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lynzishell · 3 months

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The Past 💛 Atlas

Asher and I sit in the living room of his apartment. I’ve been here a few times before to hang out with Lex and watch a movie or two, so I know this cluttered space well. Today, I sit on the worn rug with my back against her old couch. She was dragging me to the flea market one Saturday when she spotted it on the curb outside a tall brownstone apartment building. She likes patterns and bright colors, and this couch has both. Though, you wouldn’t have known it when we first looked at it. It wasn’t until she spent the entire afternoon and evening cleaning it with a determination and vigor that only Lex possesses for vintage furniture that the bright yellow color really shone. To me, it looks like something out of a basement room in 1995, but to her it is complete perfection, and it’s cozy, which is what matters most to her.

When I insist that I’m fine on the floor, Asher makes a point to lie down and stretch his body across the sofa behind me, as if to imply I’ll regret it, but I can’t change my mind. But, what he doesn't know, is my reason for choosing to sit on the floor rather than Lex’s famous yellow couch: The sketchbook I caught sight of poking out from the edge of the red-painted pallet-turned-coffee-table.

“Is this yours?” I ask as I pick it up and start flipping through it.

“Yeah, just something I was trying out,” he says nonchalantly, though I feel him sit up, watching me curiously.

The pages are full of different types of grasses and wildflowers, mostly individual ones where he practiced different species from different angles and different stages of life, some with color, some not, some have bugs or grasshoppers on them or bees buzzing around. Then, there are a couple pages with vibrant meadows. There’s one with a lone tree blowing in the breeze, with leaves being carried away. Another with a dog running through, a butterfly on his nose. They’re so intricate and detailed that I feel the need to sneeze just looking at them.

“Ash, these are amazing.”

“Thank you.”

He leans over my shoulder, and I feel my entire left side register his sudden closeness. Pointing to the page he says, “That’s my dog, Jasper. There’s at least one of him in every book I’ve had since I got him.”

“How long have you had him?”

“Uhm,” he pauses to mentally calculate, “almost eight years.”

“Oh wow. Must be tons of them.”

“Hundreds. I have a few books dedicated just to him. When I first got him, I would study him, drawing different parts over and over, his nose, ears, the different expressions of his eyes. For a while, I became completely obsessed with drawing his paws.” He stops to laugh at the memory, “It wasn’t easy either. He’s so energetic, it’s impossible for him to keep still unless he’s sleeping. Even if I do catch him sitting still, he’ll run to me the second he sees me looking at him.”

I just give a quiet chuckle in response. I don’t know anything about dogs. Or art. But I like the way Asher looks when he talks about both. He always lights up, whether he’s animated and excited, or casual and relaxed, the same spark is still there lighting up his face.

When I don’t say anything, he smiles, lies back on the sofa, “Y’know, I was watching you today.”

I set the sketchbook aside and turn to face him, resting my elbow on the sofa seat, careful not to get close enough to touch him. “You were, huh?”

“Did you know that when you concentrate, you do this thing where you pucker your lips?” He attempts to imitate this thing I supposedly do, but fails when he starts laughing at himself, or at me, probably both.

“I do not.”

“You do,” he lets out a sound that can only be described as a choked giggle, and it makes me spit a laugh.

“So, what, you just stand there and stare at my lips like a creep, or something?”

“It’s hard not to. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. Not like that anyway.” He tries to imitate it again, only to devolve into giggles.

“You do the opposite, y’know.”

“What do you mean, the opposite?”

“When you’re really focused, you suck in your bottom lip and like, hold it between your teeth.”

He takes a moment to try it out and then nods his head when the action feels familiar, “Oh shit, yeah, I do do that, don’t I? Here you are, giving me shit, and it turns out you’re the one staring at my lips.”

“It’s hard not to.” I stop and let the words hang in the air, mostly to see how he’d react, but also because it’s not a lie. Catching him biting his lower lip at work sometimes can be mildly distracting. He nudges my shoulder gently with his leg and says with a grin, “Creep.”

Then, with a raised voice and a wave of his arm he says, “Okay, but the best,” as if it’s now some kind of competition that he’s clearly about to win, “is the singing! The way you like, sing to yourself when you’re working.”

“What about it?”

“Well, for one, it’s cute as hell, but also, if I did that, everyone would be so annoyed with me and tell me to shut up. I don’t know how you get away with it over there.”

I scoff, “No one is gonna tell me to shut up. For one, I’m cute as hell,” I say with a smile, and continue before he can interrupt, “but I don’t know, I can’t help it. I don’t even realize I’m doing it half the time. But I think I’m quiet enough that most of them just tune me out by now, and besides, I have an amazing voice.”

“You’re awfully confident about that.”

“I should be. I’m professionally trained.”

“Are you really?”

“Yeah, our parents were very strict about the skills we had to learn growing up, and singing was one of them.”

“Well, shit, now I want to hear you sing for real.”

“I’m not just gonna perform for you, but I’m sure if you hang around me long enough, you will eventually.”

Unsatisfied with that answer, he says, “Hm. Do you ever do karaoke?”

“Yeah, karaoke’s fun. But you can’t just watch me. If we do that, I will make you sing at least one song with me.”

“That’s fair, I’d do that. As long as you promise not to make fun of me if I’m terrible.”

“I’d never.”

“Okay, but now I’m curious, what other secret skills do you have?”

“Uhh, let’s see, there was the singing, and then we had to learn to speak French, fluently—”

“And who’s ‘we’?”

“Oh, me and Dawn, my twin sister.”

“I didn’t know you were twins. I’m going to have follow-up questions, but okay so singing and French, what else?”

I can’t help but smile as his eyes shine with genuine enthusiasm. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone be this excited to know about me. I have to admit, it’s really flattering. I’ve never considered myself to be a very interesting person, especially to someone as charismatic and creative as he is. Somehow, he makes me feel like I am, though, so I continue, “The last one was piano, which was the worst of all of them.”

“Oh my god, right?!” He slams his hand down on the couch so hard that he practically sits up and it makes me jump. “I had to take piano lessons too, and I fucking hated it. Can you still play?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure I could figure it out, but why would I?”

“Good point,” he laughs, “I definitely can’t. Honestly, I don’t even remember how to read music, but don’t tell my dad that.”

“Why would your dad care if you can’t read music?”

“Because he’s a fucking composer!” he announces, with a wave of his arms. “Oh my god, the poor man, though, he really wanted Iris and me to share his love of music. Iris is my sister, by the way, but not a twin, she’s two years older than me. Anyway, neither of us took to it, and we both ended up doing visual arts. She’s a graphic designer, and I make fucking trees for video games.”

“Hey, you do way more than trees! You also make grass and weeds!” I say this with a hint of sarcasm, obviously he’ll do far more than that as the project progresses.

“Right, I fucking love weeds,” it comes out almost aggressive, he clearly means it, and I start to wonder if his casualness about the wildflowers was more of an act that I initially thought. “I tried a bunch of instruments though. He bought me a guitar when I was twelve, ‘cause like, who doesn’t want to learn guitar, right? Me. That’s who. I gave up after a week because my fingers hurt,” he stops for a moment to laugh at himself and I marvel at his smile as it stretches from ear-to-ear, his gray eyes bright and intense, “and THEN,” his words coming out quicker and more animated as he goes on, “he was like ‘alright well the kid’s got rhythm at least, how about the drums?’ And like, okay, the drums were fun and all, but I just couldn’t care less. I’d fuck around on them, but I had no interest in learning to be a good drummer. The best he was ever going to get out of me was dancing. Otherwise, I just want to put my headphones on and draw.”

“Well, I’m glad you pursued your passion in the end because you really are talented. The detail you put into your work, it’s the best I’ve seen.”

“Aw, well, shit, thank you,” he extends his hand out, but it comes just short of my arm, so he tugs the sleeve of my cardigan gently with his fingers and holds onto it. I think my compliment caught him off guard because he’s no longer laughing and his voice is softer now, “and, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. My dad is the sweetest, most supportive man in the world. If anything, I think I was a bit spoiled. I feel a little guilty that he kept investing in these instruments that I would just toss aside. There’s no way I can disappoint him further by admitting I don’t even know how to read music anymore.”

“Don’t worry,” I assure him, “your secret is safe with me.”

I’m acutely aware that his leg is resting against me now, and he’s rolling the fabric of my sleeve between his thumb and middle finger. Normally, I would have already scooted away from the sofa. Pivoted my body so the conversation could continue, but so that I could not be touched. But I don’t feel any need to do that. Not with him. His affection is so subtle and absent-minded; I can tell he’s just feeling comfortable with me. Something about that makes me feel comfortable with him too.

What really takes me by surprise, though, is that I want more. I want to lie next to him on the couch, to rest my head on his chest, to feel him run his fingers through my hair while he watches tv and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat keeps my own calm and quiet. Somewhere deep inside, I know exactly how it would feel, and I ache for it.

“Hey,” he tugs on my sleeve, pulling me out of my thoughts, “where did you go?”

“I’m right here,” I tell him.

“You left for a minute there. What were you thinking about?”

I’m not really sure how to answer the question. I try, but I can’t think of anything that doesn’t sound ridiculous, so no words come out.

He cocks his head to the side a bit, looking curious, and says, “I can’t read you. It’s like your thoughts and feelings are written all over your face, but I don’t speak the language, so I can’t decipher your expressions.”

“Ahh,” he sits up with a groan and covers his face with his hands, “fuck, I’m sorry. That sounded really lame, and I regretted it as soon as it came out. Please, just tell me what you were thinking about, distract me from my embarrassment.”

I chuckle quietly. I don’t think what he said was that lame. I know what he meant. But his current state of vulnerability gives me just enough courage to attempt to answer his question, so I give it my best shot.

“I was just thinking that it feels like I’ve known you for years. Not that I’m feeding you some line about how it feels like we’ve known each other forever or something. But you just feel… familiar? I guess. Like, you know when you watch a movie that you haven’t seen in years. You don’t remember it, and you don’t know what happens, but you remember what's happening as it’s happening. Like déjà vu but not. I don’t know. I’m not making sense.” I give up and let my head fall forward onto the couch to hide my face, “maybe I should go before we continue to embarrass ourselves more.”

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he moves his hand to the top of my head and runs his fingers through my hair. It feels exactly the way I knew it would. The way his long fingers run across my scalp, then curl and pull on the strands gently toward the ends, letting them fall little by little. Somehow, I know the feel of his hands as well as my own. I freeze, trying not to move or make a sound. It’s almost as though, if I don’t acknowledge the act, I can ensure he doesn’t stop. And I don’t want him to.

But he does. The sudden tension in my body makes him pull away, “I’m sorry. Was that okay?”

I lift my head up and soften, “Yeah, it was okay. Unexpected, but it was nice.”

“Okay, good. I know I can be a bit touchy-feely sometimes, so if I ever make you uncomfortable, you can tell me. But I’ll be better about asking you first.”

“Thank you,” I say with a nod.

“Of course,” the words come out so gentle and quiet, and the corner of his mouth turns up in a such a sweet half smile that it makes me melt a little. And then he adds, “I really like hanging out with you, Atlas.”

I am officially a puddle on the floor. “Me too.”

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✨I wanna give a HUGE shoutout to @madebycoffee for creating the poses for this scene!! They are so perfect, I literally sobbed when I put them in my game 😭 It means so much to me to be able to bring this scene to life the way I imagined it. I absolutely adore you, Coffee, and I am forever grateful to have met you and to have the opportunity to share this love of writing and sims with you!! Thank you for loving my boys and for making this moment possible for them! 💖

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