Chapter 3 #2
Oh.
Suddenly the morning practice sessions make more sense. The evening recitations. The linguistic notebooks arranged like holy texts.
He's not trying to torture me. He's trying to survive.
"That's why you can't relocate. Or reduce the practice time."
"Correct."
We stand there in the fluorescent-lit quiet of his apartment, both of us probably wishing this conversation had never started. Except now that it has, I can't find out how to end it.
"Look," I say finally. "I get it. You need to practice, I need to sleep. But there has to be some kind of middle ground."
"I am open to suggestions."
"Soundproofing your place would help both of us."
"As I mentioned, the expense—"
"What if we split it?"
The words surprise both of us. I can see it in his face, the same shock I'm feeling. Because offering to pay for my noisy neighbor's soundproofing is objectively insane.
But so is living above someone whose voice can literally vibrate my coffee off the table.
"That is... unexpectedly generous."
"It's unexpectedly practical. I can't move either, rent control apartment in this neighborhood is basically mythical. So we're stuck with each other."
"Indeed."
"Besides, if you're going to keep reading my blog, the least you can do is let me sleep."
That almost-smile flickers across his face again, and the bass resonance shifts to something that might be amused? Hard to tell when someone's voice operates on frequencies I can't consciously hear.
"Your most recent post about laundromat etiquette was particularly insightful."
"Oh god. You read that disaster?"
"The section about sock matching protocols seemed quite thorough."
I wrote that post at 3 AM after a woman stole my favorite sweater from the dryer. It was basically a caffeine-fueled rant disguised as helpful advice.
"It was supposed to be funny."
"It was. Very."
Warmth spreads through my chest, and I realize I'm smiling. Actually smiling at my nightmare neighbor in his book pajamas while his voice makes my bones vibrate.
This is either the beginning of a beautiful friendship or the most elaborate setup for a noise complaint escalation in apartment building history.
"So," I say. "Soundproofing."
"Soundproofing," he agrees.
"And maybe designated quiet hours? For emergencies?"
"What constitutes an emergency?"
"Deadline panic. Creative breakthroughs. The rare occasion when I actually manage to fall asleep before midnight."
"Acceptable terms."
We shake on it, his hand engulfs mine completely, warm and calloused like he does manual labor instead of academic work. The bass resonance hums through the contact, and I wonder if this is what earthquake victims feel in those final moments before everything collapses.
Except nothing collapses. We just stand there, shaking hands like civilized neighbors who've reached a reasonable compromise.
Even though nothing about this situation feels reasonable.
"I should let you get back to your Shakespeare," I say, retrieving my coffee mug.
"And I should allow you to return to your writing."
"Yeah. About that." I pause at his doorway. "Next time you can't sleep, maybe try the comedy plays instead of the tragedies. Less existentially stressful."
"An excellent suggestion, Ms. Ruiz."
"Maya," I correct. "If we're going to be splitting renovation costs, we might as well use first names."
"Maya." The way he says it, careful and precise, makes it sound like he's testing the syllables. "I am Ursak."
"I know. From the note."
"From the note," he agrees.
I head back to 4C with my lukewarm coffee and the strangest feeling that I've just agreed to something more complicated than soundproofing.
But for the first time in three weeks, the bass notes have stopped completely.
Maybe this partnership won't be a complete disaster after all.
I stand in my hallway for thirty seconds, staring at my own door like it might have answers. The fluorescent light above me flickers in that annoying rhythm that usually makes me want to unscrew the bulb and live in darkness.
Tonight it just feels normal. Background noise instead of active torture.
Weird.
The apartment feels different when I step inside. Quieter, obviously, but also emptier somehow. Like the constant bass vibration had become white noise I didn't realize I was depending on.
My laptop sits open on the kitchen counter, cursor blinking in an empty document. The article about sustainable food storage was supposed to be finished three hours ago. Instead, I've spent the evening having the most bizarre neighborly encounter of my adult life.
I dump the cold coffee down the sink and start a fresh pot.
The familiar ritual grounds me, measure, pour, wait for the magic to happen.
Except while I'm waiting, my brain keeps circling back to book pajamas and careful word choices and the way Ursak said my name like he was learning a new language.
Which, technically, he probably was.
The coffee maker gurgles to life, and I find myself pulling down two mugs instead of one. The second one happens to be my favorite, A ridiculous thing shaped like a typewriter that my sister gave me last Christmas. It's impractical and holds too much coffee and I love it more than most people.
What are you doing, Maya?
But I'm already pouring coffee into both mugs, adding sugar to mine and leaving his black because he seems like a black coffee type of person. Precise. Unadorned. No unnecessary additions.
The walk back to 4B feels longer this time. Maybe because I'm carrying hot liquid and trying not to think too hard about why I'm doing this. Neighborly courtesy, that's all. We just agreed to split renovation costs. Basic politeness suggests offering coffee to your new business partner.
Even if your business partner happens to be an orc whose voice can literally rearrange your internal organs.
His door is still slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. I can hear him moving around inside, but no more Shakespeare. No bass notes vibrating against the walls.
I knocked this time. Actual knocking, like a civilized person.
"Come in."
Ursak stands at his kitchen counter, writing in one of those perfectly organized notebooks. His handwriting looks like calligraphy, each letter formed with deliberate precision. He glances up when I enter, eyebrows rising slightly at the sight of two coffee mugs.
"I thought you might want some," I say, offering him the typewriter mug. "Fair warning, it's probably stronger than whatever you're used to. I don't believe in weak coffee."
He accepts the mug with both hands, studying the typewriter design like it's a fascinating artifact.
"This is quite unique."
"It's ridiculous. But functionally ridiculous, which is the best kind."
"Indeed." He takes a careful sip, and I watch his expression change. Surprise, then something that might be appreciation. "This is excellent coffee."
"Don't sound so shocked. I may live on deadline panic and takeout, but I know my way around a coffee bean."
"I did not intend to suggest—"
"Relax. I'm not offended." I settle onto his couch without being invited, suddenly too tired to maintain proper social boundaries. "What are you writing?"
"Practice exercises. Conjugation patterns in Magyar."
"Hungarian?"
"Yes. The grammatical structure differs significantly from English. Regular practice prevents degradation of fluency."
I watch him write for a moment, each letter formed with the same careful attention I bring to editing final drafts. No rushed scribbles or casual shortcuts. Every word deliberate.
"How many languages do you actually speak?"
"Fluently? Six. Conversationally, perhaps twelve."
"Jesus. And here I am proud of my high school Spanish."
"Linguistic aptitude varies considerably between individuals. Your writing demonstrates sophisticated command of English vernacular and cultural nuance."
"You mean my blog about subway etiquette?"
"Among other pieces. Your article about navigating bureaucratic services was particularly well-researched."
Heat spreads across my cheeks. He's not just reading my blog casually—he's actually paying attention. Analyzing my work like it matters.
"That post took me three weeks to write. I had to file six different permit applications just to understand the process."
"The effort shows. The information proved quite useful for my visa renewal documentation."
Oh. That hits differently than I expected. My random blog post about dealing with city paperwork actually helped someone navigate immigration bureaucracy. Suddenly the three weeks of research feel less like obsessive perfectionism and more like accidentally useful public service.
"I'm glad it helped."
"Your perspective as a freelance writer provides valuable insight into navigating systems designed for traditional employment structures."
"Systems designed by people who've never had to explain why they don't have a 'real job' to their parents."
"Indeed." He closes the notebook and gives me his full attention. "Though your work appears quite substantial. The depth of research suggests considerable professional commitment."
"Don't let my mother hear you say that. According to her, anything that doesn't involve a daily commute and health insurance isn't actually employment."
"Cultural expectations regarding career paths can be restrictive."
Something in his tone makes me study his face more carefully. The careful word choice, the slight tension around his eyes.
"Let me guess. Your family had opinions about linguistic research?"
"Orcish culture values physical accomplishment over academic pursuit. My choice to study human languages was considered unconventional."
"Unconventional how?"
"Weak. Impractical. A rejection of cultural heritage."
The words come out flat, emotionless, but I catch the tightness in his shoulders. The way his grip tightens slightly on the coffee mug.
"That's bullshit."
He blinks, clearly not expecting that response.