeth or hands, an urgency the latter couldn’t relate to – in a parallel universe where things were straight and easy and there was no hiding around, she was his fiancée, which obviously meant there was absolutely no reason why he’d ever be suspicious of whether he was the only one touching her like that.

It was the morning of the fifteenth day of commuting from Damien’s bed to her own, and she couldn’t fall back to sleep, no matter how hard she tried. Her eyes wouldn’t let go of the heavenly way Henry’s face seemed, his little cute frown and the pout he unconsciously did when he was sleeping, a look that never failed to send butterflies in her stomach and an incontrollable little smile pushing upwards the corner of her mouth. She didn’t mind spending forever just looking at him, and this made her feel even worse in a way – maybe it was that deep down she knew Damien’s face could never bring her as much peace as Henry’s. Maybe she knew the ugly and the broken and the angry in him will always stir up just the same feelings in her too.

He opened up his eyes in slow motion, his furrowed brows coming even closer together as the light chased the sleepiness away from his pink lids. With a small, guttural growl, he hid his face in the crook of her neck, eyes tightly shut as if doing his best to stay asleep.

“Hi” she whispered, hand reaching for his chocolatey locks, fingers diving in the messiness of bed hair. He nodded as if in agreement, and sighed deeply before pulling away, a sleepy smile hanging on his lips.

“Good morning, beautiful” he uttered, hoarse morning voice melting Atlas’s knees even if she wasn’t standing. The sight of him and the way he spoke and every single detail just set her stomach on fire, a pleasant one, the type you’d cuddle up next to with a book and an oversized pyjama shirt. She watched as he rolled on his back, facing the ceiling, hands rubbing at his eyes before blinking a couple times to check if he needed any more of it. There was a smile still lingering on his face, and the moment he turned back to face her, Atlas immediately noticed it had only gotten wider. “I had this really crazy dream last night” he began, his left arm propping his head up while his right one wrapped itself around her torso protectively. “It was the wedding, but like, really random and spontaneous, and nobody had any idea what we were doing, and at some point, we actually left on those little scooters they have in Italy and your mother would have gladly killed us both” he narrated, eyes bright and joyful as his speech, and Jesus fucking Christ, how is it possible for someone to make her feel so much at peace and so much in love within literally two minutes of interaction? Just hearing him describe his dream was a good enough reminder that she would never be able to leave him. No matter how much Damien wanted to believe that, no matter how much she wanted to give him the impression she could just pack her things and run. 

“I’m actually really looking forward to it. The wedding, I mean” he spoke again, this time propping himself so that his face was hovering above hers, making it easy for Henry to lean down and plant a loving kiss on her lips, Atlas catching herself being surprised by the softness of his lips, their cashmere touch, so different from Damien’s chapped kisses. “I think it’s going to be great fun, to be honest. And maybe we could try and bring your dad too, somehow. See what the doctors are saying.”  

She stared up at him in awe and adoration, words failing to come out of her mouth. And really, she didn’t even have the intention to speak, all she wanted was to be able to stay in bed, underneath the fluffy comforter, and listen to him endlessly going on about whatever he pleased, from wedding plans to daily to-do’s to world news and childhood memories. “Henry?” she almost whispered, too preoccupied with how she was feeling right now to even notice he was talking about something she’d completely lost track of.

“Yeah?” he paused, a little puzzled by the sudden interruption, but nonetheless his face was calm and his was smooth, almost velvety, the type you might feel tempted to recommend as an alternative to prescription painkillers.

“You really love me, don’t you?” Atlas found herself asking, each word carefully pronounced, leaving no room for interpretation. And then his face lit up and a playful chuckle escaped his throat and his lips touched hers again, brushing ever so slightly before diving in a long, beautiful kiss.

“I guess you caught me on that one, yes” was what he said, eyes bright and truthful, like he’d just been born. “I do really love you, Atlas” he added, like she needed him to restate the truth, which to be completely honest, wasn’t far from the truth.

With a bite of her lip and a roaring pain in her chest, she allowed herself to be honest nonetheless, even if that meant it was making her a murderer. “That’s good” she started, eyes moving from the plump of his lower lip to his eyes, once more feeling like her knees could never stand a chance before him. “Because I love you too, I love you a lot. I love only you.”

[atomic-r0x]

Atlas, Part Seven | “I’m on the fence about what feels worse, the one leaving or the one in bed”

She was sneaking in inside her own home. At the crack of dawn, with the smell of Damien’s skin impregnated on her own, Atlas Collins was crawling up the red brick wall of her old home, going back over foot and fingerprints she’d left there so many years ago, back when she wouldn’t bother with the stairs and just make her way in and out secretly, long after her parents thought she’d gone to sleep. There’s something about men lying in bed alone and fast asleep that just makes Atlas’s knees weaken and her stomach ache with weird butterflies, and how she had to cling onto the window ledge even after landing inside her old bedroom at the sight of Henry’s peaceful body, chest rising and descending gracefully in ridiculously artistic breathing. She peeled her t-shirt and shorts off and stared down at herself, a flimsy bra sticking to the sweat-coated skin like duct tape, wearing a freshly washed and ironed pair of boxers from Damien’s collection, because finding her own had seemed like an impossible task. Flashes of memories of walls, teeth and textures were clouding her vision, and for the first time in six years, she was standing before Henry almost naked and feeling like an impostor. She could tell by the light sigh and the childish way he shifted his position that he was still sleeping soundly, and yet her feet wouldn’t move. How was it humanly possible to love someone with every atom of her fucked up heart and still do what she’d just done? How could she nod in approval, give in to the pressure of those piercing eyes, and then come back to this man who was so endlessly fascinating to her and still consider him her future husband? It took a lot more strength than normally necessary for Atlas to drag herself all the way to the bathroom, the weight of Damien’s lips on her body like bags of lead balancing on her shoulders. In the full-length mirror inside her bathroom, she didn’t look like herself – there were bags underneath her blue eyes and a certain puffiness all too familiar and the type of running nose you get from crying a lot. There were red scratches on the side of her hips and traces of teeth marks, the reminiscent residue of lovemaking that goes away with a hot shower and the secrecy of clothing, and yet there was something captivating in staring at herself under the white antiseptic bathroom lightning. So this is the body of a traitor? He was sleeping on his side when Atlas pulled herself away from his arms and wrapped the sheets around her body, but the moment the bed shifted under the weight of her getting up, his eyes immediately popped open, alert and searching. It was nothing, and yet she smiled and leaned over to press the softest kiss on his cheek, inches away from his mouth, and whisper ‘I must go home now’, as if this was their way of saying the fun’s over. Like she was expecting for him to agree with her and send his best wishes to Henry, waving politely before she disappeared into the weird darkness of twilight. She had to come up with a plan, something to justify the many things changed in her that weren’t there when Henry went to bed. She’d leave the window open and then blame it for her hoarse voice. The red fingernail marks would be her own, scratching herself in her sleep. The big red spot up there on the inside of her right thigh, which was turning black and blue by the minute, Henry wouldn’t have to know about. Not even the hot water pouring over her like a cascade could tame the nagging feeling in her chest that she’d absolutely ruined herself. And Damien too. And fuck, what about Henry? It was the mere thought of her soon-to-be husband that immediately sent Atlas to tears, convulsing inside the steamy shower with the last bits of energy left in her body. Never had she ever thought she would be capable of such cruelty, but there she was… . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “I’m starting to wonder if I’m marrying a woman or a sloth” Henry’s spoke, and even with her eyes closed and still half-asleep, Atlas could feel the playful smile plastered on his face. She smiled and hid her face inside the pillow, counting the seconds until his weight would lean the bed to the side ever so slightly and his lips would find their way to her cheek and then behind her ear, nibbling at the lobe for a brief moment. It felt like a morning ritual they religiously kept doing, and for a split-second Atlas allowed herself to lavish in the affection she was given. “Good morning” he whispered, chin resting on her shoulder, eyes contemplating her like they always did, so loving and so careful, eager to discover any detail, any feature that would remind him once more of why he’d put a ring on that finger. This was what your mornings are like every day, Atlas, why the fuck would you ever trade it for anything else? She couldn’t help but ask herself that as her eyes opened and a smile just couldn’t resist not spreading out across her lips, stretching like a cat underneath her loving man. “Good morning, Henry” she spoke and as soon as the first syllables escaped her lips, Atlas’s eyes widened in sync with his own. Of course she had been expecting for her voice to be hoarse, but this… It was absolutely destroyed, as if she’d been screaming for dear life on top of a Himalayan mountain wearing hot pants, feet bare in the snow. “Oh my God” she mouthed, her hand covering her lips in disbelief, before she tried clearing her throat several times, each gulp more painful than the other. “You left the window open last night” Henry remarked after a short silence of analysing her face, straightening his back as he stood on the side of the bed, his right arm still lingering behind her, hand propping up his weight. “I guess no iced coffee for you this morning, then, I’m gonna have to make a new one” he spoke, almost ready to get up from his position before Atlas’s hand reached out for his arm, pulling him back. “It’s fine, I’ll do it myself” she whispered, still slightly surprised by the state of her voice, and pulled at his arm until he was hovering over her again, the other hand pushing the comforter to the side. She didn’t even have to speak, or to look him in the eyes long enough for him to get the message, Henry already knew what she was waiting for, and he was eager to provide her that – falling to her side, pulling the sheets over their heads, a peaceful sigh escaped him as his arm secured itself around his soon-to-be wife’s figure in a tight and intimate embrace, the kind that makes your feet tickle from inside the skin and your stomach feel like it has suddenly been emptied by a vaccum. Atlas had everything she could have possibly asked for – a loving man by her side, a supportive family, albeit separated, a flourishing career, a beautiful home and a group of friends she could rely on. She had the world, and this should have been enough for her. But this world didn’t have time or space for Damien, for acting like a teenager once more, selfish and overwhelmed by uncontrollable feelings, for giving in to impulse and lust. “Everything okay?” Henry murmured, and Atlas still couldn’t understand how a voice can be this soft and reassuring, so velvety and soothing. “Your body’s all tense.” / ‘Are we friends? Are we fucking? What’s happening?’ / She should have said it then and maybe things would have been different now. Of course they were fucking, because she needed it, she needed to set herself free – all those years of loving him the only way her teenage heart knew how, cursing her parents and her luck for moving so many thousand miles away from him in an instant, without any word. Didn't he know it just as well as she did? Fucking was a coping mechanism, and maybe they both needed to get all those loose ends sorted out before any normal and potentially healthy relationship established between them. Damien had always been a smart guy and yet he believed every second of her nodding – didn’t he know better? How could he buy it, Atlas really running away with him from everything she’d ever build? Her mind couldn’t wrap around the cold hard truth that most of all, she was to blame for everything. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Days in Beaufort had never been fast-paced, and yet this particular one seemed never-ending, the hours slowly passing by like there time itself had issues moving on after the previous night. His car slowed down in front of her house, and from the passenger’s seat you could have sworn the Collins’ porch was stretching endlessly into the horizon, the lazy light of sunset casting a red hue over the dusty bricks. “Take care of yourself, kid” Brodie spoke once the engine stopped, his car perfectly parked into the vacant spot in the driveway. With his pearl white smile so characteristic of him, he ran a hand through his hair and looked over to the front door, Atlas still lingering in her seat. “Well, I bet Henry’s gonna be very jealous he’s not the only one you’re giving love to.” It was a joke, innocent and well-intended, but she still froze for a second, puzzled at his words before she shrugged it off, returning his smile with one of her own. “Of all, I should be the jealous one, you’ve basically stolen my husband.” Husband. The word had an unexpectedly grave ring to it, like she’d deciphered an old spell or a hieroglyph revealing the meaning of life. She’d never before referred to Henry as her husband, hardly ever as her fiancé, and pronouncing that in such circumstances made Atlas feel profane. Like she’d fucked up a sacred inheritance that she’d been trusted with. “Well, anyway, let me know how things go… With Jude, I mean.” It was enough for her to mention his name and life would spark up in the apple of his cheeks, a rosiness so characteristic of his marble-white complexion, which he tried to shake off and play it cool, letting out a chuckle intended to seem careless, almost playful. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.” And then he hesitated, running his thumb over his lower lip, eyes darting back to the entrance of her childhood home. “I don’t even know anymore… With Hope, and how she sees things… I just wonder if she’s seeing more than I do, being objective and all.” A small silence followed – Atlas had never been good around Hope, the two seemed to have never really understood how to handle each other, but then again, the Larssons were a family teenage Atlas hadn’t really been tight with for some reason. “But I want to give her the credit. I want to believe her. I’ll have to give her that, she’s much more experienced at having her heart crushed, the whole story with Charlie and how he died and finding out about all that shit.” He probably realised he’d spilled the beans on something Atlas was completely unaware of only when Atlas’s eyes grew wide open all of a sudden, as if triggered by one simple command. It couldn’t be true, Charlie couldn’t be dead. Not the Charlie she knew. “You didn’t know…” Brodie continued in a considerably lower voice, and something about the way he phrased it made it sound less like a question and more like a statement. They stood in silence for a few moments, with Atlas’s eyes vacant and focused on the unreachable distance. “How did he die?” It took a while for Brodie to answer, probably contemplating whether it was a good idea to let her know the whole story, but nonetheless he spoke up. “He committed suicide” he spoke and Atlas’s face was taken over by a frown and a jaw that wouldn’t relax, so clenched her teeth might have cracked under the pressure. “He… He did it a long time ago. Maybe nine or ten years ago? It was right before Damien left town too.” It might have been the shock on her face or the way her whole body had absolutely frozen to the news that made him extend his hand to hold hers in the most innocent way, so much so that she had to look down, marvelled by the gesture. “Thanks for the ride” she finally spoke, eyes moving back to his face. “Take care of yourself” she added, giving a final squeeze of his hand before stepping out of the car, the pavement so far away from her feet. She waited for him to get out of the driveway, waving as she stood on the front steps, acting like she hadn't been crushed by the news. She waited for his car to melt into the distance into something undistinguishable before sitting down, hand frantically raiding through the contents of her purse until a lighter and a cigarette found their way in her hands, before a quick set of moves set the stick ablaze and tossed the lighter back in. She’d been around for a few weeks now and nobody had bothered to tell her the news. Not even Damien, although a part of her knew all too well he wouldn’t open up about it, though it all made sense now, his mother and his tattoo and Isabella, ever-present in his life. Him leaving the town because he couldn't tolerate staying in a place that had ruined him. Isabella clinging on to him because he was the only thing she had left to remind her of Charlie. The nausea in Atlas’s mouth had become too familiar. “Oh, you’re back” her father’s voice brought her back to reality, the crack of a door opening too subtle for the type of trance she seemed to have fallen into. “You alright, kid?” He spoke, kneeling down to be on the same level with his daughter, joints cracking. “Yeah, I was just finishing this cigarette” she replied after a brief moment of contemplation, but ultimately figured it didn’t make much sense discussing Charlie’s death with her dad, who was now adjusting his position so that his body was mimicking hers, face bright with love and good disposition. Her father had always appreciated sitting down in silence with his loved ones, and it was something Atlas hadn’t known she’d missed until now, the two of them resting on the front steps of their house like some thug kids on eighties rap posters. “Went to see Damien about those photos?” He finally said, a small satisfied smile on his lips as he leaned back, hands propping his weight, head resting against the door. “Um, no” Atlas replied, resting her head on his shoulder, annoyed at herself for having to lie to her father, but not even he, with all the love and generosity he was capable of, could he not blame his daughter, and Atlas would’ve understood his reasons. Instead, she shifted to something else. “I went out with Brodie today, we had a little drink, it was quite nice.” Her father didn’t say anything for the next few moments, he just sighed peacefully, like the view before him was filling him with so much joy he had to make enough space inside of him to fit all of it. “Why don't you invite him, too?” He asked, continuing only when Atlas’s puzzled eyes looked up, in search for his. “Damien, I mean. He’s grown into such a good young man, and you two have always been really close. Even now, when he came over for dinner, it seemed like you’ve always been inseparable.” There was a weird combination between wanting to burst into laughter and shaking all over that flooded Atlas, retrieving her head for her father's shoulder as she kept staring straight ahead, phrasing and rephrasing what she was about to say next, until she just smiled to herself. “I’ll think about it” Atlas replied, getting up and shaking off the dust from the back of her cut-offs, before extending her hand to her father. “C’mon in, paps. Let’s cook something for dinner” she continued ever so lightly, shrugging his previous words off with a display of amusement to hide the churning feeling inside her stomach. When had her life turned into such a ridiculous masquerade?

[atomic-r0x]

In which Atlas is crying again

They walked back home in complete silence, though holding hands as Henry’s arm rested around her shoulders, the protective shield of a forever careful fiancé. Her eyes were hurting from the neon lights and there was a nagging pain teasing at her brain from all the paperwork and all the declarations and to be honest, just the sight of Patrick made her sick. It was impossible not to feel this way, all those memories of Damien swearing to kick him in the face for all the bullying he kept giving Charlie were too vivid to forget, or to forgive the monster who’d now become a cop, ironically enough.

A quiet night was ahead of them, with Henry having promised and back massage after dinner, and some red wine just to let their hair down and shake off the shock of waking up to a house full of threats and senseless words scribbled in that bloody red paint. It was a wonder how Henry could be so composed and maintain his calm, all while insisting everything was done to find the person who did this and be punish accordingly – Atlas spent the day in a complete haze, watching her fiancé in total awe at his ability, while she herself was just a mess. Confused, disturbed, needing to be loved.

She noticed him from a considerable distance, and maybe that’s why she didn’t react right away, hoping maybe it was just her imagination playing tricks, or a worker her dad had called in who looked too much like him. But the closer she and Henry were getting to the entrance door of her childhood home, the more it became evident she wasn’t dreaming. It was Damien. “What…?” she tried to ask, but soon found herself at a loss for words.

“Thought I could help.” Damien casually pointed his thumb behind his shoulder – right where now only a half of the words had been written. Out of all things to do and out of all the people in the whole town, Damien Nichols had to be the one crouching in front of her house with a bucket of white paint and tired eyes. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met,” Damien’s voice rang again, this time directing his words towards her fiancé, and it took nothing but a quick glance at his face to make Atlas stiffen, almost as if in block-start for the bad things that were about to go down. “I’m Damien.”

“We’ve met.” Henry said matter-of-factly, after introducing himself with his full name, a habit of his developed through work. “Is your hand alright?” This particular question made Atlas burn with curiosity, needing to know where they'd met, and how it went down, and why Henry knew about his presumed wounds, rather than herself. The moment Damien's eyes darted towards his knuckles, her own followed the trace and a small gasp, which she didn't dare let out, formed in the back of her throat, seeing the remaining scars and bruises from God knows what Damien had been up to.   Before she could say anything, Damien's voice knocked her back to reality. “Where’ve you guys been?” he asked in a way Henry might have deemed casual, almost friendly, but Atlas's teeth were on the edge. She would have killed to be able to say 'let's not drag Henry in this, too', but she knew she couldn't - partly because her fiancé’s hand was once again around her shoulders, protectively and loving as always, and partly because both Damien and Atlas knew all too well this wasn't about Henry or Isabella or anyone else. It was strictly between the two of them.   "We had to go to the police station, tell them about the house and file a complaint" Henry took it upon him to reply when he realized Atlas wasn't in the mood for talking, though her eyes were eager and present.   "Dinner's ready!" Atlas's father's voice rang through the front door left wide open from when he was doing chit chat with Damien. It was only a couple minutes later, when he figured nobody replied to his calling, that Mr Collins proceeded towards the front door, where he found himself breaking an impenetrable, heavy silence. "Oh, Damien, you're still here? That's great, why don't you stay with us for dinner?"   "Sure, why not? I bet there's plenty of food for each of us" Henry supported the idea with a wide smile, and Atlas's hand quickly grabbed his, in hopes their intertwined fingers would give her the possibility to control what her fiancé was about to say. "C'mon, the food is getting cold" he added regardless of the tight grip his lover's hand had on his own, which he mistook for affection, reaching down to kiss the side of her head before heading inside, leaving the door wide open for them to follow.

“Damien, why aren’t you coming?” Atlas heard her father, who still standing in the doorframe, “Are you not hungry, or is it because you aren’t used to coming in from the front door? You can come in from Atlas’s window if that’s what you find more comfortable.” She almost choked on air when her father suggested climbing through the window. It never really occurred to her they knew, that her parents were fully aware of what was going on upstairs, in the intimacy of her room. Embarrassment washed over her, thinking of all the sounds they might have witnessed, with both Damien and Atlas herself thinking they were so sly and quiet.   She would have died to see Damien's face at the remark, but she was too proud to turn around, visibly seeking his gaze. Instead, she just shook her head, playing it cool, like she was laughing at how silly her dad was, and headed inside, eager to see whether Damien would join in. And he did.   It took a lot of courage to sit exactly opposite to him, but Henry and her father had decided it was better like that, although she couldn't read any hidden intentions behind their eyes. “So, Damien…” she was brought back to reality by her fiancé’s words which immediately made her looking up to inspect his face, try to find any clue of what might come. “What do you do?” Atlas knew perfectly well Henry's question was simply trivial, the type you'd ask at the parties they went to with ambassadors and diplomats, but still, she froze for a moment.

“I’m a photographer.” He replied plainly, as if his day job was very similar to the one where you are stuck in a cubicle for eight hours, or whatever it was Damien might have thought about Henry’s type of job. The latter simply nodded, as if content with his reply, before shifting his gaze to Atlas.   When Henry's gaze moved to her, she flashed the brightest smile. "He's actually pretty good at it. Or at least, so he was back when he was only starting out with me as his muse" she managed to joke, casually taking some salad into her own bowl before placing it back in the middle of the table. "I think I might still have those first few photos, upstairs" she added, although she knew for sure they were there. Part of them, the ones she felt were the most intimate ones, were scanned and preserved in her Italian home, locked inside a safe where she kept all the most important belongings. The others, who didn't reveal as much of their intimacy as the rest, were still in her childhood room, still smelling of his perfume from back then.

It was an unbearably hot summer night when he started toying around with a sh-tty 35mm camera that he got on sale. They were both sixteen, trapped in her childhood bedroom and their skin was glowing from the summer heat. She smelled like a fruity body lotion and his hair had slowly begun to curl from the humid June air. They had been talking about the dumbest things, both naked and lying on wrinkled white sheets. “Take photos of me.” She’d said to him – pink lips between her teeth swollen from all that kissing and a mischievous look in her eyes.   “Really?” Damien raised his eyebrows in suspicion. “You should show them to me someday. Or later.”

She messed with her hair to hide the slight flush in her cheek. Henry and her father must have clearly thought Damien was probably nostalgic of his earlier work, or the times spent together, something innocent and cute, but only they knew the many ways in which his 35mm camera got to be used.   “Anyways, Henry…” As if already bored from the topic, Damien suddenly shifted his gaze towards the man in front of him. “What do /you/ do?”

Henry was taken aback by the question, almost surprised that Damien and Atlas had decided to include the other two people at the table into their conversation. "Oh, uh, I'm a diplomat" he said plainly. He was never one to brag or talk too much about his job, which had always been something Atlas appreciated in him. There was a certain humbleness in Henry that many lacked. "Currently, Atlas and I are really keen on doing something for communities of poor or disadvantaged children. But, well, it's not half as dynamic as being a photographer" Henry concluded humbly, and Atlas couldn't help but grin a little bit. After all the sh.it they'd gone through, he was still able to make her feel all warm inside. It was moments like these when she realized how she'd always been fascinated by him, by the complexity of his whole being.   They continued eating in silence for a little while, and in the meantime Henry had finished his plate, finding it fitting to go down into the dungeon to bring a bottle of wine, like Atlas's father had asked him to do. "So, how have you two reconnected? I must admit, Damien, not even I knew you were back in town, but I'm glad Atlas stumbled upon you again, after all this time" her father spoke, placing his fork down to the side after finishing eating, resting deeper inside his chair as his hands intertwined on his stomach, the relaxed position of someone who'd just eaten and was full.

“Yeah” Damien said, though it sounded more like a sigh. “I’m glad, too.” And then he began talking about Mia Anderson’s party and just how much of a bust it was and how he noticed Atlas in the crowd. “You were hopeless” he said, with a wide smile. “Just like that time, ten years ago at…“ Damien paused for a second, fingers snapping as he tried to remember who was hosting the party in which he and Atlas met for the first time, “…-Kelsey whatever’s party!” Atlas mouthed a silent ‘oh my god’ as if she immediately remembered the events of that night. “All I wanted to do was ask her for a lighter, and miss congeniality over here almost spilled an entire drink on me.”

"Well you came there all of a sudden!" she fought back playfully, her hands raising in the air from her thighs. "I was just enjoying my own company in solitude and quietness and you popped up behind my back!" she recalled, an impossible to hide smirk tugging at her lips. He walked her home that night. Their arms placed casually beside their bodies and their fingers brushing against one another from time to time, but neither of them actually having enough courage to hold hands. Just before she ran up those several steps in front of her childhood home, Atlas pressed a long, chaste kiss on his cheek – only several inches from his lips.   She was so deep down memory lane that she almost didn't notice when Henry returned, silently pouring wine in their respective glasses before resuming to his seat, and Atlas straightened her back at the touch of his hand on her bare thigh, something so common and gentle that now seemed to put her off in a way she hated herself for.   "Anyone up for some dessert?" she asked, immediately sitting up from the table in unexpected hospitality. "There's still some cheesecake in the fridge, we can share that no problem." Atlas didn't even wait for their reply and just went straight towards the kitchen, mind completely clouded with thoughts bringing back memories she had held onto dearly, but which troubled her in ways she wasn't yet ready to tackle.

“Actually,” Damien’s voice echoed in the dining room accompanied by the sound of a similar, but a lot softer sound of a chair being pushed back. “It’s getting pretty late and I kind of promised Isabella that I’ll help her out with some stuff at the motel. I’ll go say goodbye to Atlas. Thanks for dinner.”   And although she had heard him coming, Atlas still jumped at his words, pale blue eyes widened in surprise as she placed the knife down on the kitchen counter. “I’m going. If you happen to find those photos, stop by, okay?”

She didn't protest. There was a soft smile on her and a small nod, before she whispered in a voice so low you might have confused it for mouthing 'bye' before she returned to the cheesecake.   Atlas washed the dishes in silence and helped Henry sort her father's pills into daily doses, gathering maybe three or four in different colours and marking down the times when her father had to remember to swallow each of them. She followed her fiancé to her childhood bedroom and they watched a little bit of sloppy television before he pulled away from under the blankets to shave and have a shower.   The moment he left the room, Atlas reached for the nightstand, and after a solid couple minutes of going through bits of pointless notes and whatnot, she finally found the envelope in which she kept the least intimate of the photos Damien had taken of her that summer. By the time Henry got out of the bathroom and threw himself inside the bed, she'd already found the folder in which she kept hidden the more provocative photographs. Ten, to be more precise, and even with his incipient skills in his current craft, there was still so much feeling inside those stills, so much rawness.   It didn't take long for Henry to fall asleep, his arm around her protectively, like a kid hugging a stuffed toy to make sleeping more pleasurable. Atlas slid from underneath the weight of his body leaning on her side and stepped out of the bed, quickly pulling on clothes that could hardly pass as a decent outfit, but the air was hot that night, and she was in a hurry.   Fifteen minutes. That's how much it takes to get from Atlas's place to the Flamingo Motel, room number 4, and yet she was still breathless. With a last deep breath, she cleared her throat lightly and made her way to his room, careful not to be seen, although paranoia almost managed to convince her Isabella was closely watching the surveillance cameras.

Finally standing in front of his door, knocking felt weird, and pushing the doorknob might have come off as something else, so instead, Atlas knelt down and tried to push one of the less intimate photographs underneath his door, hoping he'd see it somehow, without her making a complete fool of herself. It only occurred to her Damien might not even be there or want to open the door only after sliding the photograph underneath the door. She stood there staring at the wooden door with a small lump in her throat, convinced he hated her.   Why wouldn't he hate her? If she had been in his shoes, Atlas would have loathed seeing Damien with another girl. Seeing them holding hands would have made her knees shake and mouth fill with nausea. In all honesty, Atlas would have loathed living, even for a small period of time, in the same town with a soon to be married Damien.

“Took you long enough.” Damien said the moment he opened the door, and her frown dissolved at that characteristic smirk settled on his lips. Right then, right in that moment, she was reminded how it felt to have butterflies for Damien.   "Well, unlike someone I know" she started, a slightly mischievous smile settled on her lips "I don't live on my own. There was washing up to do, and people to take care of" she spoke, swaying inside with her hands stuffed inside the pockets of her denim shorts, making her way towards the edge of the bed.

“So… Did you find the rest?” Damien asked before lighting up a cigarette, Atlas's mind immediately darting to Isabella. Nonetheless, she nodded, shifting her position so that she could take out the white envelope she'd stuffed in the pocket of her jeans.

"All of them" she finally answered, biting down on her lower lip when she noticed him sitting right next to her, the familiar warmth of his body so close to hers causing goosebumps to form on her legs. How was it even possible to be so in love with another man when Damien effortlessly made her feel the way she did?   Maybe it's true what people say about how your first love never really leaves you, she concluded before looking up at him, so close she could inspect the stubble peeking through the pores of his cheek. Atlas looked down at the envelope in her hand once more before handing it to Damien, stealing the cigarette from his hand in exchange.   "So by these, you mean all?" Damien's voice was soft and soothing, bringing her back to reality, the reality in which she was hiding the contents of that specific folder on her laptop like there was some classified information that needed to be strictly protected. "So...?" he persisted, his face turned towards Atlas's, and she could help but hide her gulp with a long drag of her cigarette, getting up from the bed to open the window.   "I guess there must be some others too, hiding somewhere around the drawers here, or back in Italy..." she spoke, although not believing a single word she was saying.

“Italy?!” There was a tiny crack in his voice, as if she had just shared something brand new to him and subsequently made him laugh during the process. “You brought the photos I took all the way to Italy?” The surprise in Damien's voice took even Atlas aback. Did he really think she'd leave those things behind? Were they finally having a conversation about leaving and not saying anything about it and dissecting the anatomy of broken hearts? God knew Atlas wasn't ready for that type of confrontation, because her sole argument would have been that night, when she crawled into his room and just slept beside him, trying her hardest to dissolve, or morph into a vital part of his body.   Her whole existence was in boxes and luggage, even her toothbrush was stored in some bag only her mother could find. Her room was a ghost of what her life had been up until that point, and the only soul stuck in that haunted house was her father. Atlas's mother had long moved out into a cheap hotel nearby, and was eager to share her room with her daughter, counting down the days until they finally boarded the plane.   Of course she couldn't fight against her mother and against the jury and the judges. The divorce had been too long, because Mr. Collins really did love his daughter more than anything in the world, but ultimately, being a mother always sounds more heroic than being a father. She was sixteen at the time, and could not choose her legal supervisor.   She couldn't bother explaining that she did take those photos all the way to Italy, partly because she didn't want to openly admit they meant so much to her. Fxck, they meant everything, and this was a statement too bold, too heavy to say out loud. Instead, she returned to the side of the bed, only this time, they weren't as close as before. "I couldn't push myself into saying that. I just, I couldn't" she spoke softly, playing with her thumbs as her voice barely made itself audible. "I know I should have, maybe things would have been different now."

“I would’ve probably screwed you over…” He finally said after what seemed like hours of heavy silence. “By f-cking some random girl… or even your best friend, just because you’d go and hang out with your fancy new Italian friends rather than spending your Friday nights having boring small talks with me. You’d find out through a friend that you still keep in touch with or… maybe I would tell you because I can’t hold it in much longer and just need an excuse to end things with you. So, I tell you that I don't love you anymore, break your heart and you hate me forever. While I hate myself…” To say that Atlas froze would be the biggest understatement in the entire history of humankind. Her heart was pounding and there was a sharp pain following each beat, like someone was repeatedly stabbin her with a fork or a prehistoric weapon, over and over, until there was no life left inside of her, just the constant pain, the never ending cycle of thrusting in the weapon, then taking it out.   The first one to ever tell Atlas they loved her romantically was Henry. She was almost twenty at the time and they had been toying with the idea of living together for a short period of time. Funny thing is, they were fighting over the point of moving in a place to call their own when he spoke those three words, that left a mark on her like a burning red steel on a fresh piece of flesh. She was screaming at him, asking why he was so pushy about it, why he kept nagging her about looking for apartments or houses to rent, and he just shrugged, tired of fighting over the same damn thing. 'Because I fxcking love you, Atlas, that's why' was what he said.   Ever since then, her mind somehow automatically associated those three words with Henry. Matthias had told her 'i love you' once, maybe, but they moth knew he didn't really mean it. Love, in all its gigantic terrifying sense was exclusively reserved to Henry. Or so it had been, until now.   They were drowning in silence, something so deep and dense you could cut it with a knife. It was weird how a wall had suddenly been built between the two of them, but them destroyed to the ground by the same force who raised it in the first place. The cigarette was now merely a buttt burning between her fingertips, but Atlas couldn't move, couldn't command her body to do something about it. And anyway, a cigarette burn was less painful than this.   "Fxcking hell" she finally muttered, not knowing what to do with herself, so she just got up, walking towards the window to throw the remnants of the cigarette out the window, and for a second there, she thought she was going to keep her position, standing there by the window, gasping or fresh air. Instead, Atlas found herself tickled on the cheek by a stray tear, which she couldn't bother wiping away. "Well, we're even, then. You would have fxcked some girl around here and move on, and I would have been told 'I love you' miles away from here, by some guy you'd never tolerate."   “And yet, here we are” he muttered before getting up, dragging his feet across the floor and stopping when both he and Atlas were standing at a respectable distance. She watched him move from the bed and her lips started burning, either from the desperate need to light up a cigarette or bruise her mouth against his. It had always haunted her, the love story she lived with Damien, but never imagined it would take over her life in just a matter of days.   The moment his hand reached for her cheek to brush away the stray tear with his calloused thumb, Atlas's body was overwhelmed by a shiver that ran straight through her bones, making her further hide her face in the crook of his hand, closing her eyes in the safety of the imprints on his fingers. “What are we doing, Atlas? Are we friends? Are we fxcking? What’s happening?” Damien’s next words made her eyes pop open, and she stood there for a moment inspecting his features, trying to figure out what he meant by what he'd just said. But his face was confused, hurt almost, and troubled in a way she'd never seen him before, not even back in the day when he'd get in fights for causing havoc around town, not even when she'd lick the blood off his wounds before nursing him underneath the fortress her sheets were.   "Damien, no... Don't talk like that" she closed her eyes once more, further hiding her face inside his palm, which was still lingering on her cheek. "Don't do that..." she continued, and now her hands were seeking his waist, finally locking around it, consequently pulling herself closer to him, this time moving her head from his palm to his shoulder, breathing in his scent, his bad boy perfume, the linger of cigarette smoke in his clothes. "I could have loved you until my heart stopped" she found herself whispering after what seemed like ten thousand years of doing breathing exercises into Damien's neck. "We could have been okay" she added, and then her voice cracked and Atlas decided the last thing she could do after being this vulnerable, was just abandon herself completely, further hiding her face in the crook of his neck, as if that was the getaway towards a place less complicated than this world.

“Yeah, back then we could’ve been okay… But what about now?” his voice was hoarse and unsteady, causing his chest to vibrate under Atlas's burning ear, red from how hard she'd been pressing her face into the crook of his neck. It made her feel uneasy to think he was waiting for a reply. No, it was making her feel uneasy that Damien was even letting his guard down this much, let alone ask such troubling things. Could she love him the same right now?   She wanted to tell him straight away that she did love him. It was the truth and it would have been easier to just let it out, say it and not have to come back to it anytime soon. But there was no easy way out - the feelings were genuine, and clearly there, though incomparable to what she had ever experienced by Henry's side. A fxck no, this was not, by any means, the type of so-called platonic love, keeping Damien around for her own interests and entertainment. The fact of it is that, no matter how much she wanted things to be different, Damien was just a fantasy, a thing that could never materialize, something that had no chance of interfering with the way her life was going to carry on. She was never going to be Atlas Nichols.   Of course, she said none of that, although his eyes were pushing her to the limit. Begging her, almost, to give him a sign, say something that would mimic certainty, anything that sixteen-year-old Damien couldn't care less about, but now, ten years later, was desperately waiting for. So, to make up for her silence, Atlas did the only thing she knew would make him feel any better - doe eyes wet with tears that were prohibited from rolling down her cheeks, she stretched up on her toes a little, pressing her own lips against Damien's, pulling him closer to her as they kissed, their lips doing a much better job at communicating than her whole vocabulary would have ever been able to.

With a thumb pressed against her cheek and a hand on the small of her back, Damien pulled her closer. He pulled her until there was no space left to fill as their lips communicated in a way that their words couldn’t. Her hands curled into fists – grabbing onto his shirt as if holding out for dear life and his arms tightening around her waist.   He lifted her in a single, swift motion and as if it was something they had practiced over and over again; Atlas wrapping her legs securely around his torso and him slowly carrying her to his bed. All whilst their kiss remained unbreakable. A small whimper left her lips as he placed her down and pulled away – fingers hastily reaching for the hem of his shirt and removing it in one go. "Again?" Damien breathed and as soon as the last sound exited his mouth, Atlas covered it with her hand, then her mouth, lips making their way to his cheek, his earlobe, his jawline, then down his neck until she found herself kissing his shoulder. He was never the one to talk so much about feelings and their relationship, especially not in circumstances such as these, and the thought of him looking for answers was terrifying to Atlas, because in all honesty, she just didn't want to have to answer. She didn't want to explicitly break his heart, and her own as well.   The moment Damien's cold fingers reached underneath the over-sized shirt she was wearing, calloused fingertips brushing against the warmth of her bare stomach, Atlas froze, biting down on her lip so hard blood might have well popped out of it. She hadn't told him about the tattoos, and was completely certain he'd missed the one on the side of her finger with her father's birth date in childish scribbling. But now, with him on the verge of throwing her t-shirt across the room, it was impossible to hide the Zippo lighter for much longer.   "Dam?" she breathed, panting in the slightest bit from the frenetic kissing she'd been preoccupied with. "Dam, I have to show you something" Atlas finally whispered, propping herself up from underneath him a bit, enough to make it easy to throw off her own shirt, and look down at herself, although she couldn't see the tattoo from her perspective. But she knew it was there, pulsating, right underneath the right breast, just below the bra line, the small black drawing of the lighter she would always carry with around during her teenage years. The same lighter she'd given to Damien the first time they started talking.

He traced the lines of her brand-new tattoo with the edges of his calloused finger. “It’s beautiful” he said, and a sigh escaped Damien’s lips, moments before his gaze would meet hers for the millionth time that night. “Do I have to get one too, now? Because you know how I feel about needles. You’d have to drug me to get sh-t tattooed on me.”

A childish gurgling laugh escaped her throat as she fell back on the mattress, arms carelessly draping around his neck. For some reason, he'd managed to make her click, causing her to fall in a laughing fit that just couldn't be shaken off, and so she curled underneath him, stomach aching from the giggles. The fit gradually died, until she was still beneath his figure once more, doe eyes searching for his. Her hand automatically reached for his tattoo, the doodle Charlie had done sometime and which, for a reason Atlas still had no clue about, he'd decided to rid himself of the fear for needles and have it done. "You don't have to do anything about it. I did it for myself, I needed to" she replied after a short while, face yet again rather serious, her eyes now scanning the outline of his tattoo.   A short silence followed, her hands reaching for the softness of his neck without touching it, eyes seeking his to hold his gaze, but eventually, she just dropped her hands down and rested her head against the mattress, staring at the ceiling as if she was trying to decipher a coded message. "So, I guess the deal had always been for one of us to sneak around inside the other's room?" Atlas finally broke the silence, trying to brighten up the mood again as her hand reached for the dark curls of his hair, tugging at it ever so slightly.

“Well, it couldn’t be helped, your mom hated me. She probably still does…- although! I could never understand why, I’m a f-cking delight!” He spoke, displaying the widest grin she’d seen from him in literal ages, as he watched her burst into uncontainable laughter once again. “No, but I’m serious,” He pressed, slowly raising himself and leaning his head on his hand, “Is it my face? Is my face the reason why parents find me so obnoxious?”

"Well, I don't know, my mom's relationship with men is notoriously fxcked up, maybe you reminded her of some great love she'd never had" Atlas spoke through small fits of laughter, turning her head to the side to face Damien once again. In all honesty, Atlas's sole theory on why her mother seemed to dislike his presence so much was the fact that she probably couldn't stand the idea of her daughter being happier in love than she, a married full-grown woman, was. Or maybe it was just her protectiveness stopping her from embracing the guy who took away Atlas's innocence.   "But hey, at least my dad likes you. Isn't that every guy's main stress point?" she teased, propping herself up on her hand to mimic his own position, eyes helplessly drowning in his. "I mean, even with your super emo bad boy facade, he told me he was really fond of you.”   A few moments of comfortable silence followed, after which Atlas turned her head to the side to look out of the window, the warm tone of streetlight being the only thing to shine over their bodies. “There used to be a pretty nice pink lighting from that sign they had.” She finally said, laying her head back to the mattress and comfortably resting below him. Just like before, her hands reached for him – short nails painted bright red traced the lines of his face, as well as the place where now a faint scar existed. And just before Atlas’ had pulled away, his hand met hers; cupping it slowly and absently bringing it to his lips, kissing each and every finger of hers – lips grazing through the softness of her skin before pulling her once again towards him.   “I might leave soon,” Damien suddenly said, in between kisses, “Probably gonna head to New York or Seattle, nothing too fancy…” He paused briefly, succumbing the moan that was creating from Atlas’ lips slowly working their way down his jaw and onto his neck, before finally adding, “… come with me.”

His words paralyzed her. Each and every one of them felt like a punch in the stomach, repeatedly, like she was one of those games in amusement parks where you have to kick a punching bag hard enough to make it go all the way up. Only, with this type of pain she was experiencing, there was no prize.   "Damien..." she whimpered, voice so low it was breaking. She was desperately searching for his gaze but somehow, despite the close proximity, it took a while for his eyes to meet hers, creating a black hole in the middle of her entire body. "Damien, don't leave me, please..." she begged, but before he could say anything, her lips were once again locked against his, desperately doing their best now to let him say a word.

“Are you even listening to me?” He pulled away – calloused fingers cupping the side of her face, “Atlas, I’m asking you to come with me! Leave this town, leave everything and f-cking come with me!” Atlas watched him with a confused frown on her face, eyes jittery and hesitant, like Damien was suddenly talking in another language she couldn't understand, though her cheek still found comfort in hiding inside the crook of his hand, which was now caressing the side of her face.   Her frown intensified once he pulled away, and her hands reached out for him involuntarily, but couldn't grab a hold, so she just sat up on the bed, shoulders so heavy they might have fallen off together with her cement arms. There she was, in her shorts and her bra, sitting in the middle of his messed up bed with a pounding heart and a lump gradually forming in her throat.   She watched him move towards the window, hands grasping the ledge like he was about to break it, so much anger stored up in the muscles she could now see the outline of in the dim light of street lamps. And really, Atlas wanted to say something, anything, but he'd left her speechless, the growing lump in her throat simply blocking any sound from coming up from her aching throat.   "And... Atlas" he spoke, words barely audible, and this time she was scared of finding his gaze, because she was terrified his eyes would show just as much hurt as she was feeling right now. She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes and leaned forward, almost as if in prayer, not knowing what to do. Atlas stood like that for a few moments before getting out of the bed, stepping in close to him. so that her arms could wrap around his bare torso, while his body was leaning against the window ledge. Silent and moving like she was handling porcelain, Atlas resolved to just press herself against him again, head resting on his shoulder, but this time, her face wasn't facing the softness of his neck. "Damien, what kind of love is this?" she found herself whispering after literal ages, her arms still locked around his body, but this time her chin was resting on his shoulder, overlooking the empty parking lot, like some sort of salvation was waiting out there.

“I don’t know. I’ve never felt love like this.” Hearing him confess his love, although still not straightforward, was probably the only thing Atlas had ever wished for in her youth. A sign, a coded message, anything to assure her while she was on that damned plane to Italy that her feelings hadn't been in vain. Instead, he was always to one to leave things such as these unsaid, and finally, she had to settle with him holding her tighter than ever that morning when she sneaked out of his bedroom, after sleeping the whole night pressed one against each other.   That word, love, made tears automatically fill her eyes - she remembered her mother's words, that good love is always gonna find its way somehow, no matter where she went, and right now, Atlas was wondering if anything she had ever known about love was true. About letting go of those you cared for and waiting for them to come back if they really did reciprocate the feelings. About being patient and faithful that love will always conquer. Well, fxck all of that. Fxck every single myth out there telling her things were gonna be fine, because clearly, right now, they weren't.    “So, that’s why I’m gonna ask you again and after this I promise I won’t push it.” He’d turned around now, that way both his hands were now cupping Atlas’s face. “Do you wanna run away with me?” a stray tear couldn't be contained anymore, only this time it didn't feel like crying, but like acid dripping down from her eyes, burning everything. There was so much resentment, so much anger at the whole entire universe, if given the chance, she would have broken a mirror. She was longing for that kind of pain, so much more bearable that the thing she was going through right this moment.   Of course, his question only made things worse, because yes, right this moment, she would have said yes, throw her shirt back on, hold his hand for dear life and just fxcking drive miles and miles away from Beaufort. But how could you tell whether they were going to work? Wasn't all of this heartache just the painful attempt at rekindling the passionate love they once had?   His eyes were pushing her to the limit and her whole body was shivering, teeth sinking so hard into her lower lip that blood was legitimately poking out, and her nose was ruby red, and her eyes were just straight-up glass. Everything about her was messed up and aching, so much that she finally did it. A nod was everything she could summon, closing her frowning eyes as she leaned her forward against his mouth, finding it hard to even breathe anymore. What have you done, Atlas Collins? What have you done...

[atomic-r0x]

Atlas's Story | The second Police Announcement ( pt. I )

There was only one time when Atlas drank so much she genuinely though she might die the next day. It was during the last summer spent in Beaufort, after a party she’d attended mostly because Shay was in charge of bringing the finest alcohol, and they were all sixteen back then. Young, pubescent, restless and dangerously thirsty for a new revelation, a new test that would push their boundaries like nothing before.

Atlas thought she’d never feel that sick ever again, especially not now, more than ten years later, but there she was, stomach churning, bare feet stuck on the cold carpeted floor, eyes unable to move from the outside world separated by the thin glass windows.

The writing was everywhere. He father’s car, the pavement before the house, the fence, the middle of the street that separated the Collins’s house from their opposite neighbour. In blood red lettering, it seemed as if the small perimeter of the house's front porch had been turned into the canvas of a bored high schooler scribbling on the back of their notebook, hoping it would make the hours seem shorter. // WE KNOW YOU, ATLAS. WE SEE YOU, ATLAS //

Somehow she already knew the meaning behind those words and it made her stomach ache even more, filling her mouth with nausea every time she’d swallow hoping to push the lump in her throat lower with each try. She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing, empty her head, meditate or whatever it is people do to regain composure and get a grip of themselves but all she could focus on were the quick frantic steps in the other room where Henry was making quick and angry phone calls as if dialling some numbers would solve anything, and those bloody words waiting for her outside like lions watching for their prey.

“No, goddamnit, I have no clue who might have done it, but it’s a fucking tiny town, can’t someone send a team over here and see what’s going on?!” Henry’s voice rang from the other room and by God, was he absolutely out of his mind. They’d woken up from sweet love making to a grotesque sight of ruthless revenge seeking and Atlas couldn’t blame him for flying over the roof, but she couldn’t calm him down either.

She opened her eyes and no miracle had happened in the mean time. The letters were still there and her father was still in the garden, as if the words were flowers he hadn’t taken care of in a long time and now he didn’t know how gardening worked anymore. Henry was still fighting someone over the phone because who the fuck really knows where Beaufort is and even if they did know, what were the chances anyone would believe Henry there was a loose maniac playing mental games with the entire town?

She’d forgotten how easy it was to escape her room through the generous window it came with, but it only occurred to her she’d made it in one piece when she found herself standing on the front porch, right outside her house. Too caught up to ask herself why she’d escaped her own home now that she was an adult, too caught up to wonder why she’d done it in the first place. Why go out into the world and wait for the next thing to hit you? Too late, she was already walking now.

It was ridiculous how many times she’d been to the Flamingo Motel during her stay now, after all those years, but she needed to be there and her own feet seemed far too slow for how badly Atlas wanted to be in room four already and… And do what? Fuck? Yeah, possibly, if the opportunity arose, but that wasn’t why she was going there in the first place. Tell him about the words? He might have already heard from the police report and she knew all too well he was smart enough to read through those blood red lines. It was about them. So then, if she was so convinced he already knew all that valuable information, why was she so hurried to meet him?

Atlas made her way across the parking lot, too hurried to care for moving cars or pavement, and found herself gradually jogging towards his door, the fourth room in that goddamned motel. A soft knock, and then another one, and then a slightly firmer one, until she feared she’s cause the door to break against the weight of her fist. “Damien, c'mon, what are you even doing!” She shouted in frustration, convince he was inside, convinced he’d sworn not to ever talk to her again after that night when she ran out the door wearing the thin coat of his sweat on her skin.

“Hey, sto- Atlas, stop!” Isabella shouted before quickly mounting the stairs towards Damien’s room, placing her hand on the door knob for some reason. “He’s not here” she spoke firmly, but when Atlas didn’t seem to believe her, she added “he went out to get the car fixed.”

A lie, Atlas presumed, but if Damien really was inside his room then she knew for a fact he wouldn’t have let Isa and Atlas interact this much and would have made it very clear whether or not she wanted to see Atlas’s face. And yet, it was impossible not to notice the particularly cold look on Isabella’s face, the type of disapproval you’d see in mothers meeting their daughters’ skater boyfriends for the first time.

“Look, Isabella, I know you’re not very happy to see me here and I can understand that, but please, I really need to talk to Damien” she almost begged, defeated and exhausted and voice cracking with frustration.

“I told you, he’s not here, Atlas” Isabella replied almost immediately and let her arms drop on each side of her body before sighing deeply with what Atlas supposed might have been exasperation. “I don’t know when he’s coming back, but I can tell him to call you or something, or let him now you sought for him.”

That was it. That look on Isabella’s face like she was doing Atlas a major favour, like she had any right to control Damien’s interactions, like she had any idea about all the things that had ever happened between Atlas and him and how she could never even hope to know him as well as she did.

And there was something more to it – that brutal reality of Isabella wanting to protect Damien from Atlas. Isabella not liking her, thinking of her as a threat, as a cheater, as a one way ticket to doom. It must have been the nausea she’d been feeling in her mouth the whole day, but Atlas could have sworn Isabella was actually, oddly enough, fond to see her like that - desperate, unnerved and tired. There was an unfamiliar flicker in her eyes that tied an even tighter rope around Atlas’s neck, causing the lump in her throat essentially asphyxiate her, the raw feeling of betrayal setting Atlas’s teeth on the edge.

“No, it’s fine. Actually, forget about it” she hurried to decline the offer, a look so bitter on her face it must have resembled bile, and darted her eyes to the locked door before turning around on her heels quickly to get the fuck out of that place.

It took a ten minute walk to make it home and a pretty ugly cry, too, so when she finally stepped on the front steps of her childhood home, her eyes and nose were red as berries, her fingers wet with having wiped her face, trying in vain to keep her face as dry as possible, but there was no stopping those tears from pouring.

The door opened to both Henry and her father, each carrying a worried look on their tired faces, like they were some parents whose libertine child had run away but ultimately returned, after giving them a good scare. Her father sighed a little at the sight of her and pulled her into a tight hug, but there was something about the stiffness in Henry’s posture that told Atlas he was having none of it.

It took a few moments for Mr Collins to let her go, and when he finally did, her eyes were dried up and it was only the tip of her nose that still hadn’t fully turned back to its initial pale colour, and she felt strange in her own body, tall and free from any protective arms and slender in the odd circumstances of the entrance hall.

And even in his anger at her for having disappeared without a warning at an especially bad moment, Henry still reached out for her hand and still spoke in his characteristic warm voice “C'mon, we need to go to the police station”, and she only looked back over her shoulder as her father closed the door behind them as they floated around above the street.

“I just needed to clear my head” she finally whispered, like a guilty child confessing their fault, when they’d almost made it to the police station, the building she suddenly recalled so well from all the times she and Aria would go there to get money for going out around the town.

He didn’t say anything for another couple meters and then he sighed profoundly, like he hadn’t in ages. “Something is very, very off, Atlas” he spoke simply, before they walked inside the station, still hand in hand.

[atomic-r0x]

Lola’s story | Seattle again

It must have been a few minutes before the break of dawn when Barbara’s voice entered Lola’s sleeping head like a ghost, a chimera she couldn’t differentiate from her dreams. The few moments after the chocolate haired girl opened her eyes were so hazy she needed to blink several times to convince herself she wasn’t asleep, or hallucinating.

“Lols, wake up, you need to wake up now.” Barbie’s voice was alert and worried, and even in the darkness of her room, Lola could still distinguish the perfectly blonde locks falling down her flat mate’s shoulders, cascading lazily in old Hollywood type of curls. She was dressed in the pink silk gown she was always wearing around in the house, making her look like a Victoria’s Secret angel getting ready for the show. “Lola, wake up now!”

It was this urgency that finally made Lola sit up on her bed and rub her eyes with the heels of her palms, working the sleep away. “What?”

“The called from Seattle.”

Seattle? Lola’s mind immediately jumped to Benedict. “Why? Is it Ben?”

Barbie sighed loudly and sat down on the bed, her hand reaching out for Lola’s, caressing a loose strand of hair behind her shoulder before she nodded. “I don’t know what happened, I think it was the concierge that called, but he was looking for you, and wouldn’t tell me anything ‘bout it” she added once Lola’s eyes popped wide open, looking the blonde beauty dead in the eye.

She jolted out of bed without asking further questions. Why was the concierge looking for her, why did he have her home phone number? Why her, out of all people, why was he so strict not to tell Barbie anything about it? She picked up the phone and spent the next few minutes desperately searching in the little box of business cards she kept in the living room to find the right number. Lola was almost out of breath when the familiar voice picked up the phone at the end of the line. “Hello? I, um, I understand you sought for me” she spoke halfheartedly, sitting down at the table while Barbie wrapped the silk gown closer to her body, hopping up on the kitchen counter as she watched, so silent it almost felt like she was trying to make out what the man was saying.

The concierge hesitated a bit before clearing his throat. “Yes, that is right. I am terribly sorry, I realize it’s is awfully early in the morning, I really regret bothering you. I, um, thought I should let you know that Mr. Leblanc is having a few issues as of right now, and, um, he is being taken to the hospital as we speak.”

“What? Why? What did he do? Can I talk to him?”

“I’m afraid he’s not really in the state to speak, but I assure you he is being taken care of by a very capable team of medics.”

“What did he do?” Lola insisted, her hand gipping at her knee as if squeezing her flesh would make it more bearable, as if the news would have less impact on her that way.

“Miss, with all due respect… Mr. Leblanc tried killing himself on the building’s grounds.”  

Lola’s face must have been so blank, Barbie hopped off the counter to kneel down in front of her seated position, her hands on her knees, caressing the soft skin in reassurance. The dark-haired girl gulped a couple times before blinking really hard, waking up to reality. “I see. Where are they taking him?”

“We have arranged for him to be taken to the Mental Health Center Harborview. We think he’ll probably be hospitalized there for a while.”

Lola nodded in faint agreement before realizing she was still on the phone. She could see the concierge awkwardly walking around the main hall, holding the phone to his ear with his perfectly groomed hands, the attention for details baffling her every time she visited Benedict’s home in Seattle. She could see him open his mouth maybe to ask if she was still on the line, and that was precisely when she asked “But why did you call me?”

He seemed baffled, but silent, quick to show he was unperturbed. “Miss, you are the only contact we have beside Mr. Leblanc himself. He filled in your number as a backup to his own when he signed the contract for the suite.”

. . . .

She had never been in a mental health institution before, and so, she couldn’t help but feel like an intruder. An impostor stepping in a place where people sought refuge, peace of mind, help – and, by God, was she miles away from any of that. So many million years away from feeling like peace would fix everything that’s fxcked up in her head.

Doctor Stacey Jones recognized her immediately after she stepped inside the reception hall, doe eyes wondering around cluelessly. “Have you come to visit Mr. Leblanc?” she asked in her perfectly balanced doctor voice, as if telling her she’d been expected, but also that she was in charge and that she had things under control.

They walked together in silence for what seemed like minutes on end, passing by other doctors, visitors and patients, each body shuffling along the tight corridors with their own personal aim. She saw the face of a dark-skinned boy with nothing but a white gown on, the type you’d get before undergoing a surgery, his vacant eyes filled with red tears, hands feeling the texture of the perfectly light teal walls. The silhouette of a child no older than six, in her pretty Snow White dress, her hand pierced by a disproportionate perfusion.

“Do you think it’s okay for me to go in?” she couldn’t help but ask, suddenly stopping in her tracks just as they reached his door.

The doctor flashed her perfect Colgate white teeth in a don’t-be-silly type of smile, something you’d see from mothers watching their toddlers get things wrong. “Of course it is. Mr. Leblanc is ready to leave the hospital, his state has significantly improved.”

His room was so tall, reminding Lola of all those old houses she had once seen in France. To compensate with its overwhelming height, the room was scarcely furnished, its spotless pastel teal walls completely bare except for the bed’s barred headboard, and the modest nightstand beside it. Apart from that, there was only a rocking chair – which looked like it’d been brought in on demand, thanks to the patient’s good behavior, and a folded chair, presumably the one destined for visitors, which seemed to be locked to the bed by some sort of mechanism that supposedly prevented the patient from using the chair as a weapon, or something with which to harm himself.

Benedict was sitting on his bed, barefoot and dressed in white, matching cotton blouse and trousers, the pajama type. His hair was loose, as it always was, his back at the door, face absorbed by the nothing-in-particular on the other side of the tall, Georgian windows. He didn’t even flinch when the door clicked, Lola closing it behind her, and standing there thinking how the fxck can someone so damaged look so beautiful.

“Hi” she murmured, almost scared to break the perfect silence surrounding his peaceful silhouette. He didn’t say anything, nor did he give any sign that he’d heard her, and involuntarily she took a few steps forward, now standing on the other side of them bed from him. “Benedict, hi” she whispered in the warmest voice she could summon, feet shaking so much she found herself kneeling on the single bed, arms falling in her lap helplessly.

It took a few seconds to realize he was crying. The proud, silent cry of a trophy son taught men don’t shed tears. Fxck that, all men cry, and he knew that all too well. He’d been crying his eyes out for weeks, it surprised him his dehydrated body was even able to produce any more teardrops. And once the realization hit her, Lola paralyzed. She’d never seen him cry before, never seen him weak, vulnerable – and goddamn, she knew all too well about his condition. She’d been aware of it all along. And even when they were fxcking like rabbits those warm French nights back when they were just starting out, she was so afraid something in him would crack, eventually, and she’d have to be the one to man him up.

“Ben, baby, I’m here. It’s okay. Come here.” Lola whispered again in French – they rarely ever talked in English when they were together, this was an unwritten rule that governed their relationship. He loved the way her voice sounded ten times kinkier in French, and she loved how the guttural R made his voice even hoarser, like the perfect-rich-boy-gone-wrong he was.

It took him a few moments to turn around and face her, he’d wiped his tears from his cheeks, too damn proud to accept that he was crying in her presence, but there was no way he could hide those bloodshot eyes that made her gulp dryly and wrap her arms around his neck, nursing his head in the crook of her neck. They stood in silence like that for an eternity, so long Lola thought the doctor might come back to check on them, or a nurse might walk in, persuading them to go. “What’d you do, baby?” she whispered once his breathing was normal again and his eyes were all dried up, but knew he wouldn’t reply. Of course he was never going to tell her why he’d tried to kill himself, Benedict liked keeping to himself too much to give her such an important insight. She wondered if he’d told the doctor, or anyone else, for that matter.

The silence might have swallowed them completely, had the doctor not knocked at the door insistently, causing Lola to jolt up from the bed and Benedict turn his back towards the door again, like they were trying to hide whatever bad thing they’d been doing before the doctor stepped inside, giving Lola that perfectly white smile of hers once more, nodding towards the hallway.

“Now, however much Mr. Leblanc has recovered from his incident, we still think he needs to be supervised for a few more days, until he ends his treatment and goes back to the usual pills” Doctor Stacey Jones spoke once Lola shut the door behind her, showing her the prescription and a couple sheets of medical recommendations for Benedict. “I know it might feel a little intrusive of your privacy and your relationship with Mr. Leblanc, but it is our duty to make sure our patients – especially ones with past incidents like his – are being taken care of accordingly. So, what I would like to know is… Will you be able to spend the next four-five days with the patient?”

The look on Lola’s face must have been just as hard to make sense of as her own thoughts. Of course she should have known this would come up at one point or another, she couldn’t just come visit him and then go back to her life in New York City, give him a ride home, kiss him goodbye and then board on the first plane back, like she’d been on a mere city break. And yet, she couldn’t open her mouth and produce a reply.

“Or we can contact Mr. Leblanc’s family, but as far as I can recall, they might be a little late, considering the flight, which mean we’ll have to keep him –”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll take care of him” Lola replied, her voice dry and steady and confident like a salesman.

. . .

He kept her hand locked in his own throughout the drive back to his home, the two stepping inside the building like someone sick or dying was waiting for them upstairs. The concierge said nothing besides the polite small talk he had with every single person passing by his desk, but Lola could still feel the weight of his gaze on her back as Benedict and herself made their way to the elevator.

For the most part of him returning to his suite, they didn’t speak. He went to have a shower while she unpacked the backpack he had with his necessary items, something she assumed he’d called the concierge for. The apartment itself seemed unperturbed by him being taken to the hospital for quite a few days, but the air was fresh, probably the maid had heard about his attempt and feared closing the glass door that led to his balcony in fear of not ruining evidence. A shiver ran down Lola’s spine as she approached the banister and looked down into the endless depth underneath her. She couldn’t help but wonder why he’d hired that particular suite – there were only four outdoor balconies in that building and one belonged to him. Had he chosen him on purpose especially for that sole reason?

“Hey,..” Benedict’s voice barely whispered from behind her and she shuddered, gripping at the banister almost instinctively. This caused him to smirk, of course, the casual rise of his mouth’s left corner, the smile that made his eyes look like they were made of hot dark chocolate.

She smiled a bit, eventually, and stepped back inside to wrap her hands around his waist loosely, resting her head on his shoulder. He was back to wearing his signature trousers rolled at the ankles, a casual polo t-shirt replacing the shirts she was so fond of, his warm skin smelling of that intoxicating perfume of his, combined with the surprising sweetness of his shower gel. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the contact thing” he spoke again, this time placing one of his hands – which he’d previously stuffed in the pocket of his trousers – on her head, cupping the back of her skull like a baby’s.

Lola didn’t say anything, and nestled her head closer to his neck, his sharp shoulder blade turning her earlobe a bright shade of crimson. His other hand reached her waist, skin burning under the light weight of his touch. She wanted to say something, to make him justify, seek some answers, but instead, all she did was inhale his scent and closing her eyes as they stood right there in the doorframe separating his living room from his generous terrace, the same terrace he’d chosen as a good place to end his life from.

“Lola?” he asked, and this time she had to pull away from his shoulder, look up at him to find what caused this urgency in his voice, and the next thing she knew, his forehead was pressed against hers, noses rubbing against each other in a weird eskimo kiss, with his thumb rubbing at the side of her jawline. He was formulating and rephrasing his words over and over in his head, she could tell that by the way his eyes were moving, clued to hers, but jittery, and finally, when he did find the right words to say, Benedict shook his head the tiniest bit, forehead still touching her own. “I’m in the most fucked up position right now, ‘cause I love so much it annoys me, and I know you’re not gonna have that happen ever again.”

[atomic-r0x]

Atlas’s Tattoo Story

His voice was hoarse and sleepy, as if she’d just woken him up with the phone call, although it really was barely ten o’clock at night, which to Atlas made total sense as an appropriate hour. “You’re just the type of girl who never gets ‘no’ for an answer, aren’t you?” he spoke and she could see his teasing smirk at the other end of the line.

She just grinned, her bare toes feeling the texture of the back-porch patio. “You’d be surprised, actually.”

He exhaled a laugh, like he’d been expecting for her to say those exact words. “I’m pretty sure it’s not the case. Okay, I’ve got a vacancy after eight tomorrow evening, is that alright with you?”

Atlas bit her lip in excitement and nodded before realizing he couldn’t see that. “Yeah, thanks a lot, Jeremy.”

. . .

That following morning, she woke up to an empty bed and a text message on her phone, letting her know they were well and on the road. Her father told her only the evening before that he’d been secretly planning a one-day father-spouse fieldtrip with Henry, and even imagining what they might be talking about made her giggle and get butterflies in her stomach.

In a way, she never thought she’d ever tell any of her parents that she was getting married. Back when she left Beaufort as a child of divorce she was, Atlas would have sworn marriage was nothing but a waste of time, effort and passion. She’d watched her parents grow from the perfect trophy couple into perfect strangers who dreaded having to share table for breakfast. Why would someone like her ever think that tying the knot with anyone would be a good idea? Why would she risk destroying a relationship with someone she presumably loved just for the sake of respecting some god damned norms? Why would she ever think it worth it?

And yet here she was. Alone on her childhood bed which she now shared with her future husband. The very same bed where she’d welcomed Damien in those many years before. It annoyed her how every single detail about Beaufort automatically reminded her of him, but could you expect anything else from the guy who was her first love and the one to show her not all love stories were completely fxcked up from the get go? Funny how it eventually turned out they were just as doomed as Atlas’s parents.

She couldn’t help but laugh at herself when she locked the door behind her and saw herself stepping out into the quiet street. Was she really doing this? Of all possibilities around the town, which weren’t many, in reality, she chose yoga. A yoga class with an instructor she didn’t know, among women she probably only vaguely remembered from her teenage years, probably the mothers of her high school colleagues or something. However, she persisted – with a whole day by herself ahead of her, Atlas had no clue what to do with herself.

Admittedly, she had clearly underestimated the intensity of yoga workouts in Beaufort, considering she was the only one out of breath mid-session, while the other ten women tirelessly carried on, all young and stretched out, sweaty but glowing with the peaceful health of a person living the ideally balanced lifestyle in the luxury of a town where nothing too tiring ever happened. They /were/ younger than her, most of the other participants, and it was impossible to tell how old the instructor was, and in that moment, when she felt like her body could collapse any moment, Atlas felt for the first time completely out of this world.

It was almost overwhelming to see how little she had in common with all those people who were born and raised in the same place as herself, minus the past ten years she’d spent morphing into the woman in her late twenties that she was now. Atlas didn’t and couldn’t, no matter how she tired during those fifty minutes of yoga, to recognize herself in the laziness with which they described their dinner plans, or the brutal tediousness of the local gossip, or the peaceful sighs when the instructor started clapping, congratulating them all for making it to the end of the session. They were the women of slow dancing as a national sport, of going to PTA meetings like it was national duty, of flirting around a forty-something year old diner, women who knew peace of mind like it was their home address. Atlas was the odd one out.

There was, however, someone she did recognize. At first vaguely, because of the unusual crimson in her cheeks, but then all of a sudden. A feeling of guilt flooded Atlas when she realized, it was not her name that first popped up in her mind, but Charlie’s laughter.

“Hey!” Isabella approached her, out of breath and sweaty after the workout, her rich dark hair in a now messy ponytail falling down her back. Atlas had pondered whether or not she would come up to greet her, but now that it actually happened, her heart skipped a beat and her palms were sweaty all of a sudden, again.

“Isabella, hi! It’s so good to see you” she replied, and before she knew it, the olive-skinned girl pulled her into a quick hug before chuckling a little when they parted, as if to excuse the fact they were both covered in a thin layer of sweat.

“Yeah, likewise. I saw you the other day at Stevie’s anniversary, but… Well, I didn’t have the time to come say hi then. What are you doing here?”

Atlas stopped in her tracks a little bit, unsure whether she was asking about what she was doing back in Beaufort altogether, or just there, that morning, at the yoga class. “Oh, I just had some free time this morning” she decided to go for the second part, partly because she was sure Isabella already knew. It must have been the stares she’d been darting at her back that night at Stevie’s Diner that told Atlas she knew both about the wedding and the incident between herself and Damien.  

They nodded awkwardly and excused themselves, each stepping in their respective shower cubicle, the shitty remixes of hilariously old songs being the only thing you could hear over the relaxing sound of hot water streams. Atlas was surprised to see Isabella was still there, by her locker, when she stepped out of the cubicle – she’d taken longer than necessary specially to avoid further uncomfortable small talk, but her plans fell as soon as Isa turned around at the sound of her wet feet stepping along the polished marble floors.

“Hey, um, I was thinking – I’ve got a few things to get from the grocery store. Would you like to come with me? There’s just a lot to catch up on” she spoke, almost hesitant herself as to whether this was a good idea at all. “If you feel like it, obviously.”

. . .

The meticulousness with which Isabella chose her tomatoes fascinated Atlas. It was as if she needed to caress each and every one before carefully placing them in her basket. They’d been around the fruit and vegetables aisle for the past five minutes, and coming from a place where kale was praised for its capacity to still be ‘good for you’ while being available at literally any shop & go store, it seemed like they were actually harvesting their own shopping lists.

They talked about this and that, the typical small talk you make with someone you haven’t seen in forever, who has changed so much they have nothing in common with your last memory of them. It was true, though – Isabella was a kid when she last saw her. The bubbly cheerleader type living next to Damien’s house, who Atlas always thought would turn into the head of a massive girl scout association of sorts. That bad Mia Wallace haircut she had, so desperately trying to seem meaner than she was in reality, the cheerful giggles, the way she wanted to be just a tomboy around Charlie, until they finally kissed that evening when the four of them were at some trash party and Damien pulled Atlas by the hand and left the place in an instant, because he couldn’t see his baby brother aggressively making out with someone he’d grown so used to he didn’t even remember when they met in the first place.

She avoided going much into detail about her relationship, however hard Atlas tried to subtly indicate that she wanted and needed to know what had happened to Charlie, why she hadn’t seen him so far, why it was so important for Damien to have one of his doodles tattooed on his arm. Isabella went on and on about her father, coping with the loss and how it was her job to take care of the motel not that he was gone.

“And Charlie?” Atlas found herself asking while she watched her feel some avocadoes. The question took her by surprise, but other than that Isabella was probably baffled by the simplicity with which she asked, tossing a chocolate bar in her basket while pronouncing the name that had caused so much pain among the Nichols.

It took a lot of effort for her to finally speak, but when she did, her first attempt was to dodge the question. “I thought he’d shown you.”

“What?”

“Damien” Isabella sighed heavily and her shoulders sank a little bit, both hands holding at the basket’s handle. “The tattoo.”

So she knew. She knew about her coming to his room and doing the deed and she’d probably heard much of it, too. “He said it was one of Charlie’s doodles” Atlas decided to say, quick enough so the embarrassment couldn’t settle in.

Even the mere sound of his name made Isabella wince, and something in Atlas’s guts told her she probably didn’t want to know the truth if it was this hard for her to say it. But she spoke up, nonetheless, after aggressively stacking in two boxes of fresh cranberries in her basket. “Charlie… Died. He, um, committed suicide.”

They continued cutting things off their respective shopping lists in complete silence for a while, and Atlas was secretly hiding around the aisles to find the intimacy of taking a few deep breaths to calm down. That was why he’d told her he didn’t want to talk about Charlie. And that was why he’d tattooed that doodle, too, and it all made sense now, so brutally that Atlas regretted asking in the first place.

“Look, it’s none of my business how you decide to spend your pastime, but I do really care for Damien. He, well, his family means a lot to me and I see them as part of my own” Isabella finally spoke, her face blank but slightly cold, like a principal warning some kid they might be in big trouble the next time they get caught. “It’s really up to you what kind of relationship you like to have with your husband,” and here she paused again, stopping in her tracks at the queue for the checkout. “All I ask is that you think twice before doing things. Consider the consequences and the outcomes, and the people involved.”

“I don’t think I’m following” Atlas spoke, faking confusion although she knew all too well what Isabella was trying to say, and it made her wish she’d never gone to the yoga class in the first place, or at least declined her offer to do the fucking grocery shopping together.

“What I’m trying to say, Atlas, is that – well, is there really any need for supplementary heartbreaks?” Isabella spoke, her voice calm and collected, before she flashed the perfect smile one she raised her basket to help the cashier scan all its contents.

. . .

She couldn’t believe she was using Google Maps to find Jeremy’s tattoo parlor. Not even the cheap excuse of it having been open after her leaving the town didn’t make up for the tourist feeling she was experiencing in her own hometown. Admittedly, the location was a little far from the town’s popular sites, and Atlas decided that was as good as it got in terms of finding excuses for herself.

The phrase had really lost its meaning the past days that she’d been in Beaufort, but god dammit – Jeremy really hadn’t changed one bit. Except, there were a few more tattoos up his hand and the hairstyle was different, more flattering. His smirk was still forever plastered like a shark swimming around a bank of fish, waiting for the right moment to attack – much like Damien, Jeremy had a reputation for not only being the guy your mother dreaded seeing you with, but also the guy who had no problem stealing your girl if given the opportunity.

He laughed a little after he got up from his chair and started walking towards her, hand stuffed in the back pockets of his black jeans, his immaculate whites showing. “Well, I admit, it’s pretty good to see you again” he spoke cockily before pulling her into a hug, one that – unlike earlier with Isabella – she actually returned.

“I guess you could say it flows both ways” Atlas replied, her hands falling back to her sides, teeth biting at her lower lip in excitement and curiosity. “This place looks good, you decorated it yourself?”

Jeremy stuffed his hands back inside his pockets and nodded, looking around the saloon with a smile on his face, like he’d just opened it. “Yeah, it was a fun process of turning everything in my head into reality” he spoke, his eyes now glued to her, and she could feel that no matter how hard she tried to look around and appreciate the concept. “So, what are you here for?”

A tattoo. Well, that’s why she called him the night before – a single tattoo of her father’s birthdate on the interior of her arm, just below the armpit. The idea first crossed her mind when Henry proposed, it always felt special to her to have the moral guidance of her father, like she’d seen in so many movies about white privilege girls walking down the aisle alongside their dads, but she never really had the time or the determination to actually do it, not the strong feelings she had about it now, after actually reconnecting with her father.

But the moment he asked that question, something clicked in her mind and before she knew it, she was discussing the design of a second tattoo, watching Jeremy produce quick drawings of the one she hadn’t thought through as much as the one that brought her to his parlor.

It was quite amusing having to pull her t-shirt off in front of Jeremy, regardless of the sterile patches covering her nipples, and they both laughed it off until it wasn’t awkward anymore, and she was tough enough to go through the second round of needling at her sensitive skin. “I saw Aria’s back in town” she finally spoke in a whimper, her hand pulling at the left breast to make the skin right underneath it smoother for him to glide with the needle on.

“Yeah, I know” he replied after a few seconds, and the dryness in his voice took Atlas by surprise.

“But, weren’t you too friends?” she persisted, looking at him with a frown upon her face, a hard bite at her lower lip to endure the pain.

“We were.” It only took him a minute or two to realize she wasn’t going to quit it, and so turned the needle off and turned around to grab more ink. “Don’t give me that look, it’s not like you could contact her before she ran away. It’s not like you kept in touch with anyone, so I guess maybe you shouldn’t reproach me that either” he spoke calmly and made his way back to the table where she lay, and although he did try to keep a serious face, he stopped himself from following the outline for a moment. “You know, I never thought I’d get to see you like that” he joked, and they both laughed about it, like it didn’t mean anything.

. . .

She was almost asleep by the time Henry made his way under the sheets, his body radiating warmth from the shower she hadn’t heard him take. It was impossible not to send a smile right up her lips, the way his arms searched for her waist and got wrapped around it like a child clinging on to his blanket. The soft trail of kisses followed, from her cheek to her ear, to her neck, and then the ease with which his hand pulled the flimsy material of her pajama upwards, to peck her stomach, then ribcage, until he stopped, and Atlas’s grin couldn’t get bigger.

“When’d you get that?” he asked, his voice warm and curious and amused at her secretiveness.

“This evening” she replied, eager to show him the tattoo of her father’s birthdate too, like a kid proudly displaying his nicely written homework to his parents. There was an unexpected pride and excitement in her eyes as she talked about the idea of getting a tattoo of something to remind her of her dad wherever life might take her, and Henry’s eyes couldn’t help but watch her adoringly, placing his head on her lap as he listened.

“And the lighter?” the question came so naturally, for a moment there Atlas felt like she was telling a story to a child who was eager to figure out the ending. The lighter? Well, fuck, where to begin with that story? When she was sixteen? When he first asked that damned question that caused everything else to happen?

“The lighter is… It’s something very important to me that has to do with my roots in Beaufort” she replied, and it seemed to have been a good enough answer, because Henry just propped himself up on his elbow and places a loving kiss on her lips, the thumb of his other hand rubbing at her jawline gently.

“I never knew you liked fire this much” he spoke before adjusting his position so that he was laying down next to her, head resting on his pillow, a perfectly peaceful smile settled on his face as he whispered ‘goodnight babe’, then reaching out for the switch to turn the lights off.

Yeah, she never knew she liked fire this much either.  

[atomic-r0x]

Atlas’s story | Stevie’s Diner event

The days following the night she spent with Damien were marked by an overwhelming wave of affection towards Henry — wherever he went, Atlas was his shadow, holding his hand or peering behind his shoulder, leaving the occasional kiss on his jawline. She abstained from sex and fasted, although never religious in the least bit, acted like the partner she’d never been before: excessively careful and eager to adore. 

And Henry, well, he was taken aback by the sudden change in his fiancé, hoping, probably, that this would be the sign he’d been waiting for that proved asking her hand in marriage hadn’t been the biggest mistake in their lives. He helped her do her chores around the house, and take her father to the hospital, they Skyped her mother and discussed wedding plans, at night they watched shitty television and fell asleep wrapped around each other, looking like they could just as well sleep on a twin sized bed instead of a full sized one.

How could he not ask anything about it? For fuck sake, she’d been gone the whole night, and returned home with little evidence of what had happened, but still – wasn’t there anything suspicious? And although she did her best to hide away the only mark Damien had left on her skin, a gigantic bite right above where the hem of her lingerie would normally be, Atlas still felt like this was a mind trick, something he was doing to see just how long she could carry on without confessing.

“I found out about something” he spoke one morning when she stepped out of her daily rise-and-shine shower into their bedroom. He was still in bed, lazy eyes and untidy hair, rubbing his eyes with the sleeves of his grey cotton pajama. It took all strength in her to keep her cool, go on about her morning like it was nothing.

“Found out about what?” she asked, walking towards the wardrobe and letting the towel fall on the floor, turning around to face him only after pulling her jeans on, throwing on a shirt she’d stolen from him years before, skipping the bra.

“About that guy, Damien something. Brodie asked me how I felt about it and I just asked him what there was to feel anything about” Henry continued, an amused smile on his face as he propped himself up on the bed, back against the headboard. He extended his arm and Atlas immediately made her way to the bed to be wrapped by it, her knees weak. Where the fuck did Brodie learn about the night at the Flamingo Hotel? Who else knew about this, and why did he hate her this much to tell her fiancé about it?

“And?”

“Well, he told me about the whole affair” Henry spoke again and she could have sworn she was going to die, resting her head on his chest so that it would be less obvious how white she’d gone. Her stomach was suddenly upset and it felt like any moment now, she could have thrown up. “How he was your first boyfriend and whatever. He wanted to know how I’m feeling about him being back” Henry finally came to his point, hand lazily tangled in the soft golden locks.

It was impossible not to burst out into a hysteric laugh, Atlas couldn’t hold it back. Just like that, in a manner of seconds, all colour in her cheeks had been restored, and now she was shaking with laughter, not desperation. She needed to find Brodie and fucking kill him, or at least kick his little ass for doing this to her. Her head was dizzy now with the sudden relief, but she just couldn’t stop laughing, especially now that Henry was showing off that cheeky ‘gotcha’ grin of his, too. “Well, I’m glad you’re gossiping about me with your newly made friends” Atlas finally spoke, words coming out in the forms of loose chuckles.

Henry’s hand reached for her cheek and the familiar warmth of his palm made her grin morph into a small smile, her eyes drowning in his own. “Can’t help it, babe.” And then he did that – he rubbed his thumb over her lower lip right before kissing her. Just like Damien did, and Atlas couldn’t even be sure anymore if this really was a test to see how much she could hide the truth from her future husband, or if she was just completely out of her mind. But she kissed him nonetheless, because that’s what you do when the man you keep telling yourself you love more than life itself tastes your lips.

The parted after a short while, and her head fell back on his chest, and they stood like that a little bit, the deep silence of the house and the town itself giving the impression everything was taking a break just to allow them this simple moment of affection.

“Hey, um, do you wanna go out tonight?” Henry asked and for the record, it was the first time he was suggesting something involving the social life around Beaufort, if there was any such thing anymore. Admittedly, she was taken aback by the offer, her head propped up on her hand, as she peered at him from his chest. “There’s this thing at a restaurant or something, it’s the anniversary.”

“Oh, you mean Stevie’s Diner?” she asked, her face lit up and amused by the charming combination between confidence and complete cluelessness on Henry’s face right now. Damn, this really was the man of her dreams, it was the little insignificant moments like these when the realization just hit her like a kind reminder to not fuck things up. “Sure, why not” she finally agreed after the goofy nod and grin on Henry’s part, before getting out of the bed to check on her father, and go on about the day like they’d planned to.

…

You could really tell how far away from home they were by the way they were holding hands, pure and loving and just at peace while making their way down the main street towards the unusual loudness of Stevie’s Diner. They almost never held hands on the streets back home, mostly because they were rarely walking together, driving around being the most convenient way to get things done and make it on time, but it was also not very western European of someone to be PDA-ing like that, so they kept their hands and bodies and lips for themselves, behind closed doors or tinted car windows.

It seemed like literally everybody was out of their house to celebrate the diner’s anniversary. There were few faces she recognized, sure, but a weird feeling of hope tickled at her heart when she realized just how many young people were still living in Beaufort. They made their way inside, Henry opening the way for her, and she was undeniably shocked to see how every single table inside was either already taken, or carried a Reserved sign on it. This looked nothing like her childhood memories – the place had always been popular among the locals, but never to the level she was witnessing that night.

“A table for three” Henry said, and Atlas’s eyebrow popped up in amused curiosity, her fingers further intertwining with his as she followed him and the short-skirted waitress, towards their assigned table in the back of the diner, passing by people she vaguely remembered or didn’t know at all. But then there was the table behind theirs, with its four people seated at it and whom she could have not given a damn about, had it not been for that one person looking so oddly uncomfortable in his own ripe-olive skin – Damien. Atlas blinked just as she was passing by them, hand still tightly locked in Henry’s, and pretended she didn’t understand where the waitress was heading in order to avoid unnecessary awkward small talk with the Nichols clan, and was that Isabella?

“So why three?” she asked as soon as they were seated, reaching for his hand over the round table like a life line, feeling the weight of Isa’s occasional stares on the back of her neck. Did she know? She must have, the last time Atlas had checked, the motel was a family business of sorts, and it only made sense for the dark-haired girl to be working there. The thought mortified Atlas, but decided not to give it too much attention – after all, what were the chances to have the night shift exactly on the same night they were fighting on top of those whiskey stained sheets?

Before he could provide an explanation, Henry got up to his feet to greet the same Ken doll blonde haired dude from the garden party, and could you believe it, they even had a special handshake, to which point her husband no longer looked like the nearly-thirty man he was, but more like some preteen kid overdoing it with the shaka sign, asking his mom for a couple dollars to get one of Stevie Diner’s house special milkshakes.

“Uh, hi, I’m Brodie, I don’t think I’ve ever properly introduced myself” the blonde guy spoke with that picture-perfect smile of his hanging from the left corner of his mouth, extending his arm towards Atlas.

“I’m Atlas, it’s a pleasure” she shook her head and chuckled at the simplicity of the act, her eyes charming and inspecting, almost as if trying to determine whether or not he was familiar, even in the least bit. But the moment he sat down at the table, the moment he shrugged his coat off his shoulders like he was getting ready to settle in with them, Atlas just lost her cool and burst into laughter, the childish gurgling laugh of hers that flushed her cheeks pinker and made her eyes a little teary, hand gently raised to cover the teeth she was exposing.

It took a moment for her to regain her composure, with Henry and Brodie exchanging confused glances and watching her with uneasiness. “I’m sorry, it’s just that… I just find this very amusing” she spoke, patting the back of her thumb along the lower waterline to make sure her mascara wouldn’t smear from the laughter-induced tears.

It was fascinating, really, to watch her husband be engaged in a conversation with someone other than the friends she’d gotten used to over the past six-seven years of their lives together. With a knee pulled up to her chest, the light silk gathering at her lap enough to cover her undies, and the biker jacket on like a protective shield from any glance coming from the table behind her, she couldn’t help but laugh and be engaged in the boys’ conversation. They discussed returning to Beaufort and beautiful literature, Asami’s misfortune with the odd phone call and how much the town lacked younger, better trained police men.

Henry excused himself and got up from the table, politely asking for the way to the restroom like the diplomat’s son that he was, leaving Brodie and Atlas to sit in silence for a while, sucking at their straws with reminiscent smiles from previous conversation. She looked at him, at the peaceful way he analyzed the crowd inside the restaurant and how he clapped his hands a little when the next live act hopped on the improvised stage and how he kept his hair in a manbun at the base of his hairline, and something just made him pull herself closer to his side of the table. “So, when’re you too getting married?” she asked with a playful smirk settled on her lips that quickly disappeared after noticing the confused look on Brodie’s face. Atlas hated having to explain her jokes, but did nonetheless. “You and Henry, you dummy” she replied to his bewildered look, to which he immediately burst into laughter.

“Well, we’re keeping it secret, but you’ll know, ‘cause we’re probably gonna invite you” he joked in return, running a hand through those golden-almost-white strands of loose hair.

Atlas was about to reply when the table was taken by storm by two kids running around in their game, like the restaurant grounds were actually part of the magical mystical world they were imagining themselves in. Brodie chuckled at them almost immediately, as if fond of children, and Atlas turned her head to see if there was anyone around looking in the least bit responsible for them. And there was – walking out of the women’s restroom, with that white hair of hers glowing even brighter from the neon lighting, Asami gracefully made her way past the bar towards where the kids were now playing, kneeling down next to them as if to tell them a secret.

She didn’t know what it was that pushed her to excuse herself and get up, pulling the light material of her dress down along the curves of her thighs before stepping towards Asami. “Um, hi” she spoke, at first unsure whether it even was the right time to approach her, but she got up to her feet anyway, facing Atlas with a small greet. “I just wanted to say I’m incredibly sorry to hear about what happened with the whole phone call deal” Atlas said, her fingers fumbling together, loosely playing with the rights she was wearing on seven of the ten she had. “If you need anything, just… let me know, okay? I’m sure Henry can see if there’s anyone he can contact about it and ask for help, if things keep being odd” she finished and inspected the look on Asami’s face, looking for any hint of how the whole speech might have sunk in to her.

The woman nodded with a small smile, hand cupping her back of one of the kids’ head. “Thanks, I’ll… um, I’ll let you know if the investigation is going anywhere, but it’s probably nothing, just some stupid phone call prank or something” she shrugged it off before patting the children’s shoulders as if to activate their engines, because the moment she did that, they bolted in the opposite direction. “I’m sorry, I’ll have to go now, it’s pancake time.”

Atlas smiled and nodded, stepping aside to make space for her to walk away, only to bump into someone. And she didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was, because the smell imprinted on her back from the collision was too familiar to miss. “Um, my bad” she spoke dryly in reply to his clenched jaw. They made no eye contact, and she hesitated for a moment, but then bit her lip and placed her hair behind her year before turning around on the heels of her tar black Converse, heading back for the table.

“And I head you get the most amazing feeling when you just get past that last obstacle.”

“Yeah and like, I guess it’s like ten times better if you do it when it’s raining, or some shitty weather, it just makes more sense like that.”

“I just wonder how much of a pain it’s causing to your muscles, like I wonder if there’s a specific workout you need to be doing beforehand.” Henry’s eyes were eager and lively, completely swallowed in conversation to do more than just throw her a smile over the shoulder when she returned to their seats, resuming her position with her knee resting on the edge of the wooden table.

It took a few moments to understand what they were talking about, mostly because she was just fascinated by the youthful joy emanating from their bright eyes, like they were getting pumped up for the coolest prank their school had ever seen. They were talking about tough mudder.

And don’t get me wrong, Atlas wasn’t the type of woman to be all daisies and children and dresses and pretty things. To be completely honest, if anything, she was the exact opposite of that, with her preference for cold whiskey and rugby and all sorts of things commonly labeled as ‘manly’. But it was virtually impossible to find even the tiniest bit of a break in their speech to make a comment or a joke, and found herself a silent witness of their extreme boyishness, until she could take no more. With a swift move, she got up from the table and made her way to the bar, flimsy slip dress following her every move, and ordered the shots of absinthe, but found herself having to down all three before going back to the table and actually having to pull each one by the hand, going to the bar with Brodie on the left and Henry of her right side.

There was an itching at her skin, an uneasiness from being so exposed – the policy of the diner said that shots had to be enjoyed at the bar, as they weren’t served at the tables like most of the food and other drinks. So that meant she was – whether she liked it or not – in the middle of the diner’s indoor area, so much so that even the emo haircut guy with the custom made guitar on the stage made a small shoutout to them in the middle of his song, to which the guys cheered and downed the first two rounds of shots, waiting for her to bring her head back in the game for more.

Six shots later, she couldn’t tell at which point the live act had changed into a small band she’d heart Mia Anderson talking about at the garden party, and when exactly the others started dancing, or joining in at the bar for their own rounds of shots. It wasn’t tipsiness, not drunkenness, but a weird hazy feeling she was experiencing, like there’d been a time lapse thing she’d missed on. And when she turned her head absentmindedly, her eyes gently shifting from one table to the other, a stranger hole formed in her stomach.

The Nichols had gone.