NOAH & ATLAS - DAY TWO
NOAH
Someone talking. Noah's eyes opened—lids stuck together at the corners.
The staffer. By the table. Middle-aged guy, thinning hair. Setting down a tray—china rattling against wood.
"Breakfast."
Looked at Noah. Once-over. Professional assessment. Something flickered in his eyes—pity? disgust?—gone before Noah could read it.
Left. Door clicked. Soft. Final.
Noah stared at the ceiling.
His body hurt. Shoulders stiff. Ribs aching with each breath. Base of his skull where it met his spine—sharp, stabbing.
Tried sitting up. His abs wouldn't engage. Pushed with his arms. The room tilted left, overcorrected right. He gripped the sheets—Egyptian cotton, high thread count, his fingers slipping on the smoothness.
Stood. Slow. His calves immediately cramped—locked up tight. He grabbed the bedpost, mahogany cold under his palm. Waited. Counted breaths. One. Two. Forgot what came after.
His fingers—pins and needles crawling up to his wrists. He shook them out. Made it worse.
Walked to the table. Bare feet on Persian rug then hardwood—cold seeping into his soles. Each step deliberate, tested.
Picked up the water glass. Crystal. Heavy.
His grip too tight. Knuckles bone-white. The glass shook. Water rippled, caught the weak morning light.
Lifted it. Halfway to his mouth—
Atlas. Atlas reaching for coffee. Atlas's voice sleep-rough: "Morning, love."
His throat sealed. Couldn't swallow. Set the glass down too hard. Water sloshed over the rim, pooled on mahogany.
He didn't wipe it.
Crossed to the window. Outside—the grounds white. Not pretty-white. Dirty-white. Snow from last night mixed with mud showing through in patches. Gray in the December morning light that looked more like dusk.
His reflection in the glass. Eyes swollen half-shut, red-rimmed. Mouth slack. A split in his bottom lip he didn't remember getting. He didn't recognize himself.
Who is that?
Turned away fast. Sat in the armchair—leather, cracked at the arms. Pulled his knees up. His joints popped. Ached deep, in the bone.
"Atlas."
Said it out loud. Just to hear it. His voice cracked down the middle, splintered.
He pressed his knees together till his kneecaps hurt. His spine curved, shoulders hunched forward.
Reached for the coffee. His hand shook—visible tremor. Coffee sloshed over the rim. Brown spreading on white porcelain like blood in water.
Set it down. Didn't drink. Couldn't.
His chest—too tight. Like his ribs were folding inward, crushing his lungs.
Stood. Fast. Chair scraped. Yanked the window open.
December slammed into him. Wind sharp, biting. The smell of woodsmoke from somewhere—bitter, acrid. Frozen earth. Car exhaust faint in the distance.
He leaned out. Looked down.
Three stories. Maybe four. Stone patio below, furniture covered in snow.
Two guards. Both looking up now, hands moving to their hips.
One said something to the other. Couldn't hear it. Saw their breath fog the air.
Noah's shoulders hunched involuntarily.
Fuck.
Pulled back. Shut the window. Glass rattled in the frame—old, single-pane, drafty.
Sat again. Same chair. Stared at the tray. Toast. Eggs congealing, yellow turning gray. Orange juice with pulp settling at the bottom.
His stomach turned.
Lost time.
Didn't know if it was minutes or an hour. The light didn't change much—just got slightly less gray.
The house made sounds. Footsteps overhead—measured, even. Someone pacing. A door closing somewhere far away—the sound muffled through walls. Pipes groaning. Old house settling.
Atlas was in his head. Constant. White noise he couldn't shut off. Unbearable.
Is he awake? Did he sleep? Is he calling? How many times has he called?
"Is it over?" Whispered it. Fists on his thighs, nails digging in through denim. The headache—ice pick behind his left eye, pulsing with his heartbeat.
Knock.
His eyes opened. When did they close?
Door opened before he could answer. No waiting.
A woman. Forties maybe. Blonde hair pulled back—neat, professional. Smiling but not too much. Just enough to look approachable.
Cardigan. Slacks. Sensible shoes.
Noah watched. Didn't move. His jaw tight.
"Can I come in?"
He stared. Said nothing. His throat wouldn't work.
She came in anyway. Shut the door—barely a sound, practiced. Pointed at the other chair—twin to his, same cracked leather.
"Mind if I sit?"
Noah looked past her. The window. Sky low, pressing down. Colorless—not even gray, just... nothing.
She sat anyway. Folded her hands in her lap. Waited.
They looked outside together. The trees—bare branches black against dirty snow. A bird—crow, maybe—landed on one. Shook snow off. Flew away.
More snow coming. He could smell it through the drafty window—that metallic tang.
"I'm Sophie."
Small smile. Warm. Practiced.
"I'll be here with you today."
Noah turned his head. Slow. Mechanical. Looked at her.
Couldn't figure out what she wanted. Why she was smiling.
Looked away.
"You didn't eat." She glanced at the tray. Untouched toast, edges curling. Eggs with a skin forming. "Want something else? Pancakes? Oatmeal?"
No answer.
He rubbed his neck. The muscle was rock-hard, wouldn't loosen. His fingers found a knot, pressed. Pain shot up into his skull.
"Feel like walking? Outside?"
Like she was asking if he wanted tea. Casual. Light. Her voice had that therapist lilt—intentionally gentle.
Beat. Noah's breathing the only sound.
"Might feel better. Fresh air."
Noah looked at her. Really looked. Searching for something. Truth. Lies. Anything.
"I can leave?"
His voice barely there. Hoarse.
Sophie nodded. Slow. Reassuring. "Yeah. Whenever you want."
Liar.
He stood anyway. His calves screamed—the cramp from earlier still there. Face tightened. He didn't make a sound.
Took a step. Legs were sandbags. Heavy. Uncooperative.
Sophie stood. Followed. Silent. Her shoes didn't make noise on the floor.
Guard at the door. Different one—younger, thick neck, blank face. Hand resting near his hip.
More in the hall. Two. Maybe three. Evenly spaced.
Cameras in the corners—black domes, red lights blinking. Watching.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
His jaw locked. Teeth grinding.
Going downstairs his thighs trembled with each step. He gripped the railing—carved wood, smooth from use. His palm sweating despite the cold.
Ground floor. High ceilings. Marble. Expensive art on the walls—abstracts, probably worth more than his car.
Whose place even is this? Dad's? Someone else's?
Didn't ask. Wouldn't get an answer anyway.
Outside. The cold cut through his shirt—thin cotton, not meant for December. His skin contracted, raised in goosebumps. His nipples immediately hard against the fabric.
Sophie held out a coat. Wool. Charcoal gray. Not his.
"It's December."
He took it. Tried the zipper. His fingers—still numb, clumsy—slipped off the metal tab. Tried again. Got it halfway, gave up.
They walked. Gravel crunched under their feet—loud in the silence. His breath visible, ghosting in front of his face. The trees—bare, skeletal, black against the white. Branches rattling in the wind.
Noah scanned the perimeter. Guard. Another. Another. Posted at intervals—fifty feet? less?—all watching.
Stone wall in the distance. Maybe eight feet tall. Topped with something—wire? glass?
His eyes jumped from one to the next. Calculating. Distances. Sight lines. Escape routes.
Nothing. There was nothing.
"Better?" Sophie's voice. Quiet. Non-threatening.
He didn't answer. His jaw working. Clenching. Releasing.
They kept going. The path curved. More trees. A pond—frozen, snow-covered.
After a while he stopped. "What do you want?"
Direct. Flat.
She didn't flinch. Kept that same gentle expression. "Keep you company."
"So you tell my dad everything I say."
"No."
Noah searched her face. Looking for a tell. A lie. Didn't find one. Didn't find truth either. Just... professional blankness.
Looked away. His breath coming faster now.
They kept going. His boots—someone else's, too big—slipping slightly on ice patches.
Then Atlas was there—in his head, so vivid Noah could feel it. His hands. Atlas's hands on his hips. Sunny barking. Luna's weight in his lap, purring. The kitchen. Morning light through the windows. Coffee. Toast. Atlas kissing his temple.
"Love you."
"Love you too."
His breath sped up. Shallow. Fast.
He couldn't move forward. Froze mid-step. His chest locked.
Not now. Not here. Don't—
Sophie watched. Didn't say anything. Didn't touch him. Just waited.
Noah turned. Fast. Walked back toward the house. His boots slipped once on black ice—hidden under snow. He caught himself, arms windmilling.
Sophie kept pace. Silent. Present but not intrusive.
Inside. The warmth hit him—too much, suffocating. Straight for the stairs. His thighs burning. Halfway up he stopped. Looked back at her.
"I need to be alone."
Didn't wait for an answer. Past the guard—the guy didn't move, just watched. Into the room.
Door slammed. He leaned his spine against it. The wood cold through his shirt. Slid down. Knees to chest. Arms wrapped around his shins.
Took a while. His breathing slowing. Then his eyes burned. Hot. Stinging.
Tears came. Quiet. No sound. Just wet on his cheeks, dripping off his jaw.
"This isn't real." Barely sound. Just breath and broken words.
The last morning with Atlas played on loop. Coffee. The shower—Atlas's hands in his hair, water running down between them. Atlas's mouth on his. The way he looked—sleepy, soft, happy.
Happy.
He couldn't breathe. His chest caving in, ribs crushing.
Tore off the coat. Threw it. Hit the floor soft—muffled thump.
Wanted the bed. His legs quit. Wouldn't hold him.
Lay down where he was. Floor. Hardwood cold against his cheek. Still in his clothes—jeans, shirt, socks with holes in the toes.
Closed his eyes.
Breathing all wrong. Too fast. Too shallow. Not enough air.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Maybe an hour. Light changing incrementally through the skylight—gray to darker gray.
Exhaustion pulled him under. Heavy. Final.
He slept there.
---
ATLAS
Buzzing.
Atlas's arm shot out—instinctive, automatic. Fingers found the phone on the nightstand. Wood cold under his palm.
His assistant's name. Pulsing on the screen. Blue light in the dark room.
He stared. Thumb hovering.
Set it back. Face down. The buzzing muffled.
Stared at the ceiling. White paint. A crack running from the light fixture toward the window—spiderweb pattern.
Yesterday detonated in his head. All at once. No warning.
He pressed his palms over his face. Hard. Till his fingertips jumped. Till he saw stars behind his eyelids.
Their morning. Noah half-asleep in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Atlas's hand on his hip while he reached past him for mugs. Noah's voice—rough from sleep, soft: "Good morning, sunshine." The way he smiled. Sleepy. Real.
Couldn't breathe for a second. His lungs wouldn't expand.
Clenched his jaw. Till his molars hurt. Till his temples throbbed.
Tried air through his nose. Slow. Measured. His throat was a fist—tight, closed.
Wetness on his temples. Sliding down. He wasn't crying. Was he?
Wiped it. Heel of his hand. Rough.
Phone buzzed again. Persistent.
He ignored it.
Eventually sat up. Slow. Feet on the floor—hardwood, cold biting. Alice kept her place cold.
Sat there. Till his head stopped swimming. Till the nausea passed.
Picked up his phone. Silenced it. Screen dark now.
Stood. His spine cracked. Shoulders stiff.
---
Living room. Alice at the counter. Yogurt in a ceramic bowl. Spoon scraping porcelain—rhythmic, grating.
"Talk."
Atlas looked at her. His face—plaster. Blank. Set.
Alice met his eyes. Waited.
"Okay." Her voice flat. "Kitchen."
He followed. Automated.
Alice poured coffee. The machine hissed—loud in the silence. Steam rising. The smell—bitter, burnt. She always made it too strong.
Atlas's fingers drummed the marble counter. Unconscious. Arrhythmic. His short nails clicking.
She handed him the mug. He took it. Heat immediate—too hot, but he didn't let go. The pain grounding.
Sipped. Burned his tongue. Tasted nothing anyway.
Set it down. His hand shook slightly. He pressed it flat on the counter.
Alice watched. A vertical line appeared between her eyebrows—the only sign of concern she'd show.
"Like this? You're useless."
Atlas looked up. His eyes—pink at the rims. Bloodshot. When did he last sleep? Really sleep?
"You have to hold it together."
Flat statement. No sympathy. Alice didn't do sympathy.
Atlas stared at the coffee. Black. No sugar. No cream. Reached for it. His hand wouldn't grip properly. The handle slipping.
"Shower." Alice's voice didn't change. Still flat. Matter-of-fact. "Get your head straight. You've got people to see."
His breath snagged. Caught in his throat.
He said nothing. Couldn't.
"I'm working on it too. Other angles. People I know."
Atlas finally lifted his eyes. Slow. Heavy. Like his head weighed too much.
"We'll find him."
Atlas blinked. Half-hearing. The words not landing.
"Evelyn. Your mom. Charles. Talk to them. Today."
Alice glanced out the window. Gray sky pressing down. Snow threatening—that heavy feeling in the air. She turned back.
"Being emotional destroys you right now. You know that."
His eyes got redder. Wet at the corners.
He looked away. Jaw working.
Alice came around the counter. Rested her hand on his shoulder. Light. Barely there.
His muscles bunched under her palm. Tense. Coiled.
"No time for this." She squeezed once. Firm. "Daniel brought clothes. Shower. Then we move."
Atlas said nothing. Eyes closed. Held his breath—counting, one two three four.
Let it out slow.
Tiny nod. Barely visible.
Stood. Swayed slightly. Caught himself on the counter.
"Wait."
Alice went to the cabinet. White lacquer, modern. Came back with a glass of water and two vitamins—large, chalky-looking.
"Take them."
Atlas looked. B12. Something else. He didn't care.
"They'll help."
He put both in his mouth. Dry-swallowed. They stuck halfway down. Alice handed him the water. He sipped.
She pushed the glass back up. "All of it."
He drank. Cold. His throat finally opening.
---
Walked to the guest room. Alice followed, dropped his bag just inside—leather weekender, packed by someone. Daniel probably.
He went in. Door closed. Soft click.
Stood at the window. Outside—skeletal trees. Bare. Black. The sky the color of old concrete. Threatening. A few flakes starting to fall.
Shower. He turned it on. Hot. Steam immediately filling the small bathroom.
Stripped. His clothes smelled—sweat, cigarettes, something else. Fear maybe.
Stepped under. Hot water. He stood there. Let it burn. Too hot. His skin reddening.
Tears came. Mixed with the water. Disappeared. Silent. His chest heaving.
After a while he cranked it cold. Gasped—sharp, shocked. Stayed under till his skin hurt. Till he couldn't feel his fingers.
Got out. Mirror fogged. He wiped it with his palm—streak across the glass.
His eyes looked like someone else's. Sunken. Dark circles. Haunted.
Breathed. In. Out. Counted again.
Got dressed. Daniel had packed well—jeans, black sweater, jacket.
Phone on the dresser. Notifications stacked. 47.
He scrolled. Answered the ones that mattered. Work could fuck off.
Texted his assistant: cancel everything. don't contact me unless emergency.
Immediate response: Understood. Let me know if you need anything.
He didn't respond.
---
Found Alice in the living room. She looked him over. Critical assessment.
"Better."
"What now?"
They talked. Low voices. What could be done. Who to call. How to move without making it worse.
"Stay here," Alice said. Not a question.
"No."
"Where? Some hotel? Your place?"
"Don't know."
"You're staying. Pick a room. Any room."
Atlas met her eyes. Dark. Serious.
"Thanks."
"Don't. You'd do it for me." She meant it. "You have."
He walked toward the door. Alice stood, watching.
"Atlas."
He turned.
"Don't do anything stupid."
He didn't answer. Left.
---
In the car. Black Range Rover.
Started it. Heat blasting. Took forever to warm up.
Texted his mom and Evelyn while the engine idled.
Atlas:today?
Mom:home. come whenever.
Evelyn:back in a few hours. come then. 3?
Atlas:ok
Put the phone down. Shifted into drive.
Headed toward his parents' place.
His father's face came into his head. Richard. That cold assessment. Disapproval always simmering.
Atlas's hands tightened on the wheel. Leather creaking under his grip. His knuckles white.
Called Lydia. Pressed the button on the steering wheel.
She picked up immediately. "Atlas." Panic threading through her voice.
"Anything from Noah?"
"No. They—" She stopped. Audible breath. "They called me. To the house. Thomas's assistant. I'm bringing Sunny and Luna there."
Atlas's foot hit the brake. Hard. The car jerked—tires squealing slightly. Car behind him honked.
He didn't hear it.
"Okay."
Silence on the line. Just breathing.
"I'll call if I hear anything. Anything at all."
"Okay."
Hung up. His hand shaking on the wheel.
Sunny and Luna. Noah's going to—
Couldn't finish the thought.
---
His family's estate. Gate opened automatically—camera recognized his car.
Long driveway. Bare trees on either side. Snow starting to stick—light dusting on the ground.
The staff let him in. Older woman—Maria, been there twenty years. She looked at him. Concerned. Didn't ask.
Pointed him toward the winter garden. Back of the house.
His mother by the windows. Looking out at nothing. Turned when she heard him.
Studied him. That mother look—seeing everything.
"You okay?"
Stupid question. He didn't answer.
After a minute—her waiting, him unable to speak—he told her. Everything. Fast. Clipped. No emotion in his voice but his hands shaking the whole time.
When he finished: "They know."
His mother's face didn't change. Just nodded.
"What can we do?"
"Talk to Richard. Find out what Thomas is planning. What he knows."
"To find Noah."
"I'll reach out to Helen. Discreetly."
"She doesn't know where he is."
His mother looked at him. "No. But she'll want to help."
Silence. The fire cracked in the hearth—real wood, expensive, burning slow. Atlas watched the flames fold over themselves. Orange. Blue at the base.
"I need to make some calls." His mother stood. Touched his shoulder as she passed. Light. Brief.
Left.
---
The door opened. Evelyn. Early. Must've rushed.
She looked between the empty room and Atlas. "What's going on?"
"Mom'll tell you. We need to talk first."
Their mother appeared in the doorway. Looked at them both.
"You two talk." Left again. Quiet. Efficient.
Atlas sat. Pulled out his cigarettes—silver case, engraved. Gift from someone, he didn't remember who.
Lit one. The lighter flame reflecting in his eyes. Inhaled. Held it. Exhaled slow.
Evelyn watched him. Waiting.
"What happened."
He told her. Everything. Didn't leave anything out. His voice flat the whole time—reciting facts. If he let emotion in he'd break.
When he finished: "Don't talk to Thomas."
Atlas's eyes snapped to hers. Hard. Dangerous.
"I mean it. Stay away from him and Dad."
His hands curled into fists on his thighs. The cigarette burning between his fingers, ash growing long.
"You want to win? Play their game. Smart. Calculated."
"Fuck." Exhaled. Smoke streaming.
They didn't talk for a while. Atlas smoked. Evelyn stood by the fireplace, arms crossed. Her face—usually composed, perfect—tight with anger.
"I'll figure out who can help. I know people."
She came up behind him. Put her arms around his neck from behind—unexpected, rare. Evelyn didn't do physical affection.
Atlas went rigid. Every muscle locked.
"You'll win this. You know how."
He didn't move. Couldn't. Then slowly—so slowly—put his hand over her forearm. Gripped it.
She held on another second. Then stepped back.
Atlas turned in the chair. Looked up at her.
"Thank you."
Evelyn smiled. Small. Real. The first real smile he'd seen from her in years.
"You're my little brother."
Something in his chest cracked. He looked away.
"We'll stay in touch."
She came closer. Hugged him properly this time. Full. Tight. Her chin on his shoulder.
After a second—hesitant—Atlas's hand settled on her back.
She pulled away. Voice dropped low.
"Take care." Then quieter, almost whispered: "I love you. Nobody says it in this family but—"
Half-smile. Sad.
Atlas stared. His throat closed. Didn't know what to say. When did they stop saying that? When did it become weakness?
---
Left the room. Walked to his car. The snow falling harder now—fat flakes, wet.
When did she last hug me? When did she say that?
Couldn't remember. Not once since they were kids. Maybe not even then.
Got in the car. Started it. Didn't know where to go.
Drove. Autopilot.
Ended up in front of Noah's building.
Sat there. Engine running. Heat blasting. Staring at the door.
Got out.
Walked to the door. Key in his pocket—Noah's apartment key, on his keyring next to his own.
Pulled it out. The metal cold. Hesitated.
Unlocked it.
Stood in the doorway. The apartment—dark. Silent in a way that felt alive. Like it was waiting.
Hit the light.
The entry lit up. Noah's shoes by the door—sneakers, one untied. His coat on the hook. Navy blue peacoat.
Mail on the table. Bills. Junk.
Atlas couldn't breathe. Like someone had their hand around his throat. Squeezing.
He backed out. Fast. Closed the door.
Down the stairs. Fast. Taking them two at a time.
Into his car. Slammed the door.
Gasping. Chest heaving. His vision graying at the edges.
Panic attack. Fuck. Not now.
Opened the window. Cold air poured in. Snow blowing. He gulped it. Let it freeze his lungs.
After a minute—two—it passed.
He drove. Too fast. Didn't care.
---
Stopped somewhere. Residential street. Brooklyn maybe? Didn't know. Didn't recognize it.
Pulled out his phone. 73 notifications now.
Scrolled. Calls. Messages. Some work. Some friends. Clara and Elias asking. Lydia checking in.
Replied to a few. Short. Can't talk. Will update.
Noticed it was on silent. Changed it to vibrate.
Opened Noah's contact. The photo—them at the beach, both smiling. Noah's arm around his shoulders. Happy.
Hit call.
"We're sorry. The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service or—"
He threw the phone. Hard. It hit the passenger seat, bounced, hit the floor.
"FUCK."
His voice echoing in the car. Raw. Broken.
He pressed his palms against his eyes.
Drove. Just drove. Hours. Didn't know where. Didn't care.
Found himself back at Alice's eventually. Dark outside now. Snow still falling.
Went inside. Warm. Too warm after the cold.
Alice in the kitchen.
"Eat something."
"Not hungry."
"When's the last time you ate?"
He tried to remember. Couldn't.
"Don't know."
"You're eating." Not a request.
Atlas looked at her. Nodded once.
Sienna came in. Touched his arm. Light.
"We'll find him."
He looked at her. Wanted to believe it.
"Hope so."
Alice put food in front of him. Pasta. Simple.
He ate three bites. Mechanical. Chewed. Swallowed. Couldn't do more.
"I'll be upstairs."
Stood. Left the table. His chair scraping.
Alice and Sienna watched him go. Didn't stop him.
---
The room was dark. He didn't turn on the light. It hurt. Everything hurt.
Threw his jacket at the chair. Missed. It hit the floor—soft thump.
Fell on the bed. Fully dressed. Boots still on.
Couldn't think. His brain was static. White noise.
Stared at the ceiling. His eyes open but not seeing. Just... blank.
Fell asleep without knowing. Without choosing to.
Just—gone.