After the flooding years ago, insurance parameters had demanded that houses move their front doors six feet above street level, so Chicago had paved over a new city right on top of the old. Over time it had become a regular underground crime den bustling beneath Chicago's windy streets.
That was what Levi called home.
He called the cockroaches no one could chase out home. And he called the darkness home. He'd spent years learning how to move blind, hand over foot, in the dark when lights unexpectedly went out. He'd spent longer learning how to scrambled through little, dirty places between roof tops and the ceiling that was the floor for everyone else.
Levi called the filth home.
And then there was Erwin who had been above the ceiling when the street was laid down again. Erwin who's house was covered by flood insurance. Erwin who dressed nice, and smelled good.
He called the upper world home. He called class home. He called beauty home. He called distilled spirits smuggled in from Germany home.
Levi scraped, and pined, and desired but kept his lips shut tight around the verbal recognition that he wished Erwin's home was the one he got to go home to at night when it was too cold to stay out any longer. He bit his tongue to keep in words that would bely perhaps how badly he was in need of food or a bath, or a bed when they were chased out of another squat.
He wrapped his hands in Erwin's old, used suspenders when he threw them out, stole them down to the underground, and sold the leather to belt shop owners to make a few extra bucks between running moonshine and planning heists with Isabelle and Farlan. Each time, he kept the patches that Erwin scratched his initials into.
He threw those in a box under his bed with other keepsakes of people he would have called home, but never had the nerve to ask if he could.