Someone In My Room
Author: http://gala0apples.tumblr.com
Recipient: http://exinspired.tumblr.com
Pairing: established Gavin/Meg, Ryan/Gavin/Meg, references to Ryan/Michael/Lindsay
Summary: Being a mancer means having the vision to see what can be changed with a few tweaks of reality. Unfortunately, nothing can change the surprise of being bought by complete strangers, or the cliche of growing to like them.
Warnings: Set in a magical world where slavery is the norm. All sex is consensual though. Necromancy and mild self harm related to necromancy rituals.
WordCount: 12 923
Ryanâs not insane yet. Heâs pretty happy about that fact. A lot of people in his line of work do go insane. Itâs a health hazard, like cops getting shot or chefs getting burns. Itâs something his curatores donât understand. Ryan canât count the number of times heâs heard âlet someone else do itâ, like his career is something unsanitary or wrong. Like nearly forty five percent of Americans donât plan on using his services, a number that goes up exponentially with each decade. Youth of this generation may or may not be a lot of things, but one everyone can agree on is that theyâre communicative.
Ryanâs not insane, but sometimes he feels like it. Thereâs this quote, that insanity is doing the same thing over again and expecting different results. As far as textbook definitions go itâs pretty bullshit, but thereâs a kernel of truth in it. Every morning he wakes up and goes downstairs where his curatrix and curator are eating breakfast and expects to be respected, and it just never happens. There has to be something a little wrong with him that he just keeps taking it and never entertains the notion of auctioning himself. Something like two percent of Mancers stay with their curatores their whole adult lives. Everyone else knows to flee, to push their article on the mancer database to potential buyers like pedaling a resume. None of his coworkers have stayed with their curatores. Hell, Geoff left his at sixteen, the youngest youâre legally allowed to search for new owners.
After yet another sit down meal of bacon, bagels, and awkward judging silences, Ryan grabs his keys and exits through the mudroom. Ryan stops dead in the garage, turns, and walks back in. In the thirty seconds heâs been away his curatrix hasnât moved, hasnât so much as filled in another word in her crossword puzzle. Looking at her, she doesnât look devious. Looks are deceiving.
âWhereâs the car?â
She doesnât look up from her puzzle as she questions âhmmm?â
âThe car that I drive to work. Where is it?â
âYour curator went to the market. He should be back soon.â
Ryan wants to shout <i>do you want me to get fired?</i> and add some emphatic hand gestures. He carefully keeps his mouth shut for two reasons. The first is as devastating as being an hour late might be in another profession, Ryan knows nothing short of stabbing one of them could get Geoff and Lindsay to fire him. The second is that he doesnât want to hear his curatrix shout back yes. Itâs too early in the day for that kind of confrontation.
Instead of saying anything Ryan goes into the next room where he doesnât have to look at her smug face any longer. For lack of a better option -who knows how long his curator will be out- he texts Lindsay. <b>need a ride to work</b>.
The phone buzzes with a reply almost immediately. Ryanâs expecting an <b>again</b> with a hundred characters worth of question marks and exclamation marks. What it says is simply <b>sure</b>.
Like the last time, and the time before that, itâs momentarily jarring to see Lindsay alone. Thereâs no explosion of curls and cacophony of noise beside her, as there should be. With a shake of his head Ryan dislodges the errant thought. Of course sheâs alone. Michaelâs at work, just as he should be. While Ryan wonât get fired for his curatoresâ sabotage, Geoffâs hardly going to let Michael leave just to backseat drive Lindsay.
âWhat did I miss?â he questions, sliding into the passenger seat.
âYou know, even with my commute here and back, itâs not that much time. I wouldnât worry.â
Easy for Lindsay to say. Ryan shakes his head to prompt her. A lack of details doesnât mean Lindsay is right.
âUh, we got a rush client. Though that shouldnât really thrill you, since itâs your job.â Technically speaking, intake is Griffonâs job. Griffon and Lindsay are co-owners of the funeral parlour, Griffon owning the majority of it as Geoffâs proxy, since only caeca can have property. Lindsay does more of the budgeting and admin stuff.
âAnything on record for him or her?â
âJackâs not sure how powerful sheâs going to be,â Lindsay says, deadpan. Ryan provides the proper reaction; a smirk. Jackâs always asking the rest of them to guess the corpseâs status, a question that should be rhetorical except he always seems to want an opinion. Ryan only ever shrugs. The connections he and his coworkers make canât be planned, only contained.
âNo, but seriously thereâs a good chance sheâll manifest through dance. Â By all accounts it was the best way she communicated.â
Ryan makes a non-committed noise. He may or may not get assigned her depending on what other funerals are booked. If he does heâll deal, but he definitely doesnât want to show interest in her or Lindsay will use it to throw him under the bus in a second. And then heâll be stuck dancing in front of a room full of mourners, and wonât that just be the feces cherry on a crap day?
The rush clientâs name is Carmen Porter, and because the universeâs stance tends to be âwhy have a bad day when you can have a worse dayâ, Ryan does get tapped as one of the five to help her communicate. Normally doing his job isnât cause for complaint but Griffonâs intake questions rarely give false results, and Ryan knows what heâs skilled at, and what heâs not. Still, Geoff requested him, and what Geoff says goes. Her funeral starts at eleven, and with ten minutes to spare Ryan and the other four gather around her open casket.
Jack is the first to start the ritual. He grabs the woman by the armpits and pulls her stiffly until sheâs upright. Geoff steps forward next. He gathers her hair into a makeshift ponytail and shifts it in front of her. The knifeâs blade is small, little bigger than an exacto youâd buy from a Dollar Tree. Itâs more than enough to bite into Geoffâs thumb and cause blood to roll down the digit. Geoff flexes his thumb a few times to get the blood really going, ignoring the way his gaping flesh stings. Once enough blood has pooled in his palm, he presses his hand against Carmenâs bared neck. Just like a kid messing with fingerpaints, a solid thumb and palm complete with creases and whorls is printed on her skin.
Michael is the second person to add his blood, index and palm. He doesnât hesitate, despite being the only one at Achievement Funeral Home to have accidentally sliced a tendon more than once. Come to think of it, the lack of hesitation is probably the reason for the intermittent need to hire a musculmancer. Jeremy cuts into his middle finger, Ryan offers the blood of his ring finger, and Jack slices into his pinky while Michael holds Carmen in place. All together theyâve created a full handprint of blood on her neck. But thatâs only the first step. And while cutting your own flesh might be more daunting, the next is a stark reminder of consequences.
At time of death, every American body has a vial of blood drawn from it. Some countries do things differently, but ever since Moore VS Bailey the states have a legal mandate to provide the family with a vial. What they do with it is up to them, but in most cases if itâs not dropped in the trash it ends up in the hands of a necromancer. Geoff breaks the seal of Carmenâs vial and distributes the five sterile swabs, keeping one for himself. Ryan paints his lips in her blood, as do his coworkers. Standing in a sort of circle they kiss each otherâs temples. The magicked blood wonât turn brown and flake until sheâs at rest. Itâs as much a warning sign for the corpse trying to struggle to stay as it is the kindling of communication.
Kindling is the right word. The fire of delivering her final message isnât there yet. Thatâs later. Now is about other senses. The taste of the end of a life on his lips. The smear of a mouth on a friendâs head. The reality of death and the fact that everyone has things they couldnât or didnât say when theyâd have to face reactions. All these things are combustibles piling up. And just like the smell of smoke appearing before any bonfire plumes upwards, Ryan can feel her.
It takes a certain type of mancer to want to communicate with the dead. A disreputable type, if you ask his curatores. They tried over and over again to stop him pledging himself to necromancer training, but a mancerâs path is not for a curatore to choose. Ryanâs got a space in his head where dead people fit, and one of the few rights he has as a mancer is to let that space expand.
Sheâs there, stretching a little as they wait to be cued into the services room, the mental equivalent of being bored while in line and raising onto your tiptoes and back down. Or at least that what being possessed feels like to him. Jack calls it a drop of dye diffusing in water. Geoff says the dead entering his mind feels more like raw egg thickening in a hot pan. Ryan can make sense of all his friendâs metaphors, but it always feels like fidgeting to him.
Eventually Griffon informs them of their full service room, and sends them on their way. Ryan stands and hoists his section of the low quality pine coffin. Itâs not now or never, that moment was passed when blood was shed. Itâs only now, now.
There are generally three ways a funeral communications consultant gets brought in. Occasionally there are one offs, like the time a cop requested their services in order to get final clues about the corpseâs murder. But primarily, either the person will put it in their will, they didnât specifically refuse it in their will and the family wants it, or the person is completely neutral but the family doesnât do enough research and their loved one is brought to a FCC funeral home. Those last are the most awkward, and thankfully entirely Griffonâs problem.
Ryan would guess this group of mourners are column one. Some look distinctly uncomfortable to see necromancers walking in the casket. Millennials or not, not everyone is fond of âthe darkest visionâ. He doesnât have long to read the crowd though. Sitting in the provided chair, the eulogy begins to stir her. Each word makes Carmen fidget more, mental movements bigger until itâs lunges and charges. Their words arenât <I>right</i>, they canât be the last things <I>said</i>, it canât stand!
Ryan lets her win, then. Sheâs shoving and leaping at him but itâs still his choice. That control is the only thing that keeps a necromancer sane, prevents the body from being subsumed. Ryan gives himself to her, this dead woman he never knew, and sees through eyes that arenât quite his anymore that so have his four coworkers.
The first instant of true communication is always a beautiful thing. This girl, as her report said she might be, is a dancer. She takes his body as though itâs her right, takes the five of them, and choreographs her story.
He canât tell if his dancing is beautiful. Heâs a necromancer, not a spatiumancer; heâs not watching himself. And he lacks the knowledge to judge contemporary dance anyway. What he does know is his dancing is necessary. This dance is the last thing Carmen will ever impart on the world, and whether or not the audience of mourners is interpreting it correctly, Ryan can tell sheâs relieved to have this moment.
Finally sheâs done flinging their bodies around the service room. She lets them sit down again, or in Ryanâs case, collapse. His thighs burn, and he knows heâll be feeling this dance all over by tomorrow. His chest is heaving in attempt to reoxygenize himself. Meanwhile Jeremy is motionless beside him. Acrobatic motherfucker. He can feel Carmenâs scorn for his lack of athleticism, which is truly unfair. Blame Lindsay for assigning him this funeral, instead of the two pm funeral for the slam poetry car crash victim. Still, Ryan tries to calm his breathing. Wouldnât do to have a gasping necromancer steal the attention from the next speech giver. Itâs not like he can just slink out. It has to be them that carries the coffin, to seal it. Otherwise sheâll come into her body again, and burn there, instead of going to the beyond.
His fingers spasm for a moment when last words are said and Griffon opens the double doors to direct people to the reception room. Carmen understands that itâs nearly over for her, and sheâs not ready. Ultimately, no one ever is. Thatâs a lesson Ryan learned a decade ago. But she lets him stand, and lets him put his scabbed hand on the basic pine box that hosts her corpse, so itâs less resistance than heâs faced in the past. Flexing his fingers around the thin railing rips open the scab, as it should. No one wants to cut their hand twice in one day.
Ryan hefts up his section of the coffin and once the others have theirs, begins the slow march to the crematorium. The bereaved havenât paid the extra fee for the pyre, so cremator it is. Frankly Ryanâs happy about it. Family and friends rarely seem to factor in how much a burning body smells until the corpse is lit and theyâre coughing into their black handkerchiefs. Not only that, but thanks to Juan VS Oregon five years ago, pyres are only allowed to be lit for two hours, to protect the surrounding woodland from being depleted. Itâs rare a two hour open air pyre actually destroys the bones, so if that choice is made it only has to go in the oven once the family has left. Thereâs little Ryan dislikes more than trying to get all of a charred corpse into a wheelbarrow.
***
Funeral receptions are generally a bit of an uneasy time for necromancers, and Carmenâs is no exception. Itâs not fair to say that what they donât tell you about summoning a dead spirit is that when it leaves, the space it occupied doesnât suck closed. They <i>do</i> tell you. It just doesnât seem real until the first time you feel stickily, gapingly open. Ryan keeps finding himself unconsciously tilting his head, like that will get the feeling out of his brain. What he -and Michael and Geoff and Jack and Jeremy- need is grounding. What heâs not going to get while thereâs a room full of a hundred mourners is grounding. Geoff understands it, of course, and heâs the boss in everything but name. Unfortunately heâs of the opinion that itâs better for business if the necromancers of any given ritual can be interacted with post ceremony, and that no necromancer has ever died of waiting a few hours for proper grounding. Where that leaves all of the Achievement Funeral Home staff is munching on a dainty or two and performing whatever comfort rituals will get rid of their questionably psychosomatic mental trauma.
Of course, where that <i>also</i> leaves everyone is surrounded by others who have the same problem. Michael sidling up to him, mindlessly tugging on the edge of the toque he put on the second they put Carmen down and the blood flaked off is nearly standard operating procedure.
âRye, you wanna hang out?â
âHang out or get grounded?â Heâll come to the Tuggey house for either, heâs really got no interest in going back home at this moment, but itâs important to know whether theyâll be playing videogames or reminding themselves theyâre alive. Itâs another reason his curatores hate his choosing necromancy. The majority of mancy  types donât require grounding afterwards, and everyone knows sex is the number one form of grounding, eating a meal ingrained with memories a distant second. His curatores donât appreciate him âchoosing to be a slutâ.
Michael swoops in then. He curls one hand around the far side of Ryanâs skull, and kisses the side facing him. Itâs obviously his answer, and one that Ryan will happily take. Most of the mancers just get with their significant others. Ryan has no doubt that Michael and Lindsay love each other best, but he never feels like an outsider in a bad way when they invite him into their home.
âCatch you in a bit, then,â Ryan replies to the wordless answer. Bad enough that he was late this morning and made Lindsay take a bit of time off to come get him. He sure the hell isnât talking Lindsay and both into leaving work early to get into bed. Geoffâs stance of suffer through it will just have to stand as gospel.
A brunet approaches Ryan as the reception is winding down. âWhat time do you get off work?â
Despite his discomfort, Ryan wants to laugh at the bold cliche of it all. It takes a certain kind of audacity to hit on someone at a funeral. That said, the accented man has acknowledged that he works here, which means heâs fully aware Ryanâs a mancer. Itâs been frustrating in the past, when other mancers have made a move on him. Since mancers are only allowed to marry and procreate with caeca, anyone looking for a long term relationship knows better than to start what canât be finished. But this man is available, is attractive, and is self confident enough that Ryan will probably be able to enjoy some verbal sparring. So why not say yes? Ryan had a plan of grounding himself with Lindsay and Michael after work, but they wonât miss him. Not really. A large hearty meal will do almost as well as sex could have, and might end in a second date, instead of going out into the cold alone.
âYou gonna take me out for coffee?â If the Brit says yes Ryan will just lightly correct him. Not only is that not enough substance, he gets his caffeine from Diet Coke, not coffee. The important thing is that he relates that heâs up for this.
âWot? No. Have to know what time to take you home. Your new keeper, arenât I?â
A sweat breaks out over Ryanâs skin. âWhat? What are you talking about?â
âYou donât know? I put a bid in on the database and your curatores accepted it. Youâd think thereâd be an app for that. You probably had your phone off during the funeral so they couldnât call you. Yeah. Gavin Free, youâre Ryan, and tell me what time to come bring you home.â
The next ten minutes are kind of a blur. Somehow he gets Gavin to leave. Somehow, despite the heaving of his stomach he doesnât actually throw up all over everything. Somehow he gets away from all these stupid mourners who only want him for his talent and into a private room surrounded by only his friends. Somehow he doesnât fucking die.
âMaybe itâll be good,â Jeremy offers, rewetting the cloth that had just been on the back of Ryanâs neck. âYouâve complained about your curatores not respecting you. Maybe heâll be cool.â
âNot all of us are owned by someone who only wants a second income to cover the rent.â Literally the only thing Matt wants of Jeremy is someone to play Minecraft with.
âLook, buddy. It sucks. You want a drink?â
Ryanâs never accepted any of Geoffâs well meaning offers of intoxication, but he could almost accept now. The only thing thatâs stopping him is his incredibly low tolerance. Heâs not Geoff or Griffon, he doesnât know how long itâll take him to sober up. The only thing he can think of thatâs worse than integrating himself into the household of a man who didnât even tell him he was making a bid, is doing so drunk. Thereâs a thousand things that could go wrong, and heâs just not reckless enough to doom himself like that.
âNo booze,â he moans. Fuck knows how heâs going to get through the rest of his day, but it wonât be that.
Itâs almost annoying, how well meaning everyone acts for the rest of the afternoon. Ryanâs had occasional bouts of jealousy towards his coworkers since starting at AFH. His warlock brood, heâs actually heard his curator say recently, like that word isnât a slur youâre not allowed to say on television. Sure, theyâre all mancers, equal in the eyes of the government and society at large. When you pull in in scope though, Michael, Geoff and Jack have all married their keepers, and Jeremy and Kdinâs keepers are more like roommates. The only thing Jeremy actually <I>does</i> for Matt is keep him up to date on vitamins so he doesnât die of scurvy thanks to his horrendous diet. Lindsay and Michael have the best give and take of anyone Ryan knows, and Ryan canât help but feel like Jack would dote on Caiti even if he wasnât a mancer and she his keeper. And then, there he is on the other side of a wide gulf, twenty eight and still with his curatores, who by all accounts should have never claimed him, considering the ever present disdain. Or, there he was. Now heâs got his first keeper, and the law of averages says heâs probably fucked. Caeca/mancer relationships range from spectacular to abusive, and if everyone he knows has a great one, the odds say heâll be the one in ten desperately peddling himself on the database for a higher bidder, a better person. Yet everyone wonât shut up about âdonât freak out yet, you donât knowâ, and âthings could be great, wait and seeâ.
Gavin comes back at five. Evidently Ryan did tell the truth in the blur that was getting the foreign man away from him. Well, reprieve over. Time to find out what the next who knows how long of his life will be like. Point the fucking first, heâll apparently have to deal with an absence of relevant details. With Gavin is a woman who looks like a professional model. Big boobs, heart shaped ass, hair that has some sort of professional alteration, whether itâs dye or pilimancy. Is he going to be co-owned? At this point itâs safer to assume so. Besides, whatâs the alternative? That heâs being resold to a caeca with specific tastes, that Gavinâs merely a redistributor of special mancers to particular clients? That way weird things lie. Ryan would really rather just be owned by two people.
Itâs a silent death march to the car. Or at least it is for Ryan, maybe these two are naturally quiet. If thatâs what the next years will be like, will it be tense or soothing? Ryan canât tell yet.
Itâs not until heâs buckled in the back seat and theyâve taken off to locations unknown that the woman looks in the rearview at him. âHi. Whatâs your name?â
The question is telling, depending on if itâs legitimate or not. She should already know, his file on the national mancer database has details a lot more uncomfortably personal than merely his name. If she doesnât know, what does that mean? That Gavin is so impulsive he doesnât even text his significant other a link to the profile of the mancer heâs about to buy? That sheâs profoundly apathetic, or has a bad memory? That they donât care because theyâre going to go the dehumanising route and donât plan to use it?
âItâs Ryan.â
âCool. Thatâs what your last own- your curatores said you went by, but who knows how much choice you were given.â
Implies disdain for lack of choice. A good sign, if he can trust it.
âWe asked your curatores if you had any stuff we should come pick up, but they said legally you donât own anything. You, uh... you okay with that?â
Ryan shrugs slightly, tempering his reluctance to reply with the possibility of upset if he doesnât respond to direct questions. He knows Texas law, how different states and countries view the apocalyptic warning about mancers and property put down centuries ago. Is he surprised his curatores are going hardline about the legalities, despite his bedroom full of stuff? Heâd like to say yes, but no. Heâs really not.
âWeâll get you gear, but first things first. Tell me everything about Carmen.â
Ryan doesnât know what to make of Gavinâs demand. âWhat? You attended, didnât you? You saw what happened when we rose her.â
âI saw what was shown, yeah. But that doesnât mean I know what she said in your head.â
âShe didnât say anything. It doesnât work like that.â
âHalf the people that die give last speeches!â Gavin protests.
âYes, I know. In the position to know, arenât I? But they donât recite them to me. They donât practice a rough draft. I hear what they say when you hear it. And that wasnât even what she did!â
âIâll find out all of it,â Gavin vows. Threatens? Either way, Ryanâs not happy.
âAll due respect, if the only reason you bought me was so Iâd give you super elite information you might as well sell me back. Thereâs nothing more.â
Gavin has no comment. Meg doesnât say anything either. Itâs a stone quiet ride, and for the whole of it Ryan wavers back and forth on whether or not they will return him as useless goods. In the end though, they pull onto a cheery street called Orangegrove Court, and drive halfway around the little roundabout before pulling into a driveway. The garage door opener Meg clicks is proof that they own this place, that heâs not getting dropped off somewhere worse.
Meg and Gavinâs house is large and well maintained. Ryan would even bet they have professional landscapers. Heâd play âbet how long before that task gets outsourced to free labourâ except why depress himself now? Later is surely full of depression. As heâs taking in the stainless steel and the hardwood floors, Gavin storms off. Ryan inwardly winces, but keeps a vacant expression. Meg knowing heâs unsettled probably isnât a good thing.
Thereâs a chair at the kitchen table with a kidsy hoodie draped over it. Meg picks it up and shucks it on, then drops into the seat. She nudges the chair next to hers out further, a clear invitation to sit. Ryan takes the seat, partially because standing when she wants him to sit isnât the hill to die on, and partially because heâs legitimately exhausted and sitting is a fucking blessing.
âLook, Iâm sorry heâs being a jerk, but he does have a reason.â From a friend that statement would get swiftly rebuffed. Asshole is a way of life, ask Geoff. Thereâs no way in hell Ryanâs daring snark with Meg. Still she clearly wants some sort of prompt. He stares at her until she goes on. âHeâs a filmmaker. He was doing a doc about Carmenâs dance troupe. There are a lot of holes right now, that only she could have put together. Without new info heâll have to reframe the story.â
The fact that sheâs willing to explaining things means thereâs a chance of reciprocal communication. Gavin is obviously completely irrational -how the fuck is it his fault that Gavin didnât do his interviews in the right order- but she might not be. Hoping for better luck the second time around, he rebroaches the subject.
âI canât do what he wants. Iâm not being ornery, or attempting a power play for more perks, or whatever he thinks. Not to mention I donât even know if you have perks, Iâve been here all of five minutes. I just really canât.â
âItâs fine, Gavinâs just freaking out. My expectations are a lot more manageable.â
That remains to be seen, Ryan thinks but knows better than to say. Reasonable is a prism of a word, different from different angles.
âOff the top of my head Iâve got six requests-â Oh, is that all, Ryan thinks, âand Iâll screen anything Gavin might come up with.â
Ryan listens without protest as Meg lists off the things she requires of him. Thereâs a remote possibility heâll be able to half ass, or completely dismiss some of these orders. What wonât get him anywhere is arguing them. He even takes the revelation that heâll be sleeping in the same room as Meg to prevent her night terrors completely stonefaced. Who wants a bed? Not fucking him, apparently.
âWhat do you need?â
Ryan has no clue how genuine the question is. For all he knows theyâre hardline Norman Prophecyers too, and his correct answer is supposed to be ânothing mamâ. His saving grace is that his calling really does require certain things of keepers and he has every right to demand them. âI need one of three things; either a car of my own, access to a car during standard work hours, or money to rideshare. Showing up sporadically, or late, is not an option for me.â
âFair enough.â
âI need full cupboards too. I need to eat large dinners practically every day. Otherwise Iâll become untethered, and that doesnât bode well for your investment.â
âYeah, okay. Weâre kind of big on eating out, as you can see,â Meg gestures to the counter, where a huge paper bag with a restaurant logo printed on it sits. âBut Iâll go buy some shit, or sign up for Blue Apron or something. Iâll make it work.â
âGood. Thanks,â Ryan tacks on only a smidge belatedly.
âSo, I guess go get yourself settled? Go make your bed, maybe. The sheets are easy to find, itâs just a bead curtain.â
Taking that as his dismissal, Ryan goes searching for the spare bedroom. Or maybe the realtor marketed it as the mancer bedroom. Itâs a pretty common real estate tactic, to make the potential homeowner feel big and rich, by suggesting that soon theyâll need a room to house the mancer they managed to purchase. The second floor is as charming as the open plan first floor, real interior decorator shit. Neutral coloured walls with brightly coloured furniture that pops. Framed posters intermingled with other more professional art so nothing comes off as childish. Coming off his curatorsâ love of butter yellow and blue gingham and paintings of wheat itâs a pleasant change.
Nice aesthetics doesnât change the fact that everythingâs fucking upside down now, though. To think in a world where heâs a little more lucky, a world where the status quo hasnât changed, he would have Michaelâs thighs enveloping his head right now. But no, the universe decides to rock the boat and replace his awesome rimming with awkwardness and linen cupboards. And why the fuck is he digging for sheets anyway? According to his new orders, heâs not going to be sleeping in his own bed anyway.
***
âYouâre having cereal?â Meg asks. Itâs the first thing sheâs said to him today, despite waking up at approximately the same time in the same bed.
âI wasnât aware I had a restricted diet.â Ahh, to walk the fine line between outward respect and internal fuck you. Ryan knows it well. One thing that hasnât changed between his past and current owners, at least.
âHuh? No, itâs not that. Before bed I did some necromancy research. Full stomachs are really important. I just donât see one bowl of cereal getting you there.â
âItâs not the fullness aspect, I donât know what site you were reading. Itâs that foods trigger strong memories. Smell goes through your olfactory bulb, which is so close to the hippocampus and amygdala that it ends up putting you back in sync with your brain.â Damn right Ryan knows his neurobiology. âCereal could work just fine, if itâs a brand I ate as a kid, or with a best friend for dinner. And it doesnât matter now anyway. Itâs a post-work thing, not a pre-work thing.â
âOkay, thatâs fine. Just saying, we have eggs.â
Ryan sits at the table, spooning in the slowly softening Rice Krispies, saving the banana slices for last. He looks up a few times at Meg, whoâs busy cooking poached eggs, but looks down each time. It doesnât really matter where Gavin is, as long as heâs not here in the room making absurd demands of him.
âWhat time do we need to leave?â
âWe,â Ryan states.
âYeah, for now at least. Weâll probably start saving for a second car, but we canât just get one right now.â
Ryan nods. They know what his salary trust is, itâs listed on the mancer database with all his other pertinent information. His salary is proof of supply and demand not always relating properly. Thereâs lots of supply of dead bodies and tons of demand for his time, yet heâs not raking in millions. If the Turney-Frees are waiting on his trust for enough money for a car itâs gonna be a while. âWe should leave by nine.â
The drive is quiet, relatively speaking. Meg plays a playlist synced from her phone. Ryanâs fairly sure itâs a video game soundtrack, not just lyricless techno. They donât talk, just listen to the synth. If it was anyone else, Ryan would ask for confirmation of his suspicions, but sheâs his keeper, and heâs known for her for twelve hours. A video game title is not worth sticking his neck out.
The moment Ryan steps through the door of Achievement Funeral Home heâs swarmed. Common decency might say heâs overwhelmed and needs alone time, both space in which he can be left and peace after who knows how many orders the night before. Luckily his friends arenât burdened by such difficult attitudes as decency.
âHow was it?â
âHow were <i>they</i>?â
âWhat do they want from you?â
âAre you safe?â
Itâs Geoffâs question that gets the rest of them to shut up for a moment. Truly no point in not filling the silence, though. Itâll only get worse if they think heâs too traumatized to speak. âTheyâre no Matt.â
âMost caeca arenât Matt,â Jeremy comments.
Heâs right, as far as it goes. It takes an odd sort of brain to invest deeply in purchasing a mancer because theyâll one day pay off their own purchase and start making money. But Ryan doesnât care about Jeremyâs weird financial deal, and neither does anyone else. âI have fucking chores. Like Iâm damn ten. Gavinâs kind of a pretentious filmmaker asshole.â Ryan decides to not tell them that he fucked up his keeperâs film. Thatâll just make them act like they did yesterday, annoyingly over-reassuring.
âSucks, man.â
âYeah. So now that youâve all seen I havenât been beaten to within an inch of my life, can we do our job? Do any of you know who the client is?â
Itâs not accurate to say that being a necromancer gets repetitive. Itâs like any job that involves a lot of interaction with people; daycare teacher, nurse, social worker. Sure there are the basic tenets of the job that you have to follow every day, but there are always huge chunks that are completely unique which make for good stories that youâre not technically supposed to tell for confidentiality reasons, but probably do. Then again, there are also the days where nothing particularly memorable happens, and the biggest moment of the day is going home and watching your favourite prime time show. In direct contrast to Carmen being a part of his life falling apart yesterday, Sam Torini bitchily gets in the last word on a spat heâs been having with his uncle for a decade, a spat which means absolutely zip to Ryan. Heâs still left with a sticky clinging hollow when the man leaves his head, itâs the nature of necromancy, but beyond that, nothing interesting.
Though Ryan had had a car for a long time, as a mancer it was a very nominal kind of possession. Heâs had to wait on rides more times than he can count. When Ryan gets bored on any given sidewalk he starts to play street games. Inevitably every sidewalk has stains. Splatters of juice or beer bottles carelessly thrown out windows, quarter sized circles of gum turned hard and black by a thousand shoes. The stains never change, always change, they hide under the leaves in the fall but spring melt cannot wash anything away. Ryan tries to find shapes in them, objects, like an adult version of examining the clouds, looking down instead of up. When that gets old he follows the endless cracks, the bigger filled by black lightning lines of tar. He looks at the scattered cigarette butts and imagines playing pick up sticks with them. Ryanâs nearly positive thereâs no such thing as sidewalk-mancy -what would that even be, tramesmancy?- but sometimes when heâs a combination of introspective and annoyed he wonders how much different his life would be if heâd chosen that instead.
The red four door eventually pulls into the large parking lot, just about when Ryanâs moved from considering calling one of his coworkers to pick him up to actually getting his phone out. Ryan climbs in and does up his seat belt while Meg launches into an explanation. âSorry. I was trying this tutorial for jacket boning and every time I screwed it up and had to stitch rip, impatient-me pulled the âjust one more tryâ card, until it was like five freakin tries, the fabric was totally perforated, and I was super late. Sorry, really.â
âItâs fine,â he says evenly when it becomes obvious sheâs waiting for a response. What does she think heâs going to do, complain?
âWhen I was a kid there used to be this program called Dinner and a Movie. Theyâd play a movie, but interspersed through the movie, before commercial breaks theyâd give you steps on how to make a theme dinner based on the movie. Like The Godfather and pasta. I was thinking you could pick a movie and Iâll cook something?â
âOkaaay?â Ryan answers, confused. Thereâs no reason to say no, itâs just weird. Itâs not what he expected from one of the people who bought him without even speaking to him first.
Meg risks their lives to twist in the driverâs seat and look at him. âYou alright? You sound out of it. Did the client mess with you?â
âEyes on the road!â
âRyan-â
âIâll talk if you watch the road,â he hastily bargains.
âFine, fine.â
âThey always mess with you. Thatâs sort of the point of it.â
âNo, the point is final communication. Isnât it?â
âYeah. I mean- Yeah. But thatâs never gonna not mess with you. All mancers see how to alter the things that are, right? Thatâs why weâre mancers and youâre caeca. Being a necromancer means that what you see is the hole inside yourself. The place that another person can fit, temporarily. Itâs like blowing up a balloon inside a tube. It fits, until it doesnât, and that sudden <i>doesnât</i> is a noticeable change. Itâs just the balloon can talk. Or something. I probably donât make any sense.â
âNo, I get it,â Meg offers. And Ryan doubts she does, really, but he appreciates her attempt. Itâs more than his curatores ever did.
Ryan thinks about it for a few minutes to the jaunty tune of instrumental music before the meal thatâd hit the spot bubbles up. âHave you ever seen The Blues Brothers?â
âYeah?â
âThen you know what I want. Do you know how to cook it?â
Meg snorts. âI know how to order fried chicken at a drive through, but Iâll figure it out.â
Meg turns into the next supermarket parking lot. She parks the car, then grabs her phone out of the cup holder and opens a cooking app. Ryan doubts she had it last night, if the stack of takeout containers in the garbage is anything to go by. Meg flips through a few variations on the theme before announcing âwe need to go to Kohlâs when weâre done here. I donât actually have a deep fryer.â
âHuh, youâre really going all out.â
Meg shrugs. âYouâre fixing the drain. The least I can do is make you meals. Nothing with beets though, I hate those.â
âI think I can live a beet free existence.â It takes a second, but curiosity gets the best of him. âWhy beets?â
âWhen I was younger one of my sisters told me they were cut out hearts and I totally bought it. I just canât shake the ick, no matter how grown up I am.â
***
The next few weeks are like that; a combination of work being base standard, Meg performing random kindnesses towards him, Gavin essentially ignoring him, and chores once he gets home. In actuality though, the orders shake out fairly reasonably. Ryan might not mind them, if he had any sort of choice about doing them. The most demeaning is the drain work. Both of his keepers are heavily haired, Gavin with a beard and a wide thatch on his chest, Meg midback with extensions. The two of them shed almost as much as their pets. Meanwhile the house has terrible plumbing, and drains that back up if you so much as breathe on them. Itâs his duty to patrol and clear the drains each time someone cooks or does dishes or showers. Beyond that, everything else is basic household upkeep, things expected of a roommate, not demanded of a mancer.
Things change drastically three weeks in. It starts with Ryan waking up suddenly. The absence of hair on his bare shoulders clues him in. Megâs gone. For a few minutes he stays unconcerned. She has to pee, so what? Itâs when her absence drags on that he starts getting uneasy. No midnight piss takes this long. Could this be a test? One of his tasks is to stay with her all night. Maybe she wants to see how long itâll take him to realise heâs not performing to the proper standard. And if thatâs it- shit. Even grade schoolers know failing tests is a bad thing. There havenât been any punishments or degradations yet, but then, heâs been doing his tasks. The stark truth of being a mancer; you never really know your owners until you disappoint them for the first time.
Intent on saving his own ass, Ryan hurries out of bed. He searches the house room by room, naked because if he finds Meg while clothed sheâll think he wasnât irrationally frantic about her wellbeing. The more of a show he can put on, the better off he might be. Soon the only room left is Gavinâs quarters. Itâs an office with a bed or a bedroom with hundreds of thousands in equipment, depending on who you ask. Ryanâs been told not to go in, but Gavinâs barely interacted with him in the last three weeks. When weighing the active threat of Meg testing him to the potential threat of Gavin finding out heâs gone inside, Ryanâs going with the real problem.
Heâs not expecting the sight he sees when he opens the door. Despite it being four am, Gavinâs awake, sitting on his bed. Heâs got his laptop balancing half on a pillow, half on a thigh. Rather than lounging comfortably against the grey tufted headboard heâs arched to the side like some yoga bullshit that hurts more than it helps. Meg is curled deeply into an arm.
âMmmm, you did come look for me,â Meg murmurs sleepily.
âTold you he would.â Gavinâs voice, soft and sweet towards his girlfriend hardens a little once itâs aimed at him. âShe had a nightmare. You were asleep, so she came to me.â
Oh Jesus fucking shit. This is the kind of shit mancers get sold off for. âIâm- Iâm sorry-â he canât say why the hell didnât you wake me up, that implies it isnât his fault. âI wish Iâd woken up sooner. Sorry, seriously, so sorry. Is there anything I can do now?â She seems almost asleep, surely she doesnât want to get out of the warm spot to go back to the other bedroom.
âCâmeâre.â
Ryan steps as close as he can to her, shins hitting the bedframe.
âShe means get in, you mong. Give her a rub.â
Megâs laying on her side with her face smashed against Gavinâs ribcage. The best Ryan can do is lay down low on the mattress and stroke his hand up her thigh and hip, then back down again.
Ryan is the last to fall asleep. Meg drifts off first, and Ryan makes sure to keep up the soothing petting, just in case thatâs what got her there. Despite it all, he doesnât want her to have nightmares. Gavin is next, his spooning relaxing as his muscles no longer hold. His laptop topples off his pillow and Ryan breathes a sigh of relief when it stops short of falling off the bed. As for himself, Ryan tries to hold on to consciousness. It would really suck to get dinged twice in one night for the same mistake. Yes there werenât really any consequences the first time he fucked up, but maybe they were just too sleepy to care.
Fatigue is a battle thatâs impossible to win, however. Before he knows it heâs struggling to keep his eyelids up. Heâs in his undies, and against best judgement Ryan grabs a throw flung over the footboard and covers himself. Not to fall asleep in, of course. Just to warm his goosebumped skin.
He wakes to the gentle rhythm of the bed jostling. He cracks open one eye to make sense of it, and rapidly opens the other when his brain clues in. In general Megâs clothes havenât left much to the imagination, and despite Ryan trying to be careful with his hand placement, snuggling someone for weeks straight clues you in to the feel of them. What he previously would have considered first hand knowledge pales in the face of this experience. Megâs on her back, sleep boxers nowhere to be seen, no doubt flung across the room. Her shirt is rucked up over her breasts. The way that Gavinâs hands and body are technically covering her do nothing for modesty.
âOh, youâre up,â Meg notices eventually.
âBeen watching long?â Gavin smirks. Or he tries to, at least, but heâs been fucking Meg long enough that his mouth is a little too open-mouthed panting for a true smirk. The attitude should rub Ryan the wrong way, like it has the few interactions theyâve had so far. Maybe it does, a little. Thereâs also no denying that he could have left the room, or if he was too concerned about orders to stay with Meg to move, at least close his eyes. Instead he knows what it looks like when Gavin bites Megâs chest, and wants to return the favour.
âWhat if I have?â he asks defiantly.
âThen Iâd say weâre not asking you to do this. Letâs get that clear. But weâre telling you we wouldnât say no.â
In the dim light of sunlight peering past a blackout curtain itâs easy to dismiss the reasons this could be a mistake. So without giving it a second thought, Ryan rolls onto his back and raises his hips until he can slide off his boxers. That should a pretty clear statement of intent.
Gavin pulls out of Meg to rest on his haunches. He dramatically gives Ryan a head to toe once over. Ryan doesnât squirm. He may lack agency in a lot of areas of his life, but in bed he knows exactly how to feel on top. The more people interested by him, the better. Gavin must appreciate the confidence, because the next thing he does is swoop down to grab Ryan by the neck and pull him up into a kiss. If itâs a test itâs one Ryan passes easily. Gavin doesnât have the freshest morning breath, but heâs good with his tongue and itâs been a month since Ryan last touched someone with the goal of intimacy. How could he not react enthusiastically?
âAny ideas?â Gavin prompts him the moment they separate. âAnything you want to bring to the table?â
Megâs take on the question is a bit kinder, unsurprisingly. âWhatâs your favourite thing to do?â
Well, if heâs doing this, might as well do this fully. âSit on my face.â
âWho? Me?â Meg gestures.
âSure,â Ryan says amicably. He is an equal opportunist when it comes to eating out. Whoever claims his tongue first can have it.
To Ryanâs delight, she takes him literally. With a slow and sexy shuffle overtop Gavin, breasts pressing firmly against him, she winds up planting a knee on either side of Ryanâs head. She lowers herself down and as she does, naturally spreads wider. Itâs a fucking glorious sight, her cunt looming in closer and closer, flushed red. Thereâs a fucking reason Ryan loves eating people out. Well, okay, there are a few, but one this is; the purely hedonistic sight of sexual areas so close up. Meg finishes her descent and suddenly sight is gone, replaced by other senses. Smell and taste are the important ones now.
Except he canât actually taste. Itâs like a bullshit porno, sex that looks good from an angle but does nothing for the participants. From Gavinâs perspective it probably looks sexy and fantastic. From Ryanâs itâs not good. Meg is just barely in contact with him. Sheâs holding herself up, and whatâs he supposed to do with that?
Ryan uses his shoulders to shift a few inches up the mattress. Just enough so that he can talk unmuffled. âLook, I canât eat you out if you wonât put your cunt on my mouth, okay? Thatâs just basic logic.â
âIâm not trying to pull some girl shame bullshit, but I weigh some pounds. Human faces arenât meant for that weight.â
âIâm mildly horrified you think Iâm a virgin. I know exactly what my cheekbones can support, and itâs more than you think. Just fuckinâ go for it, okay?â Ryan pulls her perfect ass closer and she actually goes with the movement. The moment her lips are on his, he does his best to use his mouth the way she likes.
Ryan can feel the heat of Gavin against his side. If he had to guess Gavinâs angled behind Meg, something like kissing her neck or tickling her spine. Or maybe heâs being too much of a romantic and Gavinâs just playing with her breasts. Whatever it is, sheâs into it. Ryan can tell. And Ryan himself likes the texture of an exceptionally hairy thigh against him. Itâs been a while. Not to mention the suffocation. He really fucking likes the suffocation. He can barely breathe, and the only word for it is awesome.
Sheâs close now. Megâs grinding down on his face, increasing the pressure so much he can barely keep licking her. All he can hear is the pounding of pulses, Megâs and his own, but he imagines Gavinâs whispering filth in her ears.
When she comes, itâs more subtle than heâs expecting. She doesnât scream loud enough to be heard through her skin, or squirt like heâs opened a shaken soda bottle, both of which heâs experienced before. Instead itâs stiller. Meg clamps down. She locks in one movement, a big counter to the directed undulating sheâs been doing. She stays frozen for a ten count, and Ryan does his best to guess what she wants in that moment. Then Gavinâs supporting her climb off, like a good boyfriend who invites third parties into the room.
It always feels like a job well done, the exposure of cold air to his wet face. Victory, or something like it. That said, itâs only one part of a three part equation.
âI donât think I want you to fuck me,â Gavin says.
âThatâs fine.â Gavin exudes surprise about his easy acceptance, but why would Ryan try to demand something someoneâs not into? Thatâs shitty.
âBut, maybe, like, a finger or something. Maybe?â
âOkay,â Ryan sames in the same tone. He doesnât think he will. Gavin sounds too much like heâs trying to placate annoyance that Ryan doesnât feel.
Meg laughs a little, smile to match. âWhat Gavin isnât saying is eat him out too.â
âYou sure?â
âYep. Gavinâs got a reluctance fetish, but you donât know that, and Iâd like to get this sexy show on the sexy road, okay?â
The information strikes Ryan oddly. He doesnât know what to do with it. He imagines holding Gavin down and doing ...something undecided, and canât say if itâs hot. But thatâs really a later problem, an advanced tactics thing. Right now he has the info that he needs, that he can shove his tongue up Gavinâs ass and theyâll both like it, if for different reasons.
âWanna go wipe with a facecloth? You know, just in case?â
For a second heâs not sure if Gavinâs going to go. He seems stuck on the bed, frozen in blushing horror. Then he gets up and scurries out.
âSee?â
So maybe Ryanâs previous assumption was wrong and heâs not a dirty talker. Gavinâs apparently an innocent soul. A freakinâ blusher. Then again, how many innocent snowflakes like fake force?
He comes back into the room only about a minute later. âSo itâs fine,â Gavin says flapping a hand in the general area, âbut uh, Iâm not sure about this?â
âYeah you are, apparently,â Ryan replies. Itâs not like he wonât stop if Gavin says it and means it. That goes without saying. It just sounds like Gavin isnât prone to meaning it.
Sure enough, Gavin inches close to the bed. âHow- Where do you want me?â
Ryan considers it for a second. What heâd most enjoy is Gavin assuming the position Meg did, just directly on his face so heâs fucking smothered by it all. Thatâd be a memory he could jerk off to. It might be a bit much to ask of Gavin though. It puts him in the power position, like heâs making it happen. With an act heâs so embarrassed by -heâs still flushed- itâs too much.
âLay on your stomach,â he demand, tone a bit rougher than heâd normally go with.
Gavin does and Ryan repositions himself far lower on the bed. From where he is now, he can easily grab both of Gavinâs hairy ass cheeks and squeeze enough to make the man jump. A combination of lack of negative reaction and a glance at Megâs smiling face says heâs done well. Ryan spreads Gavinâs cheeks and lowers his head enough to lick up his crack. Then he really goes to town, burying his face for the most length of tongue he can possibly have. Heâs not reaching prostate, of course, but Gavinâs squirming like he is.
A few minutes in the man underneath him starts waving his hips from side to side like heâs trying to escape the overwhelming sensation, and Ryan has no choice but to grab him by the hips to hold him in place. It has the bonus of allowing Gavinâs asscheeks to spring closed. Or at least as much as they can be closed with a face lodged between them. Itâs the best feeling, to be surrounded, and itâs the second time this morning Ryanâs getting it.
He keeps his tongue going, expanding and contracting Gavinâs rim and making him crazy. And he was half right in his earlier assumption. Gavin might not be a titillating dirty talker, but he is producing amazing stream of consciousness cursing. Theyâre half muffled, and a quick look up during a gasp of breath shows why. Gavin is white knuckle death gripping one of the pillows and his face is jammed into the soft fill. Still, heâs clear enough to be heard, all the <i>oh fuck</i>s and <i>christ shit</i>s and <i>oh fuck my gob shiteing fuck</i>s. The more nonsensical they get, the more proud Ryan feels. Gavin wanted this because he didnât think he wanted it, and Ryanâs making him love it.
Megâs not soothing him. It makes sense, if this is their thing. What she does do, after a while, is coax her arm past? Ryanâs throat. He canât say for certain, but he has to guess sheâs playing with his cock. After a second Gavinâs attempted squirming and humping gets all the more hysterical. Ryan decides to go with the flow and change tasks slightly. He switches one of the hands holding Gavin to cup his balls. He tries a few different things, stroking and very lightly squeezing, but it doesnât seem to add anything to the experience for Gavin.
Undaunted by the lack of reaction Ryan moves his hand again. Actually, both. Oneâs back on Gavinâs cheek, helping the spread of flesh. The other gets in closer, a finger pressing alongside his tongue. Thereâs enough spit now that it sinks inside without real lube. Ryan doesnât even get to his prostate before thatâs all she wrote. Gavin lets out a whine of a âhaaaahâ. It raises an octave as it stretches on.
âSo what are you in the mood for?â
The question is somewhat impressive. In Ryanâs experience men are far worse at refractory periods for more sex acts than women are, and Gavin <i>just</i> came. Not only that, but given the last three weeks Ryan would put money he canât own on the fact of Gavin not caring one whit about his existence and only keeping him for Megâs sake. Even the way he was invited into bed lends proof to it. Reciprocating an orgasm though, thatâs something Gavin doesnât have to do. Maybe heâs more interested in the third in their house than Ryanâs credited him for.
âTo fuck someone? A blowjob? Itâs not gonna take much, I donât think.â
Meg smiles at him. âIâve got the standard working.â
Ryan assumes that means theyâre about to fuck, safely. Heâs not wrong. For the second time this morning Meg is climbing on top of him, much to Ryanâs approval. From there it doesnât take long to finish. First times with someone are always exciting, and heâs been waiting the longest from onset of sexy times.
âWeâve got two showers, who wants to double up?â Gavin asks.
âNah,â Ryan mumbles. Heâs one of the aforementioned men that succumb to laziness once an orgasm hits. Heâs got to get up for work in three hours, heâs not wasting a minute of that showering.
âWell I have to go pee to prevent a UTI,â Meg laughs a little, âbut yeah, fuck showering. I wanna sleep. If you have to work, just go sit in the armchair.â Meg punctuates her statement by pulling Gavinâs bedâs blanket over Ryan. He feels it rather than sees it, eyes being dragged shut with happy exhaustion.
âNo love, Iâll sleep too.â
Ryan hears the water running a minute later, temporarily alone in the room. He doesnât last long enough to hear it shut off.
***
It comes as a huge surprise Thursday morning when Ryan gets out of the shower, gets dressed and goes to the kitchen to find not only Meg, but Gavin eating breakfast at the table. Itâs very remotely possible that he came for the eats. Sausages arenât something Megâs made before. Usually itâs some variation of eggs while she nags him to eat something more filling than cereal, never mind that Ryan habitually slices fruit into his bowl for some non-carbohydrate content. Somehow though it just seems extremely unlikely that Gavin only eats one breakfast item, Meg knows this fact, and yet hasnât bought any for three weeks.
âCome, let me pick your brain folds.â
âSausages?â Meg asks over Gavin.
âNo, Iâm gonna have cereal.â Heâs said it every day and for some reason itâs not quite annoying yet.
ââKay. I bought mango yesterday, if you wanna get creative. Otherwise itâs the usual.â
Maybe itâs that reason, the providing options thing. At his curatores house Ryan continuously had to reassert himself, and they never listened, never mind provided him with options. Megâs listening, Ryan thinks.
Gavin flails for attention. âHave durian, for all I care. But shut up about Fruity Pebbles and give me your brain.â
âOkay?â This is likely the first real conversation theyâve had. The sex ones donât count. Ryanâs not entirely sure what to expect, only that if itâs too much, Meg might step in. Itâs more reassurance than he ever had at his curatores.
âIf you found out there was a one in ten chance you could drive wherever you wanted in less than six hours, even New Zealand or Japan, even Atlantis or Sunnydale, but to do this you had to sell your home and live in your car, would you?â
âWhat?â
âExactly what I said.â
âI guess, yes? I mean, there are so many really cool places you could go, whatâs it matter that you donât have a house? Er, do you get to sleep in hotels?â
âYes,â Gavin says definitively. âYes, but you canât stay in a hotel for longer than a week, or it gets too close to a home because of routine. You have to really nomad it.â
âI still say yes, I can handle switching up hotels as long as Iâm not sleeping on a belt buckle for the next thirty years.â
âWhat if, even when you get a family, you still canât have a house? You have to raise an infant in the back seat, no height notches on the door frame or photo albums?â
âYou can have photos, itâll just be landscape pictures instead of weird portraits on the stairs. Yes, final answer. Whatâs this about though?â
Ryan digs into his breakfast and listens to Gavin explain. Turns out heâs asking people hypotheticals as research for a series of short films set in fantastical universes. Since the documentary burned him so badly, he decided to do a 180 and write the oddest fiction he could. Heâs even come up with a universe in which thereâs only one kind of mancy, instead of dozens. Ryan doesnât say it out loud, but he thinks heâll watch Gavinâs film once itâs completed. Itâs a kind of creativity Ryan doesnât have, but really appreciates.
***
Ryanâs playing a game on one of the thirty five computers Gavin owns when the man himself comes into the room. âUh,â he hesitates. This could be about anything and like any grade schooler knows, better to let the authority state the purpose than backpedal and apologise for things they might not even know happened.
âHey- Oh, that gameâs top. Well, now Iâm kind of torn.â
âWhy?â
âLike I said, that gameâs great. I know a great mod for it, I could go in the other room and we could battle.â That is an offer Ryan wasnât expecting. âBut the alternativeâs pretty top too.â
âOh yeah?â Itâs the closest heâs getting to supporting a great idea as thought by someone he barely knows but will be obliged to follow.
âWhen I thought you were just faffing about, not busy, I was going to ask if you wanted to sex me.â
âTo have sex?â
âYou know, putting stuff places til you spaff.â
âJust with you? Will Meg be okay with that?â Itâs odd. Itâs not just a bluff to try to get left alone. Ryan would happily reexperience a few nights ago but Megâs close enough to a friend that he doesnât want to hurt her.
âWas planning to get Turney next. Already know the lovely woman will get with me, itâs you thatâs the question, innit?â
Given the choice between online multiplayer and an orgasm or two, it seems pretty clear. âLetâs get Meg now, and Iâll destroy you in this game later.â
âNo you bloody wonât, but later it is.â
As she is most evenings, Megâs in her creation room. On first glance it looks like a sewing room, a serger and boxes of fabric take precedence. But cosplay takes much more than that. She has PVC pipes and resin and heat guns, not to mention about twenty styrofoam heads with wigs carefully placed. Even when sheâs not making things sheâs drumming up business with vlogging and slightly softcore photoshoots.
âHey love. Can you put the spats down and come juggle some knobs?â
Meg looks up from her project and rolls her eyes. âThatâs the least sexy thing Iâve heard all day, and Iâm reading a Mira Grant book about parasites. But sure. Youâre both cute, I think I can manage.â
She stands, and in one gliding movement takes off her shirt and starts on her bra. Itâs a good look on her, if a little startling. âHere?â
She smiles at them. âI donât see why not. Weâve already sullied it, donât tell me you donât remember.â
âOf course I remember a shag that great,â Gavin says, faux-hurt.
âJust donât come on my self-healing mat. Iâm honestly worried itâll absorb it.â
This bout of sex starts just the same way that the sex a few nights prior ended. Megâs clear favourite position is being on top, and Ryan sees no reason to deny her. She rides him furiously, ass continuously hitting his thighs with an audible smack. Ryanâs sure the pace is just as much for herself as it is for him. The way sheâs biting her lip with her eyes screwed shut says it all.
Gavinâs close to them. Not content to be a simple voyeur, heâs got his right hand on her breast, roughly thumbing her nipple. The fact that Gavinâs left is playing with her asshole is a little unusual for women, but not at all out of character for the types of sex heâs been having with them so far.
Gavin leans in and pulls her purple hair back to murmur something in her ear.
âShit yeah,â is her loud, emphatic response.
Ryan doesnât ask, trusting that at least in this moment theyâve got his best interests in mind. He just keeps his tight grip on the meet of Gavinâs thigh and lets Meg set the rhythm thatâs doing so well for the both of them. In the next minute though, she pulls off. She stays on her knees, legs spread wide to brace herself as she plays with her cunt. Meanwhile Gavin does one of the dirtier things Ryanâs had happen to him in bed.
Gavin leans down and starts sucking his dick. No, not sucking him. He very precisely starts licking Ryanâs dick. Itâs like Gavinâs trying to lap up any of Megâs juices from his cock. Only once Ryan is shivering and objectively completely licked clean does Gavin move back and Meg clamber back on top of him.
It happens twice more before Ryan comes. He expects a fourth go-over then, expects Gavin to follow the pattern. Gavin instead bares Meg to the bed and licks Ryanâs come out of her. Itâs so dirty his spent cock twitches.
***
For a while Ryan attempts to convince himself that itâs two separate impulses. He likes to hangout and spend time with Meg after work, and is equal parts amused and annoyed by Gavin, the man with the most stupid hypotheticals in the world: impulse one. He really enjoys having great sex with the pair of them: impulse two. At some point though, self illusion wears away.
Heâs at work when the last smudges of it smear off. Itâs post funeral, heâs in a room with fifty plus septuagenarians who spent the last hour listening to Ryan and his coworkers speak in the voice of Petal Purdue, queen of the card table at Willow Tree Retirement Home, and he doesnât want to be here anymore. He wants to be home, he wants to fuck Gavin and Meg and eat a ridiculously unsexy meal like ribs while theyâre still naked in bed, and for their kisses to taste like the garlic thatâs in the sauce. He wants the residue of Petal off of his aching brain, and he wants to be with his keepers, because theyâll make the gaping hole shrink closed.
It occurs to Ryan about ten seconds after he starts the conversation that he could have looked this up online. The internet has trillions of pages, surely someone has discussed this before. And honestly, probably much more concisely than Michael will. Thereâs no backing out now though, not after starting with âHey, can I talk to you about something?â Ryanâs never used that phrase once in the two years of working with him, Michael must know somethingâs up.
âYeah man, whatever.â
âHow do you deal with Lindsay owning you?â Judging by Michaelâs expression, the question sounds as annoyingly caeca-minded as it felt coming out of his mouth. âBear with me, okay?â
Michael sighs, heavily. âGimme one of those bottles of wine and Iâll let you ask whatever dumb questions you want.â
Procuring the wine is as easy as sidling up to one of the few tables that doesnât have old people sitting at it, and taking the bottle from the centerpiece. Ryan takes a goblet too, just so Michaelâs not the inappropriate man chugging directly from the bottle. Geoff woudnât fire him for it, but heâd definitely get yelled at.
âIâm not really asking how your relationship started.â At Michaelâs pointed raised eyebrows, Ryan capitulates, âI guess it sounds like it. But itâs not what I mean, not really.â
âSo what do you mean then, if you donât want the auction table origin story?â
âEvery mancer knows from the first day of people-noticing puberty that they have a limited dating pool. Genetically speaking, itâs important the world stays at equilibrium. Whether or not the Abbrams prophecy of marriage is trustworthy-â
âFuckinâ drunk,â Michael mutters. Slightly pot-kettle coming from the man on his third cup of wine in as many minutes, but on the other hand, Abbrams was a notorious alcoholic.
âWhether or not you believe the prophecy, the population needs to stay at current level, which means mancer-caeca couplings. Iâve dated before, Iâm not a fucking sadsack. And Iâm not completely dense, I get that marriage will by necessity mean being purchased. Itâs not like future hypothetical loved one would ever want to move in with my curatrix. I didnât want to move in with my curatrix, by the time I was twelve. There just seems like this huge chasm between loved then bought and bought then loved.
âThere are only so many ways to get together. Watch a few romcoms and youâll learn that fast.â Romcoms, just another place Ryan could have gone for this subject without having to talk about it. âAs far as Iâm concerned, the how is way less important than the why. Why do you want to spend time with her? Why does her laugh make you shiver? Why does she smell so good? Fuck the how, think about the why.â
âItâs that easy for you?â
âDid I fucking say it was easy? Weâre not caeca, life isnât easy for us. But given the lesser fucking choices we were deigned to be given, thatâs what it comes down to. Is the why of being with her- Or them, I guess, I assume you like both of them. Is the why of being with them more important than the how? Because if it is, fucking date the shit out of them.â
***
âBefore we have sex again I need to bring something up.â Ryan blurts it out during dinner. Maybe not the best time to have a serious conversation, but chances of someone initiating sex before Meg goes to bed and Ryan goes with are high. Over buttered peas and steak is better than once Gavinâs taken his pants off.
âGavinâs lube is too sticky and gross,â Meg offers.
âMeg should tie her hair up instead of yelling at me for accidentally pulling on it during missionary when itâs all splayed under her.â
âNeither of those. Though I guess we could talk about those things once we finish this, depending on how it goes.â Itâs not going to be necessary to talk about lube if he gets slapped down to his âproper placeâ.
âWhatâs going on?â Gavinâs cutlery is down on the placemat now, knife dripping melted butter from the way heâd been using knife and fork like chopsticks for dummies on the peas. He clearly gets that this is a conversation to pay attention to.
There are a few different ways to approach this, Ryan knows. He decides to start from the side. âSo have you guys had sex with a previous mancer youâve owned?â
âThat question supposes weâve had a previous mancer at all.â Megâs got a tone of <I>obviously</i> that Ryan doesnât appreciate.
âExcuse me. Caeca donât have a fucking database.â
âItâs no, Ryebread. Youâre our one and only.â
Ryan gestures at Gavin. âSee, that, that right there is what Iâm asking, I guess. Before we do this a bunch more, I have to know if weâre friends fooling around casually, a kinky couple using a new sexy toy, or if you like me and consider all the kitchen and den dates actual dates.â
âIt started as kink.â
âGavin!â Meg yells.
âWot! He hardly wants us to lie, does he?â
âNo. Please donât.â Thatâs one of the few ways this situation could get worse; if they committed to liking him for the continuation of sex, then bailed in a few months because the feelings werenât there, and had never been. Ryan would much rather cold honesty now, than a vast dragging out of it all.
âRyan, I donât know, Ryan. Iâd date you if I wasnât dating Meg, but two keepers on one mancer looks bad. Like weâre bullying you into it.â
Itâs a mess of an answer, not what he expected to hear. Itâs time to lay down his own messy opinion. âDo you feel like bullies? Because I havenât felt bullied. Iâve had fun, and I like you. I would date you, both, at the same time. But if we are, you have to cut out the assigned tasks and shit like that. Itâs not like I wouldnât help out around here. Obviously everyone who shares a space should pitch in. It just has to be of my own volition.â
âYou want us to keep you without having a say in your life?â
Ryan academically understands how itâs a difficult concept. Caeca are born knowing that if they get to a certain station in life, they get a mancer. Itâs a prize dangled for the ambitious. Do enough in life, accrue enough money, and youâll get the status of ownership, the right to design another personâs life. Practically, thereâs a reason why half the mancers in the world resent the apocalyptic prophecy that started this whole system of society.
âYes. Thatâs what I need, if you really want to continue the intimate part of our relationship. If you need some examples, ask practically every one of my coworkers.â
Meg looks at Gavin, and Gavin looks at Meg. Ryan really, desperately wants to look at the delicious, oily blood pool surrounding his steak and darkening his potatoes. Eye contact doesnât feel like a good thing here. But looking away shows that heâs uncomfortable with subverting societal expectations, and thatâs the wrong thing to portray. He knows it can be done, Geoff and Griffon, Michael and Lindsay, Jack and Caiti prove that. Even if it feels weird to ask, itâs what he wants.
âWeâll do it. No more sleeping with me, or helping with the plumbing.â
Ryan stretches out his arm and curls his hand around Megâs arm. âIâll snuggle because I want to, not because Iâm ordered. Itâll be better.â
âCan you not post on social media that weâre letting you do whatever you want? My parents would glack me.â
Ryan rolls his eyes at Gavin. âIâm not starting a revolution. Iâm not trying to kickstart the apocalypse. Iâm trying to get myself a boyfriend and girlfriend. Stop being dumb.â
âSucceeded.â
âYouâve succeeded in not being dumb? Iâm not sure Iâll live to see the day,â Meg jokes weakly, trying to lift the mood a little.
âNo, idiots. Succeeded in getting a boyfriend and girlfriend. Or at least I think. Kiss to seal the deal?â
For Ryan, kisses to seal the deal usually mean blood on his lips and a part of his brain torn open so a spirit can seep through. The way heâs leaning towards Meg has much less certainty in it, no centuries of history proving this is the best way to do things. But thereâs love, and life, and that feels much better.















