logline; Is it really so much to ask for everything?
[!!!] series history; it's been like, over a year, you might wanna go refresh your memory, bb cakes.
Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to.
portion; 16.8k, I was right,,, word count has been matching the chapters for so long now goddd
possible allergies; it's kinda a lot. get ready for Donna trauma, general anxiety, negative self-talk on literally everyone's end, Mikey continues to haunt the narrative, lotta grievin' to be had. Christmas is happening, I tried to make it as vague as possible as to if Tony celebrates it-- At the very least, they do get people gifts in the most secular way possible. A smooch, perhaps. implications, even. idk. you'll find out, man.
pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader it's once again so gender'd this chapter, i'm sorry, lotta she/her, the term 'girlfriend' is also thrown around a lot.
kofi; if you’ve enjoyed the series, perhaps you wanna tip!
holy fuck this took me over a year. i was beating this thing to death that whole time. i wrote, cut, rewrote, and cut some more--- around like probably 6k--- also like, life got crazy. y'know the fanfic writer curse man. everything that could've possibly happened to me happened to me. anyways. i really do hope you like this, and that it was worth the wait. lmao. the title better be perfect applies to me too, huh? meta.
“Okay. I’ll re-review this time.”
Carmen shakes his head, but you're already nodding. He tries to reassure you again, “You're not gonna forget.”
“I'm gonna forget.” “We've been over this three times— And you brag about your memory all the time.” “Y'know what they say, cut once, measure thrice, and then one more time just in case.” “Not what they say.”
“Just–” Your fingers thrum against the steering wheel, following your GPS’ instructions with perspiring palms and a boiling brain. You start your fourth review without a second beat, “I brought dessert— Which– Which is good.”
Carmy doesn't want to encourage this, but it's impossible to tell you no— Especially not a nervous you. He nods, “Non-offensive, non-invasive dessert.” No mains, no apps, no fucking fish, he’d previously instructed. Dessert is fine. “It's good.”
Homemade, too; under Marcus' supervision and aide, but still. Pistachio cupcakes. No cake. No centrepiece dessert, are you insane? Finger food. Could set it up at the entrance, no one would bat an eye. A few topped with a thin slice of fig. Not too sweet, not too showy, but not not showy. It says, ‘I clearly tried and am being different, but not in an asshole way.’
It's a little unnerving, how hard you're trying just to get some level of approval from Donna, and the rest of Carmen's family— Pending anyone shows up to Christmas Eve dinner, that is.
“I will not help in the kitchen even if she asks for it.”
“Left up here, shortcut.” Carmen points as he nods. “You will not ask if she’s okay— Ever.”
You take the left, “Can I compliment the food?”
“Yes. You have to.” Carmen’s gotta remember his house rules now too, regrettably. His own palms start to sweat now too, camaraderie. “And the decor. But you hav’t’do it after you actually take time to soak it in, but not so late she’s gotta ask for it.”
“See?” You tut, only half sarcastic, “This is why we review four times.”
“It’ll be fine, you're—” Carmy gestures to your form haphazardly as he tries to figure out the least offensive way to tell you you’ve got nothing to worry about, as you have no competition. “S’not like you're— …You're not—”
“You can just say I'm not Pete.”
“...How'd you know I was gonna–?” He realizes before he even finishes the sentence. Answering his own question at the same time you do.
“Mikey.”
You shrug, hands start to white knuckle the steering wheel. “Didn't exactly keep his feelings unknown. I assumed this was agreed as a family, too.” Whole family is gonna talk shit about you too, guaranteed. You're not even married in, you'd talk shit about you, too.
Carmy doesn’t confirm that everyone hates Pete, but he doesn’t deny either. “Well, y’have a charm, whether it works on her— Dunno, but I think your odds are okay.”
Speaking of not being married in, you would love to ask how you’re supposed to introduce yourself. Are you Mikey’s old friend? Carmen’s co-worker? Friend? Girlfriend? Just some Handyman he hitched a ride with? All of the above?
Oh shit, wait, spent too long in your brain, Carmy’s waiting for a reply. Just smile and nod, that’s fine. Yeah, that’s fine. Okay, back to thinking.
Christmas Eve dinner is already going to be a rough enough night, you don’t need to push it with the talk. Tonight, the mission is: Keep Carmen Stable. — And also, maybe, make DeeDee love you, if possible. Added bonus. Oh, who are you kidding, you need her to love you. But hey! DeeDee loving you will make Carmen happy, presumably, and thus, will keep him stable! So it’s really all the same mission, at the end of the day.
As you close in on your destination, the streets start to become uncomfortably familiar to Carmy. He rubs his brows back and forth, squishing new wrinkles in, soothing a tension headache that's grown from background thrumming to ear-splitting. The mission's already off to a rocky start, and you’re not even there yet.
“Can we uhm— Can we—” ‘Talk about something other than this?’ is what he’s trying to ask. You know him.
And so you oblige, “Cat finally came inside my apartment, after days of treat luring.”
“Bite at all?” Of course that’s his first question.
“Nah, she’s sweet. And also might be missing teeth. Can’t fully tell. Got an appointment booked for her after New Years, so, I’ll find out then.” If you can manage to get her in the carrier, that is.
“I had a cat once.” Carmen does not know why he words it like this; he immediately regrets it when you look at him with such an undeserved brightness. He corrects before you can start a line of excited questions, “Not–Not really, though. When I was in Copenhagen I lived in an Air B-N-B that told me to put out a water dish every night for their cat, but I never saw one.”
You pause, but not for as long as most would. “...Did the water disappear?”
“It did.”
“Invisible cat?”
“Or it evaporated.”
“I’m stickin’ with invisible cat.” Unfortunately, your cat questionnaire is coming to an end as you pull into his Mom’s driveway. Donna’s empty driveway. “Oh fuck, is Sug not here already?”
Not thinking for a second, Carmen’s already twisting in his seat, looking around, “Where’s the Pepto?”
“I told you, you can’t keep drinking that shit like it’s Gatorade—You have a stomach problem—”
“I’m takin’ the chewable one, it’s better.” “I don’t think it works like that.” “What are you, a doctor?” “I mean— Like close to a doctor.” “Yeah but not.” “You’re so annoying; I’m gonna text her, hold on—”
You have a very calm and normal reaction, and definitely don’t jump when there’s a tap at your side window. A very perky woman is smiling ear to ear at you, practically hopping in place where she’s leaned over to greet you. Donna. Her breath is fogging up the glass, she’s just come out of the house, no jacket– Not even in a sweater.
She’s not overtly stressed looking, like Carmen described her. Not half crying with smudged mascara, like Michael once described her. Not distraught and heartbroken, screaming outside The Bear, like you once saw her. She just looks like… A mom. Like a very classic mom. Like, if you could pick out and buy one, she’d be in the catalogue. She’s got a dirtied apron on, a button down with the most horrendous floral pattern you’ve ever seen, and very gaudy cheap jewellery decorates every part of her except her hands. You didn’t review four times for this Donna.
Carmy hesitantly, silently, reaches for your hand— And you’re not sure if it’s for his sake or yours. You take it regardless, rolling down the window with your other hand. You try to be the first one to talk, but you’re not fast enough.
“Hello!” Her tone of voice is so melodic, yet piercing. Y’know, how moms do? “You must be—” She pauses, and she seems to be playing up her pause, almost theatrical about the whole exchange. Her eyes look upward, as she tries to recall.
“Well, what should I call you?” Her head bobs as she asks. And you can tell, she isn’t asking in the ‘I don’t know what your name is’ way, she’s asking in the ‘I know you by many, so what do you prefer’ way.
Donna’s like a verbal MMA fighter— She’s got you off kilter in seconds. You can’t tell the parts of her that are sincere from the ones that aren’t. But you know they’re both there.
You’d prepared the script in your head to introduce yourself, but she’s fucked up the whole routine for you. “Uh…Whatever you prefer…?”
You’re failing every part of the mission already— How are you going to get her love now? You start to give her nickname options, but she’s already speaking again.
“Mmm.” She nods assuredly, “Well, come on in, thank you for bringing Carmy with you, Natalie’s already cooking, Pete’s keeping the baby entertained, and I’m setting up beds for tonight! You both better be sleeping over, alright?”
She reaches through the window, over you, to poke at her son with a waggling finger. “Make sure my baby Bear sleeps over, even if he says he can’t, okay, Chip?” She does not give you a chance to answer, already pulling her hand back. “Okay, see you inside, it’s chilly!”
And she walks back inside, leaving the front door just slightly ajar so you’re forced to go inside soon.
But for the minute of reprieve you have, you both stare forward through the windshield, stone faced, hand in hand. You take a breath, “Nat parked in the garage.” Your field of vision has been focused in for so long that you didn’t even notice the cars parked on the street until now either.
“She wants us to sleepover.” Carmen says it plainly, but shocked, like it’s akin to heresy.
“Sug is cooking.” You add. That’s definitely on the list of ‘No’s’.
“Sug is cooking.”
“She called me Chip.”
With that, you both turn to each other. He swallows his spit and his eyes flicker.
“Can I get that Pepto now?”
“In the glove box; get me one, too.”
You weren’t sure what to expect in terms of decor. From what Mikey told you, typically, Donna went pretty hard when it came to the holidays. She made things beautiful for everyone. This year, despite the absence she no doubt feels, the place— By your standard, is still quite decked out. Each doorway is covered in faux pine leaves, string lights border every wall, bows and bulbs are strewn about with purpose.
But, if one was to look closely— Which you are— they’d notice there’s a gap in all the work she’s done, that sucks the life out of everything once you realize it’s there; it’s in every fixture, every string of tinsel, every wreath, every bulb.
Donna can’t reach the tops of things anymore— Not easily. She doesn’t have someone readily available to do it for her. Anything taped up on the tops of doorways or bookshelves is partially falling— She could get on a stool, but she’s older, she can’t do it well.
It’s a lot to reconcile with; the little absences, they coalesce together into a massive void. Michael isn’t here to help, he’s not here to be him, he’s not here to greet you at the door, he’s not here to invite you into his own house for the first time. He can’t introduce you to the family– Tell everyone what a ball buster you can be. He can’t show you his room, you can’t make fun of him and suggest he probably still owns a race car bed. He can’t shake Carmen’s shoulders and congratulate him for nutting up and bringing you here.
But some other guy is here to greet you at the door. And that’s enough to knock you— And Carmen, for that matter— out of your fugue states. He’s got glasses and he doesn’t immediately look like a Berzatto but frankly, no one does. He’s looking at you expectantly, hand out. Oh shit, he’s said something to you and you completely missed it. Son of a bitch. You hand him your plastic container of cupcakes.
“Oh— I was going for your coat but sure, I’ll never say no to– To green cupcakes.” He says politely, though every sentence in his candour sounds half sarcastic.
“Pistachio.” Carmen corrects on your behalf, taking your (his) coat off for you.
“Ooh…” Says Glasses. “Showy but not in an asshole way.”
You blink, “Bar for bar.” and nod, impressed, if not a little scared. Is this guy a psychic or are you just that easy to read?
You stick your hand out to him once Carmen frees it from the jacket. You tell him your name, “—But most call me Jack, or– Chip or Tony— Honestly, just call me anything, it’s fine.”
How sweaty are your palms right now? Some would say too sweaty. Some would say any sweat at all is too sweaty, but that’s a bit too high a standard. You shouldn’t have stuck your hand out but now it’s too late. You shouldn’t have given him just about every nickname under the sun, but now it’s too late.
“Steven.” Says Steven, shaking your hand. Kind of a weak grip, he might be doing that on purpose to not clam himself up with your wet hand. He gives you mercy in the form of a pithy reply. “With a V; or a P-H, if you’re nasty.”
Your shoulders fall, relieved. This man might be your only saving grace tonight. “Oh, thank God you’re here.” Is he a Berzatto? There’s no way a guy this jovial is a Berzatto.
“Married in. My wife’s Michelle, I think she’s— I don’t know where she is, actually.” Steven answers your thoughts. That’s it. Stephen’s a mind-reader. “She’s real, I promise.”
After Carm puts your coat up in the closet, Steven gives him a firm handshake and a half hug. “Good to see you, Carmy. You uh, you still cooking and sleeping on couches?”
“Cooking, yes.” He removes his own coat, hanging it up next to yours. “Couches, sometimes.” Carm manages to slip the following words through like they’re normal, “Is Lee coming?”
“Uncle Lee?” Steven’s chuckle feels sobering. “Are you kidding? I’m wearing my nice vest today, it’d be a motherfucker to get drywall out of this.” The regret of the half joke is immediate, but you and Carmen manage to laugh it off anyways.
Carmy gently takes your case of cupcakes from Steven, looking to you. He’s doing that thing he did at the wedding. That look. Calm but small, a sycophant of sorts. “I’m just gonna plate these in the kitchen, n’ – n’ —”
“Do a temp check?” You relieve him by knowing him— Though, you’re not sure if a temp check is the best thing for Mission: Carmen’s Stability. But you’d be hard-pressed to say no to that stressed out face.
“Yes, thank you, Che— Tony.” He sighs, a good sigh— You think. You hope. He gives you a prompt peck on the cheek before walking off.
Steven watches Carmen leave, and once he’s sure the Chef’s out of ear shot, he whips his head to you at such a break neck pace you feel an urge to do an impromptu check up.
“What’s the relationship?” Straight forward, this guy.
“With him? Jury’s out but strong romantic plotline so far.” Good thing you (usually) are too. “With the family… My dad's friends with Unc—”
“That’s fine.” Steven puts his hand up, he somehow manages to be gentle in telling you to shut the fuck up. “D’y’know Pete?”
“Slightly.”
“Thoughts so far?” Ah, his own ‘fellow in-laws’ temp check.
You take a beat, before shrugging. “...If he makes her happy.”
“Exactly.” He offers you his arm, and once you take it he guides you into the living room. He is just as thankful that you’re here as you are him. “It’s just you and me, compadre. Do you want to hear at length about the year in which Carmen slept on my couch?”
“I can’t imagine a better use of my time right now.”
It is so difficult for Carmen to tell whether his sister wants to hug or kill their mother.
Donna’s doing that thing. It’s a new thing. An over-compensating thing. She’d spent decades keeping Sug out of the kitchen for one mistake; so now to make up for it, she’s letting Nat make the beef braciole entirely by herself. However, she’s still commenting on every little thing she’s letting Nat do— “Colby Jack instead of Parm? What a treat.” — And it’s in that way that lets her know what she’s doing is wrong without ever actually disapproving it.
Which, to be fair, Sug is doing it wrong.
“Behind! Fuck you doin’?” Carmen sets your cupcakes down on what little free counter space there is, rolling his sleeves up in one swift motion as he grabs a box of raisins from Nat’s hand, just as she’s about to pour them into her tomato sauce mix over the stove. “Are we suddenly Sicilian?”
But it’s in that moment, when Nat half turns to face her brother, and the corner of her mouth ever so slightly upturns, that Carmen realizes she’s doing it all wrong on purpose. She’s doing her own temp check. She’s finding the limit, the line; because at the moment, there doesn’t seem to be one, and for some reason that feels worse.
“Leave it to Michelin over here!” DeeDee jeers from the sidelines. It's not really a joke, yet she's laughing.
It is such a bizarre sort of theatre, when a parent is trying to make up for years of what they lacked. Can never tell if they're trying to entertain their child or themselves.
DeeDee lifts a wine glass to cheers the air, but notably, no wine. Apple Juice? Cider? It's something with no stink. When Donna finishes taking a sip, her wild smile sobers.
Plain faced, she asks unprompted, “What's the relationship?”
Carmen, blindsided, slams the carton of raisins down on the counter much harder than ever intended. “Oh, Christ—”
Sugar's voice overlaps Carmy’s dismay, “Oh, thank God someone asked.”
And he hates to think it, but Carm much prefers his sister when she's not on their mom's side.
…What is the relationship, though? ‘Girlfriend’ is still a stupid fucking word in his eyes. It sucks to even say outloud. ‘Partner’ sounds like you’re going to open an LLC together. ‘Lover’ is way too much. Well, is it really? Forget that thought. Plus, none of it really encapsulates you. Nothing really gets the idea of you across. You’re you. What else could he prescribe you as? Carmy stutters through a definition.
“She's Tony, she's—” Oh, God. “She's like, a… Person of interest.”
“Per–?!” Sug relinquishes all her remaining control over cooking in shock, thank God, because it gives Carmen the chance to immediately step in and do something with his hands and brain during this interrogation. Sug repeats, eyes wide, her mouth is agape in a horrifically amused way. “Person of interest, Carmy? The fuck?”
“Yeah, what does that mean, sweetheart?” Asks Donna, still leant back, more relaxed than anyone's ever seen her in a kitchen. Maybe anywhere. She even chuckles, for God's sake. “Of your interest? What, are you a cop? What's— What's the big deal?”
“She's just— Like— She's Tony, alright? She's my guy and my co-worker and my repairman and my– My friend, and my—” Carmen stops stirring the literal pot to look up at his mother's blank expression. “Cut that shit out, why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”
Donna shrugs, hiding her mouth behind the glass. “Don’t want to tell your mom shit, I gettit.” She’s hurt. Try as she might to perform, she’s still Carmen’s mother. She’s still offended by every misspeak. Correction, everything she considers misspeak.
“I’m new to modern relationships I dunno; what is this?” She wheezes out, half laughing, snapping her fingers, “the ‘talking stage’?”
The chef almost huffs. God, he really can’t help but regress in this house. At least his therapist will be proud that he’s self aware enough to see it happening.
Carmy pulls at his face with one hand. “Does it fuckin’ matter? She’s here because I want her here, is that fine? Is everyone cool with that? Or–or do we need an interrogation?”
And DeeDee's doing that weird bounce thing again. It's alarming and annoying. Carmy protests again, “Am I heard?!”
“I’m not interrogating!” DeeDee laughs, eyes almost closed sheerly by the height of her cheek bones. “Just a question, Carmy, gosh, every time I ask anything, both of you tell me to stop!”
All Nat can do is clear her throat. Yikes. Post-Wedding talk must’ve gone great for them.
Donna refills her glass of apple cider, then cheers the glass to empty air, “Y’know what, I’m just gonna go formally introduce myself, alright? Did you even offer her anything to drink, Carmen?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, taking the bottle and an extra glass, Donna strides out of the kitchen, muttering all the way out. “Oh my God, she’s going to think we’re poor and impolite.”
“Ma—” Carm sucks the air between his teeth, curling a fist into a ball, before letting it go. His family always ruins things for him. They always get weird and too excited. He does however, call out to her disappearing frame, “Don't say some weird shit t' her!”
He silently resumes his position in the kitchen; temp check only half successful, but at least there's peace— For now. Can only pray that it sticks. Natalie hangs her head by Carmen’s shoulder, watching him work.
“I'm glad you're here, Bear.”
“I'm glad I am, too, Bear.” Replies Carm, he pulls off a piece of the tender roasting beef with a fork, offering it to Nat over his shoulder.
“...It’s finished.” Nat mumbles, still chewing. Her voice isn’t much louder than a whisper. Maybe it’s out of gentleness, maybe it’s out of fear. “She’s sober.”
“I noticed.” He nods, lowering the heat. Oven knobs are the best fidget toy. “Is that a her or a you?”
“A her.”
Oh, shit. Donna made the step on her own. Carm sniffs and scratches his nose, he knows to keep hope low. “You think it'll stick?”
“It's been like a month and a half, apparently, so—” She flattens her lips and shrugs, “maybe.”
There's a beat of silence, it feels like when an actor forgets their line— Or, more specifically, when an actor is absent from the scene altogether. There's that missing third note, the punchline. Sug takes on the role of completing it.
“Person of interest is crazy.”
Carmen scoffs, rolling his shoulder to shift her off of him. “Don't you have a fuckin’ kid to take care of?”
“Yeah, you.”
“...Set myself up—” “You did, you really did.”
Carmen sighs, checking on the steaming vegetables in the pot behind the braciole on the stove.
“...Is Tony my girlfriend?” “Why are you asking me this?” “Who do I ask?”
When she doesn’t answer, Carmen turns from the stove to look at her. Nat is looking at him like he’s grown three heads, each with a smaller brain than the last.
“...How old are you?” “Only fucking teenagers ask if they're dating.”
Nat considers hitting him upside the head, for old time’s sake— But holds herself back. Going with a verbal smack, as it were, “Then are you?”
“...” Carmen’s eyes seem to glaze over, too much thought and also no thoughts at all in that brain. He turns back to the stove— Where his brain works. He wordlessly takes the steamed veggies off their heat, strains them without error, and returns them to the stove.
Sugar watches, shifting her weight onto one leg. “Carmy.”
He throws a healthy pad of butter in with the veggies, gently sauteing. “Nat.”
“She's here.”
“I'm aware.”
“You should ask her.”
“You can’t just ask someone on Christmas. That's fucked.” “What does that even mean?” “It's like proposing on Christmas, it's fuckin’ annoying.”
Nat takes a beat, leaning her shoulders back, arms crossing. “You remember Pete proposed on Christmas, right?”
Carmy has to stop himself from agreeing, turning the heat down on his veggies as a form of diversion. “Hmm?”
“...Whatever.” She shrugs it off with a roll of the eyes. “I'm just saying if I were her, I'd want to know what to introduce myself as.”
“She doesn’t have to introduce herself, I’m fuckin’ introducing her.” Carmen twists around to look at Nat, defiant.
And she doesn’t refute him— Not verbally, at least. Sugar just stares at her brother, arms crossed, waiting for him to put it together. Carmen’s logic is solid, until it isn’t. He’s left you alone for twenty minutes, more or less, by now. His shoulders fall.
“...I’m not introducing her.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. Honest to God, Dawn dish soap. Five in One was the compromise of growth I got out of him.” Michelle, Steven’s wife, the actual Berzatto, puts her hand in the air, saluting Scout’s honour. “I’m tremendously proud that you got him onto Old Spice.”
You are learning more about Carmen than he probably ever wanted you to know, and it’s only been like twenty minutes. You recall saying you would’ve been friends in highschool, which you still defend, but at the same time, it’s probably for the best that you did not know the war machine that he was up until his late twenties.
You’re learning that it’s a bit of a surprise that Carmen likes you and your home; because from what you’re hearing, he’s never been a big memories and knick knacks kind of guy. He’s packed light his whole life. Didn’t even have a bed for a good portion of it. Comfort, material, memorabilia, that’s kind of… your whole thing. The first time Mikey visited your apartment he said you were a ‘nostalgia pervert’. You still think that was a little uncalled for, but it’s probably the most apt way to define you.
Ugh, it keeps coming back to Mikey. It’s hard to be in this house and have your head not come back to Mikey. You’ve never been here before, but every childhood anecdote he’s told you— Every adult story he– had told you, you’re seeing it in the bones of this house. It’s like being on the set of your favourite TV show of yesteryear. But it’s just a backdrop, without him.
God, he should be here. God, your back hurts.
Jesus Christ, talking about Carmen’s old life was supposed to distract you, and it did no such thing. You stand quite suddenly, getting up from the floor, where you and Michelle were sitting, and Steven just above you both on the couch. “I’m gonna just go to the bathroom real quick. Check if they’ve got five in one here, too.”
Perfect, they laugh, they buy it, you’re the perfect house guest. The perfect not-girlfriend.
Maybe your bonus mission quest of getting Donna to love you is a flop, but you should have Steven and Michelle wrapped around your finger soon enough. What’s wrong with a good ol’ fashion pivot? Nothing!
So that means it’s totally fine to pivot and run the other way down the hall because Donna is approaching!
…Alright, don’t run. That’s frowned upon. Recall your lessons on her. Even if Donna’s a little peppier, she’s still at a base level, herself. She must be.
Don't show fear, be affectionate, touchy. As she passes you and you pass her in the narrow hall, you put your hands on both her shoulders.
Like a bear, be soft, but look straight at it. …That’s what you’re supposed to do with bears, right? “Everything is just so stunning, Donna.”
Never call her Mrs. Berzatto, she'll talk about her long gone husband. Never call her ma’am, she'll take offense about her age. Never call her Miss, that's condescending about her age. Call her Donna first, she'll decide if—
“Oh, please. Call me DeeDee.” Mission back on? “And it's nothing, just threw it together, really.”
“Incredibly well ‘thrown’ together.” Always make sure credit isn't stolen. “Are you a big interior design fan?” Alright, you milked it too hard, now that's condescending.
Her head tilts back chuckling, “That’s a hobby for the rich ladies at Mass, not me.” She scoffs, but it's jovial. Mission back on! She lifts an empty glass and a bottle of non-alcoholic cider up to you, in offering. “Were you looking for a drink? I can’t believe my chefs didn’t get you a drink.”
You laugh, but it comes out strangled. There’s something about Donna holding a wine glass— Empty or otherwise— That sets some sort of trigger off, in your brain. You clear your throat in attempts to play off the strange noise. “Ah, maybe later. Right now I’m just trying to find the bathroom, actually.”
She directs you with her pointer finger, “It’s just down the hall, on your left, Chip.”
Ah. She’s done it again. You’ve gotta ask this time, “You know ‘Chip’?”
“I know my son. I know his friends.” Donna shrugs. The following comment isn’t required, “Even if they don’t know me.” But she says it anyway.
That was meant to be snide, right? There’s no way to take that well, is there? There’s an air of judgment to it. ‘Why didn’t you meet me?’ She’s asking, between the lines.
You purse your lips to keep yourself from frowning— Trying to remain unphased— Perfect, as it were. “I knew you through stories, I guess like you did me.”
Donna hums, “All good stories, I hope? I beg?”
Absolutely fucking not. “Of course!” But more good than bad, which for any mom, is still a decent ratio. God, this conversation sucks. Let it end. “I’ll be back!” You quickly scurry off to the bathroom– Thankful for the kitschy holiday themed toilet sign on the door, because you’ve instantly forgotten the instructions DeeDee gave.
Makeup looks fine, bladder is empty. Nothing to do.
Should you call someone? Richie? No. He’s got a kid. He’s supposed to be having Christmas Eve with his kid right now. Sure, he told you to call, if shit ever hit the fan— But this isn’t that bad— Not yet, at least. You can handle yourself, you’re an adult.
What about Syd? No. She’s with her dad doing traditions. Ugh. Should you be with your dad, right now?
You were giving a brave face, when you said it's not that big a deal to skip out on the holidays to be with Carmen instead of your actual family. Are you an asshole? Skipping out on family to rescue a guy that you don’t even have a label with yet?
Should you call your dad? Fuck no. Why did you even think to ask? Man, your back feels like shit.
Y'know who you can always talk to?
Under your sweater, the necklace remains. It's a tentative New Year's resolution of yours to take it off and keep it off. A tentative resolution to not rely on people that aren't here. Let the dead be dead.
You open your mouth, to give in, and realize then how dry your throat is. Maybe you should’ve taken Donna up on that cider offer. You have yet to touch a single glass in this home, though. Something feels weird about it. You swallow your spit to soothe the acrid taste, before starting to speak. “Mi–”
There's one and a half raps on the door and before you can answer, it's already opening with no regard to your privacy.
Fak. With a dumb looking slick back. He stares at your reflection in the mirror and you stare back at his.
“You're havin’ a panic attack.” He says. Since when did Fak know what a panic attack was?
“I'm not having a panic attack.” You say, unphased, more annoyed than anything. And it is true. This is more a stage two or three on your scale, if anything.
“I can sense it. Like a bloodhound.”
“What does that even—” You finally turn to face the guy, ridiculing him. “What the fuck happened to ‘Hello’? ‘How are you?’ ‘Happy holidays’?”
“Don't say fuck on Christmas Eve.”
“You’re—” You grimace, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Whattdya want, Fak?”
“Nah.” Neil says this like it’s a brave, warrior statement. He closes the door behind him, turning this bathroom into your shared secret chamber. “What do you need?”
You stare at him blankly for a good few seconds before lightly thwacking the side of his head with the back of your hand. “What the fuck is wrong wit’ you—”
“I’m being supportive–!” “Lockin’ yourself in a bathroom with me—” “You’re always hogging bathrooms—” “Why does now of all times seem like the moment to fuck with me?” “You need someone to talk to, don’t you?”
With a hefty sigh, you lean back against the bathroom sink. “I don’t even know what I want to talk about.”
“...Try starting?”
You tilt your head down, staring at your shoes. The one person you have right now, is fucking Fak? How far we fall.
“...This is exactly why I didn’t come to the fuckin’ funeral.” And though you didn’t think they’d come, the thoughts just fall out of your skull. “Just a bunch of assholes that treat me like a stranger— Because I am a stranger— But I’m not. I fucking know them, fuckin’ better than they know themselves, I’d bet—”
You cut yourself off, already sick of the argument. You grip the edge of the sink behind you. “Just— the one person that was meant to run my introductions and smooth everything out for me, wasn’t gonna be at the funeral, and he’s not here now, obviously.”
“You need me to get Carmy? He's just finishing up in the kitch—”
You shake your head curtly, almost rolling your eyes. “That's not who I'm talking about.”
“Oh…” Fak tilts his head down, realizing. “Yeah.”
There’s an awkward pause as he tries to muster up something to say. And he’s got a question you know you won’t want to honestly answer. “You don’t think Carm can—”
There’s a knock on the door. “Yo, Tony? Steven said you’d be in here, you good?” Speak of the Devil.
“Yeah, she’s good!” Neil gives you the thumbs up, he’s proud of himself for ‘covering’ for your less than perfect emotions.
…
Again, you thwack Fak’s head, ruining his slick back this time. “Ow—” “Why did that seem like your moment?”
“Fak?”
“I’m good.” You answer Carmen, opening the door. “We’re good. You good?”
Carmy takes a beat, regarding you. Trying to coax out what you’re really feeling. He can't, and that's disquieting. You’re never difficult to read. You never hide it. You’re not the one in this dynamic that puts a wall up. Nonchalant is not a word in your vocabulary. It's got him off balance in an instant.
He’s got your cupcakes on a tiered tray, in one hand. Cute. “I’m good. You wanna– uhm— Can I— Do you wanna hand out cupcakes—? Together?”
“Yeah, f’sure.” You swipe your nose, shaking off residual feelings as you step out of the bathroom. There’s a weird uncomfortable silence between you and Carmen. One that’s rarely occurred, if ever.
Fak inches out of the bathroom, taking up the space between you two. He regards both of you, and gestures with his hands to the air. “Oh my God. Is this a lovers’ quarrel?”
“Don’t say lovers.” “Don’t say quarrel.”
You’re not in love with the way Carmen’s eyes dart to you, when you tell Fak not to say ‘lovers’. By anyone else’s standards, the look is plain and unexpressive. To you, you know it’s bordering on accusatory.
Carmen slept on couches and frame-less beds. Carmen used dish soap and then five-in-one to shower. Carmen didn’t have a bookshelf but he has ninety-one books. The most Carmen’s ever taken care of was a ghost cat. Carmen’s not a guy that cares for frills or material or comfort. Carmen packs light. Carmen’s ready for take-off at any moment. Carmen didn't introduce you.
Carmen’s noncommittal.
That’s the dumb thing that’s sticking out in your head. Your stupid relationship status. Carmen’s noncommittal. Yeah, he gave you that whole romantic speech about keeping you around and having you in everything– But like, what does that really mean? There's nothing actionable. So, presumably, he'd hate to be called your lover, wouldn't he? You're just being the bad guy for him. Rip the band-aid, be nonchalant– Casual. Perfect Not-Girlfriend behaviour. Not really your thing, but you’re supposed to be of all trades, aren’t you? C’mon, Jack. Be perfect for him. You’re The Guy, you can do that much, right?
With a tight smile, you shrug off his look. “Cupcakes?” Carmen can only nod, still off-put.
Without much of a goodbye, you foist a cupcake on Fak— He opens his mouth like you’re going to feed him for a second, but after you freeze just out of his range, he more politely takes the cupcake in his hand.
Carmen opens his mouth, as you walk away together, so you interrupt before he’s got the chance to unwrap what’s going on with you. “How’s Nat?” Is the sidestep question you go with.
“–Hm? Oh, she’s… herself. Can never tell if that’s a positive.”
“Roast of the century.” You mumble, handing cupcakes off to Jimmy and his… wife? She’s certainly not the first one—
“Does he have a new wife?” Carmen whispers to you once you pass them, just as lost. “Definitely not his second wife.”
“Must be the third, unless we lost track at some point.” You shrug, “Let’s just avoid introductions all together in case we should know her.” Makes it easier for her and you. It’s a win win.
“Tony!” Pete is nice because for the most part, he doesn’t stick his head in other’s business. No, rather, he sticks his business in other people’s heads. “You used to be an EMT, right? Super cool.”
“Yeah, I was, thank you, Pete. Cupcake?”
He takes the cupcake in his freehand, the other busy holding Michaela straight on his knee. “Y’know, Natalie has been having this problem where when she—” Cupcake in hand, he gestures to his chest awkwardly. “–Y’know?”
Carmen pretends he doesn’t exist, for the moment. He tries to convince himself the fake snow on a hanging piece of tinsel is the most interesting thing in the world at the moment. You purse your lips, “For sure, Pete.”
“Breastfeeds.”
“Yeah, no, I got it.”
“Yeah, she gets sad, like, in tears. What’s up with that?”
You put a hand over your mouth, trying to cover any possible expression that could leak through, “Right, okay, crazy personal thing to ask on behalf of your wife— Uh—” You pause, lost for words. “I was not a pediatrician, but that’s probably D-MER, uh– Normal thing, not really any cure, but that’s sorta how all reproductive healthcare works, eh?”
“Oh—” Ted Fak, manages to make a surprise appearance, yoinking a cupcake from the tray. He points at Pete with one hand, shoving the dessert in his mouth with the other, while speaking, mind you. “Dude— you should ask Claire-Bear.”
Carmen straightens up, knocked out of his dissociative fugue. He talks through tight lips. “Claire’s an Emergency Doctor, she’s not gonna have any more detail than Tony.”
“Oh, Claire’s a doctor now?” In comes Donna along with Sugar from the kitchen, like the cavalry. “Good for her, that’s a lot of school!”
Natalie’s got too many plates and cutlery stacked upon her singlehandedly. Her mom’s not holding anything at all, far too interested in gossip. Without hesitation, you leave Carmen to help Sugar. She’s very thankful as you take half of the weight out of her arms and set the table alongside her. Maybe you should be the one to thank Nat, really, because she’s given you the gift of something to do.
That doesn’t stop Donna from continuing on. “I really liked Claire, she’s a smart one, hm? Carmen you used to have a crush on her, right? So cute.”
Alright, is it just you, or does every statement DeeDee makes feel weirdly targeted against you? Like she’s doing everything she can to see you sweat, to get a rise out of you. Well, it’s not gonna fucking work. You’re the guy, and you’re perfect, and no passive aggression is going to get to you.
…That said, who the fuck is Claire-Bear?
“That was in high school.” Carmen answers behind you. Ah, so Carmen did have things as frivolous as crushes back in the day. Good to know.
“Yeah, but…” Fak hesitates, it sounds like he knows he’s about to put his foot in his mouth but can’t stop now. “You dated pretty recently…?”
And there’s curious hooting and hollering from everyone that wasn’t already wise to this— Especially Donna, and that’s probably a cute family moment. But to you it sounds like the most horrific cacophony of sounds.
Ah, the girl with an even better medical background— And she’s still in the field, even. She can handle the patients and the families and the constant fear. The girl that everyone actually did know as a family friend, and wasn’t solely tied to the dead guy. The girl that has a seemingly long and storied history with Carmen— The girl who he lost a lot of his firsts to. The girl that’s just so perfect.
The girl Donna seems to love. The girl who the entire family is excitedly cooing about, instead of you, the person that’s actually here. Hm. Hmm.
Hmmm.
That’s so interesting, that’s so cool. You do not feel bitter because that’s an imperfect emotion, and you are the guy. And the guy is so perfect, so nonchalant, so cool, so casual, so happily unlabelled.
You don’t realize you’re holding onto a fork with a white knuckle grip until Sugar’s hand covers yours. She slowly guides you to set it on the placemat, sympathetic. You take a breath—
“Oh!” Feigned delight, and everyone can read it on Donna’s face as she looks at Carmen’s tray of cupcakes. “Dessert before dinner, how nouveau.”
No matter how many times you went over the rules, you’ve still fucked it up, eh?
You snap back up from the table, and with a flat-lipped look to Nat, pocket the fork as a fidget toy. Hey, it worked for Mikey, in a way. Maybe this is one of the ones he held at that dinner. Maybe. It feels good to say it was.
It’s stilted, like a choked out line on stage, the way Steven says, “Let’s have dinner!” But it works well enough.
One bite.
Two bites.
Three bites, now—
“Everything is so good, DeeDee—” Add specifics, “–The salmon is so flavourful.” the specifics always need to be about a main dish, bless your fucking gravestone if you compliment the potatoes. Everyone hums and agrees in kind.
“Mm–” Steven pipes in between chews, “How’s the restaurant going? I got to try a bit at the wedding— really something, Carmy.”
“Thank you.” Carmen nods, more nervous than usual— So that’s saying something. “It’s uh– It’s goin’ well, yeah. Workin’ our way up, f’sure.”
He’s acting like the first version of Carmy you met, leg shaking under the table. You put your free hand on his knee. It seems to help.
“We’re booked through January, now.” Sugar boasts on his anxious behalf.
“I saw!” Michelle laughs, she nudges Steven. “I was trying to get a reservation while we’re here. When can we come?”
The siblings speak in tow. “When it’s ready.”
“Tony’s been a huge help, with everything.” Ah, Jimmy. Trying to be nice and make you feel special but now you feel tossed into a spotlight that is really a reticle.
Natalie and Carmen nod in agreement, mouths too full to vocalize it. Meaning, unfortunately, DeeDee gets to go in lieu of them. “Y’know what, that doesn’t surprise me! Chip, you’ve been helping out The Bear for some time right? You were practically a founder!”
You cough on your last bite of a gorgeous scalloped potato, unconvincingly hiding your surprise. Thankfully, Carmen has an even worse poker face than you. Or perhaps you should be unthankful? Who’s to say, just pick a God and pray for this shitshow.
Mikey didn’t tell you much about his mom, but it seems he did not have the same reservations when it came to telling his mom about you. That fucker's always setting you up.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” You take a sip of water, mostly to disguise your thinking time. You put down the glass and tilt your head back and forth. “I was there for Mikey’s pitch to Unc, but I wasn’t like a partner or anything. Just morale and a couple of sketches.”
Steven and Michelle make their shock known immediately. Not in a vindictive or mean way, but the rug has been pulled from under them. Sonofabitch, have you lost their love so soon? Michelle speaks for both of them. “Oh, love, you didn’t mention you were friends with Michael?”
Steven nods, swiping sauce off his mouth, “Yeah, I thought you were here with Carmy.”
“She is.” Carmen speaks for you, eyes solely on his plate as he slowly saws into a tough piece of meat— with a butter knife.
Carmen may not be the guy, but he is a guy. The type of guy that can suck the energy out of a room– good or bad– and make it go completely silent, without many words. A Grim Reaper for social gatherings. And you adore him for it.
In the silence though, you can hear a very faint thumping noise– Sort of tinny, actually.
Where’s that coming from? Nobody else seems to be noticing it, so you pretend it’s not there. The sound groans for a second, after you decide to ignore it— It sends a sore feeling through your spine.
Jimmy’s third(?) wife tries to defuse what is developing into a thick and tense silence. Unfortunately, she does so by lying. “Oh, y’know what, sweetheart, I think you and I actually met at the funeral, that must’ve been when you and Carmen met, hm?”
Pete, wonderful stupid Pete, has to fuck you over double time here. Because he’s objectively a good dad, he’s far too zoned in on feeding sweet little Mickey to pay any attention to the social cues at this table and understand the general rancid vibe. He just hears something wrong and has to correct it. “Oh no, Carol. Neither of them were at the funeral, they didn’t go.”
Nat elbows his side, alas, the damage has already been done. Mickey bubbles with laughter at the slight violence.
“Why didn’t you go?” Michelle turns her sights onto you, and it feels terrible, because Steven and Michelle were the only ones here you thought you’d earn the love of, and now you’re the asshole that didn’t show up for your best friend. The cutlery feels slippery in your palms.
God, okay, that thumping noise sounds like it’s getting louder, but still, no one’s paying it any mind. Your shoulders feel heavier with every rhythmic strike. Is it in your head? Is this Tell-Tale Heart? When is your life going to stop recreating famous tragedies?
In your clammed up silence, Carmen tries to speak for you again, but you tap his thigh, and he takes the signal to let you handle it.
It’s Christmas Eve, so it's not exactly the right time to tell the truth and say ‘Oh, actually, I did go. But at the last second, as I walked up to a church I’d never known, that housed my dead best friend, I was overcome with an overwhelming irrational fear and paralysing grief. So I just sat on a curb two blocks down and cried into a sandwich.’ …Hearing that doesn’t exactly put people into a holly jolly mood.
So you stumble your way through saying a bold-faced lie, shrugging.
“Uh, y’know, we just– Just weren’t that close, so, it didn’t feel appropriate to take— uhm— to be a part of that moment.”
God, that hurt just to say. But that’s what the perfect you would be like, right? The perfect you never had weird dead friend trauma, right? The perfect you and Mikey just weren't that close.
Good Lord, just the thought of that makes you want to vomit. Your head feels like it’s boiling. Boiling? Boiler on the fritz? Maybe that’s what that fucking noise is—
That thumping noise that has now turned to hammering that keeps making your bones feel like they’re constricting, if that’s even fucking possible. Well, at least it’s something to focus on besides the disgust you feel with yourself.
You can see Uncle Jimmy out of the corner of your eye, opening his mouth already to call your bullshit. Your eyes snap his way, expression subtle but pleading. He zips his lips.
DeeDee hums, cheery, smiling as she chews, “Well, that’s not true, Chips, I mean you were his sponsor, of course you were close!” swallowing, with no ounce of regret. “Ha, lotta good that did, hm?”
Carmen had to learn how to silence a room from someone; you should’ve realized that it’d be from her. All anyone can do is stare. What else can they do? All they can do is think about how anyone that sponsored Mikey must’ve fucked up beyond belief. Every wound you’ve worked on healing feels like it’s just torn right back open— It’s hard to stay unphased, when his own mother seems to imply you were no goddamn help.
The thumping that’s become hammering has now become a sharp and distinct ringing. The tinnitus kind, almost. The kind that makes you want to slam your hands against your ears and sympathize with Van Gogh in a whole new light.
Sweet darling Carmy, in the long silence, reaches over to take your hand that rests on his knee. But the second his fingers graze the back of your hand, you’re quicker than lightning to stand up, eyes trained on the ceiling.
“It’s your heating pipes.” You say, with a cold confidence. That’s what the noise is. That’s something to do. That’s something to make you useful— Perfect. You look down to DeeDee. “You’ve got a water hammer problem.” You can’t help the way your eyes twitch for a second. “It’s distracting, can I fix it?”
She waves a hand, seemingly delighted, if not charmed, by your apparent discomfort. She’s still eating, unbothered. “By all means.”
Fak— Neil, points his hand up to offer. “I can help—”
“I don’t need help.”
You almost spit, eyes darting to him. But the guilt is instant when you see his genuinely worried expression, and you soften. Nodding as a form of an apology.
“Thank you, Fak.”
You tap wrap your knuckles against the walls as you follow the hammering noise, listening for creaky pipes to reply to you. The orchestra of plumbing leads you up the stairs. With each step the ringing gets harsher, like it’s taunting you. You can’t help but feel like a B-rate horror movie protagonist.
It doesn’t help that once you get up the stairs, the noisy pipes seem to be concentrated in one specific room. But you need something to do; even if that is to get murdered by a mediocre slasher right now. So with little to no hesitation, you open the door.
Ah.
Maybe you are a nostalgia pervert. You are so immediately taken aback when witnessing Michael’s room for the first time.
It looks utterly untouched.
In the sense that— It looks like a mess. A candidly photographed, captured in time mess. There’s that slight stink of old laundry— A light mildewy scent coming off of what must’ve been the towel from his last shower. It’s draped over the chair at his desk… his desk looks cleaner than the rest of his room– By comparison, at least. All the notebooks and pens are ‘neatly’ organized. His bed isn’t made, there’s clothes on the floor, rare baseball cards stuck in the frame of his mirror– They’re showing the effects of sunbleaching– The curtains are drawn open and they’ve been forced to bask all year in it, you imagine.
He has posters that are taped up, wrinkled, crooked, and stupid. Blockbuster movie, 90s video-game, hot girl, blockbuster movie that stars a hot girl, band poster, heavily stained band poster… it goes on.
The blockbuster movie poster flutters in time with the hammering noise that brought you up here in the first place. The scotch tape on the poster seems a bit weak, like it’s been removed and stuck back on a thousand times. With an unsteady focus, you delicately peel the corners of tape off the wall to look behind it.
A hole in the wall. It’s big, as far as holes in a wall go. From the looks of it, it started as a small hole from a strong punch, and then Mikey must’ve pulled and broken off pieces of drywall to make himself a cubby hole. In the middle of his cubby though, is a dented and rattling copper U-pipe.
You’re not crazy, this wasn’t Tell-Tale Heart, nor are you the star of the next Friday the Thirteenth reboot. There really is a problem with the pipes.
But who gives a fuck about a fix anymore? This was Michael’s secret stowaway.
There’s a ‘The Berf’ shirt tied around the pipe as a failed attempt to insulate the thrumming pipe. He lived here, it makes sense that he’d notice it too. On top of the horizontal wooden beam, there’s a few bills, ranging from twenties up to a hundred. An empty dime bag tucked slightly behind the beam, you pretend you don’t notice it. There’s a few photos nailed into the vertical beam. The miss takes from his sobriety photos; the ones where Richie’s thumb is taking up most of the frame, where for a split second the candle lit Mikey’s beard on fire, where Mikey pranked you by shoving the cupcake in your face and you’re covered in icing.
You retake hold of the fork still in your pocket.
Fuck being perfect for Donna. Donna can fuck herself and her weird passive aggressive behaviour. It doesn’t matter what the fuck she thinks. Doesn’t matter what she was trying to imply. You were the first and final defenses, for Mikey. You were in everything he had. Everything he hid. You were his safe space. You were the one person he could rely on without any of the bullshit. You were the one he depended on. You did right by him.
Fuck Donna. Fuck this family. They don’t know anything about Mikey. They don’t know him like you did. Blood doesn’t mean shit. The womb doesn’t mean shit. You were there. You’re in here. There's no photos of Donna in here, hm? Mikey didn’t rely on her like he relied on you. You were there. You were there for the meetings, for the withdrawals, for the recoveries, for the breakdowns— You were there when it was hard.
Going to a funeral doesn’t do the dead any good. Sitting in a stuffy church with a formaldehyde soaked corpse in a closed casket, doesn’t mean shit. You were there when it actually meant something for Mikey, and that’s a fuck of a lot more than Donna can say. She certainly doesn't get to decide that you didn’t care about Michael— That you didn’t do enough for him.
You should tell her that.
Your grip tightens on the fork in your pocket. The prongs poke into your thumb, scattering dots of pressure along your finger tip. If you pressed the slightest bit harder, you’d pierce skin.
Tell her that.
You let the poster drop to the floor and with a brand new mission, march to the door and throw it open.
You don’t expect Donna to be on the other side, her mouth agape; clearly caught off guard as she was practicing what to say. She goes with what must’ve been a rough draft, voice frail.
“How long were you sober?”
The question is so jarring that you can’t help but be honest. “I relapsed a handful of times, but I did a year and a month straight before I decided I was stable enough to have a glass once in a blue moon or so.”
She nods, “I’m almost two months and I still feel like shit.”
You purse your lips, knowingly. “I always found the second and third month the hardest.”
As you meet her with an understanding and kindness that Berzattos are rarely given, her face goes tight with guilt, seemingly sincere for the first time tonight. “I don’t know why I do that. I don’t think I always did that.”
“Is this you apologizing?” Your eyes crinkle, brows ever so slightly raised at her shifting the subject. The woman is confusing but concise at the same time; you have to respect it.
She nods dumbly, “Did Mikey say I was bad at those?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, well—” She brushes past you, entering the room. “He was shit at it too.” She sits on the edge of Mikey’s bed.
“And God knows he’s got a lot to be sorry for.” She huffs, an indignant laugh. “Up and dies without cleaning his room, knowin’ full fuckin’ well I’d never clean it. Who could?”
She’s hiding it well, but you can still hear that tell tale quiver in her voice. Your eyes scroll across the mess of a room. The comparison’s already happened in your head, so you can’t help but say it.
“He sorta did the same thing, to Carm… n’ me, I think. Left us all with messes.”
You swallow and step forward, back to the hole in the wall, not daring to look at her as you pass her by. “I think he got that people like us need somethin’ t’do, or we just go insane.”
Donna rubs a hand over her eyes, massaging her temples. That happy go lucky, passive-aggressive, gently bouncing woman is gone. Honestly, you much prefer this Donna, if that isn’t too terrible to say. At least she’s honest. “Hmph. Well too bad for him, I was already insane when he met me.”
Your shoulders drop, though you keep your back to her; continuing to stare at the rattling pipes. All the anger you built up just sloughs off you, like a snake shedding skin. Humbled into a fellow mourner within a minute. You’re silent.
“...Do you have what you need to fix it?”
“W-what?” You stutter, turning your head to her in what feels like– Fear? God, she sees right through you. “I— I don’t know—”
“Heard you’re a repairman.” She quells your misguided concerns, gesturing to the rattling pipe in front of you. “D’you need anything special to fix it?”
Blinking, your eyes dart away from Donna once more. Desperate to look anywhere else. Duh, obviously she was talking about the pipes. “Y-yeah… uh—”
You turn your head back on the pipe, refocusing. “I need a thing called an ‘arrestor’, it’s just like a– A pocket for air to escape. You could— could also turn your water off and let it drain— That’ll also work– Probably. Just takes a while.”
You can hear her shuffling behind you, and soon she’s at your side, head hovering your shoulder, looking at the photos nailed into the wooden beams of Mikey’s cubby hole. She stares for a beat, but doesn’t seem surprised. Seems like Donna’s already familiar with these photos. With this hidden stash. “...Do you think he’d known?”
It’s weird. You know what she means without her making it clear. ‘Do you think Mikey knew what he was doing? Do you think he knew what he’d be leaving us with?’
You take a breath, dejected and unsure. You roll your shoulders, carefully grazing her chin. “I go back and forth a lot and go with whatever hurts less in that moment.”
She laughs at that, nodding. “That’s probably the healthy thing to do.”
“Is it?” You’re tempted to look at her, but your body won’t let you turn. Though, you cock your head, doubtful. “Speaking from experience, I don’t think I’d say the same.”
It’s silent for a long moment. You’d like to say you know what she’s thinking, but that’d be a bold fucking lie.
Donna’s unreadable. But she considers her words carefully, which is hard to believe, because she goes with, “I hated you.”
You nearly laugh at the bluntness. “Yeah?”
“Hated who I knew. He’d talk ‘bout you— Never enough to get a good picture.” She huffs, “But he’d said enough for me t’ realize, he didn’t talk about me like he talked ‘bout you.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re dependable. A lifeline.” She presses her lips together, pensive. “Shit like that, y’know— They– It made me realize that my son never relied on me. And if anything, I relied on him. He always fixed messes, never made any—”
You finally twist around to squint at her, accusatory, almost amused. She corrects. “...Not that I ever got to see at least. Not that I ever looked. And— And that was so embarrassing. You did get to see. Some kid, who took better care of my kid than me.”
“I tried to be you.” She takes a deep inhale and exhales, slowly stabilizing her shaky breathing. “I’m trying. To be dependable, and sober, and– and not so fucked up. Not bring my shit into my kid’s shit.”
Oh.
Oh, she’s just like Carmen.
“But then you show up tonight… And it's just… I just… Lost my head. I— I wanted to welcome you in but there’s just– Just all this noise, and I don’t want to do what I do— I don’t like what I do— But I still fucking—”’
And Carmen’s just like you.
She winces. She can’t bring herself to say everything smart that she wants to say. She doesn’t even know where to start. ‘Sorry’, is where she should start— But if she can’t bring herself to say it to her kids, she certainly can’t say it to you.
Everything you thought just minutes ago, everything you wanted to confront her with, throw a fork over— It was all something she’d already thought about herself ad nauseam. Donna was trying to get under your skin, that’s a fact. But it was a defensive maneuver— She didn’t think she was hitting first. Your existence is an attack on her— Or, at least, the perfect you that exists in her head is an attack on her.
Honestly, the you in your head is kind of an attack on you, too. All night, you’ve been in your own head, demanding perfection— Demanding you put a veneer over everything.
You’re perfect, you bring dessert, you say all the right things, you’re casual, you’re not the jealous type, you don’t talk to dead people, you weren’t close friends with Mikey, you’re not a girlfriend— But you’re not not a girlfriend, you don’t feel like you can’t put your mouth on a glass in this house, you don’t have a fork in your pocket, you don’t feel a deep pang of pain in your back every time you think too much. You’re perfect. You wanted Donna to think you’re absolutely perfect.
If only you’d known at the top half of this night, that Donna’s always thought of you as perfect. And it didn’t make anything better. If anything, it made you both feel so much fucking worse.
“Donna,” Your eyes feel wet, and you’re almost embarrassed about that. You scrunch your nose, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Can we just start over?”
Her screwed expression finally relaxes. She’s been running lines in her head, trying to come up with the right thing to break your silences. She’s relieved you’ve taken the job from her, nodding. “Please, let’s.”
With one hand still on her shoulder, you lift your other hand for her to shake. “It’s very nice to meet you, Donna. I’ve heard so much about you.”
She shakes your hand, “All good things, I hope?”
“God, no.” No bullshit, this time. You both laugh. “Almost all good, though.”
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you…?” Donna waits for you to fill in the blank. You shrug, not minding whatever she picks. She hums, daresay, happily, shaking your hand.. “Jack was one, right? I can call you Jay-Jay! And you call me DeeDee.”
You snicker, shrugging again. “Sure, throw it on the pile, DeeDee.” Your hands fall off her shoulder and out of her handshake. The playful smile on your face sobers into something sincere. “You do know now that I wasn’t perfect with Mikey, right?”
Certainly, there’s days and choices and words you regret. Donna wasn’t perfect, and neither were you.
She nods. “Neither was I.” Instead of that weird bobbing, she now tilts her head back and forth. “Still not. Still can’t clean his room. Still feels like he’s here, in the mess.”
“...I talk to him, sometimes. Pretend he’s the reason why stuff breaks.”
“I do that all the time—” She smiles, her breathing mimics laughter. “All his old duck tape fixes are probably why everything breaks on me now, anyways.”
You grin, but your eyes crinkle with a touch of concern. “Wait, do you need me to look at anything?”
“Oh—” She waves a hand, shrugging off the offer. “No, no. If I keep you any longer, Carmen’ll kill me.”
“Oh?” You tilt your head, nodding towards the door. “Is he…?”
“Yep, walked me up and everything.”
Your eyes flutter, before squinting at her too calm expression. Carmen came up here with her? Well, guess someone had to grant her the self-awareness and confidence to come up here. “...DeeDee, what happened?”
Donna has a series of micro-expressions that are practically impossible to discern. Pride? Fear? Sadness? Disdain? Embarrassment? Sympathy? It’s everything. She sighs, “Well…”
Carmen’s hand goes still, right where you leave it, when you suddenly stand up and excuse yourself to fix ‘creaking pipes’ that he can’t even hear. He wonders, for a moment, if him reaching for you is what actually made you leave so abruptly.
In your absence, though, he stares at his stupid hand tattoos and recounts to himself everything he did wrong today.
Number one, waking up.
Scratch that one– Self-deprecating language isn’t helpful, even as a joke– Blah blah blah self-help books can go fuck themselves right now. He needs to be better.
He shouldn’t have entertained you, when you kept asking him how to act around his family. He should’ve never coached you in the first place. He should’ve coached his mother, if anyone, on how to be normal for a few fucking hours. He shouldn’t have let anyone in his stupid freak family talk to you without him present. He shouldn’t have left your side for a second. You were already off, when he caught you in the bathroom. He should’ve taken that more seriously.
He knew something was off and he let it go. The last time he did that, a car went through the wall on his left. You wouldn’t go that far, but that’s not the point. He should’ve taken you aside and checked in without Fak being there to … be Fak. He should’ve pushed back when you said ‘don’t say lovers’ . He should’ve been better.
He should’ve introduced you to everyone. He should’ve introduced you as his. He should’ve had that stupid conversation before you got here.
He should’ve decried the Claire-Bear talk immediately. But that would’ve meant he’d have to defend your honour by declaring to everyone— Including you— That you’re more than— Than something. More than a high-school crush, certainly. But that would’ve meant he’d have to have that stupid conversation in front of everyone instead of just with you– Which was already a mortifying concept.
But no wonder you got up, no wonder you stopped him from defending you, seconds ago. He hasn’t been able to say anything of substance all day. How could you expect him to say the right thing? Trust him to say the right thing? He hasn’t spoken for you all night. All he said was that you were here with him. Is that something? Is that progress? If it is, it’s fucking slow. You deserve better. You need better.
But you haven’t gotten a better Carmen, so now, his hand is brushed aside as you rush out of the dining room. So now, the table is silent, par for Donna, continuing to sip at her cider jovially. So now, Carmen can feel the ground giving out underneath his chair.
Carmen’s an idiot that can’t experience any growth without it being at your expense. He is the problem. The panic resettles into the grooves of his brain. The hole in his throat opens back up. The dread reappears over his shoulder, settling itself into its rightful home. His hand nearly spasms in the space you’ve left.
He’s not getting better.
And then, by some miracle, before Carmen falls completely into the black hole of the self-destroying void, he remembers. Carm remembers that he feels — something for you, more than he hates himself.
He blinks for the first time since you left, his eyes remember they’re supposed to sting. He tries to speak, but his body is slower to catch up with his newly brave brain. The hole in his throat doesn’t close. It’s hard to speak in rooms as suffocating as this one is. As it always has been.
He wants to be that guy for you. He doesn’t like what he’s doing— what he’s not doing, rather. But he’s never had to be the one standing up for someone; that was always done for him. God, what an insurmountable fucking task Mikey was given practically every night for years.
He can’t get rid of that hole in his throat, it’s just not a talent that can be built in an instant— But Carmy’s smart. He knows himself. He knows what he is and isn’t capable of. Carmy’s gotten smarter—Better. He knows what talents he does possess, and he knows how to circumvent himself.
The chef stares at his plate. Scallop potatoes, seafood vegetable medley, shrimp stuffed cannelloni, a few clams casino, a sliver of baked cod, a piece of braciole, and amberjack linguini. He takes a smooth, methodical breath. It’s not exactly meditative, but it’s similar.
What a fucking mess. Absolutely no craftsmanship, no intention, no vision in this plate.
His eyes narrow, and the hole in his throat thins itself into a veil. A very familiar weight presses on his shoulders, but for once, it’s not unhelpful.
A lower pulse doesn’t always have to be a bad thing.
“Apologize.”
It’s faint, but it’s an order. It’s the most direct and aggressive Carmen’s ever been at this dining table. The room is still silent, but the energy around that silence shifts as everyone points their gazes to Carmen; all waiting with baited breath to see the infamous baby Bear finally care enough about something to stand up for it.
Donna shakes her head, sighing softly— As though Carmen’s naive to ask. She shrugs, “Carmy, I’m sorry, but it had to be said— We don’t stand for people that don’t say the whole deal—”
“Not to me.” Still quiet, but firmer— Callous. He twists his fork into the linguine. Stracotto. Overcooked. It folds in on itself into mush without much effort. A waste. “Go upstairs, apologize.”
Carmen doesn’t see it, unable to peel himself from the plate, but he hears his mother scoff— Actually taken aback for a moment.
Exasperated, Donna puts her fork down. “Carmy, did you not hear what I said? She was—”
“His sponsor, yeah, she’s told me.”
Carmen tries to keep his cool, low pulse, but Donna just manages to push every button. “She’s my fuckin— I—” Still can’t say the stupid fucking word. “I came here with her. ‘Course I would know.”
“And you don’t have a problem with it?”
For a moment, the irritation takes control of Carmy, and he lifts his head up to Donna—Instantly regretting it. He knows if he looks away from the food, his resolve will break.
So he lowers his gaze just slightly to look at his mother’s plate, instead of her face. Its composition is uneven; it’s basically just baked cod— Of which Donna hasn’t actually eaten any of, as far as Carmy can tell. She’s just slicing it with her butter knife, over and over again; the cuts getting thinner and thinner each time— practically macerated.
“D’you have a problem with it?”
If Donna was planning on replying, Carmy interrupts her. “Finally meet someone that reminds you of Mikey, and your first instinct is t’ fuckin’ ruin it.”
He knows that, because it was his instinct too. Sugar’s instinct, too. Carmen notices Nat’s silhouette tense up in his periphery.
He scoffs, anger on a roll, “Tony was so intent on getting you t’like her.” Brows creased so hard they'll leave permanent wrinkles, “Asked me a million questions 'bout you, made a dessert that— that you fuckin’ refused to even eat— Don’t think I didn’t notice that shit— Petty as fuck.”
Steven tries to interject with an awkward chuckle, “Carmy, why don’t—”
“I’m talking.” But Carmen doesn’t allow a moment of reprieve. Doesn’t even look in Steven’s direction, let alone his plate. “I shouldn’t’ve brought her here— That’s my fuckin’ fault. I should’ve known that you’d pull this shit—”
“Pull what? Do what?”
Now that interruption from Donna really pisses Carmen off. It irritates him enough to finally look away from her dish and actually look her in the eyes, with no fear, because there’s just no time for it.
“Don’t fuckin’ pretend, Ma.”
“I’m not fuckin' pretending!”
“You have been givin’ her the third fuckin’ degree all night.”
“I barely even said anything.”
“Oh my fucking—” And then, he pauses.
Carmen, for once, during an argument, pauses to think.
He stares at his mother, in silent contemplation— And frankly, everyone finds that much more frightening than him yelling.
Carmen wants to tell his mom that if it’s her or you, it’s you. Carmen wants to tell his mom that if she doesn't apologize to you tonight, the likelihood she ever sees her only son again is almost null. Carmen wants to tell his mom that you are one of the few truly good things Mikey left them, if not the only thing, and he can’t lose that. Carmen wants to tell his mom that if you’re going to walk out of his life, he wants it to be his fault— He wants your loss to be deserved, if there has to be a loss. Carmen wants to tell his mom a lot of things. All of them are too revealing for his liking. Too much for the dinner table.
Carmy’s nose twitches, his brows furrow further, his eyes twitch at the inner corners as they become glassy and red with irritation. He frowns, for better or for worse, his pulse has returned to normal. His voice is now quiet, dry, and nearly begging.
“Please, just go apologize.”
“Carmen.”
Carmy’s gaunt expression stays unnervingly still as his head tilts to his sister calling out to him. “Natalie.”
The wind is knocked out of Nat, to see her brother like this— Possibly for the first time— No, certainly for the first time. She can’t remember a moment in history where Carmen ever truly pleaded for something like this. Breathlessly, “...I love you.”
He nods, “I love you too, Bear.”
And Carm tries to take a page out of your book, however unfamiliar he may be with the art of communicating with looks alone— He’s hoping, as he stares into Sug’s eyes, that some sort of sibling telepathy will activate, and she’ll understand how serious he’s being— How much he needs this.
Nat has felt just as uneasy as Carmen has at this dinner table. She’s replayed that dinner in her head a million times, it’s a worn out VHS tape in her mind, at this point. That night, when she told Mikey she loved him, she looked at him— she was trying to defuse him— Not understand him, not defend him. Maybe things would’ve gone differently that night, if she had gone that route. Or maybe it all would’ve gone exactly the same; maybe it was just fated.
But at the very least, Mikey would’ve known for certain that his sister saw him when he needed her, and she was in his corner.
Her eyes squint just slightly as she takes Carmen in—She ignores the tension of the dining room, only caring to silently communicate with the brother she has. Natalie isn’t the type to make the same mistake twice.
Her gaze sharpens as it turns from her brother onto Donna.
“You need to go upstairs and apologize.”
It takes a lot out of you, to not cry when DeeDee recounts her version for you. You wipe away at your eyes, just in case. You’re not sure what you feel, but the closest thing you can pin it to is a sort of concerned admiration for Carmy— And Nat, for that matter.
“Holy fuck.”
“Yeah,” Donna just agrees. “D’you want me to get him—?”
“No!” You grab her shoulders the second she makes any motion to the door. “I’ll— I’ll talk to him— Uhm.” It already felt weird enough to talk to Donna in Mikey’s room, you don’t need to add Carmen to the mix. “I just need a second here, alone, is that alright?”
Donna nods. Unexpectedly, she goes in for a hug. You take it, though a touch gingerly— And perhaps to add some levity, she whispers to you another recounting of Carmen, when he said the dumbest thing any man could possibly say— Of which you will absolutely be mocking him for in a matter of minutes. You thank her for it.
Soon after, Donna steps out, and you can hear her quelling a concerned Carmen down on the other side of the door, while you have one last moment alone with The Guy.
You sit on his bed, both appreciating and hating the still silence Mikey’d never actually give you, if he was really here. He’s not here. There’s nothing you can do or imagine to make that not true.
You pull the necklace out from under your shirt and take it off your neck. You thumb at the chip. He’s not here. Maybe you’re finally ready to get comfortable with that thought. He’s not here, and that’s alright. It takes a while for your legs to agree with you, but when they do, you march over to Mikey’s impromptu cubbyhole.
You undo and then redo and tighten the old knot of ‘The Berf’ shirt on the rattling pipe, and reinforce it with the cord of your necklace.
It’s not a permanent fix, but it’ll dull the sound for the moment.
You swallow and sniff, eyes glazing over all the hidden tchotchkes, including your newest addition. With a scoff, you talk to your old friend for what you hope to be the last time, reaching for his money.
“Pipe temp hotfix, that’s forty.” You chuckle, pocketing the twenties. You know he’d feel guilty if he didn’t pay you for even the most mediocre job done. You pick the movie poster back up from the ground, and re-cover the hole; tamping down the weak tape.
You make an effort to not look over your shoulder, when you finally pick up the courage to leave.
“Love you, Be—
The shoddily taped up poster falls to the ground, unsurprisingly. You groan, practically stomping over to put the poster back up. You grumble like you’ve just been lectured. “Fucking fine, I’ll text my dad about getting breakfast tomorrow, yeah yeah.”
You find a spare push-pin to stab the poster into the wall, adding a touch more stability. “Y’know, I learned the lesson without you having to butt in, y’know. I got it. Cherish the living while you have ‘em, not the dead when you don’t…Whatever.”
You scoff, but it soon turns into laughter as you make your leave.
“See ya when I see ya, you fuckin’ ballbuster.”
Closing the door behind you, Carmen waits before you, alone. You can tell by his stupid cute pensive expression that he’s gearing up to apologize and ramble on about not being good enough. He’s got some obvious tells- Well, at least to you.
“I need to—” As if on cue, he starts, so you interrupt him.
“Wanna show me your racecar bed?”
He’s motionless for a second, before a small smile reveals itself. He walks to another door down the hall, expecting you to follow. You do. He mumbles, “I don’t have a racecar bed...”
“Don’t tell me you’ve had no bedframe since childhood?”
“My option's racecar or bust?” He scoffs. And you grin, because that pensive, small, constantly apologizing Carmen is gone once more— At least for the moment.
You hum ever so innocent and not teasing at all, thinking back to what Donna mentioned. “‘Person of Interest’, is fuckin’ insane by the way.”
Carmy pauses, glaring at you like his identity’s just been exposed. He opens his bedroom door with one hand, and the other snakes over your back, shoving you into his room head first. “Shut the fuck up…” But it’s grumbled through a smirk, completely insincere.
Carmen’s room is a pretty stark contrast from Mikey’s. It’s clean and much smaller. Everything is in its place, albeit a bit dusty.
He doesn’t have a racecar bed but he does have a bedframe for his twin-size, so that’s decent enough. There’s a stack of filled out sketchbooks and journals on his desk— Of which has clearly been well loved and used to the fullest. There’s a few rubbed in charcoal and paint stains that will never come out now. There’s even a bookshelf! An honest to God bookshelf that (probably) wasn’t pulled out of the trash!
It’s lined with classic literature (library codes taped on the spine, you notice), torn up comics, and ancient cookbooks. There’s a few typical Chicago boy things, like a signed baseball and glove to match, a bobble-head of a Bulls player you can’t recognize, a deck of cards, a long expired discount card to the Griffith museum, and a Chicago Bears teddy bear— That you think would go wonderfully with your Cubs bear at home.
… Carmy does have things. Or, did. There’s all sorts of stuff on his walls, too. Photos from school, polaroids of old friends he probably couldn’t even name, bottle caps and cards that he at some point found beautiful or important. Winning ribbons for a few amateur art competitions, sketches that are haphazardly pinned up. Newspaper clippings with every time ‘The Beef’ had ever been mentioned.
He is a knicknack guy. Or at least, he was. “You used to decorate a lot more, eh?”
“Yeah.” You hear him taking a seat on his bed behind you. “Still am, just been decorating The Bear ‘stead of my own place, lately.”
...Oh.
You sort of, maybe, hadn’t taken a moment to think about that, at all. That he just hadn’t had the time to put up the frills and explore his comforts.
Come to think of it, why did you think Carmen wasn’t committed? Was it just the lack of decorations thing? No, that couldn’t have been it… You wouldn’t make that big a leap in logic… Right..?
Carmen mutters absentmindedly behind you, looking around at this old decor. “Should probably take some shit with me, now that ‘m lookin’ at it…” But you’ve tuned him out. Why did you think Carmen’s noncommittal?
He’s noncommittal because he was a couch hopper? He had to be, he was staging in New York– How could he pay rent? Noncommittal because he’s always used the barest essentials to take care of himself? Well, he takes care of himself now, he’s changed. Because he didn't introduce you properly? Not an unfair critique, but the man has been in fucking fight or flight since you got here, it might have nothing to do with you. Because he’s never taken care of anything but a ghost cat? Not true, he takes care of his restaurant, his friends. And he does care for the frills, the materials, and the comfort— But he’s always had to pack light, he’s always had to be ready for take off once he left home. It wasn’t his choice.
…Well, what about Claire? That’s a legitimate sign, right? He kept clamming up when you or anyone else tried to refer to her as a girlfriend. He clearly has reservations over the word. And he hasn’t officially concretely, really asked you out. He asked if he could ask. If Carmen’s not noncommittal, at the very least he hesitates.
But then again, you haven’t even been on a real date. There have been moments where it felt like one, but it was nothing on paper. Maybe he’s just feeling it out, moment by moment. That’s not unreasonable of him. Oh, God. Are you unreasonable? Are you moving too fast by even thinking about labels all night? Are you the problem?
…Oh no, how long have you just been standing around silently and aimlessly in his room?
You’re quick to turn around once you remember any sense of decorum— And the fact that Carmen’s in the room with you. See, this is exactly why you have to stop talking to dead people, it makes you forget the living’s standards of conversation.
Much to your surprise though, Carmen doesn’t seem phased by your silence. He seems to be caught in his own stupor, staring off into nothingness, fidgeting with his fingers. He looks… just as distressed as you must look.
“Carmy?” You take a step towards him, gentle, as if you’re trying not to frighten a cat. “Are you good?”
“Hm?” His stupid giant blue eyes flutter as he comes just slightly out of the void. He puts a fist over his mouth, biting at the skin of his fingers. “I’m good, I just— … Just need to be better.”
Huh? You blink, cocking your head. “You ‘need to be better’?”
He nods, then shakes his head, then nods again. It’s a little disorienting for you, so you can’t imagine what it feels like for him. “I just— should be better— I could’ve— Could’ve been better— I’m gonna do better.”
Alright, fuck the noncommittal debate, his head is so much worse. “Carmen—?” You take another step forward.
He straightens up in such a way that makes it feel like he’s trying to back up from you. It stops you in your tracks. He stops biting at his fingers just to comb the hand through his hair.
Carmy rambles, “Everything— Everythin’ — It’s always at your fuckin’ expense— I— I— I didn’t introduce you, I didn’t fuckin’ say shit about Claire— Should’ve fucking known they’d say shit about Claire— They always ruin this shit for me— I don’t—” It's fairly nonsensical, it’s hard to pick a part what he means.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, interrupting himself— Sick of himself. He doesn’t even understand himself. He just knows that he hates that he’s still talking. “Oh my fucking God, I’m doing it again.”
Carmy takes a sharp inhale through his nose, it’s the least relaxing meditation prompt you’ve ever heard— Before looking back up at you, panicked yet kind eyed. “How are you?”
… Oh God, is this what it feels like to be on the receiving end of someone clearly drowning and yet they’re trying to save you first? Martyrdom looks terrible on anyone but you. Is that a toxic thought? Save that for later.
Carm’s trying so hard to de-center himself— To focus on you— which is admirable, but it’s making you realize that you have been centering yourself, all night.
You had a fucking mission. Tonight was not about you, not even about Donna, certainly not about your relationship status, and not about your feelings— It was about Carmen, needing you here. Needing help confronting his childhood home, face to face with his mother, with the absence of Mikey, with the always fucked up feeling of Christmas in general— He needed you to be here for him and you just kept squeaking by, avoiding all chances of vulnerability– Because it risked anyone noticing you being imperfect. It wasn’t just Donna you wanted to convince— You wanted Carmen to, too.
He didn’t need perfect. He didn’t need The Guy. He needed you.
You take a sharp breath, the very thought stabs at your chest. You furrow your brows, eyes shut tight as you tilt your head down. “Fuck, Carm, I’m sorry, I made a huge mistake.”
With your eyes closed, you don’t see the flash of alarm on his expression. It shifts into a solemn nod as he takes it the complete wrong way, “I know.”
You smooth out the crease in your brow with your thumb and forefinger, hand covering your eyes, a bit too embarrassed to look at him— Didn’t expect him to acknowledge your fuck up so quickly. “I’m sorry, Carmen.”
He shakes his head, exhales through his nose like the saddest laugh on earth, dejected. He shrugs, “I gettit, I wouldn’t wanna be with me either.”
Your head snaps up and your back straightens so fast you think you might’ve realigned your spine.
“What?”
“What?”
Wait— “We’re dating?”
He blinks, his brain freezes up, you can practically hear the dial-up tones ringing in his skull. “Are we not?”
You lift your hands in the air, palms to the sky, waving them in stuttered confusion. “—Are— Are we?!”
He’s just as exasperated. “I— I— Well, no, right? That’s— That’s what you—”
“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?!”
“The fuck are you talkin’ about?!”
“I–” You blink, taking a beat to calm down. “I—” You gesture to yourself, because right now, everything needs to be broken down into the simplest of terms. “—Was trying to say I made a huge mistake tonight, ‘cause I didn’t prioritize you, like I needed to.”
Carmen’s quick to shake his head, “You didn—”
You wave a hand to him like a red card. “Can you shut the fuck up for two seconds, Carm?” You close your hand into a fist, might’ve been a softer way to say that. “Sorry. You just, you keep doing this thing—”
He’s silent, giving you room to speak. You sit down next to him on his stupid childhood bed.
“You keep making everything your fault, somehow, lately. Always trying to apologize for shit that didn’t start with you.”
You continue. “I made you quiz me, even though I know it made you nervous. I clammed up as soon as I walked in. I avoided talkin’ to you. I fuckin’ — I got weird ‘n jealous hearin’ about Claire— When you probably felt more uncomfortable than I did. Like what’s it matter that she’s an ER Doctor and your first crush and your first girlfriend and—”
“Tony—”
“I’m hearing it and I’m relaxing and I don’t care at all, actually.” You finally notice your tight grip on his bed sheets, releasing them as you catch your breath.
“I panicked all night about being perfect for Donna— And you, and everyone. I made you go full Exec Chef mode to defend me— Which is kinda hot but also really bad. You don't ‘need to be better’, you needed me to be there— And I'm sorry I wasn’t.”
How vulnerable should you be right now? Probably full on. You’re an all or nothing person. “And— An’ I dunno, I got this dumb idea in my head that you were noncommittal and I was doin’ too much and needed to like— Be all cool and casual— And that made me act weird, cause I’m not good at that— I move fast—Which like, we’re not even dating really, so— It’s— I dunno, it’s stupid— I was being stupid— I’m— I dunno— What I mean is... I’m sorry I was being weird.”
When you finally finish your ramblings, you find that Carmen is taking his time just looking at you, needing a second to register all that you’ve word-vomited on him. You stare back at him, head on. This might be the first time you’ve done that since you got here. Too terrified to give him the opportunity to see through you, all night— Because you know, a look is all it would take for him to read you like a book.
When he finally parts his lips to speak, you try to interject again. Too unnerved by the endless possibilities of what he could say. But for once, Carmen's body beats his brain and yours, he surges forward, grabbing your face in his hands before you can interrupt.
You think you move faster than he does. You think he likes it noncommittal. Casual. Or at the very least, you envisioned that that's the case. It isn’t a terribly unfounded assumption. He’d probably think the same about himself, if he were in your shoes. He’s imagined that’s what you think of him— But you finally said the thought out loud— And whether it’s somewhat true or not, it feels like a fucking dare. Like you’ve offended his honour. Like it’s true, what Richie told him, weeks ago; that he never lets anything good happen to him. Like you think he’s not capable of being something serious with someone as good as you.
Like you think he couldn’t handle saying something so impossibly simple as—
“I love you.”
How could you possibly disrespect him by thinking he needs to take things slow? Besides the fact that he almost explicitly asked for you to take things slow. Back then, when he asked if he could ask you out, he did it out of an overwhelming fear that he could lose the one opening he’d ever have with you. Now? Carmen’s not afraid— Scratch that, actually, Carmen’s so afraid. A rush of endorphins go through him when he says the three magic words, but it’s immediately followed with a stabbing pain in his throat. Everything in his brain is a schisming contradiction. It feels so good to tell you, it also feels like death by a thousand paper-cuts for each millisecond you don’t return the sentiment.
But then you open your mouth to reply, and he realizes there are worse things than you not reciprocating. You could say you don’t believe him — Which would probably be reasonable. Carmen’s not the most trustworthy source on himself. But it would crush him if you thought that. Maybe you’ll say he’s moving too fast— You said nothing about love, you just wanted to know if you were dating for fucksake. Or, maybe, instead of not replying at all, you may outwardly say you don’t actually fuck with him like that. Perhaps, you could say after seeing the way his mother behaves, you can’t possibly risk being more involved with this family than you already are.
Carmy comes up with all these potential realities in about half a second. He fears them more than silence, easily. And fear is the one surefire way to drive this man into action.
So he shuts you up before you can even form a vowel. Sealing your lips to his. It’s a different kiss than his usual course. Not in the typical ‘Post-I Love You’ passion way though, it's more violent than romantic. Teeth hit yours— your back hits the mattress. He doesn’t ease up, doesn’t give you the opportunity to say anything— Trying to pull him back by his hair doesn’t curb his enthusiasm, but you’re free to do it anyway. You could call the kiss almost surgical, if that tracks. There’s a precision in the ways he bites your lip, his hands shift from squishing your face in his palms to holding your jaw to his bidding, he tilts your head further back into his mattress, to give you even less room to breathe.
Unfortunately, while Carmen is a man of immediate action in the face of fear, doesn’t mean those actions are good or lasting. He’s quickly realizing that he cannot keep you quiet forever, as he tragically, like you, requires air.
Well, maybe he can just talk over you. “I mean it. I do.” Maybe he can just stay hovering, lips still grazing yours— And if you try to talk, he’ll just pluck the thought out of your mouth.
“I—” You try, but he gives you a quick peck. Carmy’s plan is working flawlessly, now all he has to do is stay here forever perpetually– “Car—” –and you’ll never get the chance to reject him. You let out a truly angelic laugh— “C’mo—” —After you try to speak over– “Ba—” –and over, only to be thwarted by Carmen’s foolproof plan every time.
Detrimental news, however, is that you know Carmen. With sweet upturned eyes, you gauge his internal panic. You know the thought process, you know the plan. Of course you do. He needs to get used to you ruining any attempt at secrecy he ever makes again.
It’s your turn to press your hands against his cheeks, hard enough that he can’t try to eat your face again just to keep you quiet for two seconds.
And here’s what’s really devastating, about Carmen’s ‘shut you up at any cost’ plan. It’s not just that it’s failed, and you’re able to speak— But it’s actually also backfired spectacularly. Because now, you’re on mussed bedsheets, underneath him, with bright eyes, adorably furrowed brows, skin hot, holding his face, out of breath, bitten red lips that you're using to form the words—
“I love you, Carm.”
And that’s really not fair at all. That’s really brain dissolving. That’s really ‘reevaluate what I’m okay with doing in my childhood bedroom’ inducing. And it’s his own fault, really, but it’s not and it’s actually completely your fault.
It’s really truly, honest to God, your fault that he’s suddenly grinning like he’s a stupid teenage boy. Your fault at how deeply embarrassing it is to be this happy. Your fault, he pulls one of your hands off his face to kiss your palm. Your fault, that he mutters into it, “I can do it, I can be yours, I can do it.”
And your lilting reply of, “I know you can, I’d like you to.” Really isn’t helping you beat the allegations that it’s also all your fault that he has to kiss your cheek— And jaw, and chin, and neck, and—
“Boyfriend?” You test the word out, it sucks to say. He grumbles his discontent against your collarbone. You tsk, “It’s just such a fucked word, y’know?”
Carm hums his shared sentiments, “‘Person of interest’ sounds better now, doesn’t it?”
“Still no.” You attempt to deadpan, but he nips at your skin just light enough to make you laugh. “Don’t bite! Partner?”
Carmy tilts his head back and forth, considering the term, before inevitably denying it. “It’ll get confusing, Syd’s my business partner.”
“...Significant other?” “So wordy.” “Companion?” “Are we on a fuckin’ expedition?” “You’re deeply unhelpful.”
He shifts himself up again from his descent so he can look you in the eyes. If Carmen thought you were baiting him, he needs to take a look at himself when his face is pink all the way from his cheeks to his forehead, and his typically big bright eyes are half-lidded with no sparkle, and his lips are bruising by the second, and his gold chain dangles just above your face— And he’s just fucking pretty.
“I’m yours. S’that enough?”
Oh— “Jesus Christ, we need to get out of this house.” You’re quick to dig your elbows and hands into the mattress, lifting yourself up underneath him— His incoherent response to this sounds like a whine and it’s maybe possibly certainly going to be the thing that kills you.
“No, fuck, please—” “Carmen—” “Not in a car, s’not two in the morning—” “Angel, please—” “Not in a bathroom, no one’s waitin’ on us—” “Carmy, you’re not hearin’ me—” “Am I doin’ too much—?”
“Carmen!” You almost hiss, slapping each side of his face as you finally sit up with some stability despite his repeated attempts to pull you back down. “I meant like, not here— I’d like to do more, just anywhere but fucking here!”
“Oh.” It takes his brain a second, “Oh!” But he sits up straight, once he realizes that you’re actually the one that wants to do too much, so to speak. Whether it’s on purpose or not, you’re pulled onto his lap. “Yeah, that’s— Yeah.”
“...Yeah?”
“Oh, don't fuckin’ say it like that..” Is he pouting? Oh wow, if he can't handle one syllable's worth of your semi-sultry tone, he's going to be dead in minutes. “Your place or mine?”
“Mine.” You answer suspiciously quickly, it's almost offensive.
“I do have a bedframe, y'know?” “Oh? How recent was that upgrade?” “It needs breaking in.” “—Holy shit?!” “—I— I don’t know where that came from.” “Awe, don’t lose that confidence already, c’mon.” “Don't do that thing with your voice.” “What thing?” “—Talking.” “What the hell?!” “Joking. Kind of. Why your place?”
“...I didn't know what to get you, gift wise.” You start, fingers wrapping themselves in the curls of hair on his neck. “So I got a bunch of stuff, and, wasn't sure how things were gonna go, so I — I got like – A nice thing of lingerie, y'know. N’ case it was like… A sex thing.”
He just stares at you blankly, so you ramble on. “And I didn't wear it here, of course– It’s real fuckin’ itchy— So we need to go back to mine, so I can put it on— And honestly, probably keep it on, cause it was expensive and I'll be pissed if it's only worth 10 seconds of dopamine before getting thrown off.”
The blank stare continues, and it’s almost like it’s a symptom that’s spread to the rest of his body; Carmy goes completely still, it’s tough to glean what that reaction means exactly. After a few more seconds of silence, he just nods, curtly.
“Carmy?” You squint, cupping his right cheek, “You good? Too much?”
“I—” You swear his eye twitches. “I— Am— I’m— I don’t—” He purses his lips— Okay, now he’s definitely pouting. Carmy can’t possibly come up with the perfect thing to say with a brain as broken as his now is. So he kisses you, softer this time, and hopes that gets his point across. “Not too much.” He says, but he can’t manage to get anything else out.
You manage to snicker an appropriate amount in his face, instead of uproariously laughing at him. “What’s goin’ on in Charmin's head?”
A bit too bashful to manage looking you in the eyes, Carmen’s eyes look like they’re almost shaking as their gaze dances around your lips, cheeks, nose, lips again, and again, and aga— “Jus’ y’know… I have— I’ve thought about it alot, and— and— now it’s happenin—”
“You’ve thought about it alot?”
“Don’t think too hard about it.”
“I’m gonna exclusively think too hard about it, I’m thinking too hard about it right now.”
“Oh, you don’t wanna just see for yourself?”
“Oh my God?!”
“You have to stop reacting like that.” “Like what?!” “Like— Like you’re a spectator.” “Listen— A smooth line is a smooth line, I have to give it props.” “If it was really smooth, you wouldn’t say shit, you’d be speechless.”
“Not true, don't think I could even be speechless. I've famously always had a lot to say.”
“Yeah? You gonna talk me through it then?”
…
“...Holy shit—?!” “So close.”
I have just spent like the last 5 hours answering asks, and when drafts get too long in tumblr, the lag becomes insane so i am going to GET OUT OF HERE ! BUT I AM EXCITED TO HEAR WHAT YOU THOUGHT AND I AM LOOKING FORWARD TO SPEAKING TO YOU ALL I MISSED YA SO DEARLY, it's been a pleasure to get reacquainted the past few days as i answered asks. it's really fucking good to be back guys.
I HOPE YOU LIKED IT !!! AND JUST FOR THE RECORD !! THEY'RE GOING TO FUCK !! OFF SCREEN !! IT'S BEEN A YEAR AND I STILL DON'T HAVE THE GUTS TO WRITE SMUT I'M SORRY I'M SPINELESS!!
Taglist: (send me an ask, let me know what you thought of the chapter, and remember to ask to be added!! p.s if you just comment asking, i might miss it, my notifications get a lil fucked sometimes)
Do you feel represented by reader in my neighbor!reader au ?
I've tried to keep all descriptions as vague as possible so that literally anyone can be them but I'd love to hear some feedback! If you have any notes on specific chapters/ descriptions, I'm open to them!
are they you and are you them?
Yes, they're just like me fr.
No, I don't know who that is but it definitely isn't me.
I imagine the reader to be a separate character so this doesn't apply to me
confession: the scene where Carmy “apologizes” to Claire gave me the ick so bad I had to take a break from writing the fanfic. He got so whiny (derogatory) and it reminded me of my ex and i had to stop 😭
Sunlight streams through the blinds, aiming itself directly at your eyeballs. You groan at the rude awakening, flipping over to shield yourself from the onslaught of sunlight. You squint at the empty spot to your left. From the outside, it looks like no one was ever there. You turn onto your stomach to inspect it further. The sheets are crumpled, the pillow slightly flat. You scoot closer and lie where he was, of course, he’d be gone. You expected it. It was hard enough to bump into him in the hallway; you’d have to be delusional to think he’d stay. Part of you wonders if the night before had even happened.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. He’s here; you can smell him in the linens. The lingering scent of cigarettes draws you in as you loop your arms around the pillow. On a logical level, you knew he wouldn’t stay. Your stomach twists as you burrow deeper. Still hurts like a bitch.
After wallowing in pity for a good hour, your stomach wills you out of bed. You pad through your apartment in a haze, kicking the box of condoms across the floor. Your nose scrunches at the sight as you power your way to the kitchen.
Of course, he’d leave after a night like that. Your mind blares as you scour your fridge. Why would he be into you after that? Fucking stupid. You come up empty-handed, hands on your hips, before spying the tail end of a loaf of bread on your counter. Into the toaster it goes.
The kitchen tiles sting your feet as you scurry back and forth, opening and closing cabinets. You check your phone for the millionth- trillionth time, no messages. No calls. No bitches. No biggie. His loss. The screen begins to burn your eyes, so you place it face down on the table. The smell of burnt toast graces your senses as the thin slice pathetically pops out, charred black, mocking you.
The cold air startles you as the heavy door gives way, it chaps your nose and whips your hair into a frenzy. Your sneakers crunch against the salt/ kitty litter slurry coating the front stoop as you set off down the empty sidewalk.
The slow Sunday morning is tinged in blue as you trek to the 7-11 down the block. You pass a woman. Smudged makeup and tousled hair blur by as she wobbles forward on unsteady heels, tell-tale walk of shame. Is that what you’re doing? Does it count if you’re walking away from your own home? The knot in your stomach feels familiar at least.
The electronic bell of 7-11 welcomes you along with a pleasant blast of heat. You beeline to the coffee bar, desperate for some kind of comfort… only to be face-to-face with him. Well, face-to-back-of-head, but your point still stands. You freeze, staring at his hunched frame. Your eyes trace the blonde curls swirling down the back of his neck as he takes his sweet time fixing his morning cup of bullshit.
He’s taking too long, loitering, you would already be out the door if this asshole wasn’t here. The nerve. You have to say something, you can’t not, right? Yes. Okay. Go. Speak.
“Hey.” The words come out louder than you intend, raspy and awkward on your tongue.
The man turns and unfamiliar brown eyes meet yours. Heat rises up your neck as you realize you don’t know who the fuck this guy is. Shit.
“E - excuse me.” You stammer out, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
He moves to the side, rolling his eyes as he heads to the checkout line. Your hands shake as you fill up a 24oz cup. Humiliated, that’s the word. You reach for the creamer and add a little too much, coffee spills down the edge forcing you to awkwardly sip it before placing down the lid. Utterly, completely, humiliated.
The hot cup burns into your palm as you half haphazardly shove a glazed doughnut past your lips. It’s his fault. All of it. The sidewalk is dotted with people, you weave through them with ease. You take another bite, bits of glaze coating the corners of our mouth. He’s lucky he wasn’t in that 7-11 with you. Fucking Carmen.
The sun peeks through the haze of clouds, sending rays over the Chicago skyline. It provides no warmth.
You shove the tail-end into your mouth, dousing the sugary flavor in waves of hot coffee.
What would you even say? “Fuck you”? No. That’s stupid. Can you even be mad? Wait, yes of course you can be fucking mad. He didn’t even text you. Asshole isn’t even working today. The front door enters your sight, you’re almost home. The sidewalk dips, uneven pavement meets the soles of your shoes as the front door heaves open, someone on the other side.
Wait.
He’s there. At the top of the steps. Ears tucked into the collar of his coat, hand loosely grabbing the edge of the door. He’s. There.
You freeze. Swiping a palm down your chin, desperate to remove any crumbs as you straighten out, shoulders square. Icy blue eyes meet yours, a deer in headlights. He shifts his weight, arm still propping the door open, brows pushed back. He looks like he might say something. Anything, please. Any gripes die on your tongue, tucked into the back of your throat between your tonsils.
He lets the door go and it clicks shut behind him. Carmen looks to his feet before scurrying down the steps and down the sidewalk, far away from you.
Teeheehee can I request hate fucking from one of the smut prompts 👀
2. hate fucking
Thank you so much, Olive! 😊 I had a lot of fun coming up with dialogue for this one. It's set right after the S3 finale. They hit it raw for logistical reasons but also because it was your request lol
I hope you like it! 💜💜💜
Send your request for my 500 Followers Celebration 🥳🥂
Reader x Carmy Berzatto (The Bear FX)
Rating: Explicit (1.9k)
Tags: Smut, Porn with a little plot and lots of insults, Rivals to Lovers, Mutual Masturbation, P in V Sex, Oral (F and M Receiving)
"Are you out of your mind?"
You looked up from your laptop to find Carmen Berzatto bursting inside your office. He was well dressed in a suit and a dress shirt, like he had cut short a fancy dinner date to come scream at you. It was a Friday night, he'd have absolutely no reason to be here but you knew the review for his restaurant had gone live an hour ago.
"Carmy. Relax. Jesus. It's not personal, okay?"
You tried to appease him, even gestured for him to sit down.
"No. You knew how important this was and you didn't give a shit. You knew!"
He was red in the face, his hair a mess and you could swear his eyes were blotchy like he'd cried tonight.
"I cannot give your restaurant a five star review if it doesn't deserve it," you reasoned patiently. "No matter how long we've known each other or how much I like you as a person."
"You've never liked me."
You raised your eyebrows. "Fine. How much I respect you as a chef."
"A good review would have bought us time. We're drowning," he said.
You didn't know that. You hadn't spoken in years. You hadn't thought about him until your boss sent you to review The Bear, and you were pretty sure it was the same for Carmy. And besides...
"My job is to go there and see if the food is good, then write about it as honestly as I can-"
"Fuck you," he interrupted.
Something about his tone and this whole messed up situation rubbed you the wrong way, so you fought back: "I went over there three times. I gave you more than a fair shot. It's not my fault that you haven't figured it out."
"That's rich," he said dryly.
"What?"
Carmy's expression was cruel, almost a snarl.
"Well, you couldn't cut it as a chef and still you feel like you know what happens inside my kitchen?"
And, wow, that stung way more than you could have anticipated.
"Fuck you, Carmy."
"Am I wrong? Chef Terry gave you every chance and you couldn't handle the pressure," he continued, his tone deadly.
"Shut up."
He walked across the room to close in on you.
"Every single cook in that kitchen knew you wouldn't last a month when you first walked in."
"Shut the fuck up."
You stood up, meeting him in front of your desk, your blood boiling with anger and bitterness. He got closer still, almost nose to nose to deliver his final blow.
"So now you write in your little Moleskine journal about other people's food because you couldn't cut it."
You took a deep inhale, simultaneously fighting back tears and stopping yourself from slapping his face.
"You know what, Carmy? You're right. I never liked you. You're a volatile asshole incapable of taking care of yourself. No way you could handle your own kitchen."
He stared, his eyes fiery, locked in. The air between you was hot and your skin was itchy with anger.
You didn't know who started it but suddenly you were kissing. Your lips had been an inch away until one of you closed that distance. It didn't matter really because you immediately realized how much you wanted it, his anger, his intensity, his eager lips and strong arms. There was nothing sweet or delicate about the way he was kissing you: he was shoving his tongue inside your mouth while he grabbed your ass, you bit his lip and pulled on his hair in retaliation. He cornered you against your desk, manhandling you to sit on it.
"Lock the door," you ordered the moment you parted for air.
You had never liked your windowless office - a glorified storage room, really - until just now. Carmy obeyed you, slamming the door and locking it as quickly as he could. He took his blazer off and tossed it on the floor as he walked back to you. His hands rolled your pencil skirt up, all the way up to your hips, his hand unceremoniously cupping your pussy over your underwear. You moaned.
"You have something?" you asked, hating how breathy and needy your voice sounded.
"What?"
"Condoms."
You palmed his bulge a little forcefully and he whined.
"I didn't come here wanting to fuck you, believe it or not," he replied, irritated.
"Fuck, okay," you hazily went over your options while being fingered through your underwear. "Ground rules, you don't cum inside me or you buy me plan B, okay? You clean?"
Carmy stopped moving his fingers, looking you square in the face with his eyebrows raised. "Are you?"
And again, his tone and his everything were making you so mad that you couldn't stop yourself from saying: "I'm not the one that looks like I haven't washed my hair in two weeks."
"You fucking-"
You cupped his jaw, nails digging into his skin.
"Fucking what, huh? Finish that, please."
His eyes darkened and, fuck, that was a turn on.
"Critic."
"I'll take that," you smiled, cat-like, as you pumped and squeezed his cock over his trousers. "Yes, I'm clean."
Carmy groaned. "I'm clean too, let's fucking go."
He undressed just enough to free his cock, trousers lingering on his hips, while you took your underwear off and let it fall on the floor carelessly. He dragged you to the edge of the desk while you took his cock in hand and lined him up to your entrance, no preamble, just lust. He pushed inside you and you had to bite your tongue to stop from moaning. He didn't silence his own groan, so you covered his mouth with your palm.
"Will you shut the fuck up?"
"Bitch," he said to punctuate a hard thrust.
"Asshole," you replied and placed your hand back on his mouth. You weren't being especially loud but he did the same just to annoy you. You rolled your eyes first in exasperation then in pleasure when he finally started fucking you.
His hips set an unforgiving pace. He was angry and he was making damn sure that you felt it, deep thrusts, going fast and careless. You shook with every hit, your legs were wide open; your heels had fallen at some point just from the force of his thrusts. His eyes burned when you met them, the intense blue of a stove fire. Suddenly, he squeezed his eyes shut and you felt him twitch inside of you.
You pushed him by the hips forcefully. "Don't. You fucking-"
"Finish that," he echoed you from before.
He had already withdrawn, breathing hard, his cock was covered in your arousal. And you knew he could probably cum from you insulting him - he was that fucked up. But you were past any sense of shame and denial that you wanted him.
"Y'know what? I think I will finish that, actually," you said and climbed down from the desk.
Carmy looked at you intently as you knelt in front of him, tugging on his trousers and briefs a little and caressing the back of his thighs. His mouth was open like he wanted to ask you a question but he couldn't utter a sound. He simply nodded.
So you took him in your mouth, the salty taste of him mixed with your own arousal, sharp and tangy. You swirled your tongue, caressing the underside of his cock, and saw his eyelids flutter shut. You hummed with pride - pride that you had that much power over him, that you could stop right now and he would probably whine and beg for more. As you hollowed your cheeks and bobbed your head, you also gave soft caresses to his balls. You felt his knees falter, one of his hands trembling while it touched your hair and the other leaning heavily on the desk. You looked up and found him even more wrecked and desperate than when he had first entered your office, though for far better reasons.
"Please, don't stop," he managed to say, his face sweaty and his breath hitched as you followed the gentle pushes of his hand on your scalp, swirling your tongue non-stop...
He muffled a cry with his forearm, shaking while he released down your throat. You swallowed with a wince, kissed the vein up his hip bone and stood up, wiping your mouth. Carmy cupped your face and brought you in for a dirty kiss, spasms of pleasure still shaking his frame.
"Jesus Christ. Fuck," he cursed against your lips.
"Mhmm. That's what I thought," you teased.
He chuckled and panted. "Fuck you," he was leaning on the desk while he regained his bearings. "Where'd you even learn to do that?"
"The back alley of Ever," you shrugged. Back then, the way you dealt with stress and pressure was sex. When you noticed Carmy's awestruck face you added: "You were too busy being top dog to notice or care."
"Oh, I know," he nodded, something self-hating in his tone.
You didn't have time to dissect it because he was kneeling in front of you now.
"What are you doing?" you asked.
"You didn't finish," he said plainly.
"Thought you didn't notice," you mumbled honestly.
"Or care?" you nodded. "I'm not that much of an asshole."
You leaned against the desk as he grabbed one of your legs and hoisted it over his shoulder, opening you up for him, and he buried his face in your pussy. You thought he would be as careless and unrefined as he had been fucking and kissing you. But he knew what he was doing, sharp focused, lethal, like he was in the kitchen. He lapped at your entrance, his head moving gently so that his nose nudged your clit softly, rhythmically.
"Mhmm, please," you begged, fingers buried in his messy curls.
He paused for a second, kissing his way up your folds, and sucked your clit, debauched noises coming from his mouth as you moaned desperately against your hand. The heel of your foot pressed on his back needily.
"Yes, yes! Oh..." you came, shaking and giggling involuntarily. "Oh, God. So unfair."
"Mmm?" Carmy asked, finishing up, licking the last of your release with his tongue. He reveled in your little sounds of overstimulation.
You pulled on his hair. "You can't be that good at cooking and also eat pussy like that."
He stood up, wiping his chin with his hand.
"Oh, now I'm good at cooking," he complained but it was mostly a joke, his eyes were bright and playful.
"Did you even read the review?" you teased right back. "I liked it. Most of it was fire. But it was inconsistent. And you were definitely showing off."
Changing the menu every day had been a choice for sure.
"Yeah," he admitted quietly, watching you as you put your panties back on and rearranged your skirt. It was so wrinkled you'd have to take it to the drycleaners - he would happily pay for that if you asked. "It was well written. The review."
"Thank you," you smiled, then pointed at one of your shoes. "Pass me that?" Carmy nodded and obliged. "Love being right."
"Mmm?"
"Back at Ever, I used to say you'd be an absolute delight if someone fucked you right," you confessed. You hid a shit eating grin while you put your shoes back on.
To your surprise, Carmy laughed. "Fuck off."
You looked at him, smiling softly at you, relaxed.
"This doesn't change anything, Carm," you reminded him.
"I know that," he nodded. "Everything you said was true. I just took it out on you."
Carmy’s calloused hands sink into your back pockets as you fiddle with your keys. Your hands shake as you turn the knob, whether it’s adrenaline or nerves you aren’t sure.
The walk home was long, too long.
Apparently, CVS has become eco-friendly since you last visited. No paper or plastic in sight as the two of you walked home in the freezing night, comically large box of condoms in hand.
He’s guiding you inside now, pushing you by the small of your back with a gentle ease as your sneakers squeak against the floorboards. He pulls off your coat while you kick off your shoes. You turn on your heels, and his lips collide into yours as your fingers dig into the thick wool of his jacket, shoving it down his shoulders as you stagger back, sock slipping against the hardwood floors. You lurch backwards, pulling him with you. His hands fly to your waist, steadying you. Your lips pull apart momentarily.
“You okay?” He asks softly, breath fanning against your cheek.
“Yeah.” You whisper back as you stand up straight, hands pressed against his chest.
Carmy shrugs off his jacket, and it pathetically flumps against the floor. Your hands slide down his chest and past his forearms, threading your left hand between his right. The air between you is heavy as you gently guide him towards the bedroom. He floats behind.
Creaking steps fade into soft shuffling carpet as you coax him through the doorway. Carmy sinks into your touch as you cup his cheek, leaning forward to capture your lips in a kiss. It’s firm, hungry, yet not starving like in the hall. His movements are heavy as he threads his thumbs through your belt loops, cupping your hips in his grasp. Your arms drape across his shoulders as you lean on the balls of your feet. The hem of your crewneck hovers above his fingers, leaving a small sliver of skin. He takes advantage, gently pressing the pad of his thumb into your flesh. You’re on fire. You make a noise as he burns you, slowly trailing another rogue finger up your side and under the thick fabric.
“Take it off.” You sigh impatiently against his lips.
You don’t have to tell him twice. You clamor away from each other, clawing at your clothes. You’ve spent enough time waiting. God, you’re so fucking tired of waiting.
He hops out of his jeans awkwardly as you sit at the foot of the bed. You crack a smile as Carmy kicks away his Levi’s.
“You laughing at me?” He scoffs, sinking into the space next to you.
“What? No. Never.” You giggle. He rolls his eyes, tugging the stiff fabric free from his ankle.
You take a moment to look at each other. Nerves flood your stomach as you become aware of your body. You pick up your legs, curling them to the side as you shift your weight to your palms. Carmy’s eyes flit over your figure before settling onto your face, an attempt at being respectful. You bite back a smile as he leans closer.
“Hey” He whispers coyly.
“Hi.” You whisper back, a smile in your voice.
You shift forward, pressing your lips to his once more. He happily coaxes you onto his lap as he trails kisses down your jawline, hot breath fanning against your skin. His teeth graze the skin of your neck, and you yelp in surprise. He jumps back, eyes wide as he stares up at you.
“No?” He asks. You quickly shake your head.
“No, no, yes. Please, fuck, do that.” You word vomit, cheeks flushed.
“Yeah? You like that?” He whispers, tugging you closer by your knees. His left hand cradles the small of your back as he flutters kisses across your pulse point.
You can feel him against you, lightly grinding his tragically clothed cock against your inner thigh. The friction taunts you as he continuously bucks up into the wrong spot. You roll your hips a few times, silently begging for him to just move to the fucking left already. Thankfully, your prayers are answered as he inches his hand up the crest of your thigh.
“Carmy.” The words sound needy as they spill from your lips.
His hands move forward, cupping your hips as he turns you onto your back. Callused fingers brush up your inner thighs as he rolls onto his stomach, propping himself up against his forearms. He hovers over you as he gently swirls his thumb over your clit. The circular motion drives you crazy, a slow steady pattern winding the coil within your stomach. You can’t help but squirm against his touch, jaw falling slack as he presses his middle finger into your core. He watches you carefully, eyes soaking in every movement, he adds a second finger. He rolls his fingers against you, a simple coaxing motion that pulls soft whines out of your body.
“Carmy- Stop fucking with me.”
“You want something different?” He asks, confidence lacing his words. “Tell me what you need.”
You take a breath as he kisses your neck, working you tighter and tighter. His fingers graze a spot that’s just out of reach, pulling you closer to the edge.
“Need you to fuck me.” You murmur helplessly.
The plea barely leaves your lips before he’s jumping up for a condom. There’s a flurry of motion as he peels away his boxers before resuming his position above you. He lines himself up, gingerly pressing the tip to your entrance before pausing.
“And you’re sure?” He asks, you groan in response.
“I’m gonna kill you.” You respond simply. He pauses for a moment.
“Close enough.” He sighs, rolling his hips into yours.
Finally, finally, finally- he sinks himself deep inside of you. He pulls back before doing it again, and again, and again. The motion is maddening, a hypnotic wave that winds you tighter than before. His breath is hot in your ear, desprate whimpers lace his words as he buries himself in you. You dig your nails into his back as he hits an impossibly deep spot. It’s embarrassing how close you are.
“Fuck- fuck- ohmygod”
Your words slur out, eyes rolling back.
“I’m- fuck.”
He grunts in response. Your legs lock behind his back, the motion almost folds you in half as he drills into you. Carmy’s head drops to your shoulder, one hand gripping your hip while the other grips desperately at the headboard.
“You close?” You sigh into his shoulder.
Another grunt, words seem to be failing him at the moment. You feel his thrusts fall out of step as he desptately tries to keep things moving. His movements are erratic and desprate, he’s losing it. You feel your own orgasm coming along, closer and closer and closer with every thrust. The coil snaps, tingles flood your body as he ruts into you like his life depends on it. Your jaw falls open, your nails sink into his skin. Carmy follows close behind, his movements suddenly halt as he moans into your neck.
A shuttering breath leaves his lips as he pulls out and rolls onto his back.
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you?”
“Uh- huh.”
The conversation is rushed, rapid fire call and response before they’re replaced with quiet. He turns to his side to look at you properly, silence between you. The space between you is minimal but there, an invisible line splitting your bed in half. You’re the first to breech the boarder, pressing your knee into his.
“You want to um… sleep over?” You cringe at yourself. The words feel juvenile, desprate.
He doesn’t respond right away, eyes bouncing around your face in an unfocused gaze. Anxiety bubbles up your chest as gears turn in his mind. He’s nodding loosely, reaching out to close the distance. Stong arms pull you into his chest. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
This is a bunch of word salad. Might go back and organize things later. obviously there are moments in the show where both of them show interest in eachother. I think there is room for sydcarmy to be mutual. At the same time, the ship hinges on Carmy.
Sydney is Carmy’s muse. She inspires his food, inspires his leadership style, inspires the decoration to his restaurant, most of all she inspires him. She’s also an artist in her own right. She researches food with a fervor he hasn’t had in years, she’s excited to show new menu items to him. She yearns for his approval and idolizes his works. As the show has gone on, she’s grown her skill set. In Carmy’s eyes she’s surpassed him. Sydney can stand on her own while Carmy depends on her to create.
When she first started at the bear she was following him around like a puppy dog. She was quick to back him up and desperately wanted him to like her work. Now the tables have turned. Carmy looks to Sydney for approval, he’s the first to stand by her side. She’s gotten so good he doesn’t even see his “worth” in working there anymore. Carmy sees his relationships as transactional. Once he cannot provide worth then he is no longer allowed to have it.
Sydney has also shown repeatedly that she isn’t interested in dating anyone from work. She needs those clear lines in her relationships. Carmy’s lines aren’t as clear. His family works at his restaurant, his friends work there, they know his girlfriend, his mom, his past. The only time people find things out about Sydney is when she gives up that information.
basically what I’m trying to say is Carmy is way more into Sydney than she is into him. For Sydney, Carmy has changed from this mythical famous chef to a regular guy. He’s been knocked off of his pedestal and needs to climb is way back up if he even wants to be considered romantically. For Carmy, Sydney has shifted into a mirror of himself. She’s a better version of him. Most frustratingly, she shows that there is a way to be good at what you do without being an asshole. He can no longer blame the stress of his work for his behavior and needs to look deeper to figure out what’s wrong.
dededos
2087
snowghoul
kaledo-art
