99 Ways To Die (BL| MxM)

Chapter Two

Julian Mercer discovered, within approximately three days of beginning his hundredth life, that being a baby was significantly worse when one remembered being an adult.

There were indignities involved.

Many indignities.

He had known this, technically. He had been reborn ninety-nine times, after all, and had experienced infancy in every one of those lives. But memory had a merciful habit of dulling the details. By the time he reached adulthood, the helplessness of those first years usually became a distant collection of impressions: warmth, hunger, unfamiliar faces, an inability to control his limbs, and an unreasonable amount of sleeping.

Now that he was experiencing it again, Julian was reminded of precisely how terrible it was.

His mind worked perfectly.

That was the problem.

He could think.

He could remember.

He could lie inside his crib and contemplate the rise and fall of civilizations while being completely incapable of turning his head far enough to look at the clock on the opposite wall.

He remembered battlefields. He remembered sitting beside kings and arguing philosophy with scholars whose names had been forgotten by history. He remembered operating machinery, riding horses, reading manuscripts, negotiating contracts, treating illnesses, preparing meals, and once spending the better part of forty years convincing an entire village that he absolutely had not been responsible for a particular barn burning down.

He had possessed ninety-nine bodies before this one.

He knew how bodies worked.

This one simply refused to listen to him.

Julian would think, Move your hand.

His tiny fist would twitch.

No. Your hand. Toward your face.

His arm would jerk sideways.

Other direction.

Nothing.

Then, for reasons entirely beyond his control, his legs would kick.

Julian stared at the ceiling.

This was going to be a very long year.

Talking was even worse.

He knew several languages.

Granted, many of them were currently useless. A few hadn't been spoken in centuries, and he suspected announcing that fact would raise questions he wasn't prepared to answer. Still, language was language. His thoughts were perfectly coherent.

Unfortunately, his mouth had other plans.

He would look directly at the woman holding him and think, Good morning. You appear to be my mother. I would appreciate it if you could tell me what year it is.

His mouth would produce:

"Ah."

And then drool.

Humiliating.

His mother, however, seemed delighted.

"Oh! Did you hear that?"

Julian stared up at her.

She was young. Late twenties, perhaps, with soft brown hair that she frequently wore twisted away from her face and warm hazel eyes that crinkled at the corners whenever she smiled. He had learned her name on his second day.

Evelyn Mercer.

His mother.

Again.

Not Evelyn again, specifically.

A mother again.

That distinction mattered.

Evelyn leaned closer to him, smiling as though he had just delivered a magnificent speech rather than produced a meaningless vowel.

"Say it again, sweetheart."

Julian considered explaining that he had not, in fact, said anything.

"Ah."

Evelyn gasped.

Julian closed his eyes.

Wonderful.

"He did it again!"

Footsteps approached, and a man appeared above him.

Thomas Mercer.

His father.

Thomas was taller than Evelyn, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and rectangular glasses he frequently pushed up his nose when reading. Julian had spent his first week observing both of them carefully.

It was an old habit.

Every life began with strangers.

That was perhaps one of the strangest things about reincarnation. The people who held him, fed him, soothed him, and called him their son were complete strangers to him, while to them, he was already one of the most important people in the world.

Thomas peered down into the crib.

"What did he do?"

"He said 'ah.'"

Thomas waited.

Evelyn stared at him expectantly.

"Babies do that, Evie."

"He did it twice."

"I imagine babies do most things more than once."

Evelyn swatted his arm.

Thomas laughed.

Julian watched them.

They seemed kind.

He had learned not to decide too quickly.

He had been born into loving families before. He had also been born into families that viewed children primarily as extensions of themselves, political assets, labor, heirs, inconveniences, or mistakes.

The Mercers seemed ordinary.

Julian liked ordinary.

After ninety-nine lives, ordinary felt luxurious.

He learned quickly that they lived in a modern era, though not one significantly beyond the last modern life he remembered. There were smartphones, computers, streaming services, cars, supermarkets, and all the conveniences he had once watched humanity struggle centuries to invent.

That was reassuring.

He had not particularly wanted to spend his hundredth life relearning how to live without indoor plumbing.

He also learned that Evelyn was an editor who worked primarily from home, while Thomas was an architect.

Books were everywhere.

That discovery improved Julian's opinion of his new circumstances considerably.

Not that he could read them.

Not yet.

His eyesight was developing. His coordination was dreadful. He couldn't even sit upright without assistance.

So he waited.

Julian had become very good at waiting.

Months passed.

His body slowly began catching up with his mind.

First came control of his head, which felt like an embarrassingly significant achievement. Then his hands began obeying him more reliably. Rolling over followed, then sitting, crawling, and eventually the precarious process of standing.

His parents celebrated every milestone.

Julian tolerated this with what he considered admirable patience.

The first time he stood without holding onto anything, Evelyn screamed so loudly that he startled and fell backward onto his bottom.

"Oh my God! Thomas!"

Julian blinked.

Thomas came running from the kitchen.

"What happened?"

"He stood!"

Thomas looked at Julian.

Julian looked at Thomas.

There was a pause.

"He's sitting."

"He was standing!"

Julian sighed internally.

Then he grabbed the edge of the sofa and pulled himself upright again.

Evelyn made a sound of triumph.

Thomas immediately pulled out his phone.

Apparently there needed to be photographic evidence.

Julian allowed it.

He had stopped resenting their excitement sometime during his first year.

That surprised him.

He had expected to remain detached.

This was supposed to be different, after all.

His hundredth life.

His life.

No chasing anyone. No searching for familiar souls. No arranging his future around a man who would inevitably love someone else.

Julian had made that promise beneath the stars as his previous body slowly failed him, and unlike many promises made while dying, he intended to keep it.

He would live normally.

Whatever normally meant for someone who remembered ninety-nine previous lives.

He would grow up.

He would find something he enjoyed.

He would make friends.

Perhaps he really would become a writer.

And eventually, he would die.

Hopefully once.

The idea sounded wonderful.

By the time Julian was two, his parents had begun to suspect something was unusual about him.

The problem was speech.

Julian had initially intended to conceal how much he understood. He knew from experience that being noticeably different attracted attention, and attention frequently complicated otherwise peaceful lives.

Unfortunately, pretending to be intellectually two years old was exhausting.

He had spent centuries learning things.

Being expected to point at a picture of a cow and enthusiastically announce cow was asking too much.

His vocabulary developed rapidly.

Too rapidly.

At first, Evelyn thought it was adorable.

"Do you want the blue cup or the green cup?"

"The blue one, please."

Evelyn froze.

Julian froze.

They stared at each other.

He had been attempting short sentences for weeks, but apparently the politeness had pushed this one over some invisible threshold.

"Please?" Evelyn repeated.

Julian nodded.

"Blue, please."

Her eyes widened.

That evening she told Thomas.

Thomas laughed and said she was exaggerating.

Two weeks later, Julian corrected him.

Thomas was assembling a shelf in Julian's bedroom while Julian sat nearby watching.

"That piece doesn't go there," Julian said.

Thomas glanced over.

"What?"

Julian pointed.

"Wrong side."

Thomas looked at the wooden panel in his hands.

Then at the instructions.

Then back at the panel.

He turned it around.

There was a long silence.

Thomas slowly looked toward his son.

Julian smiled.

Thomas narrowed his eyes.

"Have you been judging me this entire time?"

"Yes."

Thomas stared at him.

Julian realized his mistake approximately half a second too late.

Thomas began laughing so hard he had to sit down.

After that, there was no hiding it.

As Julian's physical abilities improved, the gap between his mind and body became less frustrating. He could walk where he wanted. He could pick things up without immediately dropping them. He could communicate increasingly complicated thoughts.

His pronunciation still betrayed him occasionally.

That was annoying.

There were few experiences more humbling than possessing the vocabulary of a man who had spent several lifetimes studying literature while having a tongue that refused to pronounce particularly correctly.

Evelyn found his mistakes adorable.

Julian did not.

By three, he had become what other parents described as an exceptionally well-behaved toddler.

Evelyn privately described him as suspicious.

Thomas preferred "tiny old man."

Julian preferred Julian.

He didn't throw tantrums often because he could usually explain what bothered him. He didn't run through stores because he saw no reason to. He didn't draw on walls because paper existed.

His parents had childproofed the house extensively.

Julian found this mildly insulting.

Then he remembered that he was technically three and decided they were being reasonable.

Toys presented another problem.

His parents bought them.

Julian ignored them.

Blocks held his attention briefly because structures could be interesting, but he quickly became frustrated by their limitations. Toy cars were pointless. Stuffed animals were acceptable for sleeping but otherwise served no obvious purpose. Electronic toys were usually loud.

Books, however, were different.

Books he loved.

At first, he was limited to the children's books his parents left within reach.

He finished those quickly.

Then he discovered Thomas's shelves.

The first time Evelyn found him sitting cross-legged on the floor with one of his father's books spread across his lap, she assumed he was looking at the pages.

Then she noticed his eyes.

They were moving.

Left to right.

Line by line.

She stood in the doorway and watched silently.

Julian didn't notice her.

He had discovered that Thomas owned several books on architecture and urban design, subjects Julian knew less about than he would have liked. Ninety-nine lives had taught him an extraordinary amount, but knowledge was never complete.

There was always something else to learn.

Eventually he reached the bottom of the page and turned it.

Evelyn's eyebrows rose.

He continued.

Another page.

Another.

Finally, Julian yawned.

He looked around, spotted the tissue box on the side table, pulled out a tissue, folded it, and carefully placed it between the pages.

Evelyn blinked.

Julian closed the book.

"Why did you put that in there?"

He looked up.

His mother was staring at him.

"To mark it."

"Mark what?"

"My page."

"You have a page?"

Julian frowned.

Obviously.

"I'll forget where I stopped."

Evelyn slowly entered the room.

"Julian."

"Yes?"

"Were you reading that?"

He looked at the book.

Then at her.

This seemed like a dangerous question.

"Yes."

Evelyn sat down beside him.

"Can you tell me what it's about?"

Julian considered lying.

He had never been particularly good at pretending to be less intelligent than he was. Apparently that flaw had survived reincarnation.

"Buildings."

Evelyn gave him a look.

He sighed.

"How people design buildings so they're useful and pretty."

Her expression changed.

Julian immediately realized that "pretty" had probably saved him from an interrogation.

Mostly.

That evening, she told Thomas.

Again.

Thomas didn't laugh this time.

Bedtime became increasingly complicated after that.

Evelyn had developed a routine of sitting beside Julian's bed and reading him a children's story before he slept.

Julian appreciated the intention.

The books themselves were unbearable.

One evening, she opened a brightly illustrated book about a rabbit searching for his missing hat.

Julian stared at the cover.

He already knew where the hat was.

It was behind the rabbit.

The rabbit was an i***t.

"Once upon a time-"

"Mom."

Evelyn stopped.

"Yes?"

"Can we talk instead?"

She lowered the book.

"About what?"

Julian pointed toward the thick hardcover sitting on his bedside table.

Evelyn stared at it.

"Isn't that your father's?"

"Yes."

"Did he say you could take it?"

"He said I could read his books if I'm careful."

She picked it up and examined the cover.

It was a history of European cities.

Evelyn looked from the book to her three-year-old.

"What do you want to talk about?"

Julian brightened.

"There was a part about cities getting bigger because factories made people move there for work, but I think it makes it sound too simple."

Evelyn stared.

Julian continued.

"People didn't only move because of jobs. There were changes in farming too, and transportation, and-"

He stumbled over industrialization.

Twice.

His face tightened in frustration.

Evelyn bit her lip.

"Don't laugh."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm smiling."

"That's almost laughing."

She covered her mouth.

Julian frowned at her.

Eventually she composed herself.

"All right. Tell me why you think the book makes it sound too simple."

So he did.

Evelyn listened.

At first, she asked questions because she thought encouraging him was important.

Then she started asking questions because she genuinely wanted to hear his answers.

That was when things became problematic.

Julian forgot himself.

He talked about migration patterns. About sanitation. About the way cities developed around rivers and roads. He referenced sections from earlier chapters.

Occasionally, he used words Evelyn had to look up later.

Occasionally, he mispronounced those same words so badly that she had to ask him to repeat himself three times.

The combination was deeply confusing.

Her son could discuss urban development but still needed help tying his shoes.

He understood the basic idea of economic migration but couldn't reach the bathroom sink without a stool.

He could read several hundred pages of an adult book and then fall asleep clutching a stuffed bear.

Evelyn didn't know what to do with that.

Neither did Thomas.

One night, Julian woke thirsty and heard their voices downstairs.

He padded into the hallway.

"We should have him tested," Evelyn was saying.

There was silence.

Then Thomas answered.

"I've been thinking the same thing."

Julian stopped.

Tested.

Wonderful.

"He isn't just bright, Tom."

"I know."

"He understands things I don't expect him to understand."

"I know."

"And sometimes when he looks at me..." Evelyn hesitated. "This is going to sound strange."

"Probably."

"Thomas."

"Sorry."

Another pause.

"Sometimes he looks at me like he's older than I am."

Julian leaned against the wall.

Well.

That was inconvenient.

Thomas was quiet for several seconds.

Then he said, "He's still our kid."

"I know."

"He laughs when you tickle him."

"He hates being tickled."

"He laughs."

"Against his will."

Julian silently agreed with his mother.

"He climbs into our bed when there's thunder," Thomas continued.

That was because Julian disliked thunder.

Ninety-nine lives did not magically erase every fear.

"He still needs us," Thomas said. "Whatever the tests say, that isn't going to change."

Evelyn sighed.

"I just don't want us to handle this wrong."

"We'll figure it out."

Julian remained in the hallway.

Something uncomfortable tightened in his chest.

He had had parents before.

So many parents.

Some he remembered vividly.

Others existed only as fading impressions.

A voice.

A scent.

Hands fastening a coat.

Someone calling him home before darkness.

Someone scolding him for muddy shoes.

Someone sitting beside him through a fever.

And some-

some he could no longer remember at all.

That was the terrible thing about living too long.

Memory had limits.

He had once believed he would remember everyone forever.

He had been wrong.

Eventually, even the people he had loved most became fragments.

Julian looked toward the stairs.

Evelyn and Thomas were still talking quietly below.

He had promised himself that this life would be his.

Perhaps that didn't have to mean living it alone.

He returned to his bedroom without asking for water.

A few weeks later, Evelyn crouched in front of him while Thomas stood behind her.

"Julian," she said, "we're going somewhere tomorrow."

Julian looked up from his book.

"Where?"

"We're going to meet a doctor."

"I'm not sick."

"No."

"Do I need a shot?"

Thomas coughed suspiciously.

Evelyn glanced back at him.

"No shots."

Julian relaxed.

He had been stabbed to death in his previous life, but needles remained offensive.

"The doctor is going to ask you some questions," Evelyn explained. "Maybe give you some puzzles. Things like that."

Julian understood immediately.

He closed his book.

His tissue bookmark remained tucked neatly between the pages.

"Why?"

Evelyn hesitated.

Thomas sat beside them.

"Because you're very smart," he said.

Julian looked at him.

Thomas smiled.

"And we'd like to understand how smart."

That was considerably more dangerous than they realized.

Julian glanced between his parents.

His mother looked nervous.

His father was trying not to look nervous.

Neither seemed frightened of him.

Neither seemed suspicious.

They were simply worried parents trying to understand their strange child.

Julian looked down at his hands.

Three years old.

One hundred lives.

Ninety-nine deaths.

Far too many memories.

He could fool the doctor.

He could deliberately answer questions incorrectly. Pretend not to understand. Make himself seem merely bright rather than impossible.

He had done far more complicated things.

But then Evelyn reached over and smoothed his hair.

"You don't have to be nervous."

Julian almost laughed.

She thought he was nervous.

"Okay," he said.

Evelyn smiled.

"Okay?"

"I'll do it."

Thomas ruffled his hair.

Julian endured the indignity.

Then he reopened his book.

His parents exchanged another one of those looks over his head.

Julian pretended not to notice.

Tomorrow, apparently, professionals were going to determine exactly what was unusual about Julian Mercer.

He wished them luck.

After ninety-nine lifetimes, he still hadn't figured it out himself.