Afterlife/Death

Being dead was strangely a far less terrifying experience experience than Ace thought it would be. In fact, more than anything it was simply boring. He couldn't feel, couldn't be seen, never got hungry or thirsty or tired…

And he couldn't speak. Maybe that had to do with the whole 'no vocal cords' bit, but, really? He couldn't even be allowed the grace of hearing himself talk? And what kind of broken logic was that? He could think well enough and he technically no longer had a brain either—

…On second thought, he wasn't going to take that any further.

It'd been about three months since his death. He couldn't really remember how he died, exactly, but never dwelled on it. Did it really matter? One way or another, he was dead. The method didn't really factor into that. More than that… his memories were fuzzy. In the beginning, right after his death, he couldn't recall anything more than his name and age. Maybe it was some sort of shock or something, but regardless of the cause, he was left a blank slate that filled more each day he floated around that expansive house.

That was his home, he knew—one he'd lived in a great many years. He recalled his childhood in the mountains with his siblings, moving out when he was seventeen and finding his own place, then eventually moving from an apartment to where he was now. He recalled most things, actually, so by then he wasn't too concerned with what was still hazy. It couldn't have been important.

One morning, however, a man entered his home, Uninvited, the rude fuck. He had pretended not to think about it, but he knew that one day his home would belong to someone else, whether he was haunting it or not. It… hurt to admit. He'd spent a long, long time trying to save up for that place. But, well, the dead didn't really need houses.

Nevertheless, Ace tried to scare off the movers. Because no one was taking his home without a fight. Thankfully if he concentrated he could still interact with the world around him no differently than he could before. He'd dropped things, tripped a few men and moved their boxes back outside, but it didn't really work. They just… didn't care, or didn't notice—and how dense was that?

Huffing, he leaned on the rail of the second floor as he watched the movers leave, the house's new owner now its only occupant other than himself. And Ace glared at the man. Having failed in his mission of keeping the guy from moving in, his next course of action was trying to scare him away.

While alive, Ace had been quite a fan of horror, and a sub-genre that always caught his interest was hauntings, so he was quick to get right into the old cliches so commonly found in those movies—the shiver down one's spine or the matching footsteps from behind as one walked alone through the halls. Then came writing warning messages through the fog on the bathroom mirror when he showered: 'Get out.'

The problem was that no matter what he tried, and no matter how blunt he was, the jerk ignored him. It wasn't that he didn't notice—oh he noticed alright—it was more to the effect that he just… didn't care. It didn't scare him. Hell, it didn't even faze him. And Ace exhausted all of his passive-aggressive ideas, leaving him very, very displeased.

The ghost sat glaring at Marco—he'd picked up the man's name at some point—from his spot on the armchair across from the couch. The blond was flipping through a book, his reading glasses on, completely ignoring the other's presence—not that Ace was exactly easy to detect.

I hate you.

He huffed, bored as usual. At some point he'd given up on getting the house thief to leave, but that left him with nothing to do. And if there was a way to 'move on' or whatever, he hadn't found it.

Ace's eyes scrolled down to the coffee table between them, and with a careful look of consideration he decided to grab the open notepad resting atop it and one of the pens from the study, scribbling down a short message and holding it up to the blond's face.

Marco looked up, eyes widening on the 'floating' note, and read the words.

'You're stubborn as shit, you know that?'

He blinked, his posture relaxing as he sank back into the couch, eyes returning to their usual half-lidded appearance. "Well it's nice to meet you, too, yoi."

The ghost snorted, pulling his arm back to write the next message. Asshole. Again he held it up, shoving it in the other's face.

'Why won't you leave?'

"Why won't you?" Ace pulled his mouth taut, knowing that the man had a point… "This is my house, yoi. I'm not going to move after settling in just because you keep pestering me."

'It was MY place first, you know.'

"Well it doesn't look like you're in much need of it now, given the circumstances."

…Another fair point. But still. He wasn't going to change his mind just because of that!

'What happened to leaving the dead rest in peace?'

"I haven't tried to get rid of you, have I?"

…Goddamn that man. That wasn't the point! But, well… he clearly wasn't going to get anywhere like this, what with Marco refusing to leave and all. And it might not be so bad, having company… Trying to scare him had been fun, although frustrating when every attempt ended in failure. Well…

'Fine. Alright. I'll play your game.'

Marco smiled, closing his book and setting it down on his lap. "Good, yoi. I was wondering how many times I'd have to see you writing on my mirror while I'm showering before you gave up." If Ace had a body, he may have blushed an embarrassed red. Maybe. "What's your name, then?" He held out his hand as a sort of truce.

Ace sighed—how he did so without lungs, he didn't know—and took the hand, watching Marco shiver as he held up the last note.

'Ace.'

Immediately the blond's eyes widened, his grip on the ghost's hand tightening, as he stared forward, his eyes searching around for an unseeable body. "…A-Ace…?"

And as he furrowed his brow, he started to remember.

Marco was my…

Adieu~