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Oct 18, 2019 3:09 AM
you'd do anything, anything at all, to stop being bored.
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So – he's been looking for a roommate.

He's not really...close to anybody from med school, and he's definitely not sharing an apartment with any of the assholes from the EMT program, so he expected this process to involve a lot of awkward PM conversations and even more crashing on couches. He was kind of grateful when this one asked to meet in person first.

He didn't expect the meeting to be at a morgue.

He really didn't expect to be watching through the window on the door while a guy lays into a corpse with a riding crop.

 

 

 

It's...kind of mesmerizing, if he's being honest.

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He's taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He has nice arms -- he's alarmingly thin, but it must be all muscle -- and apparently limitless energy, and he handles the riding crop like he knows how to use it.

It's a good ten minutes of strenuous exertion before he lays down the crop, speaks briefly with the lab attendant, and takes off his rubber gloves.

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Tentatively, he pushes the door open a crack and peers through.

“Uh—”

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"Come in or go out, don't stand at the door like a cat, you distract me."

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—he comes in.

He spares a glance for the beaten corpse before ignoring it completely.

“You’re the... guy with the room?”

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"Needle stick or splash?"

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“...what?”

His hand goes up to his forearm — he draws in a little on himself.

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"Which was it," he asks, impatiently, "needle stick or splash?"

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"...splash," he says, disoriented enough to briefly forget the concept of private information.

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He nods, judiciously, putting his jacket back on with a brisk economy of movement.

"The guitar. Are you any good?"

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"I mean – I'm decent – hang on, how the fuck did you know that I –"

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"Oh, don't be boring, it would be a pity for someone with such eloquent hands to be boring."

Buttoning his jacket with one hand as he grabs his coffee with the other.

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...he glances at his hands.

"I don't talk about the history – are we just leaving?"

(A brief look at the riding crop.)

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"I'm leaving. I imagine you'll want to go make arrangements."

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"Arrangements for–"

 

"Wait, was that it?"

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"Was there something else?"

He's halfway to the door.

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"I dunno, I – house rules? Where the place is? Your name?"

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"Don't be annoying. Don't be stupid. Don't," pushing the door open, "be boring."

The door swings behind him -- but he puts a hand in it, before it can quite close, sticks his head back in.

"My name's Jean Holmes, and the place is 221B Baker Street."

 

And he's gone.

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Dear imrainai:

Thank you for going through craigslist with me when I was freaking out. Also, what the fuck did you send me.

Love, Z.

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It doesn't take that long, the next day, to finish getting all his stuff packed. There isn't a lot of it, he's got a car...

He has the guy's phone number, at least.

showing up today ok?

Given their last meeting it seems kosher not to apologize for the short notice.

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An "okay" emoji, very promptly.

Nothing further.

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He can respect that.

Mercifully, today is not the day his car finally bites it. He shows up with his mattress strapped to the roof in front of...

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...this is a way nicer place, in a way nicer neighborhood, than he expected from 1) the ad and 2) the rent.

He hauls his backpack and his guitar out of the car and heads up to the door to ring the bell.

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No one answers.

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...

 

Attempt number two?

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Nooope.

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