Steady Ground | ✔

10 | How are you fairing, Rude One?

Atlas woke up to a gentle stroke on his back and a quiet conversation. The circular motions were rather pleasant, and for a long moment he didn't bother opening his eyes.

It... smelled like home. The scents of dirt and pines and sandalwood lingered in the fabric pressed against his face. It was warm, too, like sunlight pooled on his back, like he had his face resting on a sleeping bag.

He breathed in deeply.

Why was this so wrong?

He chewed on the thought until the circles stopped and he heard the grandfather's voice.

"Why bother?"

It cut through the calm sense of tranquility, and immediately the alcohol, the blood, the sand and dust slapped him in the face.

Atlas' eyes flew open.

His head was buried in Ashe's jacket remains, like Cerberus had bothered to pick it up and bring it back for him.

Immediately, his stomach knotted. He stilled in place, staring forward with wide eyes.

He was back in the mansion, on the table beneath crystal chandeliers. There was a wine glass to his right, filled with deep burgundy liquid right to the rim. August sat in a miserable hunch not far from him, his arms crossed against his chest, his body sinking so far into the chair he may as well have been sitting on the floor.

"Oh are you waking up, Atlas?"

If Atlas didn't think the world could be more twisted, he was wrong.

He could recognize his mother's touch anywhere. He didn't need the voice and the smell to know that she was sitting right beside him, rubbing his back in absent thought.

What would be different when he picked his head up and looked at her? Would she be the same? Look the same?

He couldn't do it, he realized quickly.

He couldn't lift his head up. His eyes stayed unfocused on the wine glass, watching the liquid shiver in the glass with each movement at the table, so close to spilling over the edge.

Although it pained him to think about it, he didn't want to see her again. He had considered himself finally moved on until now - even though some things still pained him on his off days, he was fine. He had a stable life, decent friends, a boring but fairly stable job with a great manager, and a boring but decently priced apartment.

But if he looked up then, he knew it wouldn't feel like enough. It wouldn't feel worth going back to. Especially if she was the same.

The table shivered as a chair was pushed back, and the first bead of wine spilled over the edge of the glass. It stopped about half way down, clinging to the glass like it was really drying hot glue, and not wine.

And then he realized, that's not where the shivering came from.

It sped up, causing even the chandeliers to clink above his head. Dust cascaded down, the particles catching the light cast through floor-to-ceiling windows.

He jerked upright when he realized that August wasn't moving. His chest didn't rise or fall, and his eyes were blank.

When he swiveled to look across the table, he saw the grandfather frozen as well, his face twisted in irritation, his mouth half open as if he was about to speak.

And he didn't dare look over far enough to see his mother. He stopped at her shadow on the table. He saw her familiar hand, with his father's ring on her finger, before he turned away.