Chapter Text
The day continues in a haze, almost. Most of them just took more naps. They were still pretty conked out from all the travelling.
During lunchtime, Atlas, Charlie, and Dylan worked in and around the kitchen like a well-oiled machine. They decided to make grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. The youngest of the bunch was set on chopping duty, asking Dylan and Atlas about their debut heist with such wonder, eyes gleaming with awe (as if he didn’t pull one off a few days prior without any backup from The Eye).
As for the rest of the gang, Bosco was enjoying a mid-day nap with a bed all to his lanky 6’1” self, June was doomscrolling out on the balcony, and the rest of the horsemen were… Well, they were avoiding the kitchen like the plague.
Henley and Lula were letting their hair masks set, talking in hushed tones on the couch. Merritt sat on the armchair adjacent to it, watching something on his phone, having just woken up from a nap. Jack was in Atlas’ periphery, twitching to get something from the kitchen, he thinks. Hesitation oozed out of his demeanor. The showman wanted to bite the bullet and ask him what he wanted, but he didn’t want Charlie to witness the unnecessary tension that he knew would come out of it.
The younger magician beat him to it anyway, breaking him out of his contemplation. “Uh, Jack? Did you need something?” Charlie asked. Three pairs of eyes met Jack’s wide ones.
“Yeah, uh– I was just going to get a soda. Sorry, I just woke up.” The sleight answered, a beat too late. Atlas shifted his gaze away and continued his task of preparing the tomato soup (the only pot he’ll stir as of now).
Dylan, the nearest to the fridge, grabbed a can and handed it to him. “Dr Pepper, right?”
Jack accepted it with a curt nod and made his way to the sitting area to join the other horsemen, even though Atlas knew he preferred Mountain Dew.
He stared at Jack’s retreating back as he joined Henley and Lula on the armrest of the couch. He handed the Dr Pepper to Lula. The three fall easily into conversation, with Merritt occasionally offering a one-liner to the discussion.
A tinge of something akin to jealousy or longing stirs in Atlas’ gut. This was a sight that he’d gotten used to in the 5 years they lived in each other’s pockets, just for it to fall apart in one night. He had spent the better part of the decade wondering where it had gone wrong, what had made them turn against each other when it mattered the most.
(Tensions were high, and all calm composure and healthy communication were out the window. It was all sharp tongues and calculated digs now. They were running on fumes.
“–do you not understand the height of the situation right now–?!”
“–No, Atlas, because I’m not smart enough like you–”
“–I don’t think you understand that we are not capable enough–”
“–We have The Eye–”
“–Danny, look around! It’s been days and we haven’t got one peep from them. Our resources are depleting. It’s damn obvious that they are not coming–”
“–And so we’re just going to leave Dylan to rot in prison–?”
“What else can we do, Danny–?
“–All for your little boyfriend.”
“Oh. That’s real fucking rich, Jack.”
“We are street magicians, Atlas. We are not heroes.”)
He wanted to push away those memories, the betrayal, the anger, the resentment that tarnished every flash photography image of late nights in safehouses across countries stored away in his hard drive. He wanted to stop overstirring this damn soup and turn off the stove to join them on the couch. He wanted to laugh along with Henley, bicker with Merritt, wanted, wanted, wanted. But he knew it wouldn’t be that easy. As much as he denied it, he left, too. He cut off all communication and burned every bridge that led to him. They knew each other, he knew them, but he didn’t let them know him.
So, back to over-spicing the soup boiling on the stove it is. Just the way Lula likes it, and the way Merritt’s stomach doesn’t appreciate.
–
Lunch wasn’t all that awkward, much to Atlas’ expectation. The kids’ presence helped. They were a constant buzz of questions, jumping back and forth between starstruck fans and snarky Gen Z. None of them brought up anything about their last heist with Dylan, though. Good on them to read the room, he thought.
The horsemen met their energy with the same enthusiasm. It was here that Atlas noticed that they were never awkward or tense when Charlie, June, and Bosco were around. He guessed the others felt the same way about sparing the younger magicians from their drama.
Which is why Atlas absolutely dreaded dinnertime.
It was around 5 pm when Charlie and Bosco approached them in the living room. It’s Charlie who speaks up first.
“Hey, Atlas. Would it–? We– We’re going out to the city to have dinner, June, Bosco, and me. That’d be okay, right?” He said. There was a tinge of nervousness in his voice. Atlas noticed the careful string of words. They had wanted to go and hoped not to have to ask for permission. Bosco didn’t add anything, but his face said say no, I dare you.
Atlas raised an eyebrow, “You do know you’re fugitives, right? Well, I guess Charlie’s more complicated, but you and June are.”
“We promise to be careful–” Charlie started to say. At the same time, Bosco gave an exasperated, “–It’s Nevada.”
Atlas stared at them, not really sure what to say, or if he had a say on whether or not they were allowed to do whatever they wanted as adults. He felt the other horsemen’s eyes on him.
“June’s already getting ready,” Bosco added, as if it was helpful. Charlie elbowed his ribs.
Atlas sighs, “Hey, Dylan, the kids want to go out for dinner on their own.” He said, turning to the older man who had just emerged from the bathroom. He swore he felt 6 pairs of eyes analyzing their interaction.
“You’re aware you’re fugitives of the law now, right?” Dylan asked, drying his hair with a towel (what a domestic sight, Atlas missed this).
“That’s what I said.”
“We promise to be careful, we’re used to running around security and NYPD– which I know is not the same, but, yeah–” Charlie looked like he was swallowing down an apology for rambling, out of habit. “Um, please? It’s kind of tradition for us to go out after shows…”
A pang of familiarity; memories of sneaking around dive bars, quiet conversations in sticky diners, and laughter in darkened jet planes threatened to rise.
Dylan’s mouth formed a straight line. He ponders for a second before answering, “Sure, but you’ll wear tracker bracelets just in case, okay?”
“Yes! Thank you, man!” Both young magicians were already clambering back to their room before Dylan finished his sentence. Their door is left slightly ajar, and the rest could hear hushed but excited conversation inside.
“You never allowed us out after shows.” Henley started.
“Yeah!” Lula agreed.
Dylan only shrugged as he made his way to the sunroom. “Yeah, well, it’s a different time now.”
“They’ll probably just sneak out while we’re sleeping, anyway,” Atlas added.
“Or maybe you have a soft spot for the little ponies.” Henley accused, albeit playfully.
“Sure, yeah, that too.” The leader’s muffled voice came from the sunroom. A chorus of giggles and chuckles followed, and Atlas offered a smile to add to it.
Merritt was looking at him; there was something unreadable in his expression. “Well, Dylan’s not the only one.”
Atlas tilted his head in confusion. He squinted at the mentalist. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He only gave a teasing grin as an answer. The rest of the team had matching ones across their faces. He got up and made his way towards the kitchen.
“I’m thinking… Pasta for dinner? Dylan’s cooking?”
–
Dinner went better than breakfast, to say the least. Maybe it had to do with Atlas locking in to act normal and civilized. His desire to unravel and drop the hydrogen bomb of a hard truth varies from moment to moment, yes. Maybe it depended on the time of the day, or the position of the sun, because he finds himself lacking energy to face the music. Just like the night before.
So he followed the others’ lead in this careful dance of avoiding elephants. He almost wanted to laugh when he remembered these were the same horsemen on each other’s necks during that escape boat in Belgium, and that barn in France. They absolutely had no problems pushing buttons and calculating jabs. But now, everything feels real. They’re back together with The Eye, with Dylan; they had a future with one another again. They had something to lose.
They’re not delusional, though. They know they’ll have to rip the band-aid one way or another, and preferably soon. If not for themselves, it’s also for the new magicians’ sake. They can’t train or mentor new blood if they’re own team is a clusterfuck of traumatized and petty grown adults. But the thing is, almost everyone’s cards are already laid on the table, save for Dylan and Atlas’ mysterious lost years.
They knew Merritt had practically retired and spent the better part of eight years wandering South America, and Jack spent it building his career– practically from scratch. As for the girls, Henley had a wake-up call when she became a mother. She couldn’t risk herself or her family with yearly heists and on-stage crime, even though Dylan assured her The Eye would keep them safe. But she also couldn’t stand staying at home either. So she pursued academics, finding love for it again; something she hadn’t tapped into since she graduated from college and pursued magic. Lula, on the other hand, spent the years after she and Jack parted ways exploring France, picking up odd jobs– legal or otherwise– and honestly just finding herself.
Atlas knew most of this at some capacity, as he still kept tabs over the years. The others, too. But they couldn’t tap into what the showman was up to; it was like he just vanished after the split. The only reason they knew he was even alive was the yearly Christmas cards he sends Henley, courtesy of a tradition they had even before the horsemen formed. Of course, Henley couldn’t send any back with no return address.
Atlas deliberated when to tell the others his side of the decade. It definitely wasn’t a dinnertime type of story, especially with the low-tension vibe they curated. And honestly, he doesn’t think he could do it sober. He might have a panic attack.
But there was an unspoken mutual agreement; they’re addressing it tonight. No more beating around the bush. It’s the least that they all deserve. They want to be a family again, to fix this rift that formed between them. So after collecting the dirty dishes on the table, they gathered all the alcohol in the fridge and headed up to the balcony. Atlas feels as if he’s walking towards the gallows.
It’s a quaint view; warm lighting and four cushioned seats around a wooden table. There’s no sight to see, now that the sun has set. Lula and Jack took one seat, Henley and Merrit took two for themselves, so, of course, Atlas is sat with Dylan.
After a ‘congratulatory’ round of shots is passed around, they pour themselves their preferred drinks. Beers for Dylan, Jack, Lula, and Merritt; Wine for Henley and Atlas. He didn’t prefer wine, but it eased his anxiousness. He throws the last of his stash to the circle, for good measure (much to the surprise of the rest of the horsemen).
So here they are now, Thursday night, 6 horsemen drinking on a balcony surrounded by Nevada’s nature. Nightmare blunt rotation. Of course, this is where it all goes wrong.
It goes like this: Dylan is finally recounting what had actually happened in Russia, and Atlas is quiet. Eerily so. He nurses his wine and takes a puff of the blunt when passed to him, but he doesn’t comment, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t even look like he’s listening.
It’s Merritt who points it out, of course, he does.
“That’s… pretty crazy, Dylan. Which brings me to ask, do you know something we don’t, Danny?” Merritt asks, purely rhetorical. They had all caught on at this point, waiting on who would be the first to address it. The story is over, the questions were answered, the yelling had dissipated, and the blunt has long been snuffed out on the ashtray.
Atlas looks up from his trance. “I don’t know, do I?” He shrugs. As much as he wanted to give in to them immediately, he couldn’t. Faux indifference, asshole tendencies. He had a character to play first, the stubborn twenty-something-year-old in him decided.
Merritt’s eyes darkened. He’d pushed the correct buttons. “You don’t look all that surprised at anything Dylan just said.” He crosses his arms and makes a face of mock-surprise, “Come to think of it, you weren’t even fazed about the package back in Bushwick.” Merritt accuses.
There it is, the bombshell. There’s a beat, then another, as if they’re all processing that this is it; the eye of the hurricane. A second, or maybe an eternity of heavy silence passes. Even the sounds of nature stilled, as if waiting for what comes next.
Now, cue the chorus of four other horsemen yelling.
“What the hell, Atlas?” Jack is the one who yells first. His voice slices the stillness of the night.
“Are you hiding something from us?” Henley accuses, hurt laced in her words.
“Of course, you had to start some shit, Merritt. Why does it matter now anyway? Can’t have one calm fucking night, can we–” Atlas adds fuel to the five-alarm fire, because why the hell not?
“It matters if you knew this whole fucking time, man. What the fuck—?” Lula straightens up with wide eyes that could kill.
“–uck you, dude. You’re one to say—” Merritt sets down his bottle forcefully, shaking the table.
“–you fucking lied to us this whole fucking time–?” Jack gets up and grabs Atlas by the collar, getting him to stand up too.
“Whoa– can we please take it down a notch?” Dylan was in between them in a second.
Henley mutters over her wine, “I think we need more than a few notches down.”
Jack sits back down with a huff, and Dylan turns to Atlas, “You wanna tell your side of the story?” He asks, the tone of his voice as if challenging the younger man. “I know you’ve been itching to say it since this morning, so just say it. Let’s just get this over with.”
Atlas still stood looking at Dylan in disbelief. “‘Get this over with’? Jesus Christ, listen to yourself right now. I– ‘my side of the–’– my fucking God.” His voice is steadily rising, eyes wide. Because Merritt’s jabs, he can handle. But for it to come from Dylan? The sole reason why they’re in this mess in the first place? (It’s not, but God, he’s still angry sometimes).
The others watch in morbid fascination as Atlas loses his composure. He runs his fingers through his curls and looks around like a cornered animal– eyes looking everywhere but the other five– he cuts himself off and breathes in and out, in and out. Merritt can recognize it as a grounding technique (even if he didn’t, the self-soothing arm curling around himself was a dead giveaway).
“You’re a fucking asshole, fuck you.” He settles pathetically, sitting down. God, he’s 37, feeling like he’s 25 again. Dylan sighs and settles down on the other chair, next to Merritt. Atlas’ eyes dart to the ashtray. “Fucking hell, I’m not high enough for this.”
He runs his hand through his curls again, and procures a bright red device out of his sleeve with his other, “Is that a fucking Muha?” Lula asks in disbelief, almost a scoff.
“Yeah, I grabbed it out of June’s jacket before they left. Along with their IDs. If they’re going on a night out, then they’re doing it sober.” He takes a puff. They watch as his mask slides into place again in no time.
“Aww, dude, you’re really getting into dad-territory.” Lula laughs, temporarily distracted from the high tension.
“Can we please not change the subject?” Jack pipes up.
A puff. A deep sigh. “Yes, I knew about Dylan’s… situation. The whole time.” Various degrees of disappointment and betrayal flashed across their expressions. Atlas keeps his eyes on the glass in his hands.
“Not for the reasons you guys think. Whatever you're thinking.”
“Then could you help us understand and not be so vague?” Henley asks with forced patience, white fingertips curling around her wine glass.
Dylan rubs a hand across his face, “Just tell them, Daniel, the NDA is over, anyway.”
“NDA?” Lula leans over closer to the table, brows furrowed.
“Did you really think the NDA was what’s stopping me?” Atlas asks with a tone designed to set off anyone into throttling him across the table. Maybe he wants them to.
“Then fucking spit it out, what was stopping you?!” Jack yells, tired of this fuckass game of emotional tennis going on for 10 years.
Atlas breathes deeply, feeling the substances physically subdue him. His body is going to hate him in the morning. He carefully chooses the words in his muddied brain.
He needed words that didn’t sting, didn’t stab. Wouldn’t end up with one of them throwing someone else off the second story. He needed neutral, needed something that didn’t corner one or the other or all of them at once. Because the situation was really just shitty for all of them, no one to blame but the timing, the dangers of their job. It is what it was.
(Atlas wanted to scream, to yell, to scratch and bite. But what comes out of him is resigned; it is bone-deep tiredness. “‘It is what it is’? You’re really going to throw away four years of fam– of our hard work with ‘it is what it is’–?”
He wanted to scream, to yell, to scratch and bite. But his body and heart had given up before he could stop it. He couldn’t have stood a chance.)
“When we– when you guys left…” He stops himself for a second. Do not sting, do not stab. “I continued planning on getting Dylan out.” A beat, no one is surprised. “It was maybe… another few weeks to a month in that Russian safehouse. I was sent four cards during that time: it all told me to leave, to go back home, to not interfere.”
(5 of Cups, 10 of Swords, The Devil, The Moon.)
“Of course, I didn’t listen to it. I went ahead with the plan.” Daniel shrugs, and it is met with furrowed brows and concerned stares.
“You tried breaking him out alone–?”
“He didn’t make it that far,” Dylan adds helpfully, and a laugh bubbles up his throat before he can stop it, sounding choked and heavy.
“You fucking kidnapped me, man. I woke up in London.” He scoffs in disbelief. The others study the interaction carefully. He wonders if they, too, wonder how they all got here; how it became whatever this is.
“Hypnosis?” Merritt asks, fast as ever.
“Well, yeah, but that… didn’t work, so. They had a guy nearby with a rag of chloroform, and if that didn’t work, they had already roofied my lunch.” Atlas scratches his neck, cringing at the memory. The rancid smell of that dank rag is still sticky somewhere in the back of his mind.
“I mean, you didn’t even recognize Li manning the cashier. It was sloppy.” Dylan comments, and even Jack cringes at his words. He supposes all of them are reverted to their defensive, traumatized selves right now. The showman thinks it should make him snap, make his blood boil. But it slides off his back like drops of water on leaves.
“Sloppy–? Well, I’m sorry, I was occupied with other things like being on my way to save your ass that wasn’t even in prison.” Atlas hisses, but there’s no bite to it anymore. Just frames of what once was a wall of defense, he is an empty gas canister trying to spew out fire. That resignation in his voice is back; he wonders if Dylan recognizes it. The clench in the older man’s jaw loosens slightly.
“This is so fucked up. Isn’t this fucking fucked up?” Lula’s hands are in her hair, beer forgotten on the table in front of her. Eyes are darting between him and Dylan, as if trying to coax the story out of the tension in the air between them.
The leader has his full attention towards Atlas, Merritt notices. His head inclined towards the showman, eyes searching, he’s guilty. Guilty, despite the words that stung. Guilty, despite the arms crossed in front of his chest. He wants to seek him out, seek all of them out, but the guilt holds him back. And it turns the cocktail of emotions in his stomach into bullets for words.
Henley is surprised she could still read Atlas like a book after a decade of not being around him. She’s no mentalist, but the way he angles his body away from Dylan, away from all of them, really, the way he’s hunched into himself, the way he’s forcing a relaxed posture even if his leg is bouncing, it all screams he needs to run, he needs to escape. But he’s rooted on the spot. If he wanted to leave, he would have by now. Something was holding him here. There was something they needed to know.
Around them is open air, but it suffocates them like the safehouse in 2015 New York.
Atlas another takes a deep breath, before spilling his guts along with all the rot and poison in them.
(Consciousness comes to him in little bits and pieces; eyelids sticky, mouthful of cotton. A dull headache buzzes through his skull. His gut feels warm and empty. He’s been out for a while.
He is seated and upright, hands tied behind his back. There’s a canvas sack over his head. He could make out a dimly lit room through the thread after his eyes adjusted to the darkness, no movement. A good seven minutes of darting eyes and straining ears later, he finds that he’s alone. There’s a wall not far behind him, close enough that his fingertips brush over the rough wallpaper if he stretches them from its restraints. A few tugs and he finds himself out of the square knot in no time. He keeps his hands behind his back anyway. Just in case. He counts another seven minutes.
He lets go of the ropes and snatches the bag off his head swiftly, and a familiar room greets him. It’s one of the studies in the Greenwich headquarters. The last time he was conscious, he was still in Moscow. His stomach stirs not from the near-starvation.
There were no windows in this particular study. The overhead lights were shut off, and the only source of light was the lamp in the corner of the room. It casts a soft warm light.
A click, and the lamp on the desk a few feet in front of him lights up.
“Welcome back to the land of the living.”
He pulls in a deep breath, “Thaddeuss.” It comes out of his mouth with a rasp from disuse.
The older man only offers him a soft smile, a welcome home.
“This is a bit much, wouldn’t you say?” He holds up the canvas sack in his hand.
“So is breaking into a supermax prison alone.”
He drops the bag and shakes out the soreness in his arms. Stretching his legs, but not standing up from the cushioned chair just yet. Thaddeuss watches him as he connects the information from the situation at hand. He cranes his neck side to side to crack out the crick in his neck. Whether it’s from being unconscious for an unknown amount of time or from sleeping on couches and desks for weeks, he doesn’t know.
“So you’ll help me?” He tries out, already knowing the answer. The four tarot cards are heavy in his inner pocket.
Thaddeuss tilts his head, eyes all-knowing. “I think you’re smart enough to know the answer.”
“Yeah, the cards you sent were a little on the nose. So you’ll break him out?” Atlas crosses his arms in front of him, trying to gain any sense of control.
“Something like that. We’re arranging it right now.”
“And why do I get the feeling I won’t be in on it?”
“You don’t need to worry about it, Atlas.” The older man clasps his hands on the desk in front of him, leaning forward and eyeing Atlas with stained scleras that held decades of magic and secrets. “It’s not your burden to hold anymore. We can give you anything you want if you ask for it. An out, another team, a position higher up–”
“Why does this feel like coercion?”
Thaddeuss offers a thin smile, “It’s persuasion.”
“It’s probably an HR violation, but you don’t have any of those here, huh?”
His smile grows wider, as if amused. “If we did, you’re not exactly fit for the job either, Daniel. Call it ‘conflict of interest’. You’re too emotionally attached to this–”
“And whose fault is that? I thought it was your guys’ idea that we need to work as a ‘single organism’.”
“Having a relationship with your leader is not a part of that.”
That shut him up immediately, a snark swallowed down before it took form in his mouth. Thaddeuss raised his brows ever so slightly, waiting for a reply, an argument, a tantrum. Atlas furrowed his. Why did the man want him to argue? In his years working with him and the handful of times he worked with the man, this is probably the most emotion he’s seen out of him. There was something else. The Eye needed him to be uncooperative, needed him to crash out, needed him to be persuaded to walk away frustrated. The four tarot cards burned on top of his chest.
“But this isn’t about that, isn’t it?” He stands up, finally. “You’re hiding something.”
“Atlas,”
There’s a missing puzzle piece he couldn’t quite grasp, “What, did you think he deserved it? Yes, we got sloppy. Cocky. But we– I can fix this. I don’t care if you help or not, whether I end up rotting with him or die trying– I have to try.” The ‘we’ that slipped out of him left a bitter taste in his tongue.
“Atlas. He doesn’t need your help–”
“Fucking kill me if you’re going to stop me.”
“Dylan is fine, Atlas.” Thaddeuss is looking up at him, expression placating.
“What?” He stops in front of the desk. When did he start walking towards it? “You already got him out?” Relief builds up in his spine, but it is washed away the moment he lays his eyes on the older man’s face again. “What are you talking about?”
“We don’t need you to interfere anymore, kid. What do you need–?”
“No, what do you mean by he’s fine? Answer my question.”
“He’s a free man–”
“And?”
“That’s it.”
“No, it’s not. You’re hiding something from us.” The plural pronoun slips out of him easily again; he almost cringes. He’s losing it. He’s lost it.
“Something that you are not in a position to know, Daniel. Now, please, what can we do to pay off your hard work–?”
“Pay off, you mean bribe? We have a right to know what happened to our friend, Thaddeuss. Where the hell is he?”
Thaddeuss’ eyes dart to something behind him, breaking their intense eye contact.
“I’m right here, Danny.”
Ice climbs up his body. He’s turning his head towards the baritone voice, but he doesn’t feel it. His body is numb.
Dylan stood by the open door of the study, in all his glory. Not a scratch on him. Hair longer and scruff overgrown.
Maybe the weeks apart have gotten to him, too, Atlas thought distantly.
The world shifted around him. When it comes back to focus, Thaddeuss is nowhere in the room. The door is closed, and he is sitting on a nearby chair. Dylan takes a seat on the desk in front of him.
“I’m sorry, Danny.” Atlas feels his eye twitch at the nickname, or maybe his whole face contorts. Because Dylan furrows his brows as soon as the words leave his mouth. It replaces the soft smile he had when he greeted him.
Atlas wants to put it back. To wake up to it again, in some safehouse in Miami or South London or Brooklyn, anywhere but here. Anywhere but now.
The room feels like a distant memory, even with him sitting inside of it right now. It warps and materializes around the two men. He feels cold, he can’t feel his hands, or arms or legs or chest or head. His soul flung out of his body; it’s flying around the room. It settles back in the chair. He wonders if it will ever come back inside his ribcage. Dylan at arm's reach yet miles away. Words spill out of the leader’s mouth, an explanation. He processes it even with the rush of his blood roaring in his ears.
Something about being targeted. Something about The Eye needing them to disband without any of them knowing. Something about death threats, arms dealers, and mafias. Something about snipers already following them around. Something about the hidden societies in the world, including The Eye, upgraded on their technology and surveillance, including the bad ones. Something about a breach. Something about their lives. Something about Dylan not knowing either, not aware he wasn’t actually getting arrested. Something about the tarot cards that lay heavy in his pockets.
Then, silence. All-encompassing. He doesn’t know where his body starts and the atmosphere of the room begins. Dylan looks at him like he doesn’t know either.
“Atlas, please say something.” He’s kneeling in front of him now, and he doesn’t know when he stood up and came closer to where he sat, rooted and floating.
He doesn’t know when he left the study, doesn’t acknowledge his name being called out, doesn’t pay mind to Thaddeuss and Li and Allen and the numerous familiar faces of The Eye as he passes them by in the hallway.
He doesn’t know when he left the building, but the cold follows him.)
“There were maybe another few days in our South London house, of them asking me what I wanted, and I thought, why not shelf this favor for later? I flew back to New York and stayed in the Brooklyn apartment for another year. Went to therapy– fully funded, by the way, thanks Dylan– and they suggested new haunting grounds. With that, I cashed in the favor for fake IDs and a safehouse in Australia. That was… October 2018. I stayed there up until 2022 when they opened up the borders again. ‘Didn’t want to haunt New York again, and by that point, I reconnected with my cousin again. So why not Chicago?” Atlas finishes off with a non-committal shrug.
“Now, I didn’t exactly lie about my whereabouts. ‘Couldn’t really explain the situation why The Eye would drop millions for little old me to live across the world without telling the whole story.” He adds with a light tone, just in case. A cherry on top.
He ends his recount; no one cut him off, no one interjected. Dylan makes the right decision on keeping silent, regret evident in his features. Atlas wonders if he still had that faraway look in his eyes as he told them the story. If he, too, is still haunted by the coldness of that study.
Merritt stares at him intently, no doubt reading all his mannerisms and micro-expressions. Henley had leaned back on the seat, taking the information in. Lula stared at the table, hand covering her mouth. Jack takes swig after swig of his beer.
“Damn.” Merritt starts, gaze dropping to his bottle.
“I– I don’t know what to say… Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Henley’s glass has long been drained.
Lula turns her head towards him, “True, you said an NDA wouldn’t stop you.”
“We could’ve worked it out together.” Energy brushes up Jack’s edges again, but it isn’t the pure, white-hot anger like before.
Atlas blinked. And blinked again, in disbelief. “Hello? I’m J. Daniel Atlas, your resident ‘control-freak’, pushing 40, holding a fucking weed pen, and still regularly goes to therapy. How do you think I was fucking doing eight years ago?” He’s losing his shit again, he knows. But he couldn’t help it if he tried. The cold rushes out of him like cards rifling out of his palms. “I made a half-baked plan to break into one of the most high-security prisons in Russia without backup. I asked The Eye to kill me if they ever had to stop me. I barely remember half of what happened in Moscow and London. Did you think, after hearing that news, I was in a mental state to get the gang back together?”
He’s met with silence. A laugh bubbles up his throat, probably sounding insane. “‘Hey, man, last I saw you, we practically spat on each other’s faces and told each other to die. Dylan’s fine, by the way! But The Eye basically benched all of us inevitably, cause we unknowingly almost got killed! I almost got myself killed for nothing! And we burned every bridge, also for nothing! But also, it’s not any of our faults. It’s The Eye’s. But also, if they were to communicate like normal and ask us to disband, we’ll probably fight them and end up killed, anyway’!” He mocks, and it’s cathartic. He doesn’t know whether his therapist would be proud or mortified.
“You guys left. All of you.” Regret dots around his chest, but he needs this. He sighs and settles back in his seat, the fuzziness from the alcohol and weed trickles in again. He drains the last of his wine. “Except Henley, I guess. But you had a spouse and kid, so.”
“Danny– dude, I don’t know what to say.” Jack is hiding his face in his hands, Atlas thinks he’s maybe also holding himself together.
“I do! I’m so fucking sorry, Danny.” Lula pipes up, animatedly waving his arms.
“Well, yes, aside from the obvious.” Merritt blows out a deep sigh. Atlas recognizes this will be the closest thing he will get to an apology from him, from all of them, really, and he’s okay with that. “I– man, this changes things.”
“It doesn’t have to, actually.” There’s still that side of him that wants to die this down, the guilt, probably. Guilt of hiding this for years. He sets his empty glass down. “Look, it’s water under the bridge, mostly. It’s out in the open now. I’m fine, it’s been almost a decade. Can you pass the wine, Lula?”
“Danny–” Dylan starts.
“Stop it, no, don’t look at me like that. Come on.”
“No, you come on. I’m being serious–” Lula complains, voice raised. She passes him the bottle anyways.
“And I am too! Please, let’s just change the subject. We don’t have to have a sappy sob-fest just ‘cause I finally revealed where I’ve been the better part of the decade. I mean– we all had our own demons and shit to conquer. To live with the guilt just so 3 kids from Bushwick forced us out of it. If anything, it’s fucked up I hid this from all of you. And I’m sorry.” He takes the half-full bottle of wine and pours himself another glass. “But maybe it’s not that serious. I disappeared, then reappeared. Ta-da.”
“Daniel.” Dylan eyes him carefully.
“Just–” He eyes the ashtray again. “You want to make it up to me? You’re buying my stash the next time I make a run to the dispensary.”
“You’re sure you’re not a pothead?” Jack asks, a soft smile growing, matching the softness in his eyes.
“It’s for stress, and it’s a stressful week, to say the least.”
With that, they actually change the subject. Atlas has a feeling it wouldn’t be the end of it, though. Henley looks at him the way she does when he’s spent 22 hours awake for a heist, and Lula is eyeing Dylan carefully. Jack is looking at the distance, probably hiding misty eyes, and Merritt’s jaw has a slight twitch.
They exchange laughter and stupid jokes once again, the coldness at bay. His head is fuzzy from being high and drunk from substances but also, also the relief in his chest. Somewhere through the night, Dylan is sat next to him again. Maybe it was after they all joke-danced and sang like they did in karaoke bars sometime 10 years ago. He feels lighter than he has been in years. The night ends long after jokes and jabs spill out of his cotton-filled mouth. He distantly craves his favorite halal food truck back in Staten Island. He’s warm from the wine and the shoulder pressed against his. There’s still much to work through, but for now, he lets Dylan’s side ground him away from the coldness.
They end the night sometime around 3, he lets Jack guide him inside, hands warm on his back. Lula and Henley are talking about painting their nails tomorrow because their manicures are overgrown. Merritt is talking to Dylan in a hushed tone. He realizes he’s guided to the bedroom on his left.
“Wait, I don’t want to sleep with you guys. No offense. Merritt drunk-snores like a hog.”
“Nah, it’s our shift on the couch, now. You guys should take care of your backs, you’re getting old, you know?”
“Fuck you, Merritt’s giatric.” He’s saying as Merritt makes his way beside him, carrying his and Jack’s bags.
“Fuck you, too, pothead.”
“Drunkard.”
He and Dylan settle in the room anyway. The older man is already burying his face in the pillows as Atlas brushes his teeth with his fingers. His toothbrush is still in the sunroom, whatever.
He settles under the duvet next to Dylan, and the older stares at him, opens his mouth to say something.
“Tomorrow.” Atlas cuts him off.
Tomorrow, they start over. All of them.
They sleep side by side, with the hope of tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, and the day after to smooth down wrinkled and soothe old scars.