***

AFTER SEEING MYSELF ON THE NEWS, branded as an arsonist and a mass-murderer and worst of all, a high school student, my curiosity got the best of me. I finally caved in and Googled it, and the results are promising: The death penalty is legal in New Hampshire. And, I mean, I kind of sort of maybe burned down a (supposed) cancer research center and killed a heck of a lot of people, give or take a few, I doubt they'll go easy on me. Also, interestingly enough, although lethal injection is the primary means of death, they still hang people. Personally, I think I'd go with the latter option. It's got so much more pizzazz than lethal injection, you know? Maybe it'll be a public execution. Maybe we'll set off fireworks during it and air it on national television. That'd be a real show.

Assuming, of course, we can actually get things sorted out. Assuming, of course, they realize that the responsibility was all on me and Atlas was simply my innocent chauffeur.

However, Atlas's mom, Eva, and my dad have different plans for us. They work together to formulate the most effective plan to keep us out of prison. It's very simple, very effective, and so boring. It lacks that little extra something, you know? In fact, all it includes is stealing a car, driving to the coast, then stealing a boat, somehow figuring out how exactly to work a boat and traveling all the way up to New Brunswick once we do, where one of Atlas's cousins, a university student living in Quebec, will pick us up and transport us to the home of a friend of his, where we'll be harbored until the media dies down and it's safe for us to come home.

        (I doubt that it'll be soon. We've been the top news story of the day, and we've even made it to social media. Thank God, you can always count on social media to call out those in power's bullshit: Twitter accounts and Instagramers and Tumblr bloggers everywhere are digging into Atlas and my pasts and calling for an equal treatment of us. We even have hashtags. Personally, although the reasoning behind it makes me sick, I'm in love with all the attention. Atlas, on the other hand, can't stand it.)

B to the o to the r-i-n-g.

However, Dad and Eva's plan and my dreams of a particularly exciting public execution die out the instant that my dad gets a call from none other than Bianca Mendoza. As he answers it, a lot of children, also known as Atlas, Thea, Rachel, Atlas's little brother, Archie, and I (Atlas's older sister, April, is off at SNHU studying mechanical engineering) all stand awkwardly in the Villa's foyer, struggling under the weight of all of the stuff that we'd packed for our journey, listening as he nods and hm-mhs and eventually hangs up on her.

"Change of plans, kiddos," he slides his phone back into his pocket. "We're not going to Quebec."

"What?" Atlas asks, staring at him. "Why not?"

"Aw, but I wanna go!" Archie complains, digging his toes into the carpet.

"Bianca just called me and, apperently, she sorted everything out with the police," Dad explains. "They're no longer framing the two of you: She convinced them that it was a gas explosion that caused the fire. You two were just going in to visit your sick relative."

"Oh, sweet Jesus!" Eva exclaims in joy, fiercely hugging Archie in her excitement.

"Mooooooooom," he whines, shoving her off of him.

Although my chest swells with something I can't quite explain, Atlas still seems troubled. "Why would she do that?" he asks.

"I don't know. She said it had something to do with all of the social media attention the case was getting, and how unfairly Atlas was being treated. I guess there are truly good people out there," Dad mumbles, as if the idea had just occurred to him. Then, his phone buzzes, and he pulls it back out again, frowning.

Thea shifts, uncomfortable. She mumbles something under her breath, and I'm sure it's something terrible about her mom (I don't blame her), but none of us catch it and none of us ask her about it.

"But she did suggest that we find somewhere else to stay because, well, um — " Dad shoves his phone at me, and I drop my bag to grab it. "The people aren't quite as gullible as the police. She just sent me these photos."

The pictures are of the outside of my house, except something's very wrong. Pouring into the street is a protest of — well, it's difficult to gauge how many people are there. They fill our yard, they fill our neighbor's yard, they fill the surrounding streets. It's at least three. Even more graffiti is on our house, all of it attacking me as a person, not for what I did, but for who they think I am: a lot of it is about police brutality and our corrupt justice system, too, which, yeah, I support. This was totally an instance of police brutality. Several of our windows are broken, too, and the protesters all hold vaguely threatening picket signs. One confused person is even waving a very intricate sign about the details of Jesus's second coming (I wish I had that person's number so that I could tell them that Jesus won't be the only one coming tonight.)

I'm both in love with what's going on and in total hatred about it. Because fuck yeah. Power to the people. This particular situation is totally fucked up, and they have every right to protest against it. I should be behind bars. Atlas never should have been portrayed the way he was. I never should have been portrayed the way I was. I shouldn't be getting off with no repercussions. However, it's me they're protesting against. I'm too pretty to go to prison.

The thing that irks me the most is a sign that reads AND YET ANOTHER CISHET BOY GETS AWAY WITH MURDER: THE BLOOD'S ON OUR HANDS. Which, I mean, true. Non-black boys, specifically cishet ones, can get away with anything if they're rich enough, if their daddy (and not in the fun way) knows the lawyer, if they have a promising sports career ahead of them, and, oh, golly gosh gee, imagine how prison would traumatize them! (See: Brock Turner.) But their facts aren't the only thing not straight about the situation.

"How dare they!" I gasp. "Assuming that I'm heterosexual. The nerve of those people."

"Cain." Atlas kicks me lightly in the shin. "I don't think that's the point."

"Can I please go on the news so that I can tell those people that I'm not straight?" I ask. "Please. It's gonna bother me forever."

Dad rubs his forehead as if I'm giving him a headache. "The point is that we can't go home — not yet, anyways. We need to find somewhere else to stay, for now, at least, all right? And we also need to find someone to go rescue my baby Cerberus from that madness."

I nod. I'm still hung up over them assuming that I'm straight, of all things. "Okay, but about that news thing — "

"No."

Eva cuts in before I can plead anymore. "You guys can stay here, we have some extra room."

"Thank you, Evie, we really appreciate it," Dad replies. "Now, if you don't mind me, I need to go save my dog."

***

ATLAS, THEA, AND I SPEND MOST OF THE AFTERNOON in Atlas's backyard with Pepper while Cinnamon, the Villa's other dog (like Pepper, she's a husky, but she's older and completely white) stays inside with Cerberus. Cerberus hates Pepper's guts, but he seems to be able to stand Cinnamon. We try to strengthen Thea's power and attempt to teach Pepper that "fetch" doesn't mean the same thing as "sic 'em" and also wonder why, exactly, Atlas felt it was necessary to teach his dog to kill people. We get to the point where Thea can create a pebble without nearly dying before she tires out and goes inside to take a nap.

After that, Atlas and I go out to get lunch, then take Pepper for a walk around his neighborhood. She throughly enjoys peeing on everything, running through the slush, tugging on her leash so hard she nearly breaks Atlas's arm and practically chokes herself to death, and looking so adorable it's probably illegal. I enjoy being in the company of a dog that isn't Cerberus. Atlas, like some kind of nerd, enjoys the fresh, cold air and the light dusting of snow raining down on us.

We watch Parks and Rec on Netflix after we get too cold and go inside (Rachel joins us, at this point) until Thea wakes up and insists on changing to a Disney movie. We end up watching Lilo and Stich while Pepper curls up and naps on Thea's lap, which I try to pretend I'm not jealous about. It's a perfectly normal day after a perfectly normal night of burning an institution down and being framed (rightfully so) for arson.

Eventually, Eva comes home from working at the Villa, and my dad returns from wherever he'd ran off to, and we all eat dinner together and have a normal conversation about our day while night slowly covers us. Though it's small and outdated and in the same rough neighborhood ours is in, the Villa's have a five bedroom house: the master bedroom, Atlas's room, Archie's room, April's room, and a guest bedroom (which is really just their basement.) My dad sleeps in their guest room, Thea and Rachel get April's room, and I'm stuck with Atlas. But he has a bunkbed, and he lets me get the top bunk, so I don't complain. Plus, Pepper sleeps with him. (Cinnamon sleeps with Archie.) It's a win-win.

I fall asleep instantly: it'd been one heck of a day, and I'm exhausted. Atlas, as par his usual insomniac routine, has a bit more trouble. So much trouble that, around two or three in the morning, he jolts me awake with a high-pitched scream.

Well, I think. That's quite odd.

Then I try to roll over and get back to sleep, but I promptly fall out of the bed and slam my chin on the carpeted floor. Disoriented and confused, as my room has wood flooring, and, also, as far as I can remember, my bed used to be a lot closer to the ground than that, I sit up, blinking into the darkness. The only light spills from a Jurassic Park nightlight that Atlas's had for as long as I've known him. And then I remember that I'm at Atlas's house. Because, you know, people that want to see my public execution almost as much as I do are protesting in front of my house.

The usual.

And then Atlas screams again. Fear shoots through me, — what's happening, is someone hurting him, is someone gonna hurt me? — and I jump to my feet. Once my eyes adjust to the low lighting, I breathe a sigh of relief: he seems fine, or at least the fine that comes with not being actively murdered. He's curled into a tight ball in his bed, his eyes squeezed shut, sweat glittering on his forehead, his chest rapidly rising and falling. Tears glisten down his cheeks, and his hands are curled tightly into fists around his sheets, gripping them for dear life. He's having a bad dream, I realize. That's all.

"Atlas," I whisper, sitting on his bed, shaking his shoulders until his eyes snap open, a brilliant, shimmering shade of amber in the low lighting. "Atlas, wake up."

He shoots awake, sitting up, looking just as frantic as he had while asleep, his eyes glazed over and terrified. Then, he punches me.

It's light enough that it didn't hurt, but I still tiredly rub my jaw, stifling a yawn. "Good morning, sunshine. What were you dreaming about?"

"C-Cain." His eyes suddenly fall into focus, but now, they just look sad. He takes several halting deep breaths then bursts into the most heart-wrenching sort of tears — the quiet kind, the ones you choke back, telling yourself don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. "Cain," he repeats as if he doesn't quiet believe it as he buries his head in my shoulder, crying into my shirt as silent sobs rake through his body. "Cain."

"Shh, shh, shh. It's okay, I'm here, I've got you, you're okay," I assure him, gently rubbing his back, rocking him back and forth, trying to calm him down.

"No," he shakes his head into my shirt, and his voice comes out empty but scared. "No, no, I'm not."

"What happened?" I ask. "Atlas, what's wrong?"

"I — I had a dream," he admits, as if the the thought of it terrifies him.

My stomach drops. "Like — like a Dreamscape dream?"

"No," he replies, pulling away from me. His face is tearstained, his eyes darting frantically back and forth. "Can I tell you something?"

I hate seeing him like this, and I hate feeling like there's nothing I can do about it. "Of course."

"I — I've been having dreams lately," Atlas replies, and I have to bite back a sarcastic comment. "Memories, you know. Reliving them. About some stuff I'd rather forget."

"Do you wanna tell Mama Cain about them?"

"Yes, but hang on." He grabs his glasses from his nightstand and slips them on. "Oh, thank God. You looked like a deformed rat without these on. So, anyways, do you — do you remember my dad's death?"

Odd change of conversation. I nod. "Yeah. I do."

The tears have started flowing again, openly this time, streaming down his cheeks, and his voice is murmured like it's painful for him to speak. "I just... I can't stop reliving it. I can't stop blaming myself. I can't stop thinking about it."

"It wasn't your fault," I tell him.

"But it — it was," he argues, his voice hardly a gasp. "It was my fault, and my dad's dead because of me."

"Baby, you know that's not true," I say, and I know I don't believe my own words, but I don't care, because I know he needs to hear them and I know he needs to understand.

"Don't lie to me," Atlas sniffles, his voice like a razor blade gliding across delicate skin. "Cain, what would you have done?"

"What do you mean?"

"If your dad had been the name that was pulled — if you had to pick between his life and your's."

A part of me instantly thinks that I — I'd never hurt him. Another part of me, a deeper part of me, wonders if that's really true. The silence that follows is uncomfortable and stifling. I don't want to answer his question because I don't know the answer myself.

Atlas moves so that he's facing me, his face inches from mine, but this development doesn't make me happy, because there's something in his expression that's all too familiar: something frantic, something desperate, something dangerous. "I made a choice, and I have to live with the consequences of my actions. I'm just not too sure I can do that anymore."

I made a choice. I have to live with the consequences of my actions.

I ended the world. I'm reaping the repercussions.

"You don't have to live with them alone."

"Just shut up, okay? Shut up." Atlas's voice snaps, a rubber band pulled too taut. "Don't pull that bullshit on me. You're not the one that killed your dad."

Maybe not, but I'm the one that ended the literal world.

"Atlas — "

"I shot him, Cain. I shot him. I fucking shot him. All I can see every time I close my eyes is the expression he had as the life slowly bled out of him." He's rambling now, incoherent and panicked. "Do you know what the last thing he told me was? 'I don't blame you. This wasn't you. I love you, I love the real you.' How can he not blame me? I blame me. My mom blames me. Hell, even you blame me. And I see his — I see his casket too. The way he looked in it. He didn't look like a person. He looked like clay, he looked like a Barbie doll, he looked like I could slice him through with a butter knife and never hit bone. And they dressed him in red, and he always hated red, and I don't know why they did that. He would have hated it. He was innocent, you know? He wasn't like my mom. He didn't want her getting wrapped up in all that Villa shit. I just — I miss him, Cain. I miss him and it's all my fault."

"We've all done things we aren't proud of. I don't blame you, Atlas, not at all." I say. "Neither did your dad. You shouldn't be so hard on yourself. He wouldn't have wanted you to live your life this way. If it makes you feel any better, I can go fuck up whoever designed his funeral."

"It's terrible. It's so terrible. And I just — I just want it all to stop. I want things to go back to normal, back to the way they used to be. I want it all to go away, because I can't deal with this. I can't handle this. Something's wrong with me, something's bad wrong with me, and I can't live with it. I can't live like this anymore, and I just — I don't know what to do. I don't understand why I can't just move on."

"I know, I know, I know." I lay down on my back, my head resting on his pillow. "I think it's normal for you to feel that way, you know? Especially considering how he died. Nothing's wrong with you. But I do think you should talk to someone — your doctor, maybe. A psychologist. They could help. That's what they're there for, after all. But you can deal with it, you can handle it, you can live with it. Okay? Because you're Atlas Motherfucking Villa."

He falls quiet and, after a moment's hesitation, he joins me in my laying-down state. Somehow, we end up so that he's completely curled against me, his legs tucked around mine, his head resting on my chest — earlier, I'd had to be in constant contact with him to keep from breaking. Maybe he feels the same way. No matter why he's doing it, I can't help but thinking that, for a straight guy, this is really fucking gay. Coincidentally, I also can't help but think about his legs his legs his legs and fuck, his head, and his entire body that's completely pressed against mine and Jesus fucking Christ Cain I get it you're actively a homosexual but would it kill you to stop being so gay?

"And Atlas Motherfucking Villa is a weak-ass bitch," he finally mumbles into my chest.

Never once have I equated Atlas with being weak — he's the strongest person that I know, easy. And I personally know Robbie from Victorious.

"Not the Atlas Motherfucking Villa that I know." I try to think of everything good about Atlas, try to put it into words, but I've never been good at saying what I mean and I've never been good at thinking about what I say. "I know a guy that tries to fight people twice his size just to prove that he can, that once burst into tears during his speech tournament not because what he was saying made him sad, but because he knew it would make him win, that always does the right thing, no matter what it'll cost him, no questions asked, that was willing to burn down a cancer research center with his beautiful friend in the name of justice, that stood by the same friend even though he probably destroyed the world just because he loves him so much, — come on, how much more of a ride or die could you be? — that once punched a fucking police officer because she hurt his friend, that's first instinct upon being awoken in the middle of his scary dream was to punch whatever had just touched him. Like, really hard. I think you dislocated my jaw. But anyways. The Atlas Motherfucking Villa I know is a lot of things, but he's no weak-ass bitch."

"You're a part of so many of my good qualities," he complains.

"Because I'm half of what's good about you. But also because you're loyal, and you care so deeply about everyone around you, and I'm your most amazing friend, and you're also probably secretly in love with me, but that's yet to be proven — "

"Shut up. I'm not." Atlas groans. "Now, go on. Continue telling me what you love about me."

"That was stretching it a little bit. You're vastly unlovable."

"Your face is vastly unlovable," he retorts, middle-school-style. "But can you use your unlovable mouth to talk about something else? I don't — I don't wanna think about this anymore."

"Sure, dear. Like what?"

"I dunno."

There's a beat.

There's another beat.

There's another very long beat, and I'm trying very hard not to think about a lot of things.

"Can you tell me what happened at the party we went to?" Atlas finally asks. "I got really drunk, you know. I don't remember any of it."

"I — uh. Yeah. Sure. You sure you wanna hear everything?"

He nods, so I tell him. About the fight, about him kicking ass, about his amazing speech, about the fact that he kissed me. After I finish explaining all of it, and tell him that he kissed me, he freaking kissed me (I leave out the whole part where I haven't been able to stop thinking about his lips), Atlas sits up and quickly stammers, his face bright red, "I'm not — I'm not gay. I never would have — I don't like you like that, Christ, Cain. I was drunk. It didn't mean anything."

It didn't mean anything. Of course. It never does. I never mean anything. I'm not bitter about Atlas in particular, it's just that relationship-wise, that's all I ever seem to be: nothing. I'm their experiment, I'm their mistake, I'm their one night stand. I'm never their first love, their biggest loss, their commitment. The only boys I've ever loved have never loved me in return, but I guess that's all a part of the deal. Nothing about being gay's easy, and finding love is no exception.

There had never been anything between Atlas and I, and there never would be. I'd just read too much into it. That's all.

"It's okay," I nod, swallowing down my disappointment. "I understand."

And Atlas falls silent, staring at his hands, his expression unreadable. I can see the uncertainty flickering in his eyes as he fights to find what he needs to say. His cheeks never fade back to their normal shade of brown. After a very long time, he finally asks, "Can I ask you something weird?"

"You just did," I respond. "I mean, sure. Go ahead."

"Did you want to kiss me back?"

For some reason, I can't bring myself to look him in the eye. I hadn't been expecting him to ask that. "I-I-I mean, a little, but you were drunk and I was so surprised and I just — "

The same uncertainty flicks back into his eyes, this time tinged with something else — a certain fear, like he knows what he has to say, but just isn't sure if he's supposed to be the one to say it. The look alone is enough to shut me up. When he finally speaks, shattering the silence, he sounds very unsure of himself. "Do you — do you want to finish what I started?"

"What?"

"Kiss me, Cain. Do you want to kiss me?"

It seems that, for the first time in my life, I find myself at a loss for words. Out of everything he possibly could have said, that was the one thing I didn't expect. "So you want me to — is it okay if I — should I, like — is it okay if I kiss you?"

For some reason, this response makes Atlas laugh. "Is Cain Motherfucking Terranova seriously asking for my permission to kiss me?"

"Consent's important."

"That's true, but the answer's yes, Cain. Of course it is."

Right, I think. So.

I don't let myself think about this anymore than I already have. I press my lips against his.

He responds almost instantly by pulling back, and I worry that I did something wrong, that I ruined our friendship and this moment and the entire fucking world, but he just laughs and pulls his glasses off and puts them safely away on his nightstand. "Fuck, I forgot about my glasses. Kinda hard to kiss with them on."

"You fucking nerd," I tease, and all I can think about is his lips his lips his lips his lips his lips.

Reality's blurred together for me in the past few weeks: I've never been sure of what's real and what's not. But this — this, I know it's real. It's real, and it's perfect, and Atlas Villa wants to kiss me, and everything's okay.

I lean back in to kiss him again, and he smiles against my lips, which makes me smile in return. I notice that he smells like Samoa cookies and cinnamon and his skin is so soft and so warm and I can hear his heart hammering against his chest and the feeling of his skin against mine makes a fuzzy energy buzz through my veins like caffeine (or heroin) and his lips taste like rich chocolate melting on my tongue and the next thing I know there's nothing between us, no clothes, no space, only skin, and I have him pushed against the bed, and his hands are in my hair, and he's biting my lip, hard, and then I'm kissing his jaw, his neck, his collarbone, slowly and deeply, lower and lower, and he's moaning, and it's the best sound in the world, and his nails are digging into my back, and it's the best feeling in the world, and then —

Suddenly, Atlas's door is shoved open, and my dad's voice filters inside. "PUT YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM, I HAVE A BASEBALL BAT AND I'M NOT AFRAID TO USE IT — uh, okay, then. I'll be going now. Be safe, boys."

Atlas almost falls out of his bed. "What the fuck?"

I roll to the side, and we both sit up, thankfully, his sheets covering us. Atlas's face is bright red, and he keeps stammering, "I'm so sorry, please don't tell my mom," over and over again, a frantic mantra.

My dad stands in the open doorway in his pajamas, his hair a mess, his eyes wild, holding a bright pink plastic baseball bat covered in polka dots and Hello Kitty's face. He had been slowly backing into the hallway, but Atlas saying this makes him stop in his tracks, the saddest look on his face. He quietly shuts the door and sits on the edge of the bed, having to duck to not hit his head on the bunk above us. "You have absolutely nothing to apologize about, Atlas. I'm just happy that my son found somebody like you instead of all of the douchebags he's dated in the past."

At this point, I can't help but chime in, "Hey! Not all of them were bad!"

"And don't worry, it's not my secret to tell." Dad continues on as if I never spoke. "I'd never dream of telling anyone, much less your mom. I've been through this all with Cain before, and I know how scary it can be. All I know is that I know your mom, and I know she'll be the most accepting and understanding person when you decide to come out to her. And I know that I'll always be here for you, I'll always support you, both of you, and I'll be right here beside you if you when you tell her, okay?"

Atlas looks on the verge of tears. He can't seem to find anything to say.

Dad then jumps up out of excitement (and promptly hits his head on the top bunk, which he seems unconcerned about), grinning. "Oh, my God, I can't believe you guys are dating! I can't believe my best son's son and my son are a couple. I'm so excited, I hope you guys get married so Eva and I can be parent-in-laws together and — "

I have to cut him off. He's getting out of control. "Dad, we aren't even dating. This is literally the first time we've done this."

He winks. "Well, you should date, that would be adorable. And also, you should learn to be more quiet, I thought you guys were being murdered in here."

I look down at the baseball bat.

"I came to help," Dad explains.

"Where did you... Where did you get that bat?" I ask.

"I dunno. I just kind of found it," he admits, looking down at it in dismay. "Anyways, what's important here is that you guys aren't actively being murdered, so I'll be off. Have fun. Practice safe sex. And please, try to find a better time to do this."

And with that, he disappears, shutting the door behind him.

"Oh, my God," Atlas mumbles as he struggles back into his pajamas (it takes him three tries, and he eventually ends up with his shirt on inside-out). "Can your dad, like, conveniently drop off the face of the earth and die?"

"I wish." Once he's clothed, I pull my own pajamas back on and start the climb back up to the top bunk.

"No, wait," Atlas calls. "Come here."

"What do you need?"

"You," he replies. "You're terrible at this. Come here, asshole. I don't want to have to go back to sleep alone."

Almost hesitantly, hoping he doesn't notice that fact, I climb back into his bed and he practically drags me underneath the covers, laughing at me.

"Remember," I ask as Atlas situates his head on my chest just like earlier, "all of those times you told me you were straight?"

Atlas's face falls. "I — I guess I just hadn't really realized it, you know? I just thought it was — that it was normal. That thinking about another guy in that kind of way was just something that happened that nobody really talked about, like straight guys watching lesbian porn. But not as gross as that. And I never really thought about it all that much. It was just like 'Oh, okay, he's hot. Let's move on.' But the past couple of weeks, I realized that I — I was falling for you, Cain. In the real way, not in a lesbian porn kind of way. And I really, really hated myself for it. I still do."

The last three words echo through my head, ripping my heart in two. "Atlas, it's okay to be gay. And it's perfectly normal. It's nothing to be ashamed about and it's nothing to hate yourself over, okay?" I pause. "Aw, you have a crush on me. How cute."

"Shut up! And I know. But it's just — it's really hard to know that about myself. And I don't think I'm gay. I do like girls, I just like boys, too. And nonbinary people. I like everyone, I think. So I think I'm pan?" he says the last part as if it's a question. "Or maybe I'm bi. I dunno. I think I'm pan, though."

I hate hearing him say that it's hard to know that about himself. I want to be able to do everything in my power to make him feel better about himself and the people he likes, but I don't know what's in my power. "I know," I nod, and it breaks my heart to say it. "It's hard, but it's possible to learn to accept it. And I'll be here for you, always. I know that Meredith and Silas and Thea'll all be here for you. My dad'll be here for you. Your mom'll be here for you. Everyone'll be here for you. You don't have to deal with this alone."

"I just — I don't think I want to be in a relationship. Not yet."

"Okay," I say. "But why not?"

"You had me watch that season of RuPaul's Drag Race with you. If you can't love yourself, how in the hell are you gonna love somebody else? And I don't think I love myself. So I don't think I'm ready to love somebody else. I'm sorry."

There are a million different things I want to say, but they all seem stuck somewhere in the back of my throat. "Atlas..."

"It's hard," is all that Atlas says. "It's hard."

I have to ruin the moment. "What, your dick?"

***

lol while i was proofreading the scene w atlas's bad dream my puppy started having a terrible nightmare and i had to wake her up to calm her down. i had a nice chat with her. anyways i remember like 20 years ago telling MadnHatter that my puppy was actually atlas irl so this is just even more proof . y'all want a conspiracy thread