Chapter Text
Living with John was like sharing an apartment with a walking, talking history textbook that insisted it was just a regular guy who "really liked documentaries." Alex was 99% sure John was immortal, but that pesky 1% of doubt kept him from going full Mulder from The X-Files. The evidence was overwhelming, but John's knack for dodging questions and Alex's stubborn grip on rationality made their apartment a comedic battleground of suspicion and denial.
It all started when Alex moved into the cozy two-bedroom in Brooklyn, lured by the suspiciously low rent and John's chill vibe during the Craigslist meetup. John was a lanky dude with a mop of dark hair, perpetually wearing flannel like he was auditioning for a grunge band that never disbanded. He had this ageless quality—could've been 25 or 45, depending on the lighting—and a smile that said, "I know something you don't, but let's not make a thing of it." Alex, a data analyst with a penchant for overanalyzing everything, thought he'd scored the perfect roommate. Quiet, tidy, paid rent on time. What's not to love?
Then the weirdness began.
The Suspicious Skill Set
John was too good at everything. Like, annoyingly good. Alex first noticed it during a lazy Sunday when they decided to play Super Smash Bros. on the Switch. Alex, who'd spent his college years grinding out combos, expected to wipe the floor with John. Instead, John picked Kirby, button-mashed like a caffeinated toddler, and somehow executed frame-perfect combos that would've made a pro gamer weep.
"Beginner's luck," John mumbled, barely looking at the screen.
Alex squinted. "You've played this before."
John just shrugged and said, "Nah, I just have quick fingers. Used to type a lot of... uh, letters."
Letters? Who says letters in 2025?
Then there was the cooking. Alex, whose culinary expertise peaked at instant ramen, came home one night to John whipping up a five-course meal that looked like it belonged on Chef's Table. Coq au vin, handmade gnocchi, a soufflé that didn't collapse—Alex was gobsmacked.
"Where'd you learn this?" he asked, mouth full of truffle-infused whatever.
John, stirring a sauce with the precision of a surgeon, said, "Oh, you know, I worked in a kitchen... for a bit."
When Alex pressed for details, John pivoted to, "Hey, you catch that new Star Wars show?" Classic deflection.
It wasn't just games and food. John could fix anything—a leaky faucet, a lagging laptop, the neighbor's ancient VCR. He spoke fluent Spanish, Mandarin, and what Alex swore was medieval Latin during a heated phone call John claimed was "just a prank." One time, Alex caught him restringing a guitar left-handed, then playing it right-handed, then switching back like it was nothing.
"Just ambidextrous," John said, tuning the strings with his eyes closed.
Alex wasn't buying it. No one's that talented. It was like living with a Swiss Army knife in human form.
The Pain Thing (Or Lack Thereof)
John's relationship with pain was... let's call it nontraditional.
Alex first clocked it during a particularly chaotic move-in day. They were hauling a couch up three flights of stairs (because of course the elevator was broken), and John, carrying the heavier end, slipped and smashed his hand against the railing. Alex heard the crunch—a sound that made his own fingers curl in sympathy.
"Dude, you okay?" Alex yelped, expecting blood, tears, or at least a colorful string of swears.
John just glanced at his mangled hand, where his pinky was bent at an angle that screamed "emergency room." He wiggled it, popped it back into place with a casual snap, and said, "Yeah, it's fine. Just a sprain."
A sprain? Alex's brain short-circuited. He'd once cried for an hour over a stubbed toe, and here was John treating a broken finger like it was a mildly annoying hangnail.
It kept happening. One night, John tripped over Alex's dumbbells (left out because Alex was "working on fitness") and dislocated his shoulder hitting the coffee table. Alex, panicking, was halfway through dialing 911 when John stood up, rolled his shoulder back into place with a pop that echoed like a gunshot, and said, "Whoops, clumsy me." Then he grabbed a beer and started humming a sea shanty. A sea shanty. Alex stared, mouth agape, as John overacted a wince five seconds too late, like he'd just remembered humans are supposed to feel pain.
The kicker was the time John got a paper cut opening Alex's Amazon package (because John was "just helping"). Alex braced for the usual yelp, but John just stared at the cut, which stopped bleeding in seconds, and said, "Huh, that's... ouchy."
Ouchy? Alex googled "human healing speed" that night and found nothing to explain John's Wolverine-level recovery.
The Historical Photo Jackpot
Alex's suspicions hit fever pitch when he did something he wasn't proud of: he snooped. John had gone out to "meet a friend" (at 3 a.m., because apparently John didn't sleep either), and Alex, fueled by too much coffee and a true-crime podcast, rummaged through John's closet. Buried under a pile of flannel shirts was a locked wooden box. Alex, who'd once picked a lock to impress a date (and failed spectacularly), managed to jimmy it open with a paperclip and sheer desperation.
Inside were photos. Old photos. Really old photos. Grainy black-and-whites of a guy who looked exactly like John, posing with people in top hats and hoop skirts. One was signed, "To John, thanks for the whiskey—Abraham L., 1862." Another showed John (or John's doppelgänger) in a World War I uniform, arm around a grinning soldier. There was even a Polaroid from the '70s, with John rocking bell-bottoms next to a guy who looked suspiciously like Andy Warhol.
Alex confronted John the next morning, waving the photos like a prosecutor at a trial. "Explain this!" he demanded.
John barely glanced at them. "Oh, those? Family heirlooms. Great-uncle John, grandpa John, cousin John. We all look alike. Crazy genetics, right?" He flashed that infuriatingly calm smile and offered Alex a pancake.
Alex wasn't hungry. He was livid. "Crazy genetics" didn't explain why "cousin John" had the same exact scar above his left eyebrow as current John.
The 1% Doubt
Despite the mountain of evidence, Alex clung to that 1% doubt. Maybe John was just a freakishly talented, pain-resistant history buff with a family of lookalikes. Maybe he was a method actor prepping for a role as an immortal. Maybe Alex was losing it. But every time he leaned toward rationality, John would do something like juggle knives "for fun" or mention he "missed the old speakeasies" with a wistful sigh.
The worst part? John was a great roommate. He paid rent early, cleaned the dishes, and never hogged the TV. He even helped Alex with his taxes, somehow knowing loopholes from the 1920s. Alex wanted to believe John was just quirky, not a 500-year-old enigma who'd probably arm-wrestled Leonardo da Vinci.
One night, after John reset his own sprained ankle with the nonchalance of someone tying a shoelace, Alex snapped. "Are you immortal or what?" he blurted.
John froze, then laughed—a little too hard. "Immortal? Nah, I just... take care of myself. Eat kale, you know?" He winked and turned up the radio, blasting ABBA to drown out further questions.
Alex didn't buy it. But he also didn't move out. The rent was too good, and honestly, living with a maybe-immortal was kind of fun. He just hoped John wouldn't outlive him by a millennium. Or ask him to help hide a sword collection. Again.
A/N: Hello! This is the first chapter of my new series. I hope you enjoy the start of Alex and John's story. I'll be posting new chapters regularly. Comments and feedback are always welcome!