He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last moved. There’s chinese take out containers on the floor that have started to smell, and open bottles of whiskey, and mugs half full of tea because he wanted tea but it never tastes the way - he never closed the gallon of yellow paint and it’s crusted over.

Atlas pushes himself into a sitting position. His head hurts, he’s probably dehydrated, and his fingers itch towards his phone to check the time, the date, anything, but he can’t. He’d put it on ‘do not disturb’ mode eventually, but he knows that if he unlocks it, the text that will be waiting for him is from his supervisor: a long winded speech about how the death of a doctors first patient follows them their whole career, but it doesn’t make them any less of a doctor.

People die. Atlas had been snapping those two words ever since he’d been accepted into med school. People die, get over it. Every human came with an expiration date. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t lost people before. His grandfather, a well liked aunt, a friend in college from a freak accident. But this was different. This was … worse than he had expected.

His fingers reach for the Johnnie Walker on his coffee table and the polish on his nails is beyond chipped, a look he never would have accepted before. The bottle comes up with a flyer stuck to the bottom of it, and autopilot more than actual desire leads him to peeling it off.

Widow’s Peak Halloween Market.

It was from the hospital. Some teen had been passing them out to the staff, Atlas had ignored them but Cassidy had taken it, and with a bright smile pressed it into Atlas’ hand and asked him if he was going. Atlas had given him a blank stare as a response, but Cass had just shrugged and mentioned that he’d like to, if he could.

Atlas had talked to the Aisling’s, Cass’ head doctor, and they’d all agreed Cass could go, with a wheelchair and his oxygen and a medical professional with him. Atlas had volunteered to go, and so had Graham, to his great annoyance.

Four days later, Cass was on a ventilator.

He should go. It’s an annoying, intrusive thought that doesn’t feel like it belongs to him, but for some reason it makes him stand. He takes the bottle of whiskey with him while he showers, and while he picks out clothes that are warm enough he won’t be miserable. He used to enjoy that part of his routine, but now it’s just black jeans and a black turtleneck and the closest shoes and he decides that's good enough.

He trades the bottle for his wallet on the way out the door and lights up a cigarette the moment the cool Oregon air hits him, and walks. There’s not many people out, small towns don’t promote loitering, but there’s a boy on the bench and Atlas turns his gaze to the ground because he’s not in the mood for small talk.

A curly mop of hair. A flash of glasses. A smile. That smile. His smile.

Atlas closes his eyes tight and takes a deep inhale of smoke, his logical mind fitting the pieces together. He hasn’t been sleeping well. He’s dehydrated. He’s been drinking. He’s going through the stages of grief. He shouldn’t look back. Keep walking.

He looks back.

Round cheeks. Fidgeting thumbs. Deep breaths. Bright smile. His-

Stop it.

He’d thought he’d gotten past the denial stage long ago. Maybe this was the bargaining stage? Maybe this was the part where he would think the world owed him just a little more than it’d already given him. Where he’d promise he’d give it all back if that boy on the bench was-

“Atlas!”

Atlas wasn’t sure he’d ever read reports of people seeing their … loved ones after death that weren’t complete bullshit. Or more ghostly, like a touch to the lower back, or the scent of their favorite coffee in the kitchen, or their song coming on the radio when they were having a meltdown in the car. He’d always brushed it off. Some people just weren’t as mentally fortified as others.

He hadn’t thought that he belonged in the previous group. The kind who had to conjure up an image of a boy that had died too young for his evident liking. If he was imagining Cass, then he should probably turn in his medical license, because if he could do such a perfect job of it, then he’d evidently spent more time putting his patients features to memory than doing his actual job. And if he wasn’t - well, he had to be, didn’t he? Because he had seen Cass die. He’d watched the machine flatline, he’d stared at Cass’ chest begging for it to rise, he’d heard the chief call time of death. He’d been there.

And this Cass, just like he said, was good as new. Cystic Fibrosis didn’t just disappear. He ignored the urge to reach for him, to tuck his oxygen tubes into place, but they weren’t there to fix. Cass was breathing, like a normal person, taking in greedy lungfuls of smoke and letting them out in visible whisps thanks to the fall chill.

Atlas had been called an asshole since he could walk, but at least he wasn’t so cruel as to make his hallucination of Cass still suffer.

He should turn in his medical license anyway, because he was losing his goddamn mind and he was perfectly okay with it. He was perfectly okay with looking at that big grin on Cass’ face until the alcohol, or the crazy, or whatever it was faded away. Then he’d crawl back in his whole, and hope the world swallowed him.

“Just as friends,” Atlas quoted, and he doesn’t know why it’s so funny, but he snorts and rolls his eyes, and mumbles it again under his breath as he starts walking. Nothing is very far in Willow’s Peak, and it’s just nice enough out that a walk will feel nice.

He thinks of reaching for Cass’ hand, folding their fingers together. He’d done it before, when Cass was at his sickest, because between the vent and the noise and the people it seemed like the best way to say ‘it’s me, it’s Atlas, I’m here’. But now, it feels different. Now it feels like if he reaches out, his fingers will go right through Cass’ hand, and then what? “Is that what you want? Just friends.”

There ain’t nothing like a small town chicken fried steak. It’s been a long time since Miles has had one that hadn’t come outta a freezer, and it’s so damn good she almost doesn’t notice the seat next to her getting spun around. Least till the girl talks, and she raises her eyes.

“Blessed day,” she says, and Miles coulda smelled the childhood trauma on her even if she'd been a mile away. The words a weird, but once she manages to take in what the girl is wearing, they make more sense - she can't say she's surprised to find a religious chick in a place small as this, but something about it doesn't quite fit.

It's hard to stop looking though, because this girl - this girl looks like an honest to God doll. The kind of jawline that could only be made out of porcelain, a button nose and plump lips and eyes that someone, somewhere, is probably writing poetry about. If she's from here, it's some kinda twisted fate. If she's not ... well.

“Passing through,” Miles answers, though she has a feeling that just like the older man, this girl knows that too. She could tell by the sign that Endenholle wasn't the kind of place people stuck around if there blood wasn't in it. They get interrupted before she can say much else, by the smell of fresh cherry pie and a waitress who looks frazzled but friendly. Country, born and raised. All spilling southern apologies.

Miles tilts her head towards the pretty thing sitting next to her. “This one was just telling me about the Church. Anything interestin’?”

Her tone says she's not religious - or maybe she was, once, but God done did her dirty and she doesn't have a taste for the bible any more. But her expression says she doesn't have anywhere better to be, either. She could hit the road again, sure, but it was Halloween after all.