Unit 404
M/M, 2.8k, Plagued by a leaking ceiling, an exhausted millenial visits the flat above his own when he hears footsteps.
Language: Pussy, cock, cunt.
CONTAINS Past abuse, vague mental health issues, insomnia, brief murder mentions.
There’s a leak in the ceiling, variable, but persistent. Some days there’s more water, other days there’s less, and Llewyn keeps an old metal mixing bowl on the floor where it leaks, keeping care not to trip over it in the middle of the night, but to be honest, it’s driving him a bit mad.
He had the landlord in to look at it, and the landlord checked the pipes and the walls and the windows. He even went so far as to check the apartment above Llewyn’s which has been unoccupied for nearly a year now, but he didn’t find a single thing. Eventually, he had just shrugged and said “Nothing I can do. Sorry, mate.”
Llewyn tells himself it’s just a leak, some days it’s barely even that, but it’s gotten to the point where he lies awake at night and listens to it drip. One night, out of desperation, he’d gone down the street to the dollar store at 1 in the morning, bought some cheap ceiling putty and tried to just patch the spot that was leaking, but within two days, the putty had crumbled into dust and the leak was back.
Maybe part of it is just that no matter what he does, he can’t make it stop. It’s completely nebulous, and though personifying a bit of water is absolutely the thoughts of a mad man, Llewyn can’t help feeling like it’s almost vindictive, doing this on purpose to punish him for… Well, he’s not sure what, but something.
He’s in the middle of another sleepless night when he hears something new: footsteps. He has to pause the music he’s been using to try and drown out the leak, but he can hear it, he’s sure. Someone’s walking around on the floor above, like they’re pacing back and forth, struggling to sleep just as much as he is.
He listens to the sound go back and forth for who knows how long. Just the thought of pacing that much makes him feel a bit motion sick.
Eventually, he sits up and pulls on a pair of trousers, taking a moment to fuss with his dark, wavy hair, then puts on his slippers and house coat, wrapping the coat tightly around his round belly, and walks himself to the elevator, riding it up to the next floor. As he steps off, it’s like he’s walked into a totally different building, utterly turned around as he stares at the carpeted floor and the old wallpaper. Maybe this floor’s in the middle of renovations, and that’s why most of the units are unoccupied.
It takes him a minute of wandering to find the unit above his own, the 404 to his 304, but once he does, he knocks at the door and crosses his arms over his chest to help with the draft. It should be warmer, but it’s like the whole floor is five degrees cooler than the one below.
His exhaustion makes the cold harder to bear, and soon he’s shifting from foot to foot. He knocks again, harder, and the door creaks slowly open, like it wasn’t all the way latched.
“Hello?” he calls out, peering into the dark hallway of the apartment. There’s boxes stacked around, taped and labeled, but no response. He shifts back and forth again, gritting his teeth. “Come on. I know someone’s in here. I live under you, and I can hear you walking around.”
When he still doesn’t get an answer, Llewyn figures fuck it. He’s already in so deep that he may as well, and lets himself in, peering into the kitchen, where there’s more boxes, some open with dishes stacked in the open cupboards.
“Hello?” he calls out again before stepping further inside. He walks down the hall, frowning. The layout of this apartment is different from his own, with two bedrooms rather than one, and a bathroom right above where his own bedroom would be.
He pushes open the door to find that the light is on, warm and steamy. Toiletries have been neatly arranged, a towel sitting on the closed toilet lid, a dry house coat hung off the back of the bathroom door.
He can hear the tub faucet dripping, the curtain drawn shut.
“Hello?” he says once more. When he gets no answer, he reaches for the curtain, preparing to draw it back, only to be interrupted by a startled shout.
He whirls around and finds himself nearly face-to-face with a man who looks to be a few years younger than him with long curls down his back, dark brows and neat stubble. There’s kohl smeared around his eyes, two piercings in his left brow, another through his septum and below his bottom lip. He’s wearing sweatpants and a Nirvana t-shirt with a peacoat and unlaced boots on, as if he’d rushed out the door. He’s also dropped a moving box which has BATHROOM SHIT written on one of the top flaps in permanent marker.
Llewyn throws his hands up. “Sorry!” he says. “I know how this looks! I promise I’m- I, uh, I’m your downstairs neighbour, and I heard pacing, and-”
“Right,” the man says. He wipes his hands off on his coat and half-runs down the hallway. “Rob. That’s me, I mean. Rob. Didn’t mean to wake you. Just wanted a nice tub after a long day, eh?” Then he offers a hand to shake. Llewyn takes the hand without thinking, nodding numbly as Rob sweeps some of his long hair back behind his neck, letting Llewyn get a look at his freckled brown skin.
“Just moved in?” Llewyn asks, remembering how his landlord had said the unit was unoccupied.
“Yeah, yeah,” Rob agrees, grinning. “Had to downgrade after I left my loser boyfriend.”
“Sure,” Llewyn agrees. “Sorry to disturb you, then. I’ll let you get to…” He motions vaguely.
“Well, hey!” Rob says, grabbing him by the sleeve as Llewyn makes to go past him. “What’s the rush? I mean, it’s weird and lonely in here all by myself, and I promise I’m good company, so why not hang around a bit?” He squeezes the fabric of Llewyn’s sleeve. “If you’re not too busy, that is, I suppose. Sorry. Didn’t mean to impose.”
“Got anything to drink?” Llewyn asks, and Rob brightens.
“Sure! Beer all right?”
Llewyn doesn’t usually drink beer. Most of his friends are wine snobs, but Rob looks so hopeful it feels impossible to turn him down.
“Beer’s fine.”
Rob treads out of the bathroom, kicking off his boots as he goes, humming as he walks into the kitchen, his footsteps light and dancer-like, and pulls open the fridge to retrieve two bottles. He uses a bottle opener on his key ring to pop them open, then holds one out to Llewyn, who takes it and takes a slow sip.
Rob excitedly heads into his living room, moving a few boxes to the floor to make room on his couch, then he sits down and pats the spot beside him, which Llewyn occupies, glad for the body heat radiating off of Rob to help with the persistent chill. He can’t believe Rob isn’t cold, but if he is, he doesn’t give it away.
“It’s been a while since I had company,” Rob tells him. “My ex wasn’t really the sort.”
“Oh,” Llewyn says, not wanting to misstep or say the wrong thing.
It must show on his face, because Rob laughs and says “Don’t worry. My ex was an ass. There’s a reason I left him.”
“To company, then,” Llewyn says, holding out his beer. Rob hums, knocking his bottle against Llewyn.
“To company,” he agrees, and leans in closer. Llewyn can smell his aftershave and the crisp night air, fresh and perfume-y as Rob gets right into his space. Llewyn’s sure he could move away and Rob would take no offence, but he stays in place as Rob continues. “What about you, then? Got a man?”
His intent rolls off of him in waves, and it would be easy for Llewyn to lie and say that he’s in a relationship, or even to just say that he’s not looking, but instead he shakes his head, his throat suddenly dry. He takes a sip of his beer as Rob moves closer, practically crawling into his lap.
“Top? Bottom?”
“I don’t-”
“I’m a top,” Rob interrupts, stroking his fingers through Llewyn’s hair. “I know it doesn’t look it, but I think you’d look really beautiful under me.”
“I have a pussy,” Llewyn tells him. He expects at least some apprehension or thought, but Rob just hums and leans in to kiss his neck.
“Can I fuck it?” he asks and Llewyn doesn’t mean to shiver, but he does, letting his eyes close halfway as Rob takes his beer and pushes his hands under Llewyn’s shirt, hiking it up and tracing his fingers over the sparse hair there.
“Yeah,” Llewyn says, remembering to answer after a moment, then “I don’t feel much there.”
“Guess I better get your trousers off, then,” Rob says, cheerful as ever as he pushes Llewyn’s shirt off of him and then reaches for his trousers instead.
Rob’s enthusiasm is infectious, and soon Llewyn is getting Rob’s shirt off of him, not letting his eyes linger on the bruises or cigarette burns, instead moving his eyes and hands lower, getting Rob’s sweatpants down, his mouth watering as he takes in the hard line of his cut cock.
“Catholic?” he asks.
“Hm,” Rob agrees. And then he pulls Llewyn’s underwear off him and drops himself onto the floor, grabbing handfuls of Llewyn’s thigh meat and using his grip to pull Llewyn to the edge of the sofa until his cheeks are halfway off the scratchy fabric.
Hard to care about fabric as Rob’s mouth closes around his cock, though, tongue laving over it as his lips seal around it and he sucks with dogged enthusiasm. Llewyn wonders how many other men with cunts he’s sucked off like this, if he’s ever unknowingly scrolled past him on Grindr, thereby missing out on a man who is apparently a very enthused cock sucker, which frankly is a surprise for a cis top.
He laps and slurps until Llewyn’s thighs close around his head, thigh muscles trembling. One of those toasty warm hands leaves Llewyn’s thighs, two knuckles nudging between his cunt lips and gliding over Llewyn’s hole. Finding it slick, Rob pulls back with one final flicker of tongue that has Llewyn gasping, and grins up at him.
“Can I fuck you?” he asks. Llewyn’s already given him permission, but he can’t say he hates that Rob’s asked again. He nods, and Rob clambers to his feet, hard cock bobbing comically as he goes. “Stay right here. Gotta find a rubber.”
Llewyn stays put, laying there with his thighs open, cock pulsing lazily from aftershocks of orgasm. He can Rob rifling through his bathroom drawers, then through the boxes, and then he comes back, already ripping open the condom packet. His cock is secured in his fist as he holds the foil with his teeth and pulls the condom out with his fingers, swiftly rolling it down onto his cock before tossing the packet into an open trash bag and crawling between Llewyn’s legs, grinning down at him.
He’s so fucking gorgeous that Llewyn feels like he’s looking at the damn sun for a moment, and he has to close his eyes against it, curling a hand in Rob’s hair and pulling him into a kiss, their lips sliding together as Rob hitches one of his thighs up and pushes into his waiting cunt.
The glide is smooth thanks to the lube on the condom, and it doesn’t hurt, but Llewyn can very much feel the way his hole is being bullied open by how thick Rob is. It’s almost disproportionate, the size of him compared to his slim hips, but he clearly knows what he’s doing, waiting for any sign of discomfort before starting up a pace that Llewyn would, from anyone else, call punishing, but from Rob it reads more like needy desperation for connection.
Llewyn licks into his mouth, moaning as Rob sucks at his tongue. He wraps his legs around Rob’s body, hooking his ankles and resting the heels of his feet against his lower back as he pistons unevenly inside of him, seeming to remember himself enough after a minute or so to aim his cock with more purpose.
Llewyn clenches around him, squeezing his legs tighter, and then Rob is reaching between them to rub at Llewyn’s cock, eager but clumsy. He’s like a racehorse with blinders, seeing only one purpose, and that purpose is to make Llewyn come again. He drags his nails over Rob’s skin as the pleasure builds, not quite enough to drag him to orgasm, but enough that his mind feels like it’s going blank, becoming nothing but grasping desperately at Rob’s warm body, covered by him and filled with him, tasting him, warm and vibrant.
“Llewyn,” Rob whispers between kisses. Llewyn’s not prone to bouts of fancy or romance, but in this moment, Rob’s voice is otherworldly, sending shivers down his spine as he lets out a desperate little whimper in reply.
Then Rob grabs one of his hands, guiding it between his legs. “I’m close,” he breathes. “Touch yourself. I want to come with you.”
Llewyn is more than happy to take over the job of rubbing himself off, letting Rob concentrate on plowing into his cunt just so, making him clench with every thrust, Rob’s cock practically dragging out with how tightly Llewyn’s clutching onto it.
“Fuck,” Rob breathes. “Fuck, god, baby-”
His hips stutter unevenly, staccato little thrusts as he fills the condom. Llewyn groans, rubbing himself faster, already-shaking thighs going tense as orgasm slams through him all at once. He bites Rob’s neck to muffle his shout, well-aware of how thin the walls are in the building before slowly laying himself out onto the sofa, uncoiling muscle after muscle.
Rob goes with him, laying on top of him as they both breathe and bask in mutual orgasm.
“Damn,” Rob says after a bit. “Can I give you my number?”
“I know where you live,” Llewyn points out, and Rob laughs.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I know where you live, too. I’ll come visit. Or maybe I’ll just write you dirty letters.”
Llewyn’s lips twitch upwards into an amused smile. “Yeah,” he says. “Do that.”
He lays there a bit longer, eyelids drooping, and then he sighs. “I should let you get back to unpacking. Plus, I’m falling asleep finally, so I should get to bed.”
“Sure,” Rob says, sitting up so Llewyn can get out from under him and dress. “Well, it was wonderful meeting you, and I am sure we will get along just great.” As he says it, he reaches out to grab Llewyn’s ass, giving it a squeeze.
Llewyn snorts, swatting his hand away, which seems to have finally cooled with the cold room, maybe from cooling sweat.
“See you around,” he answers, and lets himself out.
*
Llewyn doesn’t even realize he forgot about the leak until the next time it happens later in the month. He was dead asleep only to be awoken by a chill, and then the persistent dripping of water droplets on his face.
His eyes snap open, misery washing over him in a wave, and, intent on getting to sleep, he just rolls over, trying to physically move himself away from the water, but the sound of it hitting the blanket, making a small puddle at his back, drives him insane anyway.
Miserably, he climbs out of bed, and vows not to be distracted this time when he goes up to Rob’s flat and tells him he has to get the leak fixed. He gets in the elevator and makes his way up to the fourth floor, and then freezes in place as he steps out.
It looks exactly the same as the third. He gets back in the elevator, making sure he’s got the right floor, then steps out again, marveling at the speed at which the renovation had been done. Usually the property manager doesn’t get around to do anything so quickly. Even just replacing the ratty old sofas in the lobby had taken over six months, and yet somehow in the span of under a month, the renovations on the fourth floor have been completed? Renovations that Llewyn didn’t even know were happening, come to think of it.
He shakes his head and walks down the hallway to 404. Even the front door of the unit looks different, but with the new hallway layout, it’s at least easier to find. Llewyn knocks at the door and waits.
He got a letter from Rob last week saying he’s been looking for work, but hasn’t had much luck, so he’s been bored at home a lot. He also not-so-slyly let Llewyn know he’s awake at pretty much all hours, and he should come by again. He probably wasn’t expecting Llewyn by so late.
No one answers his knock, so Llewyn knocks again, louder this time. He’s conscious of the time, and conscious of the fact he can’t be making too much noise out here in the hall. If only Rob would just answer the damn door.
He doesn’t dare knock louder or call out, so he just tries again at the same volume.
Across the hall, one of the doors opens, and a drag queen wearing a massive blonde wig done in a curly updo pokes her head out. She’s older, the makeup caked onto her face doing its best to cover the few wrinkles she has on her dark skin. She has glittery neon pink eyeshadow and fake golden lashes glued over top of her natural lashes which she’s painted with white mascara to help them blend into the fakes. She seems to have been in the middle of putting on or taking off lipstick, wrapped up in a plain purple terrycloth robe with only her bottom lip coloured in what would be a nude on a white lady.
“Honey, there’s no point pounding away on that door. No one lives there.”
Llewyn gives her a confused look. “Did the door numbers change after the renovation?”
She gives him an equally confused look. “The renovation?” She looks thoughtful for a moment, and Llewyn wonders how she could have missed something like that. “Oh, you mean the one in ’95? No, the door numbers are the same. Are you looking for your granny or something?”
“1995?” repeats Llewyn. He’s starting to worry his sleep has been worse than he initially thought. “I was up here just a few weeks ago,” he insists. The queen’s expression goes from confused to concerned and sympathetic. He’d hardly be the first person to wander into the building mid-crisis, and if he were that unwell, he probably wouldn’t be the first one she’s dealt with.
“All right, honey,” she says. “My name’s Stasia. Who are you looking for? I can help you find them.”
“I-” Llewyn frowns, looking back at the door. “He said his name was Rob. I swear, he was moving in just earlier this month. I swear I’m not crazy.”
The woman purses her lips. “I’m sorry, honey. I’ve lived here since the 80s, and no one named Rob’s lived on this floor since the ’92.”
The hairs on the back of Llewyn’s arms and neck prickle. “That can’t be right.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, you’re not the first one to see him since then. Why, I saw him once one late night, too,” Stasia says.
“What do you mean ‘saw him’?” Llewyn asks.
“Honey,” Stasia says, delicately, as if he’s an easily frightened animal. “Rob’s dead. Died in 1992.”
Llewyn stares at her.
“Nice, though, isn’t he?” She smiles at him.
Llewyn thinks back to the burns and bruises, and realization is a roar in his ears. “His ex,” he says.
“Yeah,” Stasia agrees. “Pretty tragic.”
“Okay.” Llewyn can’t feel his fingers or toes as he turns away from the door of 404. “Good night.”
“Good night, honey,” Stasia says. She watches him as he gets back in the elevator, and he watches her door close as the doors of the elevator slide shut.
He walks numbly back to his own apartment and lays down in his bed, navigating the local library’s digital archives, browsing through for an hour or so before he finds what he’s looking for: Robert Mugabe, drowned in his bathtub in January, 1992, by his ex-boyfriend, who claimed insanity at his trial and was sentenced to a mere 5 years with parole. Llewyn wasn’t even 10 years old before the man got out of prison.
Llewyn wonders how much of a misanthrope he’s got to be that the only person he’s gotten on with or even spoken to in months is a literal ghost.
He rolls onto his side, staring at his phone. Of course, he doesn’t really believe in ghosts, or, rather, he’s more comfortable with a reality where they can’t speak to him, touch him, fuck him.
A drop of water lands on his cheek. Okay, maybe he wouldn’t mind talking to Rob. Maybe Rob can do something about the water. It’s probably some kind of fucking spiritual event or something. No leaky pipe, just fucking ghost water dripping through the floor between them because he was drowned in a full tub, water sloshing all over the floor, flooding the damn bathroom.
Llewyn takes a deep breath, then gets up and rifles around until he finds a notebook. He has to hunt around for a pen, too, but then he sits his ass down at his kitchen table.
Hey Rob,
He stares at the words. Does Rob know he’s a ghost? Or does he really just think he’s moving in? How you ask a ghost to do something about their own haunting?
Hope you find work soon. I’m too busy to visit right now, but let’s keep writing.
By the way, can you get your pipes checked? There’s a leak in my ceiling.
Best,
L.
It takes him almost five fucking minutes to find an envelope, but he tears the piece of note paper free, folds it up, and then stuff it inside, closing the envelope and writing out the address on the front. He doesn’t bother with a stamp. Instead, he rides the elevator to the lobby and stuffs the letter into 404’s mail box.
By the time he gets back to his flat, the leaking’s stopped.
