2 Episode 2 - Too Many Thoughts

Even with the shades, it took a moment for Amari's eyes to adjust. He usually went out earlier, since gradual sunrise was better than instant, dazzling light, but he had stayed up too late and was lucky to have pulled himself out of bed at all. He paused until the nausea and dizziness passed, then groaned yet again.

::Definitely need more coffee.::

Exiting the stairwell, he turned right, passing Ziggy and Cate's coffeehouse and music club, De Nuit en Jour. It was a clever name, he supposed - From Night to Day - but customers rarely grouped the two together. The coffeehouse took up the first floor of the building and the club was underground, accessed by descending stairs from the sidewalk. For ease, most people only knew it as The Basement.

Shops generally weren't open on Monday, and the streets were quieter than usual. Amari had walked his current path to the subway so many times now it was muscle memory, so all he had to do was make sure there were no new obstacles to trip him up or block his way.

It was only September, and although the sun was up, it was early enough for the station to be almost empty. Only a handful of people heading to work and a few students going to school joined him as he waited on the platform. He couldn't read the signs, but he didn't need them for small places like this.

Stations with exchanges and multiple lines were tougher to navigate, and it had taken him a while to learn those. He hated asking for directions, so he put a great deal of effort into memorizing subway maps, platform setups, and street entrances and exits. He also knew where most of the necessary bus stops were, since it was easier to ask the driver where they were headed than try to maneuver a complicated and crowded station.

This morning, Amari was taking the route he took most Mondays. He stood at the edge of the line next to the tracks, feeling the raised bumps with his foot, and shifted the guitar case on his back to a more comfortable position.

As the train pulled up, he shuffled through some J-rock on his phone and stepped in, setting the guitar in front of him and reaching for the handle above his head. Eyes closed, he listened to the music until the train jolted and slowed, then grabbed the case and exited. Heading west out of the station, it was a block to the corner coffee shop for a large Americano, then a crosswalk over into the park.

The space was large, but not crowded on a morning like this. It was nice when it was busier too, listening to children shouting and laughing, dogs barking, and friends playing competitively, even though there was no prize to be won.

Still, quiet mornings were his favorite. After turning off his music and putting away his phone and earbud, he sat down on an empty bench and pulled out his Little Martin. Carefully turning each peg, he tuned it until the notes rang clear in his ears, then propped it on his knee and began to strum.

Among the birds chirping and the breeze rustling through the trees, the sound resonated out of the small, hollow body, and he closed his eyes, humming along with the tune. After a deep breath, he started to sing, his ears picking out each chord, each melodic note.

His song choices were usually intentional, but that intent wasn't always clear until after he had started singing. This morning it was (Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay, by Otis Redding. A song about a man wasting time, stuck in a lonely, meaningless life, where everything was always the same. It was a depressingly perfect choice to represent his existence, and he mentally cursed his subconscious.

As he sang, a few people walked by.

"You have a very nice voice," said one woman. She sounded older, maybe middle-aged.

She paused in front of him as she spoke, casting a shadow over the bench, but he didn't acknowledge her. After a few seconds, and an annoyed huff, she continued walking. He didn't care. He wasn't there to entertain and didn't need the attention.

At Amari's request, Ziggy only gave him room and board in exchange for working at The Basement, so he had to busk or take odd jobs for any other living expenses. Since it was common – expected, really - to find buskers in the subway, he would bring a small amp and his old, used Gibson, and sing. It was the best place to make some money, and though he was frequently complimented, he didn't think much of it.

In truth, he disliked performing in front of others, but his guitar and his voice were the only talents he could use to support himself. He had been approached many times by strangers - musicians wanting him to join a band, or club owners offering spots at open mic - but he always turned them down. He only ever sang at The Basement, and only when Ziggy requested it.

Amari whistled the ending of the song, his mind busy with other thoughts, still strumming along.

Zig had initially tried to push him into the music industry as well, but had long since given up. Instead, he had told him, "C'est de valeur! At least I get to hear you sing. It's like a special performance only I am lucky enough to hear, tsé?"

The man said it was a pity, but Amari was just one less no-name singer on the stage. What did it matter? Ziggy was dramatic about everything, so it was difficult to take him seriously.

He had no desire to get involved in anything so complicated, regardless of the language his friend used to complain. A small room, working at the club, and busking around the city for pocket change was enough for him. Life was just day-to-day survival anyway. He doubted the siblings would ever leave De Nuit en Jour, or Greenpoint, and the man seemed thrilled to have a permanent roommate. There was always a steady flow of friends and acquaintances, in and out, but those relationships lacked depth. Ziggy treated Amari like family, and without any family of his own, Amari couldn't help feeling the same.

With a quick shake of his head, he brought himself back to the present. He had stopped whistling and was absentmindedly strumming now, distracted by thoughts he didn't want to think. There was no point in sitting in the park if it only caused him to reminisce, so he packed up the guitar and slung it over his back.

Turning toward the street, he stuck an earbud in, asking his phone for directions. The weather was nice, and the meds had started to kick in, so he thought he may as well walk the ten blocks home.

The sidewalks were a little busier now, but Amari had become accustomed to shifting his small body away from the blurs that rushed by. He kept to the storefronts, running his fingers along the brick and wood and glass, his hood up and sunglasses on, the gaze behind them focused on his surroundings.

From the places that weren't closed, wonderful smells wafted out the open doors. Coffee and baked goods, slowly roasting meat and simmering broths - everything made Amari's stomach grumble. He had only just eaten, but he was like a black hole, and was already hungry again. Stepping in somewhere would be a hassle, though, and he didn't have money to waste, so he just continued walking.

Pulling out his earbud as he crossed the street, he skimmed his fingers along the railing that blocked the stairs to the club, moving to the glass front of the coffeehouse, then landing on the building's large, metal door. He punched the access code into the security panel, and hearing the buzz and click of the lock, he opened the door and headed up.

The apartment was quiet. Amari could hear the shower running and make out a figure on the couch, which stood to greet him as he fished the keys and pill bottle out of his sweatshirt pocket.

Standing, Mik was taller than Ziggy, and easily blocked the boy's path to the hallway. He smelled like his friend's shampoo and aftershave, and brushing against him, Amari could tell he wasn't wearing much.

"Back so soon?"

Amari frowned, backing up a step, hands firmly grasping the straps of his guitar case.

"Cate went to the shop, and Ziggy is in the shower."

"Okay." Amari tried to step around the man, but he shifted to cut him off.

"Why do you wear these inside? Covering those beautiful eyes..." The man's voice trailed off as he pulled the sunglasses from the boy's face and leaned down to get close.

Looking off to the side, Amari wanted to avoid any gaze from Mik, but the man ran a finger along his jaw line, gently pushing his head straight. Mik's breath was hot in his face and smelled faintly of cigarettes.

"You really are very pretty."

Amari slapped the hand away and grabbed his sunglasses. "Not interested, thanks."

"Pretty, but distant." The hand swiftly returned to Amari's jaw, firmer this time, keeping the boy's head fixed forward. "Are you nervous? You cannot look me in the eyes, hein?"

::I don't know where your eyes are, you fucking asshole.::

He thought it, but said nothing. It wasn't any of Mik's business, and he didn't need this type of person to know any of his weaknesses.

"Were you expecting me to stare at you longingly? Like I said, I'm not fucking interested."

With more force, Amari removed the man's hand, shoving his way around and into his room. He closed the door with a slam, locking it behind him.

Leaning his guitar case against the dresser, he collapsed face down onto the bed. Eyes closed, he shifted his head, letting a long sigh escape. This was turning out to be a good day for sleeping, but after three cups of coffee, he wasn't feeling particularly sleepy.

Rolling onto his back, he pulled out his phone and popped his earbuds in, playing his music on shuffle. Each song was different from the next and he finally drifted off, thinking how awful it would have been if his hearing had been damaged instead.