The apartment was small, just a little studio that sat over top a 'hole in the wall' Italian restaurant; so it always smelled like tomato sauce and spices, and there was a lot of noise from one of the chefs. These things didn't bother one young man that rented the apartment. Alfred F. Jones, who could sleep through the apocalypse, and thought anything smelt better then the charcoal food his brother used to burn when he lived at home, hardly seemed to notice the downsides of his little apartment.

He didn't notice that it wasn't on the best side of town. Or that the train that went by made the whole building seem to shake at three in the morning, or that there was never any moment that was just quiet. The couple a floor above him did nothing but fight constantly, but even when flakes of paint fell from the ceiling due to all their stomping and yelling, he didn't complain. Matt was almost certain that the man across the hall was a hooker of some sort, but he didn't know how to ask and didn't really want too. In fact, in the four months they'd been dating, Matt had never heard the other complain about anything other then sports, his brother, and every now and again his boss.

Matt, who had never been to Al's apartment, didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it seemed like more than this. Even though this space was thoroughly Al's, from the posters and guitar to the coke cans stacked around the room, and the boom box that looked like it was straight out of a eighties cult flick. It was just Al.

There wasn't much furniture, the mattresses against the wall that served as a bed, the worn out couch in the center of the room that had seen better day. In the little corner that served as a kitchen there was a stove and counter, but where they had at some point sat a full fridge there was nothing but a little mini fridge Al had picked up at a used furniture store.

"Sorry, it's not much..." Alfred stood by the door, shoulders hunched, hands his pockets and head ducked down a bit.

Matt turned to look at him, and gave the warmest smile he could manage under the circumstances. "It's fine. Al. Really."

Much to his surprise, he really did mean it. He hadn't expected much, more than this, but not much. He knew that Al had been on his own since he'd turned 16 and had fallen through the cracks in the Foster System.

Alfred, not looking very reassured, offered a weak sheepish smile, and stepped into his apartment, closing the door behind him.

Sighing, Matt dropped his bag of things (clothes and a few books) on the mattress, set his hockey stick against the wall, and crossed the room to stand in front of his boyfriend. Reaching up with gentle hands, that could be so rough on the ice but always so warm and soft for Al, and cupped his boyfriends face, tilting his head up for a kiss. "Really, Al, it's great."

It wasn't, and they both knew that. But it was enough. As long as he wasn't alone. As long as he had a roof over his head, and food to eat. His parents would calm down about the whole gay thing, he was sure, so even that was okay. And if they didn't, that was okay, because he still had Alfred F. Jones to love him. That was enough.

Al seemed to struggle for words, and his smile shifted into something more genuine, still nervous but more like his usual grins. "There's not really anything to eat, but... Antonio's working today and he'll give us a discount if you feel like Italian."

Kissing Al's cheek, Matt fought to keep from giving the apartment another glance over. "That sounds great."

This was enough.