Chapter Text
Fuck mornings. Everyone hated mornings. Peel yourself off the bed, force some clothes onto your body, drink coffee, clean your teeth, fix your hair, and go. Every day without fail. Lars was convinced he was getting old- this routine was getting harder and harder by the day- but, at 33 years old, he still had just a bit to go until he could retire. His friend Gunner always said maybe he wouldn't be ageing so quickly if he smoked less. Lars always replied that Gunner was a pussy.
Sometimes mornings could be nice. The first time you wake up with a new lover by your side. The first day of the holidays. The morning you sit up and you remember today is the day you'll finally meet an old friend you've missed.
Those mornings are good.
But then there are the bad ones. Hangovers. The emptiness on the other side of the bed after a breakup, the lack of warmth so present it's practically solid. The pounding of your heart after a nightmare. And, of course, this morning. This morning was just ridiculous.
He didn't even register what was going on for a few minutes. He just lay there, half asleep. Only one thing was on his mind.
Friday. At last. One final stretch and you're free of these little shits for another two days.
One final stretch. A weekend. And then back to teaching. He opened his eyes and slowly realised there had been background noise to the morning, noise he had been hearing since he'd woken up. Gasping. Grunting. Like...
He looked up and yelped, sitting up straight all of a sudden. He was still dreaming. Surely he was still dreaming. There on his ceiling, lying directly above him, was a man. His hair was lanky, almost ginger but not quite. Closer to blond. And he was completely naked. With one hand clenching his hair and the other...
He was jacking off. On his ceiling. Nothing holding him up, just... floating there. Lars didn't really know how to react to that.
"Sir?" he tried, too confused and tired to be scared or angry, "Sir, who are you?"
Ceiling Masturbator seemed not to hear.
"Sir, what the fuck are you doing in my house?" he asked, louder this time.
At that, the stranger finally opened his eyes. They were wide and red like a rabbit stuck in headlights. One of those albino ones, maybe. He didn't say anything, just dropped his hands and floated down, his face uncomfortably near to Lars’s. Closer up, he could see one weird pointy canine in his gaping mouth, and an odd sort of shimmering translucency to him- he could almost, but not quite, see the door, right on the other side of him.
"You can see me," the man croaked. He didn't sound embarrassed, not even vaguely ashamed. Just astonished.
"...Yeah. Evidently. Unfortunately, too. Gross."
He squinted at him. "Wow. Sorry for having a sex drive, asshole."
"Is this a dream? Am I still asleep?"
"Of course not." His voice sounded like a creaking door, but when he paused to clear his throat it suddenly became rather smooth, with a heavy Eastern European accent. "What would that mean for my existence? Everything I've ever known, my entire life and death, every dick I've had in my ass, all of it happening for the sake of your dream. That's just... egotistical."
Lars blinked at him. "When you put it that way, I, uh-"
"Think before you speak, Lars."
He was about to ask how he knew his name but decided, stoic as ever, that the show must go on, sighed, stood up, and went to get dressed. "Look away."
"I've seen it all before," Ceiling Masturbator pointed out casually.
"You've what?"
"I live here, man. Well. Sort of live. It's more a case of I am here. Since I'm not technically living."
Lars groaned, flicking through meticulously folded shirts. "Not living? So you're, what, a vampire? A zombie?"
"Of course not!" he laughed, "They only exist in stories, as far as I know."
"Then what are you?"
"Oh, isn't it obvious?" he asked, pausing for effect with a twinkle in his eye, "I'm a ghost."
"Great.” He didn’t even look up from his shirts. Blue vs. pink seemed to take priority over the dead man floating behind him. “Because they’re much less fictional. How much did Gunner pay you to do this? How did you get up there? If he's managed to attach strings to my ceiling, they better be easily removable."
Or at least, the pause was intended for effect. Lars, of course, was not so easily affected.
"Gunner couldn't fake this. I'm the real deal, baby."
"You're right," he mused, "Even he isn't this ridiculous." Having decided on a shirt, Lars turned to face him. "Right. Prove it. Shove your hand through me or something."
That, of course, would never be enough for Ceiling Masturbator. Cheeky grin saying more than any words could, he pulled back his leg to give him a swift kick to the balls. Reflexively, Lars's stomach folded in on itself a little, but the sharp pain never came, only the disturbing sight of the ghost's bare calf embedded in his chest and a freezing, numbing chill, like an ice cube had been shoved down his pants, or rather, a huge block of ice had been shoved between his legs and slid through his torso like a knife through half-melted butter.
"Jesus Christ! What the hell? Could you not just, I don't know, shove your hand through me, like I asked?"
He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. It was kinda... for science."
Lars straightened himself out and started to change, accepting that Ceiling Masturbator really couldn't care less what he saw. "What's your hypothesis?"
"That you're really tired and need something to wake you up?" he tried.
"You could have-" Lars was about to finish his sentence but he suddenly collapsed into a coughing fit so aggressive he had to sit on his bed to steady himself.
"Asked?" the ghost prompted, gesturing at the glass of water by his bed in the absence of hands solid enough to give it to him, "Well, you're awake now, aren't you?"
"I have a shower," he rasped, reaching for the water, "I could have just taken a fucking shower."
"Ungrateful," he huffed, "Anyway, didn't you take one last night? You always take them in the evening so you can get ready quicker in the morning."
He closed his eyes and drank his water. There was a short period of silence as he counted to ten in his head, trying to calm himself. "Stop knowing stuff about me."
"Can't help it, man. I live with you. I know loads. Your name is Lars Adriaan Mooren. You're 33 years old going on 60, you're a business teacher but you hate your job, you have 2 siblings you don't talk to, you smoke like a fucking incense stick, you fancy yourself a poet but your anthology's getting nowhere, and you're dying."
Lars blinked. "I'm what now?"
"A business teacher. You have been for a while."
"I know my job. What do you mean, I'm dying? I'm only-"
"33, yes, I just told you. I wasn't even 30 when I died, it can happen to anyone."
Lars frowned. "How did you die?"
Ceiling Masturbator shrugged, looking at his nails as if dirt was even capable of getting in them. "I was too pretty to live."
"So, an STD?" He stood up, having downed his glass of water, and made his way downstairs and into the kitchen, with the ghost following a foot or so above the ground, possibly to show off.
"Was that a joke?" he chuckled, "Didn’t know you made those. But yes, it was. Can we get back to the thing where you’re dying? That sounds more important.”
“Fine, fine,” he grumbled, “With all due respect, uh…"
“Alin,” he supplied.
“Alin. I don’t know you. I don’t trust you. I don’t even particularly like you. Why would I believe you?”
“Spoken like someone who means it with all due respect,” Alin laughed, “You’re pretty blunt, you know.”
Lars sliced himself some bread and dropped it into the toaster. “So I’ve been told.”
“You can’t be sure,” he admitted, “I’m not even sure. But the theory the couple next door and I have is that the living can only see us if they’re a year away from not living. So, babies and… you.”
“Bullshit. Nobody lives there anymore, they moved out last-“ he paused for a moment. “Right. Obviously. They died there, didn’t they?”
“Top marks to you!" Alin laughed, "Both of them in the span of a month, way back in the 50s before I was even born. Eduard broke his neck falling down the stairs, and his wife Lyubov accidentally- but maybe on purpose, even she doesn't know- drunk-drove into the side of their house. Their son was in the car, but he got out with half of his arms intact.”
Lars was silent for a second, not seeming to notice that his cup was overflowing with coffee. “How can you say something like that with a smile on your face?”
“Haven’t spoken to anyone but them since I died, and they're old and boring and we have to shout out of our windows at each other since ghosts can't actually leave our houses. I guess I’m starved for conversation. I feel like I need to tell you every thought I’ve had in the last 30 years.”
He groaned as he wiped up the puddle of coffee on the table. “Please. Don’t do that.”
“Yeah, you’re right. You have to leave in five minutes. I’ll save you the time and-”
"Five?" he interrupted, "Shit!"
He was suddenly alert, inhaling his scalding hot coffee and half-toasted toast, hastily gelling his hair, and blowing off every comment Alin made about the possibility that he could concentrate on the fact that he was quite probably dying. Work took priority. Not crazy ghosts, or the incoming threat of death, or the dead couple next door. Just work. Teaching a room full of kids how inflation worked, or whatever.
"Can't you call in sick and deal with this?"
"What do you think, Alin?"
And with that he left. Driving off, leaving Alin alone in the house and leaving himself room to think was exactly what the doctor ordered. He liked to think while he was driving. Something about the gentle hum of the road just calmed him, traffic or none. He was away from Alin's ridiculousness for a while, away from the man who was really starting to make him wonder if he was going crazy, though, as he put on an old CD and waited by a red light, he doubted he was even vaguely rid of him. He supposed he would have to talk to him later, which he hoped was just a bridge he could cross when he got to it. Until then, until he had to get home and face whatever dumb shit Alin was going to say, he could run from his problems, immerse himself in teaching. As a tactic for going about life, it seemed so far to have worked. And if Alin was right? If Lars really was on his way out? Then his problems would have to speed up if they wanted to catch him in time.