A/N: So, I'm writing a series set in the same universe as Streets. I've written Lights from Archie's perspective, and now here's Irrespective from Atlanta's. While each story is set in the same universe, they don't follow the same set of events. Yes, there are some overlaps, but mostly it's each character's story. Hopefully you guys will like my predictions of their futures.
I'm not making promises on when the next will be up. Or whose story it will be. It all depends on the response I get to this. Enjoy!
Irrespective
New Olympia was irrespectively the city that Atlanta would spent the majority of her life escaping, only to be dragged back, kicking and screaming, by the memories and people. She had visited it once, before the war, and hated it with a decisive passion. She hated the buildings for not being trees and the streets for not being rivers. Returning for the war seemed like a cruel trick of fate - she didn't understand why the gods couldn't have set up camp somewhere nicer, like a forest.
Irrespective of the city itself, she quite liked the people. Well, the gang at least. Even Archie, although she'd never admit to that. How could she? He already had a big enough head as it was. And it was a stupid head too; he was such a dork.
Atlanta he had fallen madly, deeply, truly in love with the boy. And she didn't even know it. Not until after the war, when they'd talked about leaving, and she realised that she wasn't ready to leave the purple-haired warrior's side. She'd suggested they travel together for an indefinite time, he agreed, and they boarded the first plane out of the city.
They weren't sure where they were going, exactly.
Or for how long.
They were just going, irrespective of destination or reasons.
The flight took them to Asia; they hiked through Thailand and hitch-hiked along the Mekong, through Vietnam and into Cambodia. They saw a hundred sunsets at the temples there, and wondered at the sight. Eventually, they flew again; into Europe. They backpacked through Romania and Hungary, and fell in love with the colours of Spain.
They didn't go to Greece, or Italy. The memories and connections would have eaten at them too painfully.
Busking in London bought them another plane flight to South America. The green of the Amazon was a fierce allure for Atlanta; Archie followed without hesitation. It was the eco-warrior in her that attracted her to the rainforest; ever the nature lover. They trekked and canoed their way up the river, time having no presence on their journey. She'd lost track of the months. Years, even. They were irrespective to the time that she had with Archie.
In Brazil, they opted for civilisation for a few weeks. Their meagre supply of money got them a dingy backroom in a backpacker lodge a few kilometres out from Rio. Neither of them minded; a bed was a bed, especially after the time they'd spent in the jungle. They sunk into their room, into the bed, without a second's thought.
Atlanta slept for two days and nights. When she woke, she felt like she was emerging from a stream after months of being underwater.
Slowly, but very slowly, time began to slow. Places no longer blurred; all was in high detail and very, very slow.
It was stifling.
And slowly, very slowly, she began to see more of the city, and less of Archie.
It was his face that became blurred in her memories; their time in Brazil was in high definition, while he seemed to be out of focus. His colours were washed out and wrong, while the background seemed so bright that he was obstructed by it all.
They bickered their way through the streets of Rio. They fought over places to visit and things to do. Where to eat. When to eat. What to eat. Mostly they fought over money. She set up a little business for tourists, taking small groups hiking around the outskirts of the city at dirt cheap prices. Anything to attract customers. They fought over that, too.
And slowly, very slowly, their love was fading.
Until the day he packed his bags, which seemed to happen to fast to comprehend. He was gone in an instant; a one thousandth of a second.
"I'm not coming back." he announced, ignoring her crossed-arms and tapping foot. "So don't bother trying to change my mind."
"Piss off," she decided to be the most reasonable response. "I don't care if you don't come back." She wanted to add more to her insults. A lot more language and a lot less clarity. But instead she stood away from the door, scowling, watching him pack.
They didn't say another word to each other.
She watched him leave. Hell, she closed the door behind him! Good riddance, she'd thought, and prayed that she never saw his purple-haired head again. She hated him for his stupid, impervious, impassionate, tactless, snarky, dorky self, and she was relieved he was gone. Did he hear her? Relieved.
That night, she curled up on her wide bed. The sense of an emptiness leeched across the bed. If she reached her arm across, she could feel the indent that Archie's body had left behind. It hurt, and she had never felt more alone in her entire life.
After a few years of denial, she gathered her possessions and money, and bought the cheapest ticket to Rome. After stepping off the plane, she went to the first nightclub she could find, and drank herself senseless. Realising that she had no place to stay, and nowhere to go, she dragged herself into the alleyway behind the club and used her pack as a pillow.
When the sun rose on Rome, and the streets hummed to life, Atlanta rubbed the sleep from her eyes and slung her backpack over her shoulders. Setting off with blank-minded determination, she had some kind of intrepid hope that she would find something in the city to hold her there, or she'd just end up walking away. Her fitness, if anything, had stayed true through the years of backpacking.
The midday sun was beating at her back when she paused for a rest by a fountain. Dropping her bag, she let her fingers trail through the cool water that flowed through the intricately carved marble. She sighed, and glanced up at the statue. The stone face of an impossibly beautiful goddess stared back. Aphrodite. She scowled.
"Atlanta?"
She spun around, looking wildly for whomever had said her name in the city of strangers. People stared back. She scanned the crowd, then flinched as someone tapped her shoulder.
A handsome blonde man flashed a trademark grin at her. "Recognise me?"
"Neil!" she cried, and flung her arms around her old friend. "What are you doing here?"
"What the clothes." he muttered, but returned the hug anyway. "I'm attached to a magazine here. Been living here for about six years."
Atlanta stared at the man. "You settled down?" She asked cheekily, grinning.
The blonde shrugged. "Apparently so."
She laughed, for the first time in her waking memory. "It's not an insult, Neil."
They chatted and then retreated into a nearby café. Neil shouted her a ridiculously overpriced coffee and a pasta dish with a name she couldn't pronounce. When he found out her living arrangements, he fussed and babbled about hotels, and despite her best insistence of her capabilities, he set her up in a modest enough suite just outside the main shopping district.
When he suggested that she have a shower before taking her out for dinner, she'd decided against fury and settled on maturity. She thanked him, and retreated into her room.
The place was quaint; it'd been repainted recently, but the furniture hinted at older styles and times. Photographs on the walls depicted places she didn't recognise, and people she didn't know. They bore a layer of dust, obscuring the pictures in a blur.
She hurriedly ran herself a shower, letting the hot water flush away memories. They pooled, and then were sucked down the drain, out of sight. For now.
It became a ritual; the days were her own, and the evenings were Neil's. She explored the city by day, and let Neil indulge her in restaurants by night. She figured it was harmless enough, even when Neil began to join her explorations, or when she watched his shoots on alternate days. Little by little, they began to see more and more of each other, to the point when Neil was irrespectively more than a shadow at her side.
So why, after all the time she had with him, could she not focus on him?
"How's your food?"
Atlanta blinked, dragging herself from her thoughts to look down at her plate. The remains of a pizza were scattered across the fine china; a cacophony of colours. The food itself was tasteless in her mouth, but she smiled anyway.
"It's fine."
Neil nodded, setting his cutlery aside and muttering something about getting the bill. While he paid for their dinner, she wandered out onto the restaurant's balcony. Leaning out, the evening sky set across Rome, melting into the city in reds and purples. She sighed.
"Whatcha doing out here?" Neil settled next to her, full of mirth.
"Thinking."
"You're always doing that."
She shrugged, leaning against the rails. "Is that such a bad thing?"
Neil eyed her gently. "Only when it stops you from being here. I miss you when you go inside your head."
I miss you.
There it was.
The words she hadn't said.
But she wanted to.
In truth, she wanted to say them to another man. A man that was already long gone. But she had other words that she could say to Neil; words that would remain in the moment, instead of being carried up by old memories of her purple-haired warrior.
"Atlanta?" Neil's voice was quiet now. He breathed her name.
She thought of how he lived alone, and how he never really loved people. How he only ever fantasied. He never let any love get in the way. He had a family though, once. She believed that he had loved them, and all they ever done was hurt him.
And now, as Neil stared expectantly at her, his face so much closer than she had thought, she realised that loveless, empty-headed Neil, was exactly what she needed.
"When in Rome…" she murmured, and leaned in to kiss the blonde man.
Neil kissed her back eagerly, running his hands through her hair. Her own hands explored the contours of his chest; underneath his expensive shirt, the outline of his well-defined chest loomed. She locked all of this into memory. She had the feeling that she would need to.
When they broke apart, she grinned childishly up at him, and placed a chaste kiss on his nose. He grinned back, flashing his multi-million dollar smile as sleazily as he could. Laughing she tugged at his collar, bringing him back to her for another kiss.
Life with Neil in Rome was just as she expected. The blonde model knew everyone, and everyone knew him. They breakfasted at high-end bakeries and had cocktails on the riverbank of an evening. He insisted on shopping and sight-seeing in between. When he had shoots, she wandered the city aimlessly, searching every crack in the wall and backstreet for the most incredible sights. The history of it all fascinated her endlessly, and she wished she'd taken the time in New Olympia to learn all of Jay's stories. That way, when she stumbled across statues or fountains, she could know their story.
Finding her way home at the end of the day was a solemn affair. The evening pulled at her, begging her to stay out just a little longer, but she couldn't. The day was fading, and she needed to return to Neil. The man was like a magnet and impossible to escape. Not that she wanted to escape; no, she quite liked being at his side. Loved, even.
She'd never admit it, though.
Trudging up the stairs to his apartment, she stopped at the door. Instinct told her to do so. Pausing, she laid an ear to the keyhole, listening in on the voice she could hear.
"Are you sure?!" Neil spoke shrilly. "It just… it can't be true! I won't believe it." He paused. She could hear his footsteps pacing the kitchen. "Of course. Yep. Yes. I'll let her know. Thanks, Theresa."
She heard him sigh, and then she opened the door. He spun around, eyes wild. They were glassy, too. Was Neil crying? Neil didn't cry! Her thoughts were erratic.
"What's happened?" she asked after a few moments. "Is something wrong?"
Neil sighed again. "Perhaps you should sit down."
Atlanta sunk into the lounge, suddenly very aware of little else but Neil's words. Everything else was blurred.
"Archie is dead."
No.
No.
No.
"No." She was shaking her head and speaking now, with one word on her tongue. "No." she repeated. "He can't be… he's not dead!" Her head was spinning in the blur of the apartment. "He's not dead!"
Neil sat next to her, placing an arm around her. He said something about a street fight, and a funeral, but she wasn't listening. The words themselves were blurred. She wondered if she was crying, but her eyes were too dry.
"Atlanta?"
She shrugged off his arm and stood shakily, backing away from the man. "He's not dead!" She shouted now, as if the thought alone could bring Archie back. The shock slapped her in the face.
Neil's glistening eyes shone. "I'm so sorry, Atlanta."
Her head was shaking.
No.
No.
No.
She ran for the door, ignoring Neil's frantic calls. She charged down the stairs, onto the street below. Neil stopped at the door; he let her go. She didn't look back as she raced through the blurred streets and city, using her speed to take her to the outskirts. The evening had faded to night, and she stumbled over the uneven roads. Brought to a fierce walk, she continued on. At some point, she must have turned back to the city, and flickered her numb thoughts off. The raw grief stabbed at Atlanta, and she couldn't shove the dark out of her way.
In the early hours of the morning, when the stars winked their last, she found Neil on his steps. Wordlessly, she folded herself into his open arms, and stared blankly at the white walls of his building.
Their days flowed around well-charted, often travelled courses, and yet, there was an underlying sense of falling out of time, . Then she began to grieve for him, for the lost and previous Archie. Neil grieved for that man, too. Both their grieves were mainly private, internal, unuttered. Return was impossible to deny, and there was only one direction open; and so they kept their compasses pointed forward.
Returning to New Olympia was like standing in the way of a flood. Atlanta paled as she stepped off the plane; her legs freezing on the tarmac. Behind her, Neil placed a hand on her shoulder, as if his touch alone could steady her.
It didn't, but it helped. She sighed and walked on, into the airport.
They collected Atlanta's small hiking pack and Neil's three suitcases and cleared customs without hassle. Neil hailed a taxi and they found their hotel. He'd opted for a more up-market affair; one of the flashy places that Atlanta has never stayed in before. While Neil organised a loan car, she ran herself a bath in the small pool of a bath in their room.
The hot water soaked into her skin, but she refused to let herself enjoy it. Her guilt and grief were a barrier. She just laid in the bath, knees drawn to her chest, and kept her eyes open for as long as she could.
She could see Archie, every time she closed her eyes.
His hair was ruffled and his skin rough; just the way he'd been the last time she saw him. In her mind's eye, Archie didn't age. He was timeless, and he was still alive, in there. Purple hair and all. But he wasn't. He was dead, she was alive, and she felt so utterly guilty for the years she hadn't spent with him.
Somebody was tapping at the door. She ignored it.
"Atlanta?" Neil's voice was muffled through the closed door.
She sunk lower into the bath, submerged to her neck. "Leave me alone."
Hearing his footsteps pace away, she sighed. Water clung to every particle of her. She was soaked to the bones, and she never wanted to leave the bathroom. Funeral be damned. Surely the others would understand if she couldn't come? Surely Neil would go without her and tell them that she was too consumed in her grief?
No. She couldn't ask that of him. Not Neil. It wouldn't be fair.
Atlanta sighed, and stood. She stepped out of the bath and dried herself off. Droplets of water ran off her, onto the tiled floor. Maybe this would be the closest she could get to crying.
New Olympia had three cemeteries. The biggest was in the city and spanned the length of a football field. The second was on a hilltop overlooking the beach. The third was tucked away at the foothills to the farmland that surrounded the city. It was little more than a pasture, dotted with tombstones.
In the small field of marble graves, six figures stood around the newest edition to the collection of headstones. The grey marble was smooth, polished, and bore the minimal number of words.
A name.
The date of birth.
The date he died.
There was no inscription; Jay had decided that Archie would have preferred it that way. While in his life, the warrior may have loved poetry, but he sure as hell never quoted it at any of them. It would have been throwing it back in his face to have his life measured into words. And how could they have chosen the words, anyway? Who were they to write his life?
Atlanta stood between Neil and Herry. Both had their heads bowed solemnly; after the coffin had been lowered, and the minister departed, no one had spoke. They just stood there like strangers, staring into space as blankly as walls. It was stifling, and she'd had enough of it.
She wanted to speak. She wanted to wail and beat the ground, and profess that she would never forget Archie, for as long as she lived.
She didn't do any of that, though.
Eventually, Jay cleared his throat and suggested they all go for a drink. They piled into their cars and met down at one of the city's nicer clubs. Their conversations seemed to be muted, as if they were speaking through glass. Atlanta was sure she wasn't the only one who could she words being made, but not said. Maybe none of them could speak frankly about pain until they were no longer enduring it.
Irrespective of their loss, she was glad to see the old gang together. She was startled and awed by their changes through the ten odd years that they'd been apart. She smiled through Odie's marriage tales, and Herry's odd jobs. She was relieved that no one commented on her relationship with Neil. She didn't have the guts to explain, not when their time at the club seemed to be Archie's wake.
She accompanied Theresa to the bathroom after a few rounds; they both needed a break, it seemed. The bathroom was empty, and as they stared at themselves in the mirrors, Atlanta wondered what had become of their friendship. Had time stolen that, too?
"Do you miss him?"
Theresa looked up from the sink. "What do you think?" Her smile held no humour.
"I mean, did you see him after he came back?"
"Occasionally. He was a private person." Her companion shrugged. "You know Archie."
Atlanta shrugged. "You think you know someone. But mostly you just know what you want to know." Atlanta sighed, and busied herself with washing her hands. "I think I loved him, Theresa. I think he may have loved me too. I dunno. Maybe I only saw what I wanted to see."
"He loved you?" Theresa's lip quivered as she spoke quietly. There was no accusation in her voice, but a sense of a sadness. Atlanta saw the raw pain in Theresa's green eyes; the love that the orange-haired woman possessed was leaking from her body in teary increments.
And slowly, very slowly, she understood.
"You and him." Her voice was a monotone. "You… he… oh."
Theresa's shoulders were raked with sobs. She nodded, as it must have been all she was capable of at that point. Atlanta's jaw set, and she made the most mature decision that she had ever made in her adult life.
She didn't gather her strength and beat the shit out of her old best friend, screaming incoherently and professing that her love for the dead warrior was more than the psychic's.
She didn't blame Theresa for Archie's slow demise, or his final years of life.
Instead, she spoke in a slow, measured way, looking the woman firm in the eyes.
"I'm sorry for your loss." She said in a hollow voice, and walked away.
Atlanta's days were blurred unrecognisably. She found her way to the hotel's window looking out onto the street, and remained there. Neil stayed with her occasionally; she wasn't sure where he was other times. She didn't really care. All her thoughts were directed to her grief.
Her thoughts were slow, so very slow.
How could she survive this missing? How did others do it? People died all the time. Every day. Every hour. There were families all over the world staring at beds that were no longer slept in, shoes that were no longer worn. Families who no longer had to buy a particular cereal, a kind of shampoo. There were people everywhere that stood in line at the movies, bought food, walked dogs, while inside, their hearts ripped to shreds. For years. For their whole lives. Atlanta didn't believe that time healed. She didn't want it to. If she healed, didn't that mean she had accepted the world without Archie?
She went back to the grave not long afterward and found as she stood there that sadness was a very heavy thing. Her body weighed twice what it had only a moment earlier, as if the grave was pulling her down towards it. Towards Archie.
Tracing his name chiselled in the cold stone, she felt her grief at its very essence. And the grief was forever. It didn't go away; it became a part of her, step for step, breath for breath.
But grief was a most peculiar thing; she was so helpless in the face of it. It was like a window that would simply open of its own accord. The room grew cold, and she could do nothing but shiver. But it opened a little less each time, and a little less; and one day she would wonder what had become of it.
"Are you even listening to me?"
Atlanta blinked and focused her glance out of the window and at Neil. The blonde muttered angrily and folded another shirt into his suitcase. She gestured for him to continue.
"As I was saying, the real estate agent said he'd get a good price for the house, but it's a bargain anyway. Gorgeous interior, and it's not too far from the town. Perfect, and convenient."
She frowned, not following Neil's rapid talk. "What house?"
He slammed the suitcase shut and sighed. "The house we're buying. Together." He smiled tiredly. "Well, the house I'm buying, and we're moving into."
"Together?"
"That's what I just said."
"Oh." That.
Atlanta shook her head, trying to expel memories of grief, and replaced them with thoughts of domesticity.
The house itself was nice; convenient, as Neil described. It was small, with big, empty rooms that were waiting to be filled. And little by little, they were. Photographs and books and clutters filled out the empty rooms, turning the little house into their home.
Grief, too, had its part in the house. Relics of the war were framed as pictures in the living room; seven teenagers watched the TV of a night with the two, their frozen smiles hinting at their previous life. Often, Atlanta would reach out to the photo and touch each of their faces, a pained smile upon her own face.
She'd never look at Archie's smile, though. Never touch it, never think of it.
Slowly, very slowly, the grief was dwindling.
She knew it, Neil knew it. But he never stopped his careful assessments of her state; never stopped smiling at her each morning, as if his gorgeous beaming could lessen the loss of Archie.
The animal part of her in pain accepted his caring. But the part of Atlanta watching herself in that pain didn't believe she could ever care for Neil like she'd loved Archie. Not that any of this remained in her mind for more than a second. She couldn't risk knowing it. No one could and continue moving on. They'd feel so unappreciated and wronged that it would drive them away.
Atlanta and Neil settled. It wasn't a compromise, or a promise. It wasn't the need to share a bed because there was a space to be filled. It was irrespective of their grief and raw pain. It was irrespective of the loss they'd shared.
Maybe it was love.
Only time would tell.
A/N: I'm quite proud of how this turned out. While it was shorter than the other two, I feel like I've been working on it for much longer. And, now that it's finished, I might start on another project. Either that multi-chapter story I've been promising, or some more Sleepless Demeanours. Or even another episode of this series. I'm thinking that I'll do either Jay or Neil will be next. Reviews are much appreciated!
Thank you for reading. I hope you have enjoyed Irrespective.
Illusional