you pick prenoma!carmy’s brain during a ride home.
“thanks for giving me a ride home.”
carmen peers at you, one hand on the wheel, the other on the center console, blinking softly as you remove your jacket sleeve by sleeve. it’s awkward with the cramped space of the car, but you make it graceful somehow, tugging yourself free of the clothing as you fall back into the seat with a sigh of relief. his fingers twitch on the rim of the wheel noticing the slight sheen of sweat on your collarbone, exposed from your opaque tank top.
“s’no problem. i, uh… you… y-you shouldn’t always have to walk back at home so late. i mean—you can if you want, you’re perfectly capable—but… you…”
what the fuck? he fucking hates when this happens, stumbling over his words like an idiot, one misstep before he plummets and sinks into quicksand.
he closes his mouth to regroup and figure out what he intended to say, but you giggle before that happens. it’s saccharine, endearing, and carmen enjoys when you’re like this.
however, it conflicts him. it’s not the same way mikey or richie make women laugh. it’s not because he said something smooth or told you a clever joke or an eventful story.
the tips of his ears turn pink, heat blooming a rapid spread of crimson across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. he won’t dare look into the rearview mirror and assess the damage, his eyes glued to the slope of your neck and how your smile punctuates your brief laugh.
“no, you’re right. there’s weirdos ‘round here,” you say, relaxing into the passenger seat. you don’t mention his awkward speech, which he’s grateful for, although it perturbs him.
“i wouldn’t mind more rides if you’re offering to be my personal chauffeur.”
are you teasing him? because this is definitely teasing material, but then again, you’re not cruel like that. you’ve always been so kind to carmen. he remembers one time as kids when you came over with your family and you asked if he wanted to play outside. it’s so juvenile to think about now, but you didn’t ask natalie or mikey. you gravitated towards him.
you’re still smiling at him in that way that makes him want to fidget as you sling your seatbelt on. thankfully his hands are occupied with the wheel and he determines you’re being genuine from your gentle nature.
“wherever you wanna go, i’ll take you. just name it.”
wow, he has no idea how simply that slid from his mouth. maybe it’s because he was… distracted from his thought-riddled mind.
“hmm… got enough gas for boston?”
“um…” he looks at his (brother’s) fuel tank, half a tank. not even remotely close.
“nah, but how about around a few blocks?”
this time, when you laugh, he feels prouder of himself. it wasn’t because of his stutter, but because of something he meant to be funny.
he drives from enzo’s onto the street, unfortunately having to pull his gaze away from you to the road ahead. he weaves through the light traffic, one hand removing itself from the wheel to rest his elbow on the center console.
“what’s in boston?”
“i don’t know. the city’s always called to me,” you murmur with a shrug.
“a city can call to you…?”
“not literally,” you say with a hum as you look out the window and watch the street lamps.
“i’ve just always felt drawn to it. i can’t explain it. my eyes fly to the name when i see it, i notice when there’s license plates, accents, red sox hats.”
he fixes his face after hearing you chuckle at it. he must’ve showed his disgust for the red sox.
“have you ever felt like that?”
he goes quiet as he thinks about it. it feels like a question he’s not qualified to answer.
“no, uh. a city’s never called to me.”
“it doesn’t have to be a city. it can be anything that you feel drawn towards.”
no longer filtering his brain to think so narrowly, he expands the search in his head. there’s nothing much that has caught his attention. he likes denim… but to refer to that as a calling when it’s more of an interest seems overstated.
colors catch his attention. vibrancy. saturation. texture. the details appealing to his artistic side. sometimes in stupid inventions, sometimes in people, sometimes in food.
“food,” he says aloud, as the thought rolls in while he rolls to a stop at a red light.
“food? it calls to me when i’m hungry, too,” you joke.
“no, i mean… yeah, that…” he turns his head to look at you as the two of you wait.
“but the way it looks and the way it’s made. i like watchin’ and helpin’ my family in the kitchen. i don’t know, somethin’ about it makes me… i think it shuts my brain off for a while.”
it creates presence. actual presence. no daydreams or anxieties, falling into the stories mikey tells, utilizing it when his mother’s being too much (which is often), a sense of… not calm. not peace.
togetherness? in his body? belonging? no, that’s not it. it’s depth he doesn’t understand.
“that why you wanted to be a cook?” you ask, your voice somehow softer than it usually is with carmen. he notices your smile has faded and that should be alarming, but it seems your expression is more in comprehension, even if you don’t know how tangled it feels inside of him.
“part of it, yeah. mikey won’t let me work at the beef so i thought i could get somethin’ else. show ‘im i can do it,” he mumbles sourly.
“why won’t he?”
“no idea… maybe he doesn’t want his little brother around to sink his business further,” he gravely utters with a shrug of his shoulders.
“i’m sure it’s not that.”
you’re so quick to dismiss the notion. he knows it sounds ridiculous, but carmen can’t logically surmise what it is without mikey’s input. it’s like he shuts carmen out every time the suggestion comes up.
he’s passed around possible reasons with fak so he’s resistant to doing so with you. that, and he doesn’t want to waste his limited alone time he has with you on his brother’s bullshit.
“that’s what calls to me, i think. food or cookin’. both.”
“you a good cook?”
the car slightly moves forward from lifting his foot on accident. it jerks as he pushes it back down. fuck, he hopes you can’t tell how nervous you make him.
“sorry,” he says.
but you’re laughing again, adjusting your seatbelt like nothing.
“it’s okay.”
“… uhhh…” he retraces the conversation with a gulp.
“i-i… i do alright. i wanna learn more.”
the curves of your mouth amplify for some reason when he says this. he might not get it, but he thinks he said something right.
“would you cook for me?”
cook for you? sometimes he lifts heavy boxes for you at work, sometimes he deals with rude customers so you don’t have to because although he’s quiet, he’s fluent in asshole. sometimes he helps you complete your sidework so you can both go home a little earlier.
he’s driving you around when he can. the prospect of cooking for you seems obvious, even if a part of him fears you might not like it. he wants to impress you.
“i would,” he mumbles.
“yeah? how about saturday?”
fuck—that was fast. he didn’t think you’d put him on the spot so lightning quick.
“s-saturday?”
“mhm. saturday. we can do it at my place or i could come over and—”
“your place,” he says instantly, before he can second guess himself. his family is just so much that carmen isn’t thinking about the possible repercussions that can arise.
you’re hanging out together outside of work, it’ll be your house, it’s possible it’ll just be you and him, you might hate his food, but he had to shut down you being at his dysfunctional home. not this soon.
“okay,” you utter with an amused sound.
“on saturday, it’ll be me and you at my house and you’re gonna show me what you got.”
“okay… okay. yeah… yeah.” he nods along in agreement, perhaps hyping himself through his repetition.
he can do this. it’s just a meal. it’s just a hangout. it’s just two friends enjoying each other’s company. no big deal.
“… carmy?”
shit, are you going to ask him something else? are you going to add more to your plans? are you going to change your mind?
“yeah?”
“the light’s green.”
“oh fuck,” he huffs, accelerating after looking around. cars honk as he takes off, soothed by the sonorous tone of your laughter.
