Zhan started noticing things. The toothbrush that never moved from its perfect angle, the fridge that always restocked without him seeing it happen, and the stack of papers on Atlas's desk, turned precisely at thirty degrees. The longer he stayed, the clearer it became.
Atlas was a machine, but even machines glitch...
At midnight, Zhan was up, pacing the living room, restless energy humming in his blood. He hadn't been able to sleep not because of anything Atlas did, but because of the quiet. He was listening and replaying a podcast when he heard it, like a choked breath. Zhan froze,
"Kinda creepy...is there any ghost that sounds so raucous when they cry?" Zhan muttered to himself. Then came another sound like someone gasping, barely trying to hide it,
"Bruh...this isn't funny anymore..." He said, then moved toward the hallway. The sound was coming from inside Atlas's room, however, this time, his door was completely shut. Zhan paused and listened. Then he knocked once,
'Knock.'
No answer,
"...Yo...?" Still nothing.
He pushed the door open. The room inside was dim with curtains drawn. The only light came from the glow of the city outside, cutting soft blue lines across the floor. Zhan saw Atlas sitting on the bed with his back turned and head bowed. He stepped inside slowly,
"...Dude?" He'd never seen Atlas like that and it creeped him out.
No response, just his breathing, tight and fast. Zhan slowly crossed the room. Atlas didn't flinch and he didn't move, either.
"...Hey?" Zhan tried to call out to him.
Then, without any warning, Atlas spoke. His voice was hollow,
"Do you know what it's like to never let go?"
Zhan stared. Atlas turned, just enough for Zhan to see his face in the dark. His eyes weren't wide, weren't afraid, but...they were haunted.
"It's the only piece I have left." Atlas whispered. Zhan's chest tightened, confused by what he was trying to convey.
"You think I'm always composed?" Atlas said, then continue,
"You think this is how I am?" He let out a hollow laugh,
"It's not."
Zhan stepped closer, but didn't touch him,
"You don't have to explain." Zhan said softly.
"I do," Atlas said, sharper than he intended,
"because you stayed, even when shit happened."
It wasn't a question nor a plea, it was the truth. Then, Zhan sat down beside him on the bed,
"...Then...let me stay." Zhan said softly. Atlas didn't move, but for the first time since they met, he closed his eyes and let the silence sit between them not as a wall, but as a bridge. That night, neither of them spoke, they just sat there in the dark, side by side. Zhan didn't leave because Atlas didn't ask him to. However, the tension between them didn't vanish, it just shifted.
The next morning, Zhan noticed something strange. Atlas was already awake, sitting at the breakfast bar and staring into his untouched coffee. The surface of the mug was perfectly still, not a ripple, like even his drinking habits were under control.
Zhan walked in barefoot while yawning,
"...Morning." He muttered.
Atlas didn't reply. Zhan grabbed the cereal box, poured a bowl, and sat across from him. The silence between them felt loaded today, not heavy, just pressurized. Like a room sealed shut too long.
"You don't sleep much, huh?" Zhan asked between spoonfuls.
"I sleep enough." Atlas replied dryly.
"That's not the same." Zhan snapped.
Atlas finally looked at him,
"Some of us don't have the luxury of relaxing."
Zhan raised an eyebrow,
"You think I'm relaxed?"
"I think you pretend to be." Atlas answered.
Zhan laughed,
"And you think you're the only one who gets to fake things?"
Atlas didn't even look up and ignored him.
Later, Atlas wasn't around. Zhan wandered inside the house out of boredom, then stood still near Atlas's door, which was slightly ajar. He didn't mean to snoop, but something about the quiet pulled him in. Zhan finally got a clearer view of his room, everything was absurdly neat, his desk spotless, books lined like soldiers.
But one thing stood out, a photograph tucked between two textbooks. Zhan stepped closer. It showed a much younger Atlas in a school uniform with a blazer. Standing in the middle of two figures, one looked like his professor or teacher and the other one...looked like his mother. All of them looked proud. And for the first time, he saw Atlas smiling.
"Beautiful..." Zhan muttered to himself while brushing his finger over the picture of Atlas's mother.
"You always walk into rooms that aren't yours?" Atlas's voice jolted Zhan. Atlas stood at the doorway with arms folded and unreadable expression. Zhan stepped back quickly,
"Uh...well, sorry. Door was open."
Atlas walked past him, snatched the photo, and slid it back between the books without a word. Zhan hesitated,
"You lived in Toronto? T-that was your old school, wasn't it?"
Atlas didn't respond.
"That woman in the photo..." Zhan said softly,
"She's beautiful...like you." He pressed gently. That shut Atlas up. For once, he didn't seem to know how to respond. This time, he looked...human. That moment lingered, neither of them said more, but it cracked something fragile beneath the surface.
Later, the house was quiet again. Atlas entered the living room and dropped a clean towel on the couch beside Zhan. Zhan looked up,
"What happened to 'I don't like sharing space'?"
"I still don't." Atlas replied.
"You didn't complain that I'm still here." Zhan said casually.
Atlas paused, then said,
"You're inconvenient."
Zhan grinned,
"So why tolerate me?"
Silence. Then Atlas answered it. His voice barely heard,
"Because you don't pretend with me...and I don't have to with you."
Zhan sat up straighter, his grin fading. He didn't expect that such honesty from Atlas. Not yet. Not like this. After that, they didn't say anything else. Zhan lay on the couch while staring at the ceiling. And for the first time since this weird arrangement started...he realized something. Atlas had let his guard down, even not all the way, but enough to prove one thing that the ice wasn't unbreakable. Just untouched.
As time passed, Zhan started leaving things out with his socks on the couch, his hoodie draped over the chair, and his presence soaking into the corners of Atlas's routine, like it should've driven him crazy. But it didn't. It just made him aware, or more likely, Hyper-aware. And Atlas didn't complain about it.
That afternoon, Zhan stood in the kitchen shirtless, rummaging through the fridge. Atlas glanced up from his desk,
"Are you incapable of wearing clothes like a normal person?"
Zhan looked over his shoulder,
"Said by a guy who sleeps in pressed pajamas."
"They're comfortable." Atlas replied.
Then, Zhan pulled out a carton of milk. Sniffed it, winced, then tossed it in the trash,
"Why do you even keep an expired food?" He muttered.
"I don't check dates." Atlas answered dryly.
Zhan paused,
"Wait...you....of all people, don't...?"
Atlas glanced up,
"I don't eat what I don't prepare."
Zhan blinked, surprised,
"That's....extremely sad."
"I'm not asking for sympathy." Atlas said.
"Good," Zhan said,
"You won't get any."
Later that evening, they sat on opposite ends of the couch with some mindless show playing in the background. Zhan stretched out, arms behind his head and legs taking up more than half the couch. But Atlas didn't move away. Zhan noticed,
"You're weird when you're quiet."
"I'm always quiet." Atlas said.
"No," Zhan reply, then continue,
"Usually, you're...contained. This is different."
Atlas didn't answer right away, and then,
"You're taking up more space."
Zhan blinked,
"Oh...umm....you want me to move?"
"I don't mind, actually." Atlas replied. A long pause, then Zhan turned to him,
"Y-you sure?"
Atlas looked over. His eyes sharp, but not cold. Just...assessing,
"If I didn't want you here," he said evenly,
"I already kick you out."
Zhan felt that in his chest. He didn't say thank you. That would've made it real. Instead, he just let his head drop back against the cushion and exhaled slowly. For once, he didn't feel like a guest.
That night, Atlas passed the couch. He stopped, and saw Zhan was already half-asleep, uncovered, and holding himself as if to keep warm. His face completely unguarded. Atlas stared at him a moment longer than he meant to, then gently placed a blanket over him.
After that, he walked away. Not because he didn't want to stay, but because he wasn't sure what scared him more. That Zhan was here or he didn't want him to leave.
'Tap. Tap. Tap'
The rain started in the next morning, not a thunderstorm but just a soft, insistent drizzle, and tapping against the apartment windows like it belonged there. Zhan woke up and noticed the blanket that covering his body,
"Hmm? When did I bring a blanket here...hmm..." He mumbled nothing and yawning. Then he stretching his body. After that, he went to the kitchen to cook some ramen, but ended up falling asleep at the counter and left the stove on. The smell of something burning filled the air. Good thing, Atlas came in, turned off the stove, then shook Zhan awake.
"Hmm...? I didn't touch your books...if that's what you're...here for..." He responded, groggily.
"You left the stove on." Atlas said, his voice low and flat.
Zhan jolted awake,
"Huh?! Oh...well...you're welcome for the ramen." He replied.
"It boiled dry." Atlas said.
"...Y-you're welcome for the almost ramen." He tried to cover his shame. Atlas didn't reply and he stood beside Zhan. The silence felt different this time, like something in between. Atlas was watching him, unlike before, instead of cold disinterest or detached amusement, there was something raw behind his gaze. Caught between a warning and a pull.
Zhan swallowed,
"...You're mad?"
"You really don't understand, do you." Not a question, but words from Atlas. The words hit too softly to be cruel, yet too sharply to ignore.
Zhan turned to face him fully,
"Understand what??"
Atlas leaned in, his voice low and menacing,
"You're supposed to be a distraction," he said quietly,
"a temporary inconvenience. Something I could break and walk away from."
Zhan's chest tightened, and ask,
"...What's this? Do you want me to solve a puzzle in this morning or what? What do you want, exactly?"
"I still want to break you," Atlas whispered,
"but not for the same reasons."
The space between them vanished. It was Atlas's hand on Zhan's jaw, not tender but felt like a test, a warning and a challenge. However, Zhan didn't pull away. He leaned into it, not out of trust, but because something in him needed to win this silent battle neither of them started. When their mouths met, it wasn't soft, instead, it was rough one. and then it broke. Atlas stepped back and sudden like he'd burned himself. His voice cracked the silence,
"That was a mistake."
Zhan stared at him. His lips tingled and his pulse was loud in his ears,
"If it was," he said slowly,
"you wouldn't have done it thrice," Zhan scoffed,
"and...you wouldn't repeat it... if you'd learned." A smirk tugged on his lips.
Atlas froze. Because he hadn't realized that Zhan wasn't afraid of him anymore.
Later that night, Zhan lay back on the couch. His eyes wide open and didn't sleep either. Not because of the kiss, but because of what Atlas hadn't said after. No apology. No denial. Just 'That was a mistake'.
"He's messed up." Zhan muttered. But he wasn't sure it was. And neither, it seemed...was the real Atlas.
The day folded into dusk, Zhan was learning restraint lately because he never considered himself subtle. The kind that wasn't about silence, but about control. The kind that came from watching Atlas that could say more with a look than most people did with a paragraph.
So, Zhan started watching too. He watched how Atlas's shoulders tensed when someone got too close. How his tone dropped a fraction when Zhan stepped out of line. And like after that night, on how he stopped looking at Zhan for too long. Like the kiss had stained something or exposed it.
That morning, Zhan stood barefoot at the kitchen counter, shirtless again, but this time, on purpose as he want to test him. Atlas was standing close. Close enough that Zhan could smell his cologne and feel the heat off his skin.
Zhan raised a brow,
"Something off?"
Atlas didn't blink,
"You're testing me."
It wasn't a question. Zhan tilted his head,
"Perhaps..."
Another step closer from him,
"Why?" He asked dryly.
Zhan's throat tightened, but he didn't move back,
"Because...you keep pretending you don't want anything," he said,
"but your eyes say otherwise."
Atlas's hand moved before Zhan could register it. Flat against Zhan's chest, not to shove or striking. Just holding him there, firm and controlling. Zhan's breath caught.
"I told you," Atlas said quietly,
"You're not in control here."
Zhan swallowed, but insisted to reply,
"You're not either."
Atlas's gaze sharpened,
"Pardon?"
Zhan's fingers curled against the edge of the counter behind him. He didn't speak because he didn't have to. Then, just as suddenly, he let go and took a step back. Like he regretted holding something he couldn't control anymore. With deep sighed,
"Get dressed," he said coldly,
"You're not staying here for free."
Zhan blinked in surprise,
"What–?!"
"I said I'd save your living cost," Atlas continued,
"Not babysit you."
And with that, he turned and walked away. Zhan stood there, heart pounding like it want to burst. Not from the near-contact, but from the realization. Atlas was unraveling, and he was dragging Zhan down with him.
To be continue...