The second night is a bit more rough. Your parents scold you on the phone for moving all that furniture by yourself and for skipping dinner, you have writer's block from the stress, and you can't stop thinking about the blood on the fire escape, and ... your dream.
You've finally moved half of your things into your bedroom, so you lay in bed and celebrate by watching your comfort movie and eating a mug cake, made with the little ingredients you have in your pantry.
The rain isn't beating as hard tonight; the wind is gentle and the autumn leaves sway gently outside of your apartment.
Thump.
You freeze. It came from the bathroom. You slowly get up, ready to be nosy and listen in on whatever is happening at Miguel's place.
You put your ear to the wall.
Thump!
It startles you; you back away. Then you hear groans, and moans, and whines. It sounds like ... Miguel?
The noise continues: groaning, thumping, whining.
Is he ... It sounds like sex. You get butterflies just thinking about it. The Miguel you've made up in your head, your hallway crush, having sex.
If you weren't so tense, starved, depressed, and completely sucked out of your quiet bubble by his racket, you would find it kind of ... hot? Shamefully so. You'd have the patience, the nerve, to sit on the cold, tile floor and listen in.
But it's annoying, and you'll have trouble sleeping as is.
It also makes you jealous. You know who he is, you know people want him, it's inevitable, you're not oblivious. This is just going to be something you'll have to deal with, your attractive neighbor going in and out of his apartment with new hot people and rubbing it in your face.
You sink onto the cold floor, stare at the tiles, and you let yourself feel it, let yourself admit,
it hurts a bit.
You stop yourself from marching right over there and scolding him and promise yourself that you'll only go over if it continues for another ten minutes.
The thumps and grunts cut in and out for a few more minutes.
You sit back in bed, hearing the muffled voices, wincing with jealousy.
Your cheeks burn pink. You wait, slowly taking bites of your cake, sitting in the noise of the rustling trees and your neighbor's sex.
It passes the ten minute mark.
You blame yourself for not setting boundaries sooner with your roommate, I mean look where that got you. Kindness taken for weakness. Six year friendship down the drain.
You've got to set some boundaries.
So you fix yourself up, mentally prepare, and march over to tell your horny neighbor that he and his friend have got to lower their shit.
You take a deep breath in and knock.
You practice in your mind, "Miguel, it's four in the goddamn morning!" No, maybe "Miguel, can you lower the fucking down to a 3?" or "Miguel, I think my invite to the threesome got lost in the mail!"
You hear shuffling, then finally, a flushed Miguel opens the door up a crack. His eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes explore your body in a panic, searching you.
"Miguel, do you think you could lower the fucking down a bit? It's four in the goddamn morning! Yeah, some of us like to spend our time at night sleeping," you scold, impressively staying in character.
He's catching his breath, and trying to hide it. He's got a jacket pulled over, which you know he's just using to cover up the sweaty mess underneath. His cheeks are pink, he's got a bruise on his jaw. The red in his eyes looks brighter than it did earlier.
You can't see much besides that. From the little that you can see, his apartment is dark. Cold air escapes his place and greets your face.
He looks angry, and it throws you off.
"Y/N, I'm in the middle of something. I thought you had some sort of emergency. Go to fucking bed," he says through gritted teeth.
"Yeah, middle of who is the real question," you mutter, leaning to your side to sneak a peek inside his apartment. He's far too tall for you to look over his shoulder, and his build blocks any chance of you seeing what's happening behind him. You catch a glimpse of the kitchen floor. There's porcelain shattered across the floor. It's all you can see.
"What the fuck are you doing in there?" you ask, slowly.
He closes the door up a bit more, and runs a hand through his hair.
"I–"
"What happened to your friend's dog?"
"Oh my god. I'll be quiet, okay? Talk tomorrow morning. This conversation is over."
He slams the door.
"Fuck you too then," you mutter, hitting the door.
Your stomach disobeys you, excitedly jumping at the thought of the talk that he's scheduled for "tomorrow morning."
You walk back inside of your apartment, then look into the peep hole at Miguel's door.
You need sleep.
* * * *
You're too depressed to eat. Your stomach growls, but your chest hurts. Your mug sits on your side table, as you lay on your side staring at it, thinking of the past.
Then the noise starts again.
This time, it's more than thumps. You hear meddling in drawers, and the slamming of cabinets.
You wait for it to stop.
It doesn't.
You sigh then get up to go scold your neighbor once again.
"What do you want?"
"You're loud, Miguel. I'm trying to sleep,"
"And I'm trying to ... box. Practice boxing,"
"At four in the morning? Please,"
"I'm boxing!" he reasons, a whine in his voice, immature and defensive.
"But your bathroom is against my bathroom. Are you boxing in the shower?"
He drags his hand down his face.
"Okay, Y/N, I'll lower it down. Jesus. You're fucking needy."
"Needy?"
He crosses his arms, and tilts his head, looking down at you. He does that a lot.
He smirks, "I've dealt with you five times already, Y/N, and you've only been here two days."
You do the math.
"I've only seen you four."
His eyebrows knit together, he looks to the side, at nothing, then looks back at you, concern suddenly wiped from his face.
"Four, huh? Miscounted," he shrugs.
Miscounted? Alchemax's newest and brightest? Millionaire genius?
But he doesn't know you know that. So you roll your eyes and brush it off.
"Well, keep it down, I'm–"
"Let's go out, let's uhh get something to eat," he suggests, eyebrows furrowed. He nods to himself, turning away. He looks in pain.
His voice trails away into his apartment.
"Come in ... just swept, I know it's a mess." he shouts from what you assume is his bedroom.
You stand silently in the hallway, staring at the half-open door, then slowly take a few steps across the hall and into his apartment.
The kitchen is dimly lit by the warm stovelight. You look at the broom standing against the counter, the gadgets spread across the kitchen counter, the punching bag hanging from the living room ceiling, the motorcycle helmet hanging from the coat rack.
His voice approaches, "Yeah, let's uhh go out. I gotta ... gotta get out of here,"
He comes back, wincing as he pulls on a t-shirt, and comes through his doorway. You watch silently.
You watch as he squeezes his biceps through the sleeves, then look down at his exposed happy trail leading down his lower stomach. You shift your eyes back up at his.
"Eat? Right now?"
He finally has it on properly, his eyes lock onto yours.
"Yes, eat. Right now," he confirms with a firm nod, bouncing his keys in his hand. He runs a stressed hand through his waves. He turns away, moving to the kitchen counter.
"When was the last time you ate?" he interrogates, never looking up. He slides gadgets into a drawer, his forearm swiping the counter clear of notes and scraps of metal.
Is your stomach rumbling that loud?
You hesitate. You're in your pajamas. You're tired. But ... it's Miguel.
The boy– the man of your dreams. Seventeen year old you's crush. Your crush.
And now he's your neighbor, who is obviously trying to be social, be your friend.
"Yes. I could eat."
He nods, his hands now resting on his hips. He's gathered himself.
"I gotta change though," you mutter, looking down at your pajamas.
"I like your pajamas, just, you can stay in the car. I'll run down and get it.
You nod.
"But it's cold. Take my jacket."
He grabs his moto jacket from the coat rack.
It's the jacket he wore in college. The jacket he wore in your daydreams. The jacket. You'd recognize it anywhere.
You look up at him as he reaches his arms over you.
He sits it on your shoulders. It's oversized, heavy, and it smells like him.
Your stomach jumps.
You exit his apartment.
You lock your apartment door, as he locks his apartment door behind you.
He stands behind you now, towering over you, watching you triple-check that your door knob won't turn.
"It's locked," he mutters behind you.
"I know, I– I know," you say, releasing the door knob and turning to meet his gaze looking down at you.
You lock eyes for a second, before the intimidation sinks in, forcing you to break away and start walking towards the elevator.
* * * *
"There's no way anything is open right now."
"Try me. What do you feel like eating?" he asks, his eyes glued on the road.
It starts to sprinkle, then progressively picks up. The windshield wipers rush to clean up the blurry mess.
"You pick."
"No, no, Y/N. I'm driving you. You're the guest. You pick," he demands, his face stern.
"Okay, damn. Pizza. Detroit-style. You pick the place. I'm sure you've got one you'd recommend."
"I do."
"And it's open?"
"I know a guy. He's up early prepping. He owes me," he shrugs.
You try to suppress your smile, turning to watch Miguel drive. His hand is on the bottom of the wheel, his toned forearms right there begging to be taken in by your eyes. He's got them wrapped up.
He turns to look at you.
"Stop staring ... It's rude."
"Why do you have–"
"Why did you move apartments? What happened?" he asks, crashing your train of thought.
You haven't talked about it in weeks. You haven't thought about it in hours. You haven't allowed yourself to mourn the loss of your friendship; just like that, high school memories, university memories, the old apartment, drunken nights in that room, memories of her flash through your mind.
You'll keep it simple.
"My roommate and I ... we got tired of each other."
"Tired?"
"Yes. Tired."
"Huh. Adds up. She couldn't handle how bothersome you are, hm? Thank god I'm far across the hall," he scoffs. He turns to you. You're not entertained.
You turn towards the window. It is cold. You sink deeper into his jacket.
"Her loss. Who could get tired of you? I haven't gotten tired of you. Not yet."
He nudges you.
"Pizza. Soon."
You don't turn to face him. You just nod, "Yeah, yeah."
You arrive at the red brick building, stuffed in between old apartments. It looks old, trustworthy.
"Give me ten,"
"Ten? But–"
"Lock the doors," he instructs, grabbing his wallet, and turning the heater on. He slams the car door.
You sit and wait.
He walks out in five, with three boxes of pizza, and one circular foil tray of what looks like lasagna on top of it all.
"Jesus, there's two of us, Mig. I'm not that hungry."
"I wanted you to try the best things from the menu. Geez. You'll have leftovers to bring home. Don't stress."
"How did you get that so fast? I mean I'm not complaining but..."
"I know a guy," he shrugs.
You've forgotten that this is the Miguel O'Hara.
The connections must be infinite.
"Uh huh, okay," you mutter, taking the boxes out of his hand and onto your lap.
"No, it's hot– just put it on the backseat. You're going to burn yourself," he scolds. Before giving you the chance to comply, he grabs the boxes out of your hands. He leans over towards you, his biceps in your face as you turn to watch him place them down carefully in the back seats.
He puts his seatbelt on, then puts his hand on the back of your seat, looking through the rear window as he backs up slowly. His eyes catch yours. You turn away.
****
"One of the umm... one of the neighbors is throwing a Halloween party," he cuts into the silence.
"A party? I haven't run into any of them yet, so I wouldn't know," you shrug, biting into your slice of pizza.
You sit together on the roof of the apartment building. Miguel has a key, says he knows a guy.
"It's at Alicia's place; she's on our floor. We have an apartment floor email list. I'll add you," he assures, poking at the lasagna.
You nod, chewing and staring out at the skyline.
"Would you want to go? With me? To the party?" he asks, looking down at the pizza slice he's just picked up.
"I don't know if I have the energy to socialize or be... fun. I know how insufferable that sounds."
"You don't want to meet the neighbors? I get it if you don't think you have the energy but... it might be fun. I never go to their parties, but it seemed like something you might want to go to."
"I don't want to meet any more people. I don't want to make friends–" You stop abruptly, realizing how sad you sound, realizing how absolutely miserable you sound. You don't recognize your voice, your words, yourself. You don't like it; you want to go back to being friendly and hopeful, but that's not who you are right now.
"Y/N,"
You feel the word vomit. You couldn't imagine ever being this negative and emotional towards someone you've just met, especially not Miguel. You wouldn't let anyone see you like this, maybe her, maybe your sister, but not anyone else.
Maybe it's because you haven't had a real conversation with anyone in weeks. Maybe it's because you're vulnerable. Maybe it's because you hardly know him, and it's unlikely he'll betray you with the little information he has on you. But for whatever reason, you trust him... and you word vomit on him.
"I've been so miserable and... bitter lately. I guess I don't see a point in trusting anyone or relying on anyone anymore. They always always let me down. It's like everyone in my life was taking turns stabbing me in the back, and now I'm completely alone and completely broken. I am the only one I can rely on," your voice cracks, but you keep going.
"And okay I do have people, but they're all far... and they're all telling me I can't be negative and I have to keep loving and trying to make friends but I don't want new people to pass the knife to. Is that so terrible? Does that really make me that fucking negative and self-pitying? And okay, maybe I am, but I don't care anymore. If this is what I have to do to protect myself, then that's what I'll do... even if it means I'm miserable."
You exhale, brushing your fingers through your hair.
"To answer your question, no, I don't want to go to the party."
You realize you're crying. You knew you were in pain, but you didn't think it would force its way out like this.
"Y/N,"
You keep crying, hunched over, your face buried in your forearms as you keep your knees to your chest.
You feel his hand on your shoulder.
"I'm sorry you've been let down, but you can't swear off giving love just because it was taken for weakness."
He sighs.
"I know you don't want to be happy right now, and you don't have to be. You can be miserable and bitter for as long as you need, but deep down there's a Y/N in there who is still hopeful and... full of love. She needs time to heal and feel that it's safe to come out again; we have all the time in the world."
You sniffle, then look up at him. He's looking down at his knuckles, then he turns, looking down at you. He softly smiles, worry still painted on his face.
"You're wise," you breathe out.
"So this is why the loner won't stop bothering me? You needed a friend to make as miserable as you?"
"Yeah, you already seemed depressed so halfway there. Plus you live the closest to me, most convenient."
"You're doing a great job so far," he nods, biting into his pizza.
"Yeah, I'm really working on it."
You turn, admiring the remnants of his smile.
The sky is clear now, the rain has stopped.
You feel calm, at peace, and... happy for what feels like the first time in a long time.
"Thank you for the pizza... and for pulling me out of my apartment. I really really needed this. You know, I've always thought I needed complete control and order in my life, I mean spontaneity and spur-of-the-moment type things scared me, but... I think sometimes... it's what I need. Less thinking, and postponing, and just acting on urges, you know? On my happiness. I haven't felt something in so long... I know this was a lot. Sorry to dump," you shake your head, looking down, laughing at how much you've given up to him.
You lean into your hands, your elbows resting on your thighs. You feel his eyes on you. You turn, looking up at him, his face turned towards you. He swallows, then turns back, looking straight at the skyline again. His jaw clenches.
"Don't be sorry. You said things that I'm too stubborn to admit. And yeah I'm a control freak too, but uh I think I'm realizing I can't control everything and everyone in my life, so I might as well lose some control here and there, let myself be pulled out of my comfort zone."
"I love my comfort zone," you laugh, pressing your cheeks into the palms of your hands.
"Me too... but we can, you know, pull each other out of our comfort zones. I'd do that for you."
****
Halloween coming soon...