Only To Be Without, Book 1

Chapter 7, Part 1

He had finally sat down on the couch and turned off the TV: Tony was the one who liked to watch the news every night, not him. There was only ever bad news to be found, so frankly no news was the best news. It was quiet more or less, there had been rustling and the sounds of general movement from Tony's room (at one point, it sounded like he might have put another hole in his wall, but it was hard to tell as thumps and cracks weren't all that uncommon of noises here), the door had reopened, he had heard bare feet padding across the hallway floor, the bathroom door had shut, the shower curtain had been pulled back and then closed, and the water had begun running.

There had been silence for a moment, the showerhead had turned on, then he'd had to sit and laugh by himself because there was a string of repeated curses in some bastardized blend between both English and Italian until the old water heater finally groaned to life with a hushed roar of a gas flame and a series of clicks behind the tattered paper folding screen in the corner of the living room. Peter had spotted that one first on the outskirts of Chinatown and Tony had snidely told him antique didn't mean so old it was falling apart, but Petey was still convinced he was just mad he'd lost the scavenger hunt that day because of course Petey Chielinni had managed to find something pink.

Tony had clearly forgotten to wait for all the cold water to clear the ancient pipes and had more than likely taken a faceful of icy spray.

Approximately thirty minutes later the door had reopened and Peter smelled a rush of hot, wet air carrying the scent of menthol shaving cream, the feet went back down the hallway, his bedroom door had closed again, the TV had turned on, and there was no further sound of movement after the mattress groaned beneath his sudden weight because Tony had always made him rather jealous with his ability to fall asleep quickly, and damn near anywhere he laid his head.

Sometimes Peter couldn't fall asleep even if *every* box on the comfort list had been ticked off (warm, fed, clean, and in his own freshly changed bed, none of it mattered, though if he would admit it to himself for longer than five seconds he always had slept very easily when he'd been sharing a bed with someone and it didn't even have to be his own or even have sheets on the mattress), and sitting in his quiet, empty apartment alone was something he was used to by this point.

Not that it was ever really quiet here. There was the train every ten minutes (it never failed to shake the building down into the foundation every time it rolled past, and thank god Mrs. Williams was deaf as a post because it went right past her second story window), there was the sound of cars and sometimes sirens on the Avenue, people's speaking voices and sometimes yells and laughter as they walked past on the sidewalk from the bar, the sounds filtering in through the narrow wire reinforced glass slits at street level that served as windows in the room.

He'd made Tony bring home the windows in the kitchen after the demolition of an old brownstone, and the red velvet curtains from an old theater that some company had converted into studio apartments because he'd gotten tired of staring at blank concrete walls, reminded him way too much of Rikers. Then there was the sounds of the people in the building above him moving around.

Even the olfactory register in this building wasn't quiet. There was cumin and chili from the Morales, often accompanied with the scents of Modelo and whatever brand of tequila Pedro and Marisol could afford based on how close it was to rent day, and usually the smell of burgers, fries, and pop from their children, who Pedro insisted were too American to know what good food tasted like.

Turmeric and coriander came from Haris' mother's place, she was a very devout Muslim and never drank, smoked, or even listened to music, and Haris, even at 26, more often than not snuck into his room through the fire escape at 3 AM so she wouldn't realize he was smashed and smelled like a stripclub.