The muffled sound of his neighbors waking up fills the quiet hallway as Icarus makes his way inside. The whirring of blenders and the shuffling of tired feet leak through the paper thin walls, the heavenly smell of breakfast being made complements it.

Briefly closing his eyes, Icarus takes in a deep breath. He could go for some real food right about now. Unfortunate. He will have to made do with whatever leftovers are in the fridge. If he has any leftovers in the fridge, that is. It has been a hot minute since he’s gone grocery shopping, what with having to leave the city for a time.

Icarus loses himself in his thoughts, imagines a delectable home cooked meal waiting for him just inside his apartment. He pictures himself pushing open the door he left ajar and being greeted with a banquet of food: fluffy pancakes drenched in sticky-sweet syrup, crispy potatoes, creamy yogurt with fresh berries mixed in, just a vast display of every food he had been craving for the past months. He nearly starts salivating at the thought.

…Wait. The door he left ajar? Icarus was sure that he had closed the door before heading up the the rooftop after his nightmare. His hand stills mere inches away from the wooden door, where he was about to push it open. He had closed the door, right? He hadn’t thought about it so hard that it created a memory, he had actually closed it hadn’t he?

He racks his brain, trying to sort through the haze of the events that occurred that morning. Woke up, panicked, grabbed a drink, left, closed the door, said fuck it about locking the door, went to the roof. Yeah, he was sure that he had not left his door open.

He hadn’t locked the door, but it was nearly one in the morning when he left for the roof; no one else in the building would have been awake! Well, that new person - Andromeda - was awake, but no one on this floor is ever awake that early. No one should have known that he had left the door unlocked, no one.

So why is his door ajar?

Something is wrong, he can feel that truth sinking into the pit of his stomach. Of course this had to happen today, the day that he had been so out of sorts that he had not grabbed his blades before leaving. Normally, Icarus always had them on him. Even if he was just going to sit up on the roof. This was the first time in years that Icarus had left himself vulnerable, and of course if was after that damn nightmare.

It’s not like he can stand here and think about it, though. At this point, if anyone was still in his apartment, they would know that he was standing outside. They would have heard the door to the roof slam shut behind him and they would know that they don’t have long before he returns. If anyone was in there, Icarus would not get the surprise advantage. Then again, if there was someone in there, they would have tried to attack him by now. There is no target easier than one standing idly with no weapons.

Fuck, no matter how he cuts it, Icarus is in a bad position.

Accepting that he doesn’t have much choice in the matter, Icarus pushes the door open. He scans the entryway: his posters on the wall are still there, the coat rack is still empty, there are no signs of damage, the kitchen looks the same as he had left it, and oh- the bureau.

Stepping through the threshold, Icarus makes his way towards the re-purposed entertainment center that sits in his entryway. He knows that there is a blade in the top drawer, he had become used to leaving the blade there when he got home.

Icarus grabs the blade, feels the comfortable weight settle in his palm as he moves further into the apartment.

From here, he can see around the corner into the living room: empty. He quickly checks the bathroom to his right then ducks into the spare bedroom. There’s nothing, no one hiding under the bed or in the closet, no sign that anyone had been in the room.

His left eye twitches as he crosses the living room to check his bedroom. Walking up to the door, Icarus mulls over the situation. There’s no telling what he’ll find in his bedroom, he only hopes that it will be nothing.

The door opens, pushed forward as Icarus peeks through the frame. There’s his bed, his dresser, his chair covered with clean laundry that he had yet to put away. Everything is the same as it was when he left that morning.

Glancing under the bed revealed nothing either, just some stray socks and an abundance of dust. He stands up and moves towards the connected bathroom. Nothing.

Puzzled, Icarus steps back out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. His eyes scan the room one final time, this time landing on a piece of paper sitting on his bed - half tucked under a blanket and not easily visible from the entrance.

He picks it up before leaving the room. He had noticed an envelope in the kitchen on his way in and wanted to know what it was. First, though, was to close and lock the door. He had left it open on his way in in case there were an intruder present. Now that he was sure there was not, he could close up.

A pause, hand hovering over the locked deadbolt. All of the adrenaline Icarus was running on had started to dissipate. God, he’s exhausted.

Turning, he runs a hand over his face. Would he ever get a moment of peace? That’s all that he wants at this point as he walks back into the kitchen to look at the envelope sitting on the counter.

He stands there a moment, staring at the unassuming manila envelope. Waiting for it to become something more than what it is, feeling as if the other shoe would inevitably drop if he touched the damn thing. His eyes scour every square inch of the envelope, desperately searching for anything that could tip him off as to what it contained.

There is nothing. No writing, no blemishes, nothing. It is just a manila envelope. A manila envelope that someone broke in to put on the counter, his mind supplies. He’d have to actually open it and see what’s inside, gut feeling of impending doom be damned.

Flipping over the envelope, Icarus is faced with his own name in scrawling script. Clearly, the person who left the envelope knows that Icarus lives here. That’s a problem.

He thought he’d done enough to cover his tracks, to fly under the radar in the city. He’d had to leave for a few months because someone recognized him in a shop back in July, but he never came back to his apartment before leaving. There should have been no connection between him and this place.

And yet, someone knows he lives here. Someone broke in just to leave an envelope with his name on it, taunting him. Telling him he isn’t safe here.

He sets the piece of paper from his bedroom down with the envelope, deciding to deal with them later.

Right now all Icarus wants is to relax, to feel the stress of this whole situation melt away. He double checks the lock on the front door—it’s still locked, exactly in the same position as he had left it.

He lets out a sigh of relief as he turns around, heading back into the bedroom. The adrenaline from earlier was starting to fade, leaving a pounding headache in it’s wake. He shakes his arms out, trying to dislodge the tired ache from his bones. When that didn’t work, he resolved to at least try and be a functional human being by taking a shower.

As he passes his bed, he lifts the hem of his hoodie over his head and flings the fabric onto the mattress. He had only worn the hoodie for a bit on the roof, it should e fine to keep out of the laundry. He stretches, feeling his back pop and crack as he groans.

The lights in the bathroom were still on from his check earlier, the harsh florescence sending a wave of nausea through him. His eyes squeeze shut as Icarus blindly gropes the cold tile wall for the light switch.

As the lights switch off, he cracks his eyes open and looks in the mirror. There were signs of exhaustion all over his face, the heavy purple bags under his eyes and the crinkle of tension between his eyebrows gave it away. Gods, I look like shit.

He can’t stand to look at himself any longer, instead opting to turn on the shower and step in.

The water is warm as it slides down his body. The rivulets washing away his worries and stress as they track their path down past his collarbones, his top surgery scars, his tattoos.

Icarus leans forward into the overhead stream of water, letting it run down over his head and soak his hair. The weight was almost uncomfortable, his hair had grown considerably in the months that he was out of the city. He hadn’t noticed until the strands were heavy with water. I’ll need to cut it soon, he thinks as he washes himself.

Before long, Icarus runs out of excuses to stay under the warm water. After stepping out of the shower and drying himself off in the humid air of the bathroom, he heads to the closet to throw on some clothes.

He always hated having to decide what to wear. If he could, Icarus would wear the same hoodie and shorts everyday. Unfortunately, he did have to go out in public which required real clothes and it was too damn hot in the city to wear a hoodie out of the air conditioning during the day.

Grabbing a pair of black jeans and a cut-off tank, Icarus thinks about what he’s going to do that day. After the scare of his apartment being broken into, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep. He should look at that manila envelope and piece of paper resting on his kitchen counter, but he just doesn’t want to. He needs to do something to keep him busy, keep him awake.

I can try and find leads, he thinks. Now that Icarus is back in the city, he can start digging into the leads on the Elysians that he had before leaving or even try to find new ones.

Yeah, maybe that’s what he will do. Spend the day hitting up the areas he knew would hold rumors and people who have seen too much. Then, he can end the day at the bar, grab a drink or two to help soothe him into a restless night of sleep.

Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

The sun is fully up and glaringly bright as he walks out of the bedroom into the living room. Icarus squints from the pain of the harsh light, quickly moving to close the blackout curtains he has hanging in front of the sliding glass doors.

He won’t be able to do anything with this headache, won’t be able to even think clearly once he leaves the apartment. Icarus pops a pain pill and sits down on the big comfortable chair in his living room, staring across the room to where he can see the manila envelope resting on the counter.

If he can’t go out and get information, then he should at least look at what’s in it. His legs don’t seem to get the memo, though, as he stays firmly planted in the comfortable plush of the chair. He can feel himself sink into the inky abyss of sleep in the warmth and comfort of his seat.

Icarus is so fucking exhausted. Maybe, just maybe, he should take a nap.

His eyes slowly close as his consciousness begins to fade. He’s going to be in pain when he wakes up, the position he’s sitting in and the jeans he’s wearing will make sure of it. But none of that matters as he pulls the closest blanket over his body and loses the battle with sleep.

Next Chapter: Chapter 3: The Dream