He doesnât know how long itâs been since he last moved. Thereâs 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 itâs crusted over.
Atlas pushes himself into a sitting position. His head hurts, heâs probably dehydrated, and his fingers itch towards his phone to check the time, the date, anything, but he canât. Heâd put it on âdo not disturbâ 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 doesnât make them any less of a doctor.
People die. Atlas had been snapping those two words ever since heâd been accepted into med school. People die, get over it. Every human came with an expiration date. And it wasnât like he hadnât 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.
Widowâs 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 Atlasâ 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 heâd like to, if he could.
Atlas had talked to the Aislingâs, Cassâ head doctor, and theyâd 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. Itâs an annoying, intrusive thought that doesnât 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 wonât be miserable. He used to enjoy that part of his routine, but now itâs 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. Thereâs not many people out, small towns donât promote loitering, but thereâs a boy on the bench and Atlas turns his gaze to the ground because heâs 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 hasnât been sleeping well. Heâs dehydrated. Heâs been drinking. Heâs going through the stages of grief. He shouldnât look back. Keep walking.
He looks back.
Round cheeks. Fidgeting thumbs. Deep breaths. Bright smile. His-
Stop it.
Heâd thought heâd 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 itâd already given him. Where heâd promise heâd give it all back if that boy on the bench was-
âAtlas!â
Atlas wasnât sure heâd ever read reports of people seeing their ⌠loved ones after death that werenât 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. Heâd always brushed it off. Some people just werenât as mentally fortified as others.
He hadnât 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 heâd evidently spent more time putting his patients features to memory than doing his actual job. And if he wasnât - well, he had to be, didnât he? Because he had seen Cass die. Heâd watched the machine flatline, heâd stared at Cassâ chest begging for it to rise, heâd heard the chief call time of death. Heâd been there.
And this Cass, just like he said, was good as new. Cystic Fibrosis didnât just disappear. He ignored the urge to reach for him, to tuck his oxygen tubes into place, but they werenât 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 wasnât 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 Cassâ face until the alcohol, or the crazy, or whatever it was faded away. Then heâd crawl back in his whole, and hope the world swallowed him.
âJust as friends,â Atlas quoted, and he doesnât know why itâs 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 Willowâs Peak, and itâs just nice enough out that a walk will feel nice.
He thinks of reaching for Cassâ hand, folding their fingers together. Heâd 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 âitâs me, itâs Atlas, Iâm hereâ. But now, it feels different. Now it feels like if he reaches out, his fingers will go right through Cassâ hand, and then what? âIs that what you want? Just friends.â
For most, the first day back at Hogwarts was a time to see old friends and share stories of the summer. They crowded into train compartments and showed off moving images and smiled brightly as they spoke of their families and their adventures and traded candies.
For some, they shuffled in with relief easing the tension that their bodies had held since theyâd left left the school - their home, their safety. Because war or no war, some kids simply werenât safe when they left for the summer. They had to make it from one day to the next, until the train showed up again to take them back.
For a handful, the first day was met with the wide eyes of innocent children being swept off their feet by the magic of it all. Nervously twisting hands as an old hat fell over their eyes and sang a tune the rest of the school were passed well acquainted with. The applause as houses filled the roles they had lost with the last graduating class.
For others, the wonderment on their faces had nothing to do with friends, or feasts, or sorting ceremonies - it had to do with the secretly appearing invitations in golden script that was there one moment, and gone the next. For them, the first day back wouldnât really begin until the sun went down. And the rumors whispered between specific few said this time was bound to be a real blast.
It was, after all, The Founders last first day.
There was very little that made Scorpius feel alive, but with the bass pounding through his veins, one arm around a certain redheads neck, and a joint between his lips. Well. That was his utopia.
He wasnât sure where Weasley #2 was, but she couldnât be far. There were watchful eyes in the shadows making sure he didnât drag their darling Louis too far into trouble. Scorpius smirked to himself and dipped his mouth into the curve of Louisâ shoulder. His sweater had fallen just enough that there was bare skin there. Perfection.
The Shack was already packed, smoke in the air, people dancing. He thought maybe he recognized a few people by their hair, maybe Kinsâ curls, wasnât sure. There were fresh faces though, which made Scorpius smile against Louisâ skin. Fresh meat.
He pulled away from his boyfriend and dropped his hand to Louisâ instead, twining their fingers together as he pushed his way through the growing crowd, headed for the front door. The music was loud, someone was cheering, were those shots on fire? Didnât matter.
He walked until they were outside, round back of the Shack. The air was crisp and cool, their position fairly hidden. One of Victorieâs many ideas was to allow a place where people could get some air if it got to be too much for everyone inside. Luckily for Scorpius, it also doubled as a good place to press Louis up against the wall for a few slow, sweet, Moondew laced kisses.
âTeds should be bringing the good stuff tonight,â Scorpius mentioned, sliding his fingers along the fallen sleeve of Louisâ sweater. âUntil thenâŚ?â
âYouâve got all your stuff? Not just your Quidditch stuff.â
âYes Da,â Hollie answered, distracted. An excited first year had handed him her ferret when it had seemed interested in the rings looped through his ears. He was trying desperately to rub the things stomach, and the ferret wasnât having it at all.
â-probably going to win the House Cup,â his Da was saying. As usual when talking about Hogwarts Quidditch, there was an air of fondness in his tone. âYouâll have to send us a picture when you do, yeah? House Cup is the first step to World Cup.â
âYes Da,â Hollie answered again as he twisted in a circle, chasing the ferret down who had run across his shoulders to get to the other earring.
âPlay a fair game though,â Oliver added sternly. âI donât want a letter home this year, hear me?â
âYes Da,â Hollie said. He just wanted to - he lurched towards the ferret who panicked over such a quick movement and suddenly fell backwards off of him. Hollieâs eyes went wide and he jerked forward, but before he could even attempt to do anything drastic and stupid, his Dad reached out and caught the fluff ball.
Hollie smiled sheepishly and tried not to look too guilty when Marcus turned to the first year who owned the little shit and handed it back to her with a promise that nothing bad had happened. She scurried off quickly and Hollie aimed for a brighter grin when his father turned towards him with an arched eyebrow. âSorry?â
Oliver sighed. âStay out of trouble.â Marcus said, âAt least donât get caught.â
Hollie grinned again and threw himself at both of his fathers, hugging them tightly. He was smaller than them, in height and stature, but somehow he had always managed to wrap them both up. âItâll be a good year,â he said. âI promise.â
If he felt a hint of guilt as he made his way into the train, that was only because heâd never been a fan of lying. Not that he had really lied. He just hadnât exactly expanded on the definition of the word âgoodâ.
It didnât really matter though. He tugged the collar of his shirt up around his neck a bit more and then grinned when he saw familiar faces and shoved himself into a compartment. He had stories to share.
The only thing better than Hogwarts was the new broom Hollie had gotten over the summer. It was the latest version of the Lightningbolt model, it was fast and beautiful and fit Hollie like it had been made specifically for him. And yet, somehow, he still fucking lost to Murphy.
A bet. To get out more. To make more friends. To do more living than just Quidditch.
It had been a sarcastic battle of wits at first, Murph had just been shooting the shit, but Hollie had a damn competitive streak a mile wide and before he even knew it they were trading bets and the brooms were out.
And then. And then. Murph had been distracted by a fucking butterfly. Heâd flown higher to catch it, and in doing so the end of his damn broom blocked Hollieâs last shot.
At the words "Oh shit... Wait, did I win?", Hollie had demanded a rematch. But Murph, like the tenacious little fucker he was, hadnât let Hollie back out. So there he was, somehow both excited and nervous as shit, standing inside the cramped Shrieking Shack, the scent of moondew overpowering, behind his friend that was dressed like that.
There were too many people and not enough room and someone wanted the door shut and before Hollie knew it, he wasnât with Murphy any more. Someone handed him a drink and he took it without thinking, tasting the familiar burn of firewhiskey. That was fine.
The music was loud, the lights bright, and he did his best to make himself small as he tried to navigate his way out. He wasnât sure who was touching him or who was tugging which parts of his clothes are who was too fucked up to even realize they werenât his date.
âUh, sorry,â Hollie muttered, probably too softly to be heard over the music. âMy bad. Uh, âscuse me. Oops - didnât mean to grab you - there. Okay. Um. Iâm just gonna.â
He ran hard into the back of someone and twisted around quickly, his hands up to show that he meant no harm. Redheads. Weasleyâs? The girls, he wasnât sure what their first names were, they were Gryffindors though. âFuck, Iâm so sorry!â In fact, the group gathered there seemed to be mostly Gryffindors. Including Greyback, which surprised him. He was about to say so when he caught sight of the boy that Lyall was ⌠almost cuddled up to.
âHey!â Hollie said, pointing an accusatory finger at the curly haired boy. âI know you! You got me fucking detention last May for being out passed curfew. The fuck man, we were almost out for break and I got extra homework for that shit!â
There ainât nothing like a small town chicken fried steak. Itâs been a long time since Miles has had one that hadnât come outta a freezer, and itâs so damn good she almost doesnât notice the seat next to her getting spun around. Least till the girl talks, and she raises her eyes.
âBlessed day,â 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.
âPassing through,â 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. âThis one was just telling me about the Church. Anything interestinâ?â
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.