Chapter Text
If the heavens are finality true, then who dictated their birth anew?
.
.
.
Arche...
Arche..
Arche.
.
.
.
“Arche!”
.
.
.
With a jolted stifle, the young man resoundingly twitched and met the table’s grave, nearly perforated underside—unaware of where he was.
“He left. You may, as well."
Yes. That's where he was! Limitlessly crawling and whimpering underneath a darkened, rustic counter inside of a blasted coffeehouse—as if he were a pitiful animal. Slick sweat permeated his forehead, forever imbalanced by the bitter aroma that sifted through the echoing shop. Seemingly so, hundreds of voices all resonated against Arche Atlas’s folded being—every conversation a jab to his own inability.
“Ah! Please take my hand," the girl requested, light blue eyes widened in care.
‘Ah.’ She says that often.
“Arche?" she again said, an inquiring tone taking forth. Palms opposing his face, she subtly waved her hand.
Celeste.
Celeste is here.
.
.
.
All is well.
Curly dark hair taking center stage, he angled himself forward and accepted her reaching offer. Knees pressed into the cream-white flooring, he slid forwards and soon rose to his feet—beaten black boots still begging for a shoeshine.
“There you are! All is well once more.”
All is well.
"Now, I do not believe that anyone noticed. It seems that you're in the clear.” She then paused, blue eyes flickering from Arche to all others in the suffocating room. “Be careful next time, please."
Be...careful?
Almost instantly, he relinquished her hand and receded backwards—utterly skulking away in melancholic frustration, disturbed lines prominent on his pale face.
Was that truly all she could muster? It was not an action that he voluntarily performed—no, that was far from the truth. Rather, it was instinctive—yes, that is leagues closer. Understandably, it was Celeste’s job to keep him in line; however, the wound was not softened any less.
She briefly swallowed, lips forming a tight purse as red locks of fair demise fell upon her very, contrasting pallor. “Ah...that's not...that's not what I meant,” she sighed. "I know that you're a bit—you know—but that's still not a complete excuse."
And right she was.
It was most assuredly immature of him to recoil in such a frightful fashion—for the gods’ sake, he wasn't that far gone. Either way, what's done was done, and Arche knew that he had to move on, leaving such crashing tides behind.
He took a step forward and lowered his head, mouth only in a slight pout.
“There's the Arche that I know!” Bright eyes matched her glittering smile as such ruby hair ignited in a sparked burst. "Listen: you are no less capable than anyone else, and—of course—I will treat you in such a manner! Capisce?”
Understood.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Somehow, every individually dignified day was exponentially more draining than the last.
Since moving here, things were most assuredly better than they were back home—if he could even think (not say, obviously) that mocking term. Even with minor breakdowns—all of which he could scarcely recall after the fact—life here was a considerable improvement. Granted, he did feel guilty about burdening Celeste (and even worse, not signing to her—leaving communication in the decrepit dark), but far worse instances could occur; therefore, all could be viewed as well in the coffeehouse.
Outside, however, that is where things differ.
Walking home, brown-eyed and brown-skinned Arche glanced about the rusted pathway that lay ahead. Now closing the winter season, the chilled, thickened air was less permeable and damaging than before. As of late, in ceaseless relation, the city of Nebula had rapidly altered—much to the equal dismay and amusement of pre-existing residents. The whole country—Sidas, to be precise—was no stranger to such, as well. The world was changing, yes, that was a given; nonetheless, such rapid diversions seemed particularly impactful in this age. Gone were the humble, cottage industries of begotten lore—no! What a travesty! It was time for the mass-marketed manufacturing of what only the gods could place. Thick, nearly hasty black smoke could be seen pumping speckles into the suffering, vapor-ridden sky. The adjacent river—home to the most diverse of water-powered mills—grew darker by the day. Past ice had already melted, ushering forth a greater era of productivity. Clouds were almost as hostile as the new migrants, all future employees looking for a share of this obscene technology.
I miss the past.
Innovation and nostalgia are both absolute truths—most egregiously and encouragebly so—but this was far too extreme! The beaten, battered earth was suffocating and dreary-eyed in the midst of such fanciful abuse. At this rate, he would not be the only soul unable to see the desperate stars in the forsaken sky! They scrambled—forlorn in nature—as the pinpointed dots sought to leak their glistening light through the industrial fog. Granted, Arche had arrived in Nebula during the height of its transformation; therefore, his hands weren’t entirely clean. Due to the prevalent appearance of an inclined, decently exhausted population, coffeehouses were making absolute bank around the winding river. His place of work—of which he was miraculously employed—was by far one of the more popular places; for, it still possessed a humble, genuinely comparative charm.
Feeling an unwelcome tug, Arche quickly rose down and retied his left boot’s laces. Small, wriggling bugs crawled their bony, frozen bodies over to his drying hand—each and every mini-monster scrounging for unfamiliar nurture.
Very few tales of rampant, wondrous folklore were whispered; after all, did the factories' crashing noise not silence the tellers? As a young boy, growing up in a town on Sidas’ edge, such fantastic tales of yesterday’s yore were more frequent to him than reality itself! Whether brought upon by the deafening silence that he encompassed or other, far more innate rationales, Arche Atlas had forever been aware of this dreamy connection—both in situational support and objection. Yes, he was an idealistic dreamer through and through (nothing like the realistic, down-to-earth essence of Celeste nor the charming, balanced nature of their manager, Lyre) and tried to take pride in this sentiment. However, as he continued his fleeting walk against the grimy path—wild brown curls and loose, white shirt mildly waving in the gusty wind—upcoming dread soon settled within his seeping bones of forgotten plight.
There is...something that plagues the way.