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The walls of Race’s apartment were far from blank. They were adorned with almost anything he ever found or bought. Posters, shitty drawings, better drawings, sticky-notes, old sheet music, newspaper. Anything Race could find. He was like a crow in that sense.
He couldn’t bear living in between two blank walls. It would feel too much like a psych ward or a hospital- Race was never too fond of hospitals.
The last time he was in a hospital, it was for one of his friends having a baby. He was happy for her, but the blank walls tightened around his chest and held him firmly still, too still. Standing too still between the blank walls, Race couldn’t help but think of the fact that a hospital was the first place he had ever been. It would probably be the last, like it had been for so many members of his family.
Such a sterile place to be filled with so much death. So much pain. So much happiness.
All of it contained in this vessel so devoid of emotion that Race can’t breathe.
It’s not the blankness of the space that constricts his chest, it’s the amount of emotion it contains. He wants to explain it but nobody would really understand the extent of it.
But even before he steps into Race’s living room, Albert understands.
He knows- to a certain extent- what has happened in Race’s life, what has shaped him, what draws him to make forts out of blankets, decorate his walls, write on his arms; and he understands.
Albert has patches sewn onto almost every piece of furniture and upholstery he owns. Albert has posters on his walls and Albert writes on his hands.
Race is just a reflection of him, really.
That’s why he loves him. That’s why Race loves Albert.
Their experiences shape them into the same person. Is that such a bad thing?