"Thank you again for helping me move in, Brandon," A man of a mocha complexion said to his companion as he carried a couple of lamps into his new apartment. "You're welcome to stay for lunch, if you want." His voice was masculine, but smooth. There was a very pronounced accent to it; the R's were rolled and certain symbols were emphasized strangely. He was clearly not from around here. The man that followed him in, carrying a box full of items, was a lean built African American who stood at least a head taller than him. 

"No problem, man. I'd be damned if I let [i]you[/i] decorate the place." Brandon grinned as he set the box down and went back out to the U-Haul truck. The Arab man smiled as well.
"I am so glad that I have you to make sure my apartment is decorated however you please." 
"Last time you didn't even take the shit out of the boxes!" Brandon clearly found this amusing. "You probably wouldn't even have furniture if the place didn't come with it."
"I'm a simple man with simple needs." 

"Yeah, sure, Isam," Brandon grabbed a large, suspiciously gun shaped case from the truck and hopped down to take it inside. "Simple needs my ass." Isam climbed into the truck and loaded yet more suspiciously gun shaped cases into a box and headed in with them. He paused to glance at one of the residents that was out and about: a man wearing women's clothes. 

His first year or so in the United States had been something of a culture shock. Brandon had accused him of "acting like my ninety year old grandpa" every time he saw a same sex couple out and about. They were just so...open about it. They weren't afraid of being seen. Isam soon learned that in America, homosexuality wasn't a crime. He could remember his days back in the Iraq military, when two young men had been beaten to death by their own comrades for sleeping together. Isam had never been agreeable to such violence, fortunately. After living in a large, American city for a while, it stopped being a surprise. 

Isam took his things inside and set the box down to go get another. Brandon was already bringing in his folding cot. "Seriously, man, when are you going to get a real bed?" 
"They are too soft," Isam said simply as he passed him. He went back to the truck to get one of his food boxes. 

Another culture shock in his new country had been the clothing styles, particularly women's. Isam remembered when he'd first ridden by a public pool; Brandon had been driving. He claimed that Isam had turned a shade of red when he'd proclaimed that the women were practically naked, in public! Brandon had never let him live down how flustered Isam, then only nineteen, had been at this. It was just another thing he had gotten used to over the years. 

"Is that all of it?" Brandon came in after him, looking at the grand total of eight boxes that were scattered across the floor. All of Isam's worldly belongings. Having lived most of his new life in apartment buildings, Isam didn't really own any furniture. He looked around at the boxes.
"I think it is. Want to stay and help unpack?" 
"Sure, man." 

Unloading the truck had taken less than an hour, and unpacking only took two. Brandon rolled his eyes as he unpacked one of Isam's clothes box: full of nothing but cargo pants and t-shirts. For a guy who got paid by the government, very handsomely at that, he sure didn't seem to spend much. While Brandon unpacked, Isam went into the kitchen to make lunch. He went grocery shopping the day before and loaded the fridge. Since he didn't particularly feel like cooking, he made ham sandwiches. 

"You know, one of these days, I'm going to teach you how to dress." Brandon came in from the back bedroom and flopped himself down at the kitchen table. 
"What's wrong with how I dress?" Isam set a sandwich down in front of his best friend and pulled up a chair. They talked, swapped banter, and rested as they enjoyed their lunch. The door to the apartment was still halfway open, having been forgotten.