Class Matters

Alan was not sure what to expect. He certainly was not expecting his new tutor to be absolutely gorgeous... until he opened his mouth. The reaper, man, Reaper and very much a man at the front of the training hall could have been shipped in direct from Atlantis for all the sense Alan could make of his speech. Some moments of intense concentration revealed Reaper Slingby to be speaking a heavily polluted version of English. Probably. Such a shame, someone so common really was not to his taste. Not that Alan would be fool enough to risk getting involved with a teacher, but a little something always helped a day go faster. Oh well, better luck next class.

Mentally filing the tutor away as objectively handsome, the young reaper returned to concentrating with the rest of the students. It was reassuring that others were also looking mystified, he had already felt out of place being bumped up to this set well ahead of the others in his year. Still, at least height was a non-issue. Being the shortest in a room was something he had long ago come to terms with. ...Reaper Slingby was built like a barn. Maybe he was not from Atlantis, Mars would also work, and did he not suit the deity of that name too? Speaking only for the agricultural side of course. Rural Martian, that was as good a description for an accent which was "not quite, my dear" as any. Besides, Reaper Slingby looked too much of a brute to be anybody's dear and-

all of a sudden the laid-back atmosphere was broken by a barked command and Alan found himself running with the rest before he quite realised what had happened. Really, this was most irregular. This was a training hall, not a battleground! Sternly reminding himself of Slingby's students' impressive pass rate, Alan resorted to whispering for translations of entirely unintelligible instructions. The results truthfully left him unconvinced. After all, what sort of professional answered a question with "Wing it"?

He was in trouble. Reaper Slingby's accent became clearer as the weeks rolled on and Alan's mind had turned traitor by codexing harsh as enviably masculine, crude as evidence of passion, and, worst, the occasional blue comment something to agonise over as they were never directed at him!

Not that Alan was interested in such riff-raff hitting on him, one has to understand, but being noticed would be nice. Purely for professional reasons, of course. When he understood what the tutor was saying it quickly became clear that Reaper Slingby was something of a weapons expert, and so even more suited for the Roman god of war. It was also seriously impressive that while Alan was struggling to balance studies, training and volunteering at the Library for extra credit Reaper Slingby was easily juggling two days teaching, full days reaping and, by report, an indiscriminate social life which was nothing short of scandalous. Apparently the irresistible... the reaper had more than a touch of the wolf about him. Oh this was becoming absurd!

Reading might help. Alan had concluded that Reaper Slingby's distinctive voice was merely a characteristic but there was no way such a rugged... rough reaper would even be aware of the classics. Reaper Slingby was extremely good at the physical to the detriment of all other attributes. That must be the entirety of the intrigue and so unworthy of his time now the mystery was explained. Contented, Alan's reading took him to Cato and Ovid, rather a lot of Ovid, Plutarch and Pliny. Alan steadfastly refused to acknowledge the common theme and made plans look to Livy sometime soon too.

All went well until the lesson with full height traditional scythes.

Reaper Slingby was at the front of the hall finishing up his talk before moving onto the practical demonstration, casually swinging the pole, no, get the terminology right, Alan. This could be on the test. Reaper Slingby casually swung the "snaith" at the class coaster, comparing a supposed rounded belly to Juno, before moving away and putting on another show of deadly accuracy.

Alan's brain leapt into action, helpfully supplying the many other occasions when his tutor had slipped into his usual banter classical allusions, references to current events, quotations, allegories, metaphors, all seemingly for his own amusement. In fact, now he really thought about it, there was every evidence that Reaper Slingby was well informed, widely read and had a wry sense of humour.

Oh dear.

Days upon days of dedication were finally justified. Alan passed with the expected Honours, and a job offer already in hand from London's famed Collections Department, no less. He would be connected with such notable notables as Spears, Sutcliff ...and Slingby. Alan may have even hugged a pillow when there was no one around to see but that was mainly a reaction to finally qualifying. Honest.

For the first week Alan really felt like he was being let into an inner sanctum, titles had been dropped, there was a buzz around the break room and he had the vast complex of the capital's headquarters to explore and enjoy. Then reality set in.

Induction week was a distant memory by the time Alan learned a fair portion of Collections' fame was actually infamy and Sutcliff in particular was mainly noted for notoriety. In fact, the more he got to know of him... her... the red reaper the more his respect for his icy boss grew. Spears himself was speculated about due to gaining a management position while so young and Slingby... Slingby was cold and unapproachable. That hurt.

Miserable months went by while the young reaper had slaved away behind a self-imposed neutral mask, yet to see fieldwork despite the department being so clearly short-staffed. With no Academy classmates around and new colleagues, no, acquaintances appearing more interested in how long he would last than in Alan as a person his latent loneliness had crept back. With no outlet and no desire to cause a scene the only place the pressure had to go was inward. Accidentally discovering there was a book running on how much longer it would be before he burned out had been met with a dull lack of surprise. He had been half-tempted to lay a bet on "less than a month" himself.

Days blurred into one, an endless round of reports, form filling and filing. Mornings began with bragging about who did what with whom, Slingby often the worst of the lot despite competition with Sutcliff over who could be more arrogant and rude. Dull hours then dragged by while the Reapers, capital R, were out collecting souls. More recently, late afternoons saw Slingby using Alan's desk as a perch, invariably eating something smelly, messy or both, while pointing out pieces in his paperwork. Then leaving a stack of his own to be worked on too. Only after Alan finally snapped over Sutcliff consistently referring to him as "the clerk" had working conditions begun to improve.

When Alan was hauled into Spears' office and assigned back to Slingby as a mentoree he really didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Even several months on he didn't know what to make of his new mentor spectating with a smirk. But since then, things had been... better. Slingby reaping with his own scythe was pure poetry, Alan had someone to talk to and he had started to suspect some of the earlier goading had been deliberate. Since getting more assertive Alan certainly felt a lot more free. The only paperwork he did these days was his own. And Slingby's, by proxy. It was incredibly irritating!

"...and copying my words is cheating, sir!"

"Not your tutor any more, Humphries."

"But paperwork-"

"Alan? Shut up."

""SHUT UP"?!" Alan was up and across the desk, continuing to rant at the older reaper when realisation struck. "You used my name."

"Belongs to you, doesn't it?"

"Yes, but," but how was he supposed to answer when his mentor was being so effortlessly enticing... no! Slingby was currently being a very bad example, he wasn't even capable of wearing his uniform correctly! Getting such a lovely view of a honed, well-built, impeccably defined... Oh for Scythe's sake! Being able to see that much chest when another reaper was simply picking up a file was unprofessional. Alan was not in the habit of looking down shirts, he just... appreciated... Slingby was smirking at him again. Quick! Say anything!

"But how would you like it if I started just calling you Eric? Reapers would-"

"Get a break from you being so bloody formal all the time. So if you're quite done, half-pint, the stuff HQ knows runs out after this prediction here. So the plan is to wing it until..."

Grrr, that man!

Alan was going to reap him. No, Alan was going to reap himself. What in the realms had possessed him to go along with this? Well, there was the "small" matter that Slingby... Eric had asked him directly to do a "small" favour and Alan had been nursing a rather "small" crush on his mentor which after five years was starting to consume every waking moment instead of going away. Even so, he would have hesitated had not Slin- Eric looked so... off. Alan was not privy to the whys and wherefores but S- Eric clearly had something weighing on his mind and as Alan could help he would.

Alan was taking helping Eric very seriously, it was the only reason he was still in this funeral home. The creepy old loon, no, respected legend sat on the coffin-turned-bench across for him had started clicking obscenely long nails while he watched him, evidently waiting for him to say something in return after a rather long monologue filled with odd phrases. Alan was at a complete loss, comedy really wasn't his forte. Predictably, the only advice received from his tall, handsome... absent mentor for such a non-standard situation was, "Wing it."

Feeling more like a cat's paw than ever, Alan reviewed his options. His jokes were a washout, the only scandals he knew of were old news, he tended to avoid the markets for gossip and intrigue as there were time when the speculations were a bit too near the knuckle. Feeling the pressure, and almost cringing when the mortician's long nails began to screech over a lacquered lid, Alan blurted out some ridiculous line about having a crush on Eric since the moment he saw him.

At home that evening Alan felt like his ears were still ringing from the frankly deranged laughter. Reaper lungs must be quite something to produce so much volume. Nibbling on a complimentary bone biscuit, Alan was utterly mystified by the fabrication getting such a big reaction... and by how it felt so true.

How had it come to this? Years down the line and the impossible had happened. He and Eric were... As of yesterday... Eric was teaching today.

In a daze, Alan double-checked the time of his next collection and locked away a note from the infirmary. He hadn't looked at it yesterday, bigger things on his mind. Alan made his way down to the training halls on autopilot. Was he dreaming?

Time was strange. Years were nothing to immortals, near-immortals, not really, not when An Event could make everything before it seem surreal. Or was it this moment which was surreal? He didn't know. What Alan did know was Eric had seen him. His ex-tutor barked an order and the class started running laps, barely noticing when the tall reaper slipped out of the room with a smile and ushered Alan out of sight.

Eric...

Eric kissed him.

He must be dreaming. He didn't want to wake up. If he woke up he wouldn't be kissing Eric. But if he woke up maybe he wouldn't be cursed?

"Shh! Not so loud."

"Heh, you're the one who set this up in the first place, aren't you?

"Yes but I wasn't expecting you to actually show up!"

"Alan."

"What? ...Oh."

"Yeah, so if you want to walk out and risk others seeing y-"

"Eric!"

"Shh~. Not so loud."

"Copying my words is che... ...What if someone... says... says some..thing?"

"Mmm, just wi-"

"Eric? Shut up."

How had it come to this? Eric tried not to notice how his partner's voice rasped when he greeted him. The first impressions of a precious little posh boy who probably bought his way into the Honours System seemed a thousand years ago when he looked at the frail reaper in the bed. Frail... that wasn't Alan. Had never been Alan. The medics assured him that after the first bout of treatment the younger reaper should regain "a measure" of strength, but everything sounded like so much soft soap. Mind you, he should be grateful. Humans had only just caught up with IV technology, the poor sods.

The grapevine had speculated about the two of them for years, Eric had even started a few false rumours via distracted ears himself simply to see if that would provoke a reaction one way or the other from the junior reaper. Alan was a master of mixed signals and it had really started to play on him. First as something to pass the time because the young reaper was so bloody stubborn, then as a game when he noticed Alan actually got his references, then, worst, because his usual distractions had stopped working when he discovered Alan enraged was absolutely stunning. It did Eric's head in.

Hell, a planned night of debauchery in the living world had wound up with a down Eric getting so very drunk he couldn't get back to his home realm safely. Quite the feat for an immortal, no, near-immortal being. He had woken up the next morning in a borrowed coffin then ended up spilling his woes to a confidential listening ear while sipping one of the Undertaker's highly effective, and probably toxic, hangover cures. A plot had been hatched and by some miracle Alan had gone, he knew that, but when Eric called back a few days later the only interactions were eerie giggles, offers of cookies or the odd mutter about dolls.

Eric hadn't seen the old coot since Alan's... condition had been made public. A death god dealt a death sentence was the black humour jackpot but Eric didn't see the funny side. He was genuinely scared for the first time in decades, something he would never let his partner see if he could help it. At least the cholera epidemic was a handy excuse for any unintentional signs of stress. Eric brushed Alan's fringe away from his forehead before leaning down to press his lips to damp, cool skin. He hated this. This wasn't Alan. Alan would burn under the right touch and now Eric paid too much attention to things like miasma, worrying in case something else once thought harmless would rear up and wound.

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, the tall reaper resisted the urge to clutch his head in his hands. This was all wrong. When had it stopped being a game? Alan had been stuffy, fussy, and at times a cantankerous little brat, but behind that toff-boy armour Eric had discovered someone warm, genuine and... kind. Why the hell was the young reaper doomed to be snuffed out like this? Eric wouldn't let it happen. Couldn't.

"What do we do now, Alan?"

The question was very quiet, and he wasn't expecting an answer. He blamed himself. He had trained him, for Scythe's sake! He knew Alan had a tendency to be a little too textbook but Eric thought he was starting to break him of the habit. Becoming more than colleagues hadn't been part of the plan but it was around that time Alan had finally started to understand what winging it meant. It had taken the younger reaper far too long to realise he was more than just competent. Watching Alan become a cheeky wee thing while gaining enough confidence to relax and roll with the unexpected was a joy to see. Now it ripped right through him to see how much pain even simple beckoning caused Alan. Leaning in, two words later Eric didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He should have seen that coming. With bright eyes and a spark of mischief his former trainee answered:

"Wing it."