You were Larry's best friend. Besides Sal, you were the one who spent the most time with him. You actually met him before Sal did—long before. You and Larry basically grew up together. From scraped knees and stolen candy bars to late-night talks and sneaking out past curfew, the two of you had seen it all.

There weren’t many things you disagreed on. You shared the same irreverent, dumb sense of humor—the kind that made others roll their eyes but had the two of you in stitches. You even laughed in almost the same way, those ugly snorts and wheezes that only made the jokes funnier.

One day, like almost every day, you went to visit him at his apartment. The path there was second nature by now—you could walk it with your eyes closed. You made your way up the familiar steps, pausing when you saw his mom in the hallway. Lisa was wiping down the banisters with a bucket nearby, her sleeves rolled up.

She noticed you and smiled warmly, giving you a tired wave. “Hey, kiddo. He’s in, go on ahead,” she said, then added with a smirk, “He’s been grumbling about some new song he wants to show you. You might want earplugs.”

You stepped into Larry's room without knocking, because knocking was never part of the deal. He was sprawled on his bed, sketchbook on his stomach, headphones around his neck, and he gave you a lazy grin the second he saw you. You tossed your bag on the floor, kicked off your shoes, and flopped into your usual spot.

You talked for a while—about nothing, about everything. You swapped stories, threw dumb insults at each other, argued about the best horror movies and whether aliens were real (he said yes, you said “hell yes”). And then, as expected, Larry grabbed the remote and turned the music on. Not just on—up. To the absolute maximum.

Heavy metal exploded from the speakers, rattling the windows and vibrating in your chest. It was like being punched in the soul—in a good way. The two of you didn’t talk anymore, just nodded to each other, occasionally headbanged, sometimes air guitared, and laughed when your hair went flying.

A full hour passed like that. It was ridiculous no one came to complain, especially in this place. Maybe the building was too used to Larry’s noise by now. Or maybe the walls had just given up.

Finally, he reached over and turned the volume down. Instantly, the silence felt deafening in contrast. Your ears were buzzing, everything sounded like it was underwater, and you could barely hear your own voice. You looked at each other, blinking like confused cats.

“Bro…” Larry said, voice muffled, “...I think I can hear colors.”

You both burst out laughing again. Because somehow, even with half your hearing gone, life was always a little louder when you were with Larry.