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The scent of lilies and embalming fluid was Will’s personal brand of purgatory. Blond hair framed a face that was, by all accounts, angelic. People often remarked that he was “too pretty” for his line of work. Will agreed with them and yet here he was. Twenty, beautiful and utterly miserable. And trapped in the family business. Smith and Sons Funeral Home. A sprawling Victorian mausoleum that had claimed generations of his family, both living and dead.
Will hated it.
He hated the hushed tones, the forced solemnity, the endless parade of the dearly departed. He felt like his life was a stagnant pool of grief and formaldehyde.
That is until Macklin arrived.
Macklin was a young man, about Will’s age, with a shock of chestnut hair and even in death Will imagined that he had been utterly charming. He had apparently met his end in a rather unglamorous collision with a particularly aggressive garden gnome. Will was prepping him, a standard procedure he could do in his sleep (and often felt like he was), and humming a cheerfully inappropriate pop song under his breath.
He was just adjusting Macklin’s collar when it happened.
A faint twitch.
Will paused, blinking.
No.
It was just his imagination. He must have been working too many hours.
And then a low groan.
Will froze, his hand hovering over Macklin’s chest.
Macklin’s lips, previously a tasteful shade of mortician’s peach, parted ever so slightly.
“Ugh,” his voice rasped, a little hoarse. “Did anyone get that license plate?”
Will dropped his tootles with a clatter. His stomach did a sudden, violent lurch. Macklin’s eyes, a startling shade of green, fluttered open. And then focused, with an alarming clarity, right on Will.
“Oh,” Macklin said, a bit sheepishly. “Hi.”
Will screamed.
Not a dignified scream, really more of a strangled yelp, that ended abruptly when he tripped over a gurney and landed in a heap.
“Are you okay?” Macklin asked, now sitting bolt upright on the embalming table, looking oddly concerned. “You look a bit pale. And, uh, is this a…spa? It smells like potpourri and well old science experiments.”
It took Will a full five minutes, a hastily retrieved glass of water and Macklin’s bewildered assurances that he wasn’t a zombie (he had seen the movies, he knew the rules), for him to calm down enough to explain the situation.
“You’re…you’re dead, Macklin,” Will stuttered, point dramatically at the toe tag that was still dangling from his foot. “Or you were. You’re in a funeral home. My funeral home. And I was just about to…to…prepare you!”
Macklin glanced down at his body and then back up at Will. “Oh. Well that’s awkward isn’t it. Really I feel pretty good. Maybe a little thirsty. Hey you got any juice? Maybe cranberry?”
And that was how Will’s life, which he had decided was utterly devoid of surprises, suddenly found himself hosting a decidedly undead, oddly charming roommate.
Hiding Macklin was an art form.
Will discovered Macklin had no pulse, no breath, but a surprisingly robust appetite for … well anything red. Tomato juice, cranberry juice, cherry soda, Macklin consumed them with the gusto of a teenager discovering pizza.
He also had the tendency to nap in the unoccupied caskets, which Will had to constantly explain that it was bad for business.
“Macklin, stop trying to scare Mrs. Henderson’s cat.” Will hissed at him one Tuesday afternoon, pulling Macklin away from the viewing room where he had been performing a surprisingly convincing impression of a sentient mannequin.
“But did you see how he puffed up?” Macklin defended with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Will sighed but a small, involuntary smile tugged at his lips. Macklin was chaotic, endearing and utterly maddening. But he was also…fun. He’d make snarky comments about Will’s choice of ties. Hum along to the hymns during particularly solemn service, just loud enough for Will to hear.
One evening, after the last mourner had departed and the funeral home was cloaked in its usual silence, they sat in the dimly lit parlour. Will was meticulously polishing an antique silver photo frame. Macklin was perched on a velvet armchair, nursing a suspiciously dark blend of fruit juices, and observing Will.
“You know,” Macklin broke the quiet. “You’re really good at this. Making everything nice. Even if it’s for dead people.”
Will snorted. “It’s my job. I hate it.”
“But do you?” Macklin’s gaze was surprisingly intense. “You fuss over the flowers. You make sure that the lightning is just right. And you even talk to them sometimes, before anyone else arrives. I’ve heard you.”
Will’s cheeks flushed. “I’m just being a professional.”
“Right,” Macklin drawled, a small smirk playing on his lips. His hand, cool and pale, reached out and gently covered Will’s. “You’re not miserable all the time, are you?”
Will looked at their hands and then up at Macklin’s face. The dim light cast shadows that made his features seem even more striking, the slight discolouration around his eyes adding to his mysterious allure. He thought about the laughter, the whispered jokes, this secret that had bound them together. He thought about how, for the first time in years, he didn’t dread waking up in the funeral home.
“No,” Will admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “Not anymore.”
Macklin’s smile widened, a genuine, dazzling flash of teeth and he squeezed Will’s hand. “Good.”
And just like that the funeral home didn’t feel so much like a tomb. It felt like a home. A strange, slightly macabre home, yes, but a home nonetheless, filled with the unexpected warmth of companionship. And as Macklin leaned in, his lips were cool and soft on Will’s and Will realized that perhaps being beautiful and miserable was overrated. Being beautiful and utterly, ridiculously, undead-ly in love, however, was just about perfect.
“You know,” Will pulled back slightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “For a guy who got taken out by a garden gnome, you are surprisingly charming.”
Macklin chuckled, a rich, vibrant sound. “And for a mortician, you’re surprisingly alive.”
Will groaned but pulled Macklin closer. His life was still full of lilies and embalming fluid but now it was also full of light, laughter and a peculiar kind of undead romance that he wouldn’t trade for anything.