Chapter Text
Joseph Landi believes himself to be a fairly patient, considerate man, but ever since he moved into his loft bedroom apartment for art school, his neighbors have kept him up into the late hours of the night because they can't seem to keep their hands off each other.
It's not just at night. When Jo isn't outside exploring the city, taking pictures of anything that catches his eye, it's multiple times per day.
The sounds begin innocently enough: laughter, a loud thump, the murmur of muffled conversations. There are moments when Jo thinks, surely not again, before the moans travel through the thin walls.
He freezes like a deer in headlights, a flush spreading across his cheeks as the tips of his ears grow hot, despite how many times he’s heard his neighbors having sex. Jo groans and, feeling defeated, buries his face in his pillow as the thumping of their headboard begins reverberating against the adjacent wall where Jo's bed is.
“Yeah,” a voice whines. “Right there. You're so deep.” The voice breaks with a whimper, as pleasured noises rush in staccato, reflecting how good his back is getting blown out. Jo counts; he names all fifty states and their capitals, trying to focus on anything other than the two men going at it next door.
Through the walls, Jo hears ragged breaths and panting gasps, along with the wet slap of skin echoing in the silence of his room. Covering his ears doesn't help, as he swears he can still hear them.
It's like they’re in heat.
The noises reach a euphoric crescendo, and the sound of their headboard hitting the wall makes Jo wince reflexively, feeling a twinge inside. How does he manage to do this multiple times a day? Shouldn't he be sore? Don't they ever get tired?
Jo has never been with a man before, despite experiencing moments of curiosity here and there. Still, he doesn't believe he'd like to be on the receiving end of things–at least that's what he tells himself. That thought is interrupted when he hears a loud cry cut sharply through the air, followed by a deep, drawn-out groan that resonates in his chest. It sounds as though he's being unmade in the best possible way, and to Jo's own horror, his dick begins hardening in interest.
“I can't–fuck, you're squeezing me so tight.”
“Come inside me,” The other man demands. “Don't take it out. Need you to fill me up. Need you to put a baby in me.”
Jo chokes, his eyes growing comically wide as he bolts upright from his sprawled position on the bed.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” the man with the raspy voice wheezes, climaxing only a moment later, the sound muffled.
It's then that Jo realizes how quickly he's breathing and how hot and flushed his entire body feels.
He has never felt so single in his life. He should sign up for one of those dating apps and try his luck at finding the love of his life.
Jo decides he'll confront his neighbors tomorrow; it'll give him plenty of time to decide what to say without sounding like either a weirdo or a pervert–hopefully neither.
Jo's heart pounds as he gently knocks twice on the door. Holding his breath, Jo shifts nervously on the balls of his feet, his palms growing damp as he hears heavy footsteps approaching.
The lock clicks, and when the door opens, Jo's eyes go wide. The first thing he notices is the ink covering the man’s skin because, for some reason, he isn't wearing a shirt. Jo thinks that if he were answering the door for someone he didn’t know, he would at least put on a shirt, but that’s just him.
The tattoos are numerous and intimidating, creating a patchwork of designs that adorn an impressively built body. The man is taller and broader than Jo, which is rare. What truly captures Jo’s attention is the tattoo on the man’s neck. He recognizes the influence of the archangel Michael, haloed in holy light, as he strikes down a foe. Jo wonders what type of man would choose such a scene for ink on one of the most sensitive parts of the body.
The second thing Jo notices is the jagged scar that runs across the man's cheek. Jo has no idea how someone could get a scar like that, but several scenarios run through Jo's mind, and suddenly, he feels the urge to turn around and cut his losses as those sharp hazel eyes observe him.
“Hi!” Jo says a bit too loudly, cringing inwardly. “I'm Jo. I just moved in next door and wanted to introduce myself.”
The man leans against the doorframe, blinking slowly, almost feline-like in his consideration. He smiles then, his grin crooked and boyish. It softens up his features just enough to ease Jo's anxieties a little.
“Hey, man. I’m TJ,” he gestures slightly towards himself as if in habit. “Nice to meet you,” he says. “I hope you're settling in well.”
Jo smiles, but it feels tight at the corners.
Besides you keeping me up all night with your amazing sex life, it's been great. Thanks for asking.
Jo opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, the most gorgeous man he's ever seen peeks over TJ's shoulder. There is no photograph Jo could take that would do this man justice; his eyes, upturned and mysterious, gaze at Jo with inquisitive curiosity. He has the kind of face that should be on the covers of high-end magazines and in perfume commercials; pretty but undeniably masculine. He's also not wearing a shirt, just a pair of sweatpants, a size too big for how low they hang on his hips. With a lithe build and muscles for days, he has hardly any body fat, making Jo regret the pastry he had for breakfast this morning. Fuck, he needs to hit the gym sometime today.
“You're that kid,” he says softly. Jo dies a little inside at being called a kid, especially since he's turning twenty-eight in a few months. He won’t dwell on it, but it does make him wonder just how old they are if he’s still considered a kid in their eyes.
TJ turns to his partner, and his expression immediately softens.
“Where are your manners?” TJ teases, shaking his head with playful exasperation. “Introduce yourself, punk. He’s our new neighbor.”
“Shut up,” the man chuckles, nudging his shoulder against TJ’s. “I'm Ian. It's nice to meet you…?”
Jo blinks, caught off guard by his own distraction.
“Oh!” he exclaims, taking a quick breath. “Joseph Landi, but I go by Jo. Nice to meet you, too.”
“I saw you taking pictures a few days ago. You're a photographer?”
“You saw that?” Jo asks. He had been calibrating his new camera, taking pictures of this and that, experimenting with the settings.
“Yeah,” Ian says. “You were really focused.” His mouth quirks, like he’s toying with another word, but lets it go. “Figured you were either a photographer or really into fire hydrants.”
A startled laugh punches out of Jo. He scratches at the back of his neck. “Uh, photography. I’m starting art school this fall, and I’m still getting used to everything.”
“Oh, no way,” TJ says. “That’s cool, man.” He crosses his arms, his muscles shifting and tattoos flexing in a way Jo absolutely does not notice. “You do portraits? Or more artsy stuff?”
“Both, I guess. I’m still figuring it out.” Jo shrugs, suddenly self-conscious about every choice he’s ever made. “I just like capturing moments.”
Ian hums like he actually gets it. “You picked a good building for that,” he says dryly.
Jo’s brain, traitor that it is, lurches straight to last night’s symphony of moans and headboard crashes. His mouth goes dry. This is it, his perfect opening; you picked a loud building, thin walls, so maybe you guys could screw each other with your inside voices?
Instead, he smiles. Or tries to. His face feels made of wet cardboard.
“Yeah,” Jo says weakly. “Lots of atmosphere.”
“Anyway,” TJ says, oblivious to Jo’s rapidly spiraling thoughts. “If you ever need help hauling anything or, I dunno, food recommendations, just knock. There’s this spot like ten minutes away that does insane late-night noodles.”
“Or if you get lost,” Ian adds, and Jo looks at him with confusion. “This building’s layout is weird as hell.”
“You got lost,” TJ pointedly tells him.
“Once." Ian pinches his side, and TJ makes an offended noise that’s way too soft for someone who looks like that. “I ended up on the wrong floor. It was confusing.”
Jo watches them with a distant fascination. They move around each other so easily, all little touches and looks that say more than words. He thinks of the sounds through the wall again, that raw, wild edge to them, and then this, domestic and casual in the doorway.
It stirs something in Jo’s chest that feels suspiciously like longing.
“Thanks,” Jo says, and he means it. “For the noodles recommendation, and for uh, being nice.”
TJ waves a hand. “We’re not so bad once you get used to us.”
Debatable, Jo thinks, picturing himself trying to find some peace while Ian begs to be bred, but he keeps the smile on his face and the words behind his teeth. He is not about to introduce himself to the hottest couple he’s ever seen by mentioning how many times a day they rail each other.
“Looking forward to it,” Jo lies politely instead.
Ian leans a little closer, resting his shoulder against the frame. “You should show us your photos sometime,” he says.
“Sure,” Jo says, too fast. “Yeah. I can do that. Once I, uh, have something worth showing.”
TJ’s grin is easy. “We’ll hold you to that.”
There’s a beat where Jo could say more. He could joke, You might regret that when I start knocking at weird hours, he could add, speaking of odd hours, about the noise…
His courage shrivels up like a raisin.
“Okay, well,” he says instead, taking a step back. “I’ll let you guys get back to…whatever you were doing.”
Ian’s eyebrows rise slightly, and TJ’s mouth twitches. For one terrible second, Jo is sure they both know exactly what he almost said.
“Later, Jo,” TJ says.
“See you around,” Ian adds, softer.
Jo nods and walks the handful of steps to his door with the stiff, over-controlled gait of someone trying very hard not to run away. The moment the door shuts, he drops his forehead against it and groans.
“You’re such a coward,” he tells himself. “You had one job.”
His apartment is quiet. The kind of calm that makes him hyper-aware of every sound. He can hear the hum of the fridge, the faint traffic outside, and the echo of a distant moan lingering in his memory.
He wanders over to his camera, picks it up, and lifts it to his eye. Through the viewfinder, Jo frames a narrow slice of the shared wall, illuminated by a warm rectangle of light streaming in.
He snaps the picture.
It’s nothing special: noisy, slightly crooked, just a sliver of a hallway and a wall that may or may not have heard more confessions than a church. But when he checks the image on the screen, something in his chest unclenches.
He’s here. He has his camera. He’s living next door to two ridiculously attractive men who were friendly and kind, and he has a front-row seat to whatever his life is about to become.
Maybe he’ll say something about the noise next time. Or maybe he won’t.
For now, Jo decides he’ll start with this: a new city, a new school, a fresh start.
He saves the photo as the first in a new folder titled “Building 3, Unit 204: Beginnings,” and tells himself that’s enough for today.