Julian
WITH IT BEING EARLY morning on a Sunday, I thought for sure I’d run into literally anyone on my way to the altar room, but I don’t. There is not a single soul to be seen as I slip behind the red banner and down the steep steps.
I bring the Black Book to the altar and begin to study this same spell over and over again, trying to find anything I could have missed.
Nothing.
On my fifth retranslation, I hear the stone door open, and my heart rate picks up.
I haven’t seen Atlas since Thursday night, and we barely even spoke then. He was too busy turning me down. Then, on Friday, he didn’t show up at the altar room around 8 p.m. like he normally does, and I was out most of yesterday hunting down that priest and the psychic.
So, to say I’m nervous and antsy now is an understatement.
Only as I listen to his approach do I notice that there isn’t one set of footsteps on the staircase, but two.
In a rush, I grab the Black Book and drop behind the altar, on the far side from the staircase. I think hard, trying to remember if Atlas left any of the other books out.
Then, I hear voices.
“Do you really think we’ll find something down here?” Atticus asks.
“Maybe,” Abraham responds. “This is the room the psychic found that day she came. When she came in here, she heard the prophecy.”
I can hear them moving about, then the rustling of books being moved.
“I hope we find something. Atlas has been weird lately, more secretive and withdrawn. I don’t even see him praying anymore.” Atticus sounds insanely worried for his brother, his voice closer now, as if he’s standing on the other side of the altar.
“He’s probably overwhelmed. He’s dealing with his first crush, too, you know.” There’s a hint of amusement in Abraham’s voice.
My whole body heats, anger boiling in my stomach. His first crush?! Who the fuck are they talking about? I wasn’t aware Atlas was meeting other people, let alone crushing on them.
“What is that meant to mean, Father?” Atticus asks, sounding just as upset as I feel.
Abraham laughs. “You’re too protective of him, son. He’s in his twenties now; it’s totally normal for him to be attracted to others. Plus, that Julian is so kind to him—handsome, too.”
Oh, shit. Are they talking about me?
Atlas has a crush… on me?
“Julian?” Atticus all but screeches. “Please. Atlas has better taste than that.”
Alright, I really don’t like Atticus.
“Let’s grab a few of these books and take them to my study,” Abraham says, changing the subject.
Atticus makes a confirming noise, and I can hear them collect a few books and make their way to the stairs.
“I don’t know, Father. I just feel weary of that Julian. I—” His words cut off the further they climb.
My mind is still reeling from the crush comment. Even after I hear the stone door shut, I do not move.
Only, the longer I think on it, the more it falls flat.
What Abraham is most likely seeing is how we have been sneaking around doing this, not a crush on his son’s end.
Sure, he probably (and I say probably because I can’t even touch him) liked how I fucked him, but he surely doesn’t like me. Not like that.
Not in the way that… that I might like him.
The thought is depressing me; having to sit with the disappointment after getting so excited is exhausting. So, I stand on shaky legs and return to my book.
It’s only a handful of minutes later when the stone door opens again, and this time, when I hear just one set of footsteps, my heart drops into my stomach once more.
As Atlas appears at the bottom of the steps in a purple tank top and white slacks, the first thing I truly notice is how flushed he looks. As if he’s just run a 5k, or he’s just been thoroughly fucked.
“Are you okay?” I blurt out. All of the awkwardness and anger I felt before fizzle out in the face of my concern.
“Oh,” Atlas sounds, his eyes darting around the room nervously as he approaches the podium. “Yes, thank you. I’m just… Well, the incubus didn’t come last night, and I’m very warm; that’s all.”
He’s in a flare-up.
“Do you need my help?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Knowing he’s suffering is already a big enough drive, but also knowing that he’s needy and desperate in this moment is sending signs to my own dick like a lit-up bat signal.
But Atlas shakes his head, quick and harsh.
“No, thank you.”
That is all he says, nothing more and nothing less.
I watch as he grabs a random book from the closest case and begins to translate the first page on his cellphone.
I will never understand him or why he’s suddenly decided I’m not worthy of touching him. But on the same hand, I won’t force myself on him or try to guilt my way into his pants either.
We need to finish this so that I can move on. Maybe I’ll find a new job and get the fuck out of Chastain Castle.
“Your father and Atticus came down here,” I say, and Atlas lifts his head with a quickness.
“What? Did they see you?” He’s panicked.
“No. But they were looking for information on the cure, just like we are. Your dad said that the psychic was the one to find this room, and she heard the prophecy in here as well.” I chose to leave out the part where he mentioned Atlas’s crush; I’m unwilling to be rejected twice in one day.
“That makes sense. This room isn’t something my family would utilize normally,” Atlas tells me.
If only you knew, I think.
“Maybe we should join up with them, invite them to help us,” Atlas continues, giving me a hopeful expression.
“I also heard Atticus say he doesn’t trust me,” I add, to which Atlas’s face immediately falls.
“Oh. Never mind, then.”
Silence settles over us as we study our separate books, and as I rework the same page, I begin to feel a bit of guilt.
I know I’m only keeping what I know from him because I don’t want to freak him out, and I don’t have all the answers, but if it were me, I’d want to know.
In fact, I’d be pissed that it was kept from me.
I take a deep breath; the decision has been made.
“Atlas,” I start, grabbing the book and walking to where he stands. As I set it on the podium, he gives me a wide berth.
“Yes?” he asks, breathless.
“I found this in the Black Book. It had English writing in it, so I took it to a psychic in town yesterday, and I learned some things.” I say it slowly, nervously, and Atlas looks up at me with wide eyes.
“Why didn’t you take me with you? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Well… I didn’t want to freak you out.” I leave out how I was also pissed that he’s been dissing me. It feels petty now.
“What did the psychic say?” Atlas questions.
So I tell him. From start to finish, I tell him what Madam Lu said about his ancestor, and how I heard nothing of the cure. Atlas’s eyes only widen further, his mouth falling open.
“So, my ancestors did play with dark magic?” he whispers.
“Seems that way,” I confirm.
Atlas shakes his head, peering down at the book but not touching it. His eyes are glassy, and from where I stand a few inches away, I can feel the heat rolling off him in waves.
God, he must be in so much pain.
“This is horrible,” he says. “But at least we have more information. I’m going to—ungh!” Atlas groans, and when I snap my head in his direction, I realize that my forearm has brushed his, the contact bare.
Suddenly, I’m remembering how Abigail once told me that when Atlas gets sick, he doesn’t let other people touch him. It must be too much to handle.
“Fuck! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I’m going to go rest,” Atlas interrupts, his voice raw as he pants quickly. “Excuse me.”
Then he’s turning and fleeing up the steps. The back of his thick-strapped tank top is soaked through.
I feel incredibly guilty. As if he wasn’t already suffering enough, I go and make it worse. Why he’s refusing my help, I don’t know, but that doesn’t mean I want him to be in more pain.
With this guilt, I hide in the altar room for most of the day. In fact, I don’t even read. I just hide.
I’m too scared of running into someone and hearing how miserable Atlas is, only to feel worse.
I want to help him so fucking badly that it’s eating me alive. More than wanting to feel his touch, to taste his skin, I want to ease his troubles and cool him off. I want to save him.
I might have a savior complex when it comes to Atlas Chastain. The longer I sit on this thought, the idea of fixing him, the more frustrated I become.
I could be up there right now, relieving his tension one slow touch at a time.
He deserves that. He should know what being touched softly feels like.
Is he trying to sleep right now, waiting for the sun to set so that fucker can come back and destroy him?
Or is he sitting on his bed, sobbing and whining into his pillows?
I wanted to stay in the altar room and wallow for the rest of the night, considering it should be around dinner time by now. I really, really did. But my feet have other ideas, and I know it’s toxic and definitely not what Atlas asked of me, but I know how to pick that ancient lock.
And I know he’s hurting. He’s suffering.
Even if I don’t enter him—even if I never feel a lick of pleasure—I want to help him.
I can hear the sound of cutlery scraping against porcelain as I stand before the grand staircase, which tells me the family is eating dinner. I should be free from running into Atticus or Abigail.
If Atlas is still in his room, I should reach him unbothered.
I race up the steps and across the landing, reaching the end of Hall W4 in record time. Then I’m sprinting up the warm space that holds the steep staircase of the west tower, taking the tip of my fingernail and lodging it into the slit of the lock, and flipping it.
They should really give Atlas better security if they intend to keep me out.
I push the door open softly, his cries already reaching my ears in a sweet, mournful melody.