If Ryan could physically kill himself, he absolutely would. Right now. There is absolutely nothing wrong with him - in fact, he is mostly happy in life. His house sparkles in the hills of Malibu as the sun sets. He and his husband, Fisher, wade in the pool, sipping cocktails made for them by their brand-spanking new RoboMaid. Ryan sips his mule, sucks his teeth.

“Mm. New vodka?” he asks Fisher. Fisher is a bit of a spirit snob. There was always some fresh vodka, or gin, or black-barrel-charred-fuckroasted whiskey on the counter when Ryan got home. It was usually gone by the next day, dumped down the drain or poured off of the deck. His husband got bored easily.

“Yup. I think it’s shit,” says Fisher. He tosses his martini over his shoulder into the pool. “I’m gonna try the wine. Then maybe I’ll try to jump off the house again. You’re welcome to join.” Fisher rubs Ryan on the shoulder, then turns and wades back towards the house, keeping his upper body in the water as long as he can.

“Sure, honey. Be in soon,” Ryan says. He takes another sip.

_“Thinking about Vodka? Try Beto’s new patented quintuple-distilled, crystal flavored premium vodka! You’ll never drink another liquor again!” _The ad plays between Ryan’s ears; his brain vibrates. He takes a giant swig of his drink. It was Fisher who had been against getting the NeuroChips, of course. He was usually right about most things, but Ryan had been stubborn, especially because the new tech fascinated him. Back then, they hadn’t been able to afford the chips without ads, but Ryan had insisted they tried anyway. It was an idiotic decision.

_“Decisions on your mind? Try Better Help! Therapy should be accessible to all, and we think that you could use a buddy to talk to! Use code NeuroChip for 2% off your first session!”_

_ _Ryan wades to the edge of the pool. “Fisher,” he calls out. “I’m getting the Better Help ads again.”

“Oh god. Try not to jump without me! Be out soon,” singsongs Fisher. These days, they tried at least two or three times a day. Last Monday, in a fit of passion, they had even tried six times in an hour. It didn’t work, of course - the chips prevented that - but it was their only way out, really. The chips kept them happy and bubbly and worry free, but the ads pervaded even their implant-induced euphoria. The doctors refused to try to take the chips out. They were too integrated, apparently, and such a surgery would be a death sentence. The surgeons debated the ethics of such an act on TV pretty much every night. Agreements were never reached. Do no harm, and all that bullshit.

_“Hey there! We noticed your bladder is at almost 46% capacity! Gotta go? We got you covered. Try Freedom Brand’s discrete adult diapers - for all your bodily needs.”_

Singing over the ads helped sometimes, but there were only so many places you could break out in song. Ryan tried to avoid public bursts of singing. It usually alerted other people that you had a NeuroChip with ads, and people liked to giggle when they found out. This, in turn, elicited ads for comedy shows or streaming services. Ryan had seen them all, of course. The novelty of the chip - watch movies in your head! Control your smart devices with your mind! Talk to your friends just by thinking about them! - had worn off years ago. Ryan had watched all of the shows, had used the chip to communicate with his friends. Every setting had been turned off and back on, every capability of the chip used and tested and exploited. The only thing the chip _couldn’t _do was shut the fuck up.

_“Want some peace and quiet? We got you. Try- “_

“LALALALALALALA.” Ryan belts out the notes and makes the futile attempt to cover his ears. He turns as he hears the sliding door open. Fisher walks out, bathrobe hanging open on his body. He steps into the pool and wades to Ryan, handing him a glass of ruby red wine. Ryan takes it with his open hand, takes a sip.

“I appreciate that you don’t hate me, Fisher,” he says, slowly.

“I couldn’t even if I tried, honey.” Fisher chuckles, his voice scratchy and deep. “We’re in this together.”

Ryan knew he was right. They loved each other - Fisher had stuck with him through all of these years, even after the novelty of the chips wore off. In those days, they used to scream and fight and fuck, hoping the ads would quiet down. They didn’t. Nowadays, they just tried to murder each other nightly. It brought them both comfort, even if they knew they would never succeed.

Ryan grabs Fisher’s hand and gazes into his eyes. They sparkle even in the receding light. Without a word, Ryan leads his husband to one of the ladders bolted to the glass of their mansion, and they climb, together. Ryan pulls himself up onto the roof and helps Fisher up, and they walk, barefoot, across the roof. They finally reach the edge and stand, gazing over the hills into the pacific. Birds squawk overhead, and the smell of chlorine wafts up to them in the evening breeze.

They don’t jump, of course. They never will. Ryan still smiles, though, his chest warm with something deeper than just love. He turns to Fisher, kisses him. They climb back down the ladder and go inside for the evening.

The days repeat, on and on. The ads don’t ever stop, not even with Fisher eventually dies. There was talk that sometimes, they’d deactivate your ads when your spouse died, but Ryan didn’t mind. _“Someday,”_ he thinks, kneeling beside his husband’s casket, _“That’ll be me in there. Can’t be too long now.”_

Ryan stands. He closes the casket. He smiles, knowing his final gift to Fisher will be all he ever wanted, and more.

Silence.