Snippet #2816285

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.”