The corpse’s skin, though cold against his own, hasn’t lost it’s pigment, it’s still tan and covered in gashes and scratches and weeping burns that Grace had tenderly wiped earlier, making sure they wouldn’t get infected. Not that they could because, well, the guy’s dead...but it’s the thought that counts. He’s got freckles on his cheekbones and long, sweeping eyelashes that touch his eyebags. Not to mention the guy’s body! He’s got abs for days, his bicep is thick (he definitely worked out), and, well, Grace had had to remove his trousers to clean him. He has nice thighs.

He frowns, drifting over to his whiteboard; reads the scribbled writing about San Fran and his work and hobbies until he finds gay?

He rubs the question mark away.

Good to know.

He drifts back to the corpse. “I should probably find you some clothes, huh? Maybe a hair tie or something...?” He’s gone insane. Still, it isn’t like there’s any better company around here. “I wonder what your name is.” He brushes a stray hair from the corpse’s face. “You look like a Mark, but I can’t name you that. That’d be corpse abuse.” He chuckles to himself. “How about...hmm.” He thinks through some of the names he knows: Carl (ouch), Noah, Lars, Dean—those are all very American—Sebastian, Colt, Ken... “Ah! I’ve got it.” He cups the corpse’s face. “I’ll call you Simon. You like it?” The corpse doesn’t respond, obviously. Grace pats his cheek. “You like it.”