𝟐𝟗 | 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥

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C E S T I A L

positioned in or relating to the sky, or outer space as observed in astronomy.

T O T H E
M O O N & B A C K

CONSIDERING MY HOUSE is an absolute monstrosity, I head to Rory's house. I'm driving ten below the speed limit which is a rare occurrence for me, but she told me to go slow, so I am. She's been staring at the side of my face the entire drive so far, eyes fixated on my jaw and I'm not sure why, but I can't help the smile that tugs at the corners of my lips.

I see her smile in the corner of my eye.

"What's so interesting about the side of my face, Red?" I query, slowing down as I turn a sharp corner, my foot pressing down on the brake pad.

She doesn't turn away. "A lot, actually." she admits and I snort. "You have a really nice side profile, you know? It's quite unfair, actually."

I laugh, speeding up again—though I could barely call it speeding. "Do I?"

Rory nods as I rub my hand up and down her thigh, stopping near the top, fingers curving around the swell of her thigh and she inhales, scooting back in her seat. Only then does she remove her gaze from mine.

I notice the bridge we met nearing in the distance and she inhales a sharp breath. I would have gone another way but this is the only way to get to the area she lives in from her work without going directly through traffic.

I glance over at her, making sure she's okay and she looks ill but trusting nonetheless, and it makes me feel good that she trusts me. I grab her hand and interlace our fingers, running circles with my thumb across her skin and she exhales.

I slow down even more, not going a single number over thirty as I drive over the bridge. Looking in my rearview mirror I can see the person behind me is glaring impatiently, considering I'm going fifteen below the speed limit, but I don't speed up.

Nearing the end of the bridge, she speaks up. "Do you think you could stop?" her soft voice fills the space around us.

I stare at her quizzically but she's not looking at me anymore, she's looking in the opposite direction, out the window, and so I don't say anything, I answer by parking in a spot on the side of the street just a few meters left of the bridge.

She exits the car, closing the door behind her, and I follow suit.

The cold air nips at my mostly exposed arms as I inhale the cold air. She walks ahead, strolling down the path until she ends up right where we were the night we met and the ambience becomes even more cold because that night—I'm assuming—held an unexplainable amount of pain for the both of us.

Just like that night, it's dark. The traffic slows as people return home for the evening and we stand here, side-by-side on this old bridge made of asphalt, stained with age. I wonder how many other people have attempted from this very spot.

When I first started secondary school, I recall hearing about one of Alula's distant friends committing suicide here. Someone she spoke to in class but not enough to consider an actual friend. I don't remember her or her name.

I look up at the celestial stars, some shining brighter than others, and some dull. There aren't many—stars, that is, due to the light pollution in the city, and with being so close to it, there is nowhere as many stars in the sky as there would be having everyone turned their lights off.

Sometimes I fantasize about how amazing it would be if just for one mere hour, everyone turned every single source of light off, and I could see everything.

Rory shivers next to me and I wish I had a sweatshirt or something to offer her, but I don't, so I offer her the last of my warmth instead, stepping behind her as I wrap my arms around her front and she sighs, lifting her hands to hold my arms.

"She liked you, you know?" Rory speaks up, tilting her head back as she looks up at me with a blank expression.

My eyebrows furrow. "Who did?"

"Opal." she answers, then she laughs, turning her attention back toward the midnight-blue sky. "Loved you, actually. She had the biggest crush on you despite never knowing you—another reason why I hated you was because I loved her and she loved you."

I try to process what she had just said but I find it difficult. I never knew Opal. I had never heard of her once nor noticed her. How could she love me when we never met? It sounds absurd—borderline insane, actually.

"That's. . ." I search for the correct word. "Weird." is the best I come up with.

Rory snorts, nodding in agreement. "It is." she agrees. "I think she mostly just liked you because everyone else did. She was always one to follow, then one day she became the one who leads and then. . .and then, she died."

"Rory," I say softly, using my chin which rests on her head to nudge her back. She looks back up at me. "It's okay." I reassure her and she forces a tight smile in response.

I'm not sure why she wanted to come here, with me especially, but I don't ask her questions. I just let her stand here, in my arms for as long as she needs—which ends up being a while, actually. We watch the stars, listening to the flow of the river beneath us, until she tells me she's ready to leave.

I think she needs closure. But unfortunately, I, nor no one else, can offer that to her. It's a process—one I know very little about—but she needs to let go. Fortunately, I am skilled with the talent of letting go. Nothing bothers me anymore because I suppress it with recreational substances, but I would rather she takes a different route.

We walk alongside back to the car and she doesn't say a word. Neither do I.

Veering away from where we just were on the bridge I proceed at the permitted speed and even then, my hand stays tied with hers until I make a turn onto her street. She tells me to park a few houses down just because of her father and I don't object.

We exit the car and I press the lock on my keys. We walk side-by-side down the footpath, stopping when we reach the front of her house. Her dad's car is parked in the driveway and she curses, grabbing my hand as she strings me along to the front door.

Her hand darts out, twisting the doorknob silently, before shoving the door open and stepping inside. She tells me to not make a sound and I listen. I then follow in step, entering her house, and I close the door just as quietly as she had.

Whilst she analyzes our surroundings, in search of her father's unwanted presence in his own home, I manage to get a proper look at the photographs near the door this time. The third picture I never got to look at the first and last time that I was here because Rory stole me away before I could.

When I see her in the picture, I see now why she didn't want me to look. Because that person in the image is nothing like the person she is now—physically. And that is neither a good nor a bad thing. It's just. . .she's different. Her hair is so long and wavy and her facial features more soft and less sharp, her eyes look happier—healthier.

And I realize, this is the person I knew but didn't remember from secondary school. That is Aurora Kingsley. And then she pulls on my hand and I remove my attention from the picture and stare at her instead—Rory Kingsley, that is.

"I think he's upstairs. It sounds like the showers on. Be quick!" she's using a hushed voice and I follow behind her as we manoeuvre around the objects in the living room and enter her room. As soon as the door closes, she sighs, leaning against it. "I'll be back. I feel gross and dirty from work, so just do whatever. And if my dad knocks, force that big, tall body of yours under the bed."

Her tone is equally teasing as it is serious, but nonetheless, I nod and she grabs some clothing before leaving the room.

I kick my shoes off and then realize that I too am in desperate need of a shower. I still have black grease stains all over my hands and forearms and I'm muddy from the fight with Solar. That and I simply just need the warmth.

For a minute or so, I sit on the foot of her bed, contemplating what to do. Wait for her to come back and ask for a shower, or find her and have a shower with her. I would much prefer the latter but I'm insecure beyond words could explain. But I don't really care.

I huff, standing up as I warily stalk my way toward the door and open it. I enter the short hallway leading from her bedroom door and then realize I don't even fucking know where the bathroom is, so I listen for the sound of water running and hope for the best as I open one of the two doors.

When I slip inside, I blow out a breath as I'm met with towels and a sink and a shower curtain all contained by a small room with cracked tile covering the floors and vibrant yellow lighting, making the beige wallpaper on the walls appear even more warm.

"Rory?" I call her name, announcing my presence.

It takes her only a millisecond to pull the curtain aside ever so slightly, her face peeking through the crack, wet strands of raven black hair stuck to her porcelain cheeks. "Atlas!" she shrieks in a whisper. "What're you doing in here!"

I roll my eyes. "I need to shower."

She narrows her eyes and I notice how every three or so eyelashes are grouped together due to the water. "Like now?"

I screw my face up. "Yes, Rory. Like now."

A conflicted expression takes over her features as she stares at me, and then finally, she sighs. "Fine."

I'm both shocked and relieved but she doesn't look so confident. "Are you sure? I can just—"

She cuts me off. "Yes—just—don't look, okay?" she says quickly. "And turn off the light."

I'm confused as to how I'm supposed to shower in a small space with another person and not look, let alone see, but still, I nod in agreement and she slips her head back inside.

I begin to strip off my uniform and boxers, leaving it all in a pile on the tiled floor near her uniform before switching the light off, and then I pull the shower curtain over and step inside, making sure to stare up at the ceiling the entire time, so I don't see her. Not because I don't want to—because fucking hell, I do—but because she doesn't want me to.

Goosebumps arise on my skin and even with the close proximity of the water, I still feel freezing. I shiver and attempt to move toward the water and I sense Rory shuffle to the side. I wonder if she too is not looking. I hope she isn't.

When I step beneath the water, I wince. "Fucking hell, Red. That's cold as fuck." I curse, looking down as I adjust the temperature, turning the cold down and the hot almost on full.

Cold is a slight exaggeration but it's Luke-warm. And considering its only ten degrees outside, Luke-warm may as well be fucking cold. She moves out of my way, and still, I haven't dared to look at her. But then I hear her make a sound and I can't decipher whether it's her choking, sobbing, or simply breathing, and I look down.

Maybe she's nervous. Maybe she's upset. Or maybe she's fine—whatever that is. But I don't care.

Her eyes widen as she realizes I'm looking at her but she doesn't refer to her body, but her face. I'm staring deeply into her eyes, keeping them trained on hers to show that I won't look at her unless she wants me to.

Even in the dim lighting, I can tell her eyes are bloodshot and red, her residue mascara in streaks down her cheeks, and she looks like a complete and utter mess. A beautiful fucking mess.

She opens her mouth to speak. "Atlas, I said—"

"I'm not looking." I say sternly, but my hands reach for her hips and find them easily. I bring her forward and she widens her stare, swallowing loudly. "I just want to hold you."

She sighs. Nods. Then collapses. Against me. Her arms wrap around my waist, interlinking around my back, pressing her head against my chest, and I hold her frail frame in my hands, one holding the back of her head, and the other moving to wrap around her shoulders.

I realize in this moment that this is the most intimate I have ever been with someone. Never have I showered with someone and never did I think I would be capable of holding someone like this with these hands—these hands which have done so much wrong. These hands which have experienced both life and death, both pain and numbness, both nothing. . .and then her.

This can't be real.

"Why don't you want me to see you?" I ask her softly, not sure whether I'm being too forward, but just in case I am, I run my fingers in unshapely movements around the back of her shoulder.

Keeping my head on her chest, I feel her shoulders lift then drop as she shrugs. "I don't like my body, so why would you?" she sounds so nonchalant about it but I know how much it hurts on the inside as you say something like that. Just thinking it hurts. "I'm afraid of what you might see when you see me."

"Would it make you feel better if told you I feel the same way?" I murmur into the top of her wet head.

Her head falls back staring up at me, she looks both shocked and irritated at the same time. "Shut up," she glares at me. "You're beautiful, Atlas."

I can't help but smile. I cock an eyebrow. "Beautiful?"

She nods, not thinking twice. "Yes." she confirms. "I can't think of any other word to describe you other than beautiful. Your soul, your heart, you. It's all beautiful."

Something calm and warm swirls inside of me. "I don't think anyone else would agree with that statement."

The corners of her lips curl into a smile. "I don't care." she says, staring up into my blue eyes. "I don't think many people know you like I do."

I roll my eyes because she's right. I think the only other person in the world that actually knows me is Alula. But even if other people did know me as well as Rory does, I know for certain that they wouldn't perceive me the way she does.

And it makes me wonder why. Why does she like me? Why does she want to be around me? Just why. Why me? She spent four years resenting my friends and I, meanwhile I didn't have a clue who she was. I only ever started speaking to her because of a childish fucking bet.

I forgot about that.

I need to tell her—I will tell her, but not right now. Especially whilst we are talking about body image and whatnot. It isn't the time.

"What're you thinking about?" she asks, chin pressed against my chest, warm body fitting against the front of mine like a glove.

I brush her wet strands of hair away from her cheek. "Nothing."

Her smile fades, but she nods. I kiss the top of her head, I'm not sure why, I'm not sure when I even started doing this but it feels so right and wrong at the same time—so unlike me, but so natural. But with her and only her.

Considering my eyes have adjusted to the lighting—or lack thereof—I scan the area around us, and reach for the shampoo. Whilst she hugs me, I squeeze some of the thick liquid onto the palm of my hand, then placing it back down. She doesn't question me as I massage it into her scalp. It smells of coconut.

I try to move her so that she is beneath the showerhead, but she refuses to let go of me, so I step back further, and the water saturates us entirely, washing all of the remnants of shampoo from her scalp. Then I reach for the coordinating conditioner and lather it into her thick, dark hair.

She's breathing loudly and I realize that she's relaxed. I also realize that she's had a shitty day too and I haven't even fucking asked her about it.

Whilst the conditioner sits in her hair, the small room smelling of coconut, I speak up. "Tell me about your day, love." I say, despite being too tired for words and conversations right now. Just breathing right now is exhausting. "Tell me about school."

"School sucked ass." she replies, her tone bored and monotone. "I hate it there. I have no friends, I don't understand anything, the teachers all hate me, and the only person I can stand being around is in bloody college."

I almost smile. "I hated it there too." reply. And I do. I truly pity her for having to be there. School and education systems are fucked. Especially London Prep. The teachers are all discriminatory toward students, wearing an appropriate uniform is more important than learning, and every single fucking human there is fucked. "You have Ophelia, don't you?"

She shakes her head. "Not anymore." my eyes widen but then I snort. Thank fuck. She tilts her head back, glaring at me. "Fuck you."

I laugh. "What?" I say exasperatedly. Defensively.

"You're happy." she deadpans.

I nod, moving my hands to cup her cheeks and her hands linger on my hips. "Well, yeah. Of course, I'm happy." I say nonchalantly, my expression hard and my tone serious. "You're all mine now."

Her scowl falters, like she wants to smile, but she suppresses it as she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. "We broke up because we need time to figure out what we both want separately." she expresses. "If I'm all yours within less than twelve hours of breaking up with my girlfriend, doesn't that make me. . .I don't know, like, a slut. Or something."

I shake my head, running my fingers through her soft hair. "No." I say definitively. "Knowing what you want doesn't make you a slut, love. I think you need a lesson on social constructs because the term slut is yet another one."

She smiles. Laughs. Then shakes her head in amusement. "I know I want you. . ." she trails off and I inhale deeply. I never thought I'd hear someone say that to me and actually mean it. She does mean it, right? "But I think there are some things we need to cover before we decide whether this is actually something we want or not."

And her words feel like I have just walked straight into a brick wall.

I have never wanted a relationship but I have always wanted love above sex. But I have also always wanted drugs above love. And I'm not sure I can belong to someone and drugs too, though I'm not prepared to lose either. I want her and I want what I have.

I have never wanted to change my lifestyle. Not for my mother, not for my father, not for my sisters, and not for Rory either. It's not a possibility I just simply don't want to get better, it's my way of coping, and though it isn't a healthy coping mechanism, it's what I want and no one can change that.

I'm not ready for her to see me. All of me. But I'm selfish and I'm not ready to lose her yet.

"We'll just take things slow." I run the pad of my thumb over her bottom lip.

She nods, seeming pleased by the idea. "I would like that." she says and I'm glad.

Because I'm not ready for her to know nor experience how deep-set my addiction is. I'm not ready for her to find out I start every day by taking medication for a mental illness she had no idea that I even have. I'm not ready for her to know that if I don't have a hit of something every few hours, I start to sweat and shake. I'm not ready for her to know that often enough, I convince myself I don't need pills anymore—or I simply forget—and I have episodes. Not just high episodes, but lows too. There are far too many lows for her to handle.

I can't even handle the lows.

And I realize now that this is why I never wanted a relationship—because I'm too much. I'm too much for myself and I'm too much for anyone else.

But I can't just drop this and leave and never speak to her again because now I want this. I want something I

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