Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

there’s a lot of things wrong with this situation, but carmen does not have it in him to care. maybe he never will, and that’s okay, because it’s his fucking restaurant and he knows he could be kinder, could be gentler, could, maybe, keep all of those splinters in his gut from hurting too bad if he took a few deep breaths just how they say in therapy. deep breaths, slow breaths, and then they look at you like you’re a toddler having a meltdown in the middle of the street and suddenly, suddenly, it’s all go fuck yourself and the door slamming shut.

carmen’s an abandoned puppy – disheveled hair and round eyes that have been unloved (by him, most of all), with his head bent and shoulders tense, not sure whether to flee or attack, but offense is the best defense and just like a bad dog he bites when frightened. it’s all teeth and anger and desperation; jaws lock and teeth sink and he doesn’t let go because he’s starving, even if what he’s fighting for is nothing but a cadaver of a place, space, body – brother? no, don’t think of mikey. he’s starving, has been for ages – approval? don’t say that – and that hunger bubbles to the surface when confronted by a minuscule imperfection, like sauce on the stove left to simmer for too long.

it’s a bad first impression, second impression, third, what the fuck, he’s good at food and not very good at math, unless math comes to food and then, maybe, he can sort it out. still bad, still fucking terrible, to be honest, and somewhere in the frying tangles of his mind he knows that yelling doesn’t help, and that yelling in front of the new hire doesn’t bode well for retention. the last enzymes of his sanity warn him – calm down, just, just calm down, carmen, you’re making it worse, you’re making it fucking worse – but the to-go machine keeps beeping, and the kitchen is too hot, and his staff is too anxious, and everything is amplified tenfold by his brother’s looming shadow that exists to him only. don’t think of mikey.

“can someone please turn that fucking thing off?” it’s his voice, laced by such scorn and a barely contained anger that makes him tremble by the pans. he’s losing his mind. sweat collects on his temple and his eyes sting from the fumes billowing onto his face, “sydney!”

“yes, chef.”

sydney’s a trooper, doesn’t bend under pressure like steel, and he sees her maneuvering in his peripherals, quick and agile to not get into anyone’s way, least of all his. briefly, he thinks about burning this place down. he blinks. the beeping stops – she ripped the cord out of the socked, dropped it onto the floor that sent an echo.

the new hire watches this shitshow unfold by her station, eyes wide and weary, ears perked for orders. her hands move – strong hands, swift hands, long fingers and rough palms that cradle a knife the way a mother would cradle a child. she doesn’t look at what she cuts, but she chops and slices and it’s all automatic – trained response? – and if carmen were to take a ruler and inspect the pieces, he’d be impressed to find that most are even and none are crooked. he’d hum, then, skim through the folders of his mind to re-check her experience, re-check the college she went to. he’d say something like, “good work, chef,” and maybe she’d smile at the bare bones of the compliment he’d given her, and when he’d be alone in his dingy office he’d pull out her resume and examine it with more interest because he’d be too embarrassed to ask.

he’ll grow familiar with those hands, with the dips and curves of knuckles and the tiger stripes of scars running down their expanse; he’ll grow familiar with the touch, too, soft despite the callouses, but only to him. not yet, though, not for another few months till a completely expected storm will halt the trains and he’ll have to drive her home. it’ll be weeks after that awkward silence in the car and stolen glances at soaked t-shirt-clad skin.

her form is unfamiliar to him – he hadn’t any interest to look, nor would he find anything curious when all is covered in oversized fabric and a blue apron. at present, she’s his colleague, nothing more, and a young one at that, too young and too talented to be stuck in such a place and with him running it.

but he will look. sooner than expected, and not for any devout reason, unless loneliness can be considered holy.

he’ll feel bad about it, too, and he’ll feel worse when everything escalates, because it always does.

for now, he cooks by the open flame, letting hot oil sizzle on his hands and the fire lick his fingers, and maybe, just maybe, he likes the pain because he knows nothing else. it’s become empirical to him. an indication that he’s still alive. that he’s still in control of something, even if he isn’t.

richie, richie, good fucking god, richie always picks the worst moments to bitch about.

“are you fucking with me?” carmen’s voice, again, a bit higher this time and just a gruff. doe eyes narrow at the bell-tower named richard jerimovich that has the audacity to look clueless, “do not fucking fuck with me right now.”

richie: shove that stick outta [fuck you] your ass, cousin
carmen: are you deaf?
richie: boutta go deaf if you keep yapping [don’t got time for this]; listen, i just [you just?] came to talk [talk? now? talk?] yes, to talk, look
carmen: now you wanna talk? now? you wanna [jesus] fucking talk right now?

the tension in the air is sharp enough to slice through skin. everyone pointedly pretends not to hear this conversation. carmen doesn’t want to hear this conversation, either. there’s a line of people waiting. he reminds richie of that, and richie reminds that oh, he knows, and –

“richie!” it’s sydney, cheeks glowing with sweat and bandana crooked, “not now.”

richie huffs, looks at carmen with a certain exasperation, a wordless question of ‘really? really? you’re letting her run the show, now?’, and carmen needn’t be a genius to know that richie’s gonna bring this up later. he’ll never hear the end of it, he scarcely does now. it’s a headache in the making. his heart skips, or maybe stops, and for a moment he feels white-hot panic shoot through his veins. it passes with a shiver he doesn’t show. he breathes just a tad quicker – not enough air, not enough fucking air, jesus.

richie retreats with his arms raised in surrender, amused and annoyed simultaneously. a quiet follows his departure, and carmen looks at the staff, gaze jumping from one to the other before settling on her. she’s unperturbed by the chaos, working, watching, assessing, and later he’ll learn she wears that face the same way he wears his anger – as armor.

eyes meet and there’s a certain understanding that glimmers in the depths of her iris. but what could she understand? three weeks from now, he’ll come to learn that she’s used to rough edges and loud voices: he’ll learn that she’s the daughter of the chef that made his life hell back in new york, he’ll learn that she took up cooking because she wanted to appease her father, he’ll learn that her parents have split and her mother is sick and that she’s not calm but disconnected and that she tends to live in her head just like him.

but he doesn’t know that now, so he blames the shitty lighting that blinks and buzzes and, “fak, for the love of fucking god, please fix it.”

he said please this time, and it means he’s cooling off. he thankfully misses the quick look the staff shares – a mixture of relief and pity. either would have been devastating to recognize.

the only upside is that the day goes by fast. too much to do, too much to stress about, and carmen’s used to running on nothing but nicotine and adrenaline and an odd spout of desolation, and he manages everything, keeps the pieces glued together until eventually everything becomes too much and then he crumbles. still picks them up gently, like handling broken glass. he visits the storage often. closes the door for a moment and just lets himself breathe, reminds himself how to. doesn’t calm, only collects, reigns in the anger that coats loneliness. don’t think about mikey.

the staff cleans in a similar silence that douses after a storm.

the night's clear, crisp air compounded with cigarette smoke. he leans on the wall of the restaurant, staring into space, listening to the white noise of a restless city. by now, sydney has flipped the CLOSED sign; by now, his new hire is probably thinking about quitting, elbows deep in cleaning detergent as she scrubs the floor. he’ll have to go over her work and double-check. just in case there’s something more to do for hands that are always restless.

he tries to think but his head is scrambled. too many thoughts rushing in and out, loud, obnoxious, too quick to leave a lasting impact. he’s tired. he’s always tired. he wants lay on his bed and let sleep swallow him whole, but he knows that won’t happen. if he sleeps, he dreams of new york, he dreams of fire, he dreams of voices coming from the other room. one, in particular, holds a familiar rasp and drawl, punctuated by laugher, weaving a tale and stop it, don’t think about it anymore, just stop it, don’t think about –

he tosses the cigarette, watching the embers burn.

don’t think about mikey.

he enters through the back exit, stalks through the restaurant like he's haunting the place. briefly stops to stare at the mirror behind the bar. doesn't really recognize the man staring back.

the clock reads 00:30 am.

marcus was the last to leave, or so carmen assumed by the silence that shrouds the place, but as he makes his way to his office, he hears a locker shutting, and the sound rattles him so much his heart beats in his throat. all of that previous exhaustion ignites into anxiety that makes his limbs lock up.

she halts by the mouth of the kitchen, hair matted from sweat and lower lip marked where her teeth sunk, drooped eyes widening a fraction as she regards him. he can only stare at her in return, at her messy hair and pinched eyebrows and the slight downward curl of her lips.

“you could use a coffee,” she utters, and her voice is jarring – not for any unpleasant reason, but for the fact that he didn’t expect to hear it. he’ll grow to like it, crave it, even, because it’s a lovely cadence and it’ll sound even lovelier when she says his name.

he’s frightened by it now, if one can be scared of such a thing. so he bites.

“it’s almost 1 am.”

“right,” she mutters dryly.

“why are you still here?” he questions, and it almost sounds like an accusation, because he thought he was alone, only to suddenly be proved wrong. feels like an invasion of privacy, to be fucking honest, “your shift ended like an hour ago.”

“oh, I, uh, had some things to finish, so…” she trails off, but she still looks at him, and it’s unnerving, really, how she doesn’t budge under the weight of his stare. he bends under hers, though; the floor is spotless, he has nothing left to do. he misses the visible tension in her face, misses the quick swipe of her tongue on her lower lip as she opens and closes her mouth. it’ll take two whole weeks to grow entranced by the sight. misses the polite smile, too, but hears it in her voice anyway, “night.”

her sneakers squeak and echo and the door shuts. silence settles heavy on his shoulders. he’s not sure if he’s more distraught by her sudden appearance or abrupt departure. both somehow feel bad. in less than half a year, he’ll come to realize that the latter is worse.

Chapter Text

it takes six days, three hours, and twenty four minutes to notice. and once carmen does, he makes an unconscious note to be attentive – not for any specific reason, for no reason at all, it just happens. things happen sometimes, and that’s okay, the natural flow of life demands action and inaction always prompts curiosity and, and, and, and, look, it wasn’t, he wasn’t, it’s not like that. he just happened to become aware of a trait, and now that he is, he can’t help but watch out for it. not, not watch out watch out, just, detect, maybe. like, he just so happens to glance, and she’s doing it again, and there’s a certain satisfaction to that discovery until he thinks that it’s weird he’s growing so familiar with her ticks.

it’s not on purpose – both are of innocent intentions. it’s an anxious response, a thoughtful one, because calmness can’t be absolute, something’s gotta give, and her give just happens to be her mouth. he sees her grinding molars by the twinges of her jaw, sees the pout, sees her two front teeth gnawing on her lower lip, sees quick swipe of her tongue as she thinks before she speaks. he sees, and sees, and sees, and sees, and –

and she’s leaning on the counter, gaze set on richie as he counts and distributes napkins to the tables. the cloudy chicago skyline peeks from the big windows, casting bleak light and long shadows on the tired features. arms crossed, there’s a slight flex of inked muscle hugged by her white tee. the uniform fits her well, even if the apron is a tad too big. there’s been some talk of taking it to the tailor, but met with the semantics of it all, it was dismissed. fine as it is, not like she’ll be out the kitchen much anyway, and there’s no one in the kitchen she’s trying to impress.

she’s 24 with a lengthy resume and raving reviews – that’s already impressive enough.

24 with a stone-cold face a wiry muscles sewing her body together; 24 with a lot of tattoos he’ll see in 13 hours, touch in 2 months; 24 with melancholic eyes that pull downward to dark circles; 24 with one sharp canine he’ll discover during their first kiss. Doesn’t know her well yet, doesn’t really know anything about her, because when she talks she talks of nothing with a visible brooklyn drawl that becomes more apparent when rasped, and it’s always a rasp when she’s tired. squint of her eyes, slight pull of a smirk, “how long have you been working here, anyway?”

richie snorts, counts, fingers moving past cheap paper before he smacks it on an empty table, “since before you were born, kid.” he throws over his shoulder.

“funny.”

“i’m serious; was busting my ass when your daddy was teaching you how to tie your laces.”

contemplative again. she pulls her lower lip back and there’s not a glare in her eyes, not exactly. attentiveness. carmen will eventually figure out that her dad didn’t help her tie her laces, didn’t help with anything, really. it was her mom, her mom pulling the strings over the holes in one shoe and slowly tying a neat knot before looking up with a smile, as if to say, ‘see? this is how it’s done, you try the other.’ the shoes were her first pair of sneakers, with glitter and a princess printed on, of course, but she always preferred the plastic barbie kitten heels that came as a gift when buying a magazine. even if the plastic was rigid and uncomfortable and she got too many blisters. she could hide them under hello kitty plasters.

maybe that’s why cuts don’t bother her much, if at all. she’ll slice her palm in half a month, and she won’t panic because carmen will do it for her, and she’ll only stare at him with teeth clenched and lips pursed as he’ll hold her hand hostage under the cold faucet. he’ll never figure out what that look means, and he’ll never dare to ask, but it will bother him because he’ll see it again and again and again and he’ll think they’re similar like that, unused and unappreciative of help. maybe even embarrassed of it.

he knows he is, but she’s different, she’ll be different in subtle ways that are foreign to him, and he won’t know if it’s the gap of an almost decade between them that prompts that dissonance, but he won’t discover everything. she won’t allow him.

her eyes flick in his direction, watching the exchange with mild-curiosity as he leans by the doorway to the kitchen. she straightens up, and her lips pull into something of a smile, but there’s that twinge in her jaw again, like a pulse, “chef,” her voice grows louder before it lowers, “can, i, can i talk to you? for a sec?”

she looks at him expectant. richie looks at him puzzled. he becomes uncomfortable under their shared stares, “yeah, uh, sure, just – we can step into my office?”

he falls into motion and she follows after in slow, steady steps that reveal nothing but an underlying confidence. does he walk like that, too? he hopes he does; he wishes that he did. she’s wearing a different perfume. even when separated by a few feet, he can tell it’s different, because she always smells like cedarwood and saffron and now there’s something fresh, daisy-like about it. not unpleasant, per se, but unfitting, he thinks, but he doesn’t know her yet, so who is he to judge what fits her and what doesn’t?

she’ll spray it when he’s staying over, and she’ll tell him that it’s the perfume her mom always bought her, and that she uses it only when she’s going to visit her. then, she’ll offer him to go with, and he’ll feel the familiar surge of panic making him still on her bed, paused as he was about to sit up. he’ll refuse, lie that he’s too busy, won’t admit that he’s too scared to grow more attached than he already is, and he’ll regret that for the rest of his life.

“so, uh,” once in the office, surrounded by all of that dust and scattered papers, he turns to her, running a hand through his hair – forgot to wash it, again, “is, uh… you good?”

she doesn’t enter, simply leans on the doorframe in a mock show on nonchalance, “yeah, i'm good. thanks. listen, i, would it be possible to leave early today? like an hour?” she holds up a hand to stop him from speaking, from saying no, “i can make up for it. i could stay after work or, just, come in early. i can take an extra shift, too, if that’s needed. it’s just really important. i can’t miss it.”

carmen: can’t, can’t miss it? [yeah] what – can’t miss what, exactly?
her: a thing [oh?] i have a thing [a thing?] i'm sorry, i know it’s working hours and stuff, but [yeah?] i can’t miss it
carmen: well, uhm, o…okay? [yeah?] yeah, [thanks] yeah, you’ll just, i'll add an extra hour to your shift tomorrow if that works for you

a smile lights up her face, and even in the light of a fucked desk lamp, it’s just as lovely as in plain sunlight. he glances away, “thanks, seriously. you’re a life saver.”

“whatever, just hope we don’t get swarmed.”

“’s gonna be a good day, chef; i can feel it.”

she’s going to visit her mom. everything third week, on a saturday, she takes the l train to the hospital, flowers and pastries set on her lap held together by clammy palms. when he’ll question, “why didn’t you tell me? coulda given you a free day, or somethin’”, she’ll shrug, and that shrug’ll mean, “don’t want no pity.”

she finishes cleaning her station on the dot before she dips into the changing room, the locker groaning at the hinges and the rapid sound of moving fabric no one dares to inspect. when she emerges, her bag is slung over her shoulder, and a dress replaces her white tee and slacks, a small cotton thing that reveals new skin bitten by ink to create dozens of miniature illustrations, and if he’s letting her off early so she can go on a date he swears to fucking god this is the last time he makes any exceptions for anyone.

eyes linger. it’s a natural curiosity, an unconscious inspection: a tattoo that stretches up her thigh and underneath the hem; the flare of her hipbones when she leans her weight on one leg; the faint definition of her stomach around her ribs, the swell of her breasts just above them; up to the collarbones and to the small pendant that rests in the dip between them; the smooth line of her shoulders, up the neck to the jaw. chin, lips, nose, eyes – that he has all seen before. this…all of this is new.

stop fucking staring.

“woah,” of course richie has to make a comment, a dish towel slung over his shoulder and hands comfortably sat on his hips, “we leavin’ early for a dick appointment?”

carmen: richie [what?] fuck, [you seein’ this shit?] stop it
her: hardly wanna see you at work, richard, let alone outside of it
richie: cousin [no], cousin [no], if i [fuck] pull up in a dress, can i get off early, too?
carmen: hey, cousin? [yeah?] cousin? shut the fuck up

she’s not insulted, just amused. as difficult as it is for anyone to believe, or to accept, she finds richie’s sense of humor – can it, in good consciousness, be called that? carmen doesn’t think it can – oddly charming. kinda like watching a car crash. how much shit can one man say before he’s fucked?

not being able to afford hr is both a blessing and a curse.

fuck would a sandwich shop do with hr, anyway?

would be a tremendous waste of resources that could be better spent on more napkins or taping the to-go machine’s cord. sydney’s got a strong grip, nearly snapped the damned thing in half.

that, in the mess that is his dead brother’s restaurant, is the least significant safety hazard. and if she’s still working here, it means richie’s comments sure as shit won’t scare her away.

“right, well,” she starts as she moves to the door, “try not to burn this place down without me?”

“managed just fine before you showed up, kid.” richie calls after, grinning.

she flips him off before getting lost behind the door. warily, carmen glances at her neat workstation, and he only sorta feels like an idiot. he exhales. no one has dick appointments at 4 pm, that’s, he’s pretty sure, blasphemy, or something along those lines. who even wants to fuck that really – doooooon’t answer that.

 no one has ever wanted to schedule an appointment with him, so fuck does he know?

right, well, this train of thought needs to be halted before it leaves the station, because it definitely breaches some boss-employee fine print on the contract. maybe hr is a good idea.

“shit,” sydney mumbles, “chef, we, uh, we really need to order more salt.”

…never mind.

‘s quiet in his apartment. he hates the quiet, craves the quiet, hates that he’s famished for it. it’s in this quiet that he can close his eyes and in this quiet that his thoughts echo loudly. it’s a voice he can’t shut off, doesn’t know how, it’s been there for as long as he can remember and it manifests sometimes in his peripherals as some vague silhouette of everything he could be don’t say that, as mikey don’t think about mikey, as the vast expanse of new york fuck new york fuck all of this.

he can’t find peace. peace implies finality, and carmen’s not good at goodbyes because he never learned to say hello. he’s a mess. fits right into the barebones of a place he doesn’t dare to call home. home’s here, somewhere in chicago, drenched in the warm lights of nostalgia that soothes the sharp edges into something pliant. it would swallow him whole. he likes the cold. maybe he conditioned himself to like it.

he saw online that cleaning helps alleviate depression, and maybe he has it, but admitting that would be to admit that he has nothing outside of work and that he’s lonely and that he lives and dies by the ring of the dinner bell. carmen’s a lot of things, but he’s not brave. he’s

shut up shut up shut up

he groans. buries his head in his hands, then quickly pulls away when he smells the signature stench of hair burning. not the first time he’s accidentally scorched his hair on cigarette embers, sure as shit won’t be the last. sat on the couch, he didn’t even bother to open the window. still in his work clothes, all he managed to do was sit down, pull out a carton, smoke three before turning on the tv, and then smoke two more. it’s a problem, he knows it’s a problem, just, just fucking stop it already, stop thinking.

the internet should help, the internet always helps. not in any meaningful way, only as a passing distraction. maybe reading about worldly conflicts would replace numbness with an overwhelming sense of dread. just to mix it up a bit.

he pulls out his phone, mindlessly scrolls through nuke threats and the collapse of the ecosystem, and something must really be horribly, tremendously wrong with him because he doesn’t care. silence buzzes in his ears and he glances up only to turn the tv volume up. a notification pops up, and turns out sydney has sent him a meme he doesn’t really understand, so the only appropriate answer to that is the thumbs up emoji. fuck can anyone say back to that? nothing, 32 rotations around the sun and he still hasn’t learned how to talk to people.

he doesn’t know how to talk to people and doesn’t really know how to use instagram, but somehow he makes it to her profile, and, finally. a distraction. there are plenty of pictures and too many followers and he’s not sure whether he should be intimidated by the scope of her influence or intrigued that he knows nothing about it. fine print. employee-employer contract. he hasn’t even done anything to be guilty about, and he still feels like he did.

it’s not a novelty. he’s seen sydney’s profile, seen marcus’, he’s also pretty sure neil asked for a follow that he pretended he didn’t hear. even fucking richard jerimovich is out here posting, but most are of his daughter, and he doesn’t look like an asshole in any of them. deceitful.

the complexities of social media aside, her profile demands a further examination, for no reason besides boredom. was she on a date? how did it go? sydney has definitely done her analysis already, and he should probably keep up on what goes on in the kitchen. he’ll definitely hear about it tomorrow, anyway. is it bad?

yes, yes it is, none of his business anyway, and as he goes to leave her page he accidentally clicks on her stories and this is where it all goes to shit.

it’s a video montage posted 23 hours ago. the clock marks the time, from 4 am to 5 am, judging by the shift in lighting. it’s dim at the start, all contours of a small kitchen with a peek of the window caged by the fire escape, and there’s a large gap between 7 am and 6 pm – her shift? obviously – noted not only by the dingy lamps but also by her appearance.

baking montage. when she walks into frame, her hair is a mess and her eyes are barely open, and she’s wearing her pajamas, a tight white shirt that reveals the curves of her chest and pause. can’t pause stories, it clicks onto the next one, but there is no next one, so he’s only met with her illuminated profile. again.

she’s taking out bowls, ingredients, and it seems like she’s making batter, and she’s got no pastry chef marked on her resume, but she seems to know what she’s doing. it clips to her back from work, he recognizes the band tee, and holy shit is she making macaroons?

there are plenty of good pastry places in chicago, some obscenely expensive, but they’re good, melt-in-your-mouth kind of good, and all of this effort and concentration seems like a waste to him, and the fact that she doesn’t smile once informs that maybe, just maybe, she thinks so, too.

if she stayed up almost two nights making the batter and then creating something absurdly complicated, it makes sense she seemed tired today. but why? the video ends, no explanation, simply a closing shot of her neatly boxing everything in and tying a neat little bow on the top.

macaroons, from scratch. dress. important thing. carmen’s not noisy – let’s ignore the evidence to suggest otherwise – but now he’s somewhat invested. he lights up another cigarette. now would be the time to turn off his phone and consider going to bed.

the first picture makes him wish that he did.

“what the fuck?”

exhibit 1: the location marked by the little bubble of her profile picture informs of upper east side, new york, and the scene itself definitely reflects that. fancy restaurant, large windows opening up to skyscrapers and the setting sun; a white-clothed table with too much cutlery set down on pristine red napkins, and her, of course, wearing a dress and a smile with her hair done-up, and, and, him, fucking him, and the mere sight of him makes carmen stop breathing. the phone trembles in his hand and he feels something cold bloom in the pit of his stomach that one could consider dread.

he made his life fucking hell back when he was cdc; he was a big reason carmen left in the first place. why is she with him, jesus christ, what the fuck?

the caption doesn’t provide much clarity, as it’s only a heart, but in the throng of comments of ‘y’all ate’ and ‘ur back in nyc?!,’ he finds one that makes him even more confused than he was a moment before: prettiest father daughter duo on american soil.

the date the picture was posted aligns with father’s day. so she’s the daughter of a fucking demon, duly noted. he needs another cigarette to process this information. might take a few more days to let it sink fully.

he rubs his chin. she doesn’t have his last name ­­– changed it? child of divorce and the father didn’t get custody? not surprising.

family is a touchy subject for her, as it is for him. in all the time they’ll spend together, they’ll only talk of it once and never talk of it again. bury it, like so many other things that needed to be aired out, secrets sunk in the bottom of the ocean and deliberately ignored. a wound that can’t heal because they separately pick at their individual scabs.

exhibit 2: nighttime, miami beach, 6 days before she stumbled into his restaurant with a resume in hand. the flash illuminates the sand clinging to her shoulders; no smile, just wet hair clinging to her forehead, few drops on her cheekbones and a bottle of wine clasped in her hand. red, because her lips are stained with it. bikini. legs disappear in a crashing wave. so many tattoos. zoom.

two least significant ones stand out the most, but only because he’s not meant to see them.

tattoo 1, thank you: left underside of her breast, peeking out the wet fabric of her bra. can’t tell the font, can’t say he’s entirely fixated on it, either.

his eyes will linger on it when he’ll help her pull of her shirt in his dingy office a night 2 months from now, and his thumb will brush against healed skin as if expecting elevation in the print. she’ll be warm, and she’ll meet his eyes with a smile that’ll curl on lips raw from kisses, “just being nice.” she’ll say.

he’ll raise a brow, “oh?” quick glance up and down – it’ll be hard to focus; he’ll swallows, “are you?”

his voice will sound low and hoarse to her ears. there’ll be mischief in her gaze, “always very thankful.”

“you’re a good girl.”

tattoo 2, love you: cut clean by the string of her bikini under her hipbone. his mouth goes dry.

when tracing his lips down the atlas of her body, he’ll linger on the spot, let his nose brush there to hear her sharp inhale. he’ll glance up at her drenched in the shadows of the night, a silhouette on his bed against the backdrop of the streetlamps.

“you’re supposed to say it back,” she’ll rasp, and her voice will be punctuated by something like a wheeze, something like a laugh. he’ll hum, teeth scraping against the tattoo before he’ll move further.

he’ll never say it back and he’ll always regret it.

“jesus christ.” he whispers, clicking his phone shut. it lays abandoned in his lap as he leans into the couch, rolling his head up to stare at the ceiling. he’s not sure what to do with all of this information he wasn’t supposed to acquire. feels like he overstepped some boundary, but then again, why post it? suppose she didn’t expect anyone to examine her so closely, least of all her boss.

fucked. this is fucked. he needs to delete this from his brain, or at the very least, do everyone a solid and not look again.

but she looks so fucking good.

this self-imposed embargo will last till monday night before he’ll crack.

Chapter Text

tell them

not white, gray – the exact color of cigarette ash, the red ember a reflected streak of sunlight; these walls box him in, and it’s always a surprise that space can feel so vast and so confining all at once. the plastic chair he sits on is unforgiving on his back. his foot sounds a pattern on the tiled floor to impair the silence.

he’s aware of it, of everything: his pursed lips, trembling lashes, quick blinks, slight sniffle, flitting irises, the light coat of sweat forming by his hairline. the taunt flex of his muscles; twitch of fingers that have nothing to grasp onto but each other. the tapping. pulsing in his jaw and temple. the tapping.

tell them

he tries to stare ahead, keep straight – it’s not expected of him, but he wishes he could do it. wishes he could face the silhouette sat across, too close and too far.

“well?” she prompts – a prim woman with a kind face sunken from all the miseries she had collected over the years, “how are you, carmen?”

a sharp exhale through the nose, like a humorless snort; corner of his lips pinching into a grimace that could resemble a smile, if one was generous enough, “how am i?” he repeats, “how am i?”

tell them

tell them

tell them your

“chef?”

storage closet. he keeps his hand firmly on the handle and breathes, jaw tense, head bent, illuminated in the shitty buzzing lights. the containers are organized – did it himself. methodically set cans with no spaces between them, all in neat rows. one’s a bit too close to the edge, sticking out. someone had moved it. he rubs his chin before pushing it back.

his hand falls from the handle and settles on his hip as he sighs, looks up, feels a rush of air tinted with spices and the overwhelming noise of the kitchen pierce the coveted silence of his hiding place when the door cracks open. she pokes her head in and he doesn’t look, can’t look, can’t sleep, can’t–

“you good?”

kindness is always startling, even when it’s the standard. her words hold no weight of deep inquiry, only a shallow question mark. it’s enough. he lives on scraps. “yeah, uh, thanks,” his tips his chin in her direction and his eyes flit over the crown of her head. can’t look for long;  he’ll search for thank you and love you despite knowing they’re covered.

“i was just, uh, was just, needed to check,” he vaguely motions behind himself, and the knot in his throat tightens slightly, “something, s-so…” maybe she decides to take him out of his misery. maybe he’s the only one that notices he’s drowning.

“family’s up.” she informs him, offers a small smile that he thinks is pity. can’t be sure.

“yeah, yeah, o-okay, i’ll, uh, i’ll, i’ll join you in a,” the hasty spill of his words slows, quiets. he inhales, brows crinkled and eyes focused on the new streaks on the floor he’ll have to clean, “i’ll join you in a minute.”

“i’ll save you a seat.” not a proposition mentioned aimlessly and left to rot in his subconscious, but a statement. and she’ll always save a seat for him, because he’ll always be late, and in the rare occasions that he won’t, he’ll be too early. she’ll save him a seat by the table and pat the couch next to herself when the staff’ll huddle to watch a Bulls game; she’ll save a slot for him on her free day to come into his office and help sort through papers; she’ll save her hand from others so that he could hold it and she’ll save a pair lace panties the color of her eyes that’ll tear through the flower pattern because he’ll be too rough and because he’ll like the way they look on her.

she’ll save a cup that’ll shatter during one of their arguments, glue it back together. the cracks will show, and it’ll be blotched, but he’ll still use it, even if the edge’ll be chipped and he’ll cut his lip and she’ll be long gone by then.

he’s mostly himself when he joins everyone, if he even knows what that entails. tina’s explaining form to marcus, and sydney’s on her phone, and richie and neil are discussing something with too many theatrics, and the rest of the staff shares idle conversation punctuated by comfortable silence. there’s an empty spot for him, food set in a plastic container and cutlery placed trimly – must’ve been her. too even, she’s borderline about these things. he appreciates them, because he’s like that, too.

a smile eases the tension from his shoulders, if a bit. he pulls the chair back, takes a seat, and her head ticks to the side to acknowledge him. no big speech, no welcome back or you good again, just a slight curiosity that makes her teeth pull on her lip. he dares a glance that doesn’t linger.

"verdict?” he asks the table, feeling the familiar flutter of anxiety squeeze his throat.

sydney: ‘s good. real good
richie: too fucking fancy [god] this the type of shit they serve up in yee-whole-fucking-new-of-the-fucking-york?
her: wouldn’t expect you to recognize shit from food [fuck you] since your mouth is always full of it
richie: oh ha ha [cousin] look at us folks [cousin] we got a fucking comedian with us
tina: shut it [so/rry] both of you. not by the table
richie: not by the fucking table, kid [fuck you]
marcus: i like it

it’s kinda funny, it’s kinda familiar, it’s kinda comforting. he glances at her again, sees her holding up her knife like a sword aimed at richie on the other side of the table. they mimic one another – in movement, in tone, in smiles that are careful not to display too much. friends. carmen watched this happen in his peripherals, sometimes through the haze of cigarette smoke. observed the pointed jabs and nudges that were harder each time as if they were competing who could knock the other off of their feet first. stupid, amusing, the nascence of a friendship.

whatever. it’s not that, it’s just, just that carmen’s the way he is and someone could roll their eyes at him and kill and sydney, well, he got along with sydney instantly – she came at a confusing fucking time, a breath of fresh air, and really, for a while, he only had her to help him navigate the clusterfuck of a dynamic of his brother’s staff. she was new, he was new, and it was natural they stuck together to survive the nuclear winter of a chicagoan kitchen. till he was approved as one of them, and she was, too, but, and it’s nothing, it’s dumb, fucking idiotic, it’s like he’s six again all of a sudden and no one wants to play ball with him in the fucking playground.

he’s not even left out, and he still feels like he’s somehow forbidden to join, even if he doesn’t want to, even if he doesn’t know what to say. as if he’d break some sacred law and inspire a drastic butterfly affect that would ripple into something abhorrent. the other shoe. there’s no first one and he’s already waiting for the drop.

“cousin,” richie calls, “cousin, she’s trying to fucking murk me. pretty sure that violates some sorta fine print.”

“better sleep with one eye open in that case.” carmy mumbles, a faint smile pulling on the corner of his lips as he watches the exchange briefly before he returns to the food. melts in his mouth. holds a sweet, syrupy tang, and, fuck, this is noma, this has fucking noma written all over it, even the cinnamon zest blended with orange peel.

no noma on her resume; dad must’ve taught her, then. how to blend and cook all of this shit to make the chicken taste like butter. probably needed to scour the whole kitchen for leftover ingredients, open a few rusted drawers for pipettes to measure lemon drops. stay up again prepping. filming. not sleeping. don’t look.

needlessly complicated and missing some parsley. coincidentally, they ran out of it this morning.

he looks at her because she’s not looking at him and for a moment he takes in her profile – the slope of her nose and the dip leading to her cupid’s bow. “‘s good.” he says after a short pause, and as soon as she turns in his direction he’s back to his food. the taste, this time, is compounded by added discomfort, “where’d you learn this from, anyway? there are recipe?”

“my dad. sorta,” she explains, “he’s also a chef. and he used to make it for me when i came to visit, soooooo, since it was my first time cooking family ‘n all…i thought, why not? y’know? just to upset richie.”

“heard that, kid.”

he snorts, leaning back into his chair, head dipped and container held in hand. glances at her from under his lashes, and maybe direct eye contact is not as scary when he wants her to be looking back. that small smile of his is pulls on his lips again, “‘s good.” he repeats.

“you like it?” her voice can be soft, and so can her features.

“i like it,” he admits, “thank you, chef.”

she smiles and it’s like a fucking firework.

he tries not to look too hard, scared what he might find there. metronome. dull, almost, like the beating of his heart in his chest, yet it pulses through him, from the back of his head all the way to his feet. the tapping.

tell them

he rubs his faces with his hands, leans forward, as if the words are physically trying to get out. doesn’t want to say it; doesn’t want to admit that he can’t dress for the weather and that he’s wearing a gray woolen sweater which blends into these walls, that he blends in, that he’s invisible.

“i’ve, uh,” pinches the bridge of his nose, wanes the upcoming headache – too many cigarettes and not enough sleep, “i’ve been going through somethin’.”

like her pictures on a late monday night fresh out of the shower. the phone light catches damp hair falling in ringlets. the towel is still slung around his shoulders – white, clean, he’s done his laundry, it’s a fucking miracle. it was a notification that distracted him mid-way putting on a t-shirt, was like a beacon in the dark on his bedside table. bare feet padded to grasp it and here he stands, gaping like a fucking idiot with nothing but boxers on and cold water dripping down his back.

wasn’t supposed to look. made a promise, swore it in the mirror staring into clear blue eyes that held nothing. wasn’t his intention, either, it just happened. everything seems to just happen to him. she just seem to text him at 1 in the morning the recipe from a few days back, and he just seems to find her profile again because he just wants to look. no further reason. she just seems to follow him and he just seems to pretend not to notice because he’s not very good at this, he’s not really good at anything.

and there she is, confined in a little electronic device held in his hand, looking at the camera, looking at him, and he’s not really sure what to do with himself. text back, likely, but he can’t think of a response – thank you? thanks? thumbs up emoji? chef emoji? just to mix it up a bit. the mattress dips when he sits on the bed. where the fuck are his cigarettes?

never too far, and the lighter isn’t, either, so he stands, and his phone is still in his hand like the thing is fucking glued to it, and he cracks the window open to let the summer night in. chicago doesn’t sleep, and neither does she, it seems, but he doesn’t, either, and when his teeth have something to bite onto he feels like he found an anchor.

thank you and love you are objectively interesting detonators, but there are other rare gems. where she’s smiling. look taken off-guard and never by her personally, always by someone else: hugging a bottle in the midnight new york vista, nursing a to-go cappuccino by the bodega too early in the morning, holding up a plastic puka shell necklace in the backdrop of a souvenir shop somewhere in yucatan. hugging her mother wearing a tracksuit while the former’s poised in a neat blazer. they look similar. carmen looks like his mother, too.

she’s more approachable when her eyes crinkle and cheeks apple and lips stretch to reveal a crescent line in the corner. pretty. real pretty. too pretty. maybe that’s why he doesn’t know what to say. maybe she doesn’t expect him to say anything. maybe that’s why she sent the message.

‘s not fair. he knows too much about her. knows her dad’s a renowned chef and her mother’s a business exec with a penthouse in brooklyn; knows she gets her tattoos in-house, on the couch, from some low-key junkie-looking artist that always wears a beanie;  knows she worked in an upscale restaurant in wallstreet. chef whites, neat, trimmed, fitting – nothing he can offer in his fucked joint. fuck is she doing in chicago, anyway? spent last summer backpacking across europe with a distinctly new york-looking art school dropouts that wore the latest sneakers and tiffany necklaces. rich kids, rich kid, what she gets now was likely her daily allowance.

all of that just because he’s noisy. just because he’s curious. just because she’s pretty and he’s too scared to actually talk to her.

shouldn’t talk to her about anything anyway. too awkward – can hardly form a coherent sentence without ripping his hair out in the first place. he’s her boss, she’d think he’s a fucking weirdo if she knew how much he had gathered about her already. just from looking. does sydney know? does richie know? that would be fucked. oddly insulting, even. but since carmen hasn’t heard richie calling her a spoiled brat yet, he supposes it’s safe to assume this information hasn’t reached him yet.

parasocial as shit. he feels on the verge of a panic attack by the way his heart is hammering in his chest. maybe it’s the 5th cigarette. maybe it’s because he’s been sleep deprived. maybe it’s because looking at her makes him lonely and this is fucked and just put the fucking phone down, carmen.

she's really hot, though. but he can’t say so, not out loud. not right now. not here. not in front of the bed, where the mattress sags when he sits, or in the window, where the wind rattles the glass ringing of common sense.

‘thanks for the recipe’ is a good start, ‘cool tats by the way’ is definitely a line that has crossed his mind, but can’t text that, either. too personal. too easy. too close. fuck did he look at them anyway, too busy staring at her tits. fuck.

she’d think he’s a creep because somehow, in the divine comedy of his life, he’d let it slip somehow, because he’s stupid. because thank you and love you slap at him on odd hours during the day. because he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

feels like he’s a teen again and a girl from school sent him her homework to copy. only the girl in a hot rich kid from nyc that works in his restaurant and is so far out of his league that she’s in a different fucking orbit.

the mattress dips again. he closes his eyes, exhales slowly, rubs his face with his free hand. can’t stop thinking. can’t stop looking. staring. wanting. get a fucking hold of yourself. doesn’t want to. too tired. too fucked. too alone.

she’s so pretty.

so smart.

so fucking pretty.

what is he doing? what the fuck is he doing?

he tries to swallow, but it feels like there's sand in his throat. can't think straight, every corner leads to her anyway in a comical gotcha moment. can't go back. can't go forward. can't do anything but sit here, stare at the phone, think the last threads of his fizzling mind will conceive a reply.

say something. say something.

she's so fucking pretty and his dick is so fucking hard.

inhales again, this time slowly. feels the first tremors of an erection ignored, the pulse in his neck, in his wrists.

his heart is pounding and he wants her to look at him, wants to look at her, wants to feel her touch him, wants to show her how much he wants her.

"fucking christ," he can hear the breathless crack in his voice. feel it, taste it.

his face burns and his hair falls over his forehead, already drying. there's sweat on his brow and a lump in his throat from the steady rise of panic, anticipation, desperation, whateverthefuck. the blood in his veins pounds through his chest – he can feel the vibration in his bones, and god, god god god, he’s so fucking horny.

can't move. can't breathe. can't think. can't stand being alone. can't stand the silence. can't stand not doing anything and can’t stand being like this because he’s not supposed to. not allowed, breach of contract, jesus, who does this shit in their spare time? a lot of people, probably, but carmen wouldn’t know.

"fuck."

he wants to close his eyes because she’s so cold on the screen but so warm in his mind. can’t do that. can't stop palming dick over his boxers, either – wants to pull them down, but that would mean looking at himself, so he stares at her picture instead.

he feels like a teenager again, vaguely wants to throw up. can't believe how hard he is. he's not supposed to be like this. this isn't going to end well.

he knows he's gonna fuck this up because he's already fucking it up. can't stop staring at her. can't stop touching himself. can't stop thinking about what she'd do if she knew he was sitting here ready to jerk off to her.

she'd probably freak the fuck out, and she'd have every right to. that doesn't stop that wandering hand of his from dipping below the elastic band anyway.

his breath scratches at his throat, stuck there as he feels his hand brush something warm. glances down, sees his middle finger pressing against the swollen tip. looks back at the phone, sees her smile, the hint of her teeth; his cock twitches at the sight of her like some deranged pavlovian response. his fingers curl around his shaft and go down in a nice, long stroke.

"fuck me," he hisses. eyes squeeze shut and hips push forward and head rolls back to release a small groan.

it's a slow slide of a rough palm, with just enough pressure to cause shivers. he thinks of her lips wrapped around his him. the way her tongue would tease him. the way her hair would tickle his thighs.

"so pretty," he breathes, but the words are lost in the rhythm of his hand, "fuck, sorry."

fingers and palm slide over the sensitive head, each pass adding more pressure until his hips buck and it feels like someone punched him in the gut and he sucks in a breath, the sound coming out more like a moan; squeeze, tighter this time, and he groans louder, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure. teeth clamp down on his lower lip and all the oxygen in his lungs leaves with that.

the hand with the hand pierced by a kitchen knife pumps faster, coating the creases and veins in warm, sticky pre-cum leaking from the tip and leaving a stain on his boxers. he's breathing heavily, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that matches the throbbing of his cock.

he's so close already. so close he feels like he might actually lose his mind if he doesn't come soon.

"hm, fuck," he breathes out, eyes squeezing shut and fist tightening around the shaft as his hips jerk forward to meet the movement.

everything is swimming and spinning in the liquid dark around him, all the sensations coiled up into one chaotic bundle that's threatening to overwhelm him.

"yes," can't be his voice, can it? too raw, too desperate, too loud.

fist tightens even more and the throbbing is too much. feels like something is trying to get out of his body, like it's going to burst through his skin.

"oh fuck. oh fuck, oh fuck—"

everything is happening at once. everything is mounting to a small cry of her name.

he comes. coughs and huffs, head tipping back and hand still pumping. there's a low groan coming from his chest that sounds like it originated from some other person entirely.

then, it stills. his back hits the bed and he tries to gulp down air that stutters down his throat, the phone bouncing on the mattress beside him. the motions ripple in his spine, in tensed muscles that’ve gone lax. calm. outside the window, a siren howls first, then a dog.

he’s spent. feels good. cold air bites skin coated in sweat, like ice melting in the bed of a warm palm. “fuck.”

but the reality of the situation rips through the haze just as quick, and ignited by a sudden fucking unbearable anger, he grabs his phone and throws it across the room, “FUCK.”

Chapter Text

between texas and oklahoma, a deep gash slices the atlas into two – the red river. it winds through the southern states and laps at its shores, murky copper waters diluted by the sand and grass, unsettling nearing the middle, inky in the night with rippling watercolor lights reflecting from the city that are so bleak in the day. 

it's red to carmen.

dripping, gurgling, gushing from a soft palm onto the wrist and snaking downward, marking tattooed monuments and building new roads.

"fuck," the knife clatters on a messy workstation, and a hand cradles a hand and pulls up to look – look at what ? the medical miracle of bleeding? careless action leads to unwanted consequences, and her expression shifts from confusion to something stuck between pain and surprise, and why is she gaping like a fucking idiot?

carmen: jesus [you okay?]
sydney: does it hurt? [uh] let me [no] see
richie: princess got a boo boo [fuck] woah [huh?] what the fuck?
her: just scratch [what?]
richie: you're bleeding on the fucking floor [hold on]
sydney: you'll need stitches [wait] carmen, can you–

but he's already there, parting past the sea of people that flock around her like wayward birds at the promise of bread; squeezes past the gap between marcus and richie, all tense shoulders and stormy expression and he's too harsh for a situation so delicate. blue eyes gleam at the sight, the sheer audacity of it: she sliced her palm like a musician slices at the strings of their instrument. only once, but it's enough. it'll heal next to the line superstitious people proclaim fate , like a fork in the road, and maybe that's where it'll all go wrong.

sorry

 "chef," sydney's voice, again, a calm echo over the cacophony of people offering condolences and drawling fucking ouch , "can you–"

"space, space, some fucking space ." the hand with the hand pierced by a knife grabs at her wrist – sorry, fuck, i'm sorry  – and drags, not trying to be gentle, because he can't be gentle when the residue of a volcanic eruption pools between the cracks of his fingers. 

to the sink, almost as quick as her hand had been to hurt, the tap flipped and, there, submerged under ice cold water that jolts up her bones, settles in the crevices, makes her shiver. his grip is numbing; lips pursed, nostrils flared, he watches the soft palm pale. glances at her, then, beside him, watching him watch her and fuck. i'm sorry.

can't look for long. "'s deep." he notes, quieter, to her only. 

"how deep?" she asks, not cautious, not overtly blunt either, and to him it might as well be the mariana trench. 

accidents happen, it's normal, especially where knifes are involved: sharp and pointy, pay attention to what you're fucking doing. still, a lecture seems unnecessary – it's birthed and buried on the tip of his tongue that suddenly wants to say so much. sorry. his heart drums anxiously, ready to flee. it's all music and her controlled breaths and the relentless rush of cold water. 

"uh," blue eyes wander, liquid crystal in bleak kitchen lamps. there's blood soaking her sleeve and splattered on her linen apron. he tugs again, examining the new map carefully, "...'s, uh… not that deep." he finally concludes, but the scorn in his voice doesn't die down. maybe intensifies. he feels her pulse pound in his hand and his hold eases slightly. 

"so i won't need stitches?" 

"try not to sound too disappointed."

she quirks a small smile at that – he sees it in his peripherals, and it's almost enough to make him crack, too. 

"hold it." it's less of a suggestion and more of a command. no no s. turns off the tap, "my office."

"there's a firs–"

"my office, chef."

inhales slowly, but the sound of water still rushes in his ears. he watches as she disappears around the corner, then glances at the crowd observing this whole ordeal, " what ?" sharp, like an accusation, "get back to work."

they move like a well-oiled machine, returning to their stations. the scene of the crime remains untouched, as if they're scared to tamper with the evidence. he sighs, reels back a bit. washes his hands, slathers them generously with soap and rubs and rubs and rubs and he can wash the blood out but not what he's done.

i'll do it again. sorry

he'll never tell her, but she'll likely know, because his voice will betray him when he'll lay in bed with her, watching her drink coffee and fiddle with her phone, his thumb brushing over her cheek, " i like your pictures. "

the office is a dim, dusty alcove, more broom closet than actual room: looming shelves with a thick layer of dust collected on top, a table sludged with papers chipped by the edges, a fan that doesn't work, a shit lamp that buzzes too loud at night, a plethora of sticky-note reminders, cigarette ashes sogging coffee grounds in the depths of a day's old cup. there's the chair in which she sits with her back straight and there's carmy in the threshold holding a first aid kid and there's mikey in the back where the shadows are the longest. don't.

he sets – smacks – the kit on the papers, and he doesn't clean up home because he never has any guests and he doesn't clean up here because no one stays for longer than 5 minutes. mikey left a mess, fuck, he can't tidy. can't, won't, his presence still douses this space, this isn't carmen's office.

"does it hurt?" carmen's attention is torn away from the corner, the endless expanse of a small room above her shoulder. you're so pretty. 

she shakes her head, and she's lying, and he sees no point in believing her, but he sees no point in questioning her further, either, "lemme see."

he takes her hand again, but his hold is mild. maybe it's easier when it's just her.

his thumb presses on her fingers, opens the palm – shitty light, wound seems darker than it is, but not as severe as it appeared initially. clothing already. good. but his touch lingers, only a gentle brush down the side and over the strings of her wrist. only because he's sorry and he can't help himself. 

clears his throat, makes the mistake of glancing at her and sees her looking up at him. it's in those eyes crowned by lashes, a swirl of light dancing around the pool, and maybe she's looking at him like that because she saw something slip from him, something that's usually hidden underneath taut muscle and a stiff jaw. 

he doesn't know what it means, a part of him doesn't want to. but the air feels different now, no longer cigarettes and dust and mikey but carmen and his sweat and her and her perfume.

"keep, uh, hold it up for me."

she does, because it would be pointless to argue. he's made nothing but demands vaguely disguised as instructions. his shaky fingers fish out a white bandage and they continue shaking as he wraps. finishes with a neat knot and all, too. 

he examines his handiwork the same way he examines the aesthetics of a dish brought for him to evaluate. he's got a critical eye for all things and he can't find a single flaw in her. so fucking pretty .

stop it.

there's dried blood on her forearm and a crescent moon by her elbow, teartracks up the bicep. they streak past her tattoos and into the unknown of her shoulder. so many pictures – are memories attached? he's sentimental, but would never admit it. each of his is with a meaning privy to him and him only. 

roaming eyes halt by a tiny inked pastry. macaroon. it almost makes him smile, "you like those?"

her: oh, uh, yeah, i guess? my mom likes em, so
carmen: does she have a, a matching? one?
her: naaaaah [really?] no she, she isn't a real big fan of them, lost her fucking mind when i got my first four
carmen: first four? [yeah] in one sitting?
her: i mean, yeah, i [wow]
carmen: it didn't hurt?
her: wasn't so bad. this hurt more

"i make them. sometimes." she admits, but he already knows. "when i go to visit her. uhm, but, i'm really not a pastry chef, so, i'm, i don't know what i'm doing. can't tell if they taste good either since they're all coffee."

a small smile curls on the corner of his lips, "coffee? what's wrong with coffee?"

she grins, "no."

"what?" he's still holding her hand.

she snorts, "don't, don't tell me you're one of those people."

"one of those people?" his eyebrows flick upward.

"the ones that think coffee macaroons are delicious." her voice lilts with amusement. it's a breathy note.

he's not sure how to answer, but his voice lowers to match her timbre, "they're, well, they're, uh, a little bitter, but… i like em."

there's a pause. 

carmen: but you like it?
her: coffee?
carmen:    yeah
her: yes just
carmen: not the macaroons?
her: not the macaroons.

she doesn't like them because they remind her of nyc and the pastry shop her mom took her to after work. she was a kid, a real young thing, still needing a guide and still needing help to get on the seat. it's the touch, it's the trust , it's the dark brown interior with open windows filtering the sunlight in – so rare for a city so cloudy. she never goes down that street, takes a 15 minute roundabout. the sidewalk is marred by her small footsteps, lost without the click-clack of kitten heels beside her.

she'll make a batch for everyone at the restaurant a few weeks from now, bring it in on a saturday morning – strawberry for richie and tina, lemon for sydney, matcha for neil, almond for marcus, coffee for carmen. she'll knock on the door of his office and he'll look up and see her smiling and he'll smile, too. taste, then, and he'll tell her that they're good and it won't be because he's being nice but because they will be good , and she'll insist that he try pistachio because that one is her favorite and he will because by that time he won't be able to say no to her.

and when they're together, she'll always leave a few extra for him, until she won't, and when he'll ask her if she needs a ride to the hospital, something will crack underneath sleepless eyes and rigid weary features: "no."

he's still holding her hand. 

overhead, the rhythmic drum of rain pours over the city. there's a squeak on the tiles of a slippery shoe, a methodic pounding that reverberates around, in and out. the tapping .

"carmen?" such a bleak face in the bleak backdrop of terror named therapy. the woman he deigned to trust handles that trust with care, never pushing further than he allows her, allows himself. he's mostly silent during their sessions, but even if his lips can't move, his body does the speaking for him. the tapping. stop fucking tapping your foot. 

"yeah, yeah, i," blinks once, twice, thrice, and he suddenly can't stop, "i, i, i, uh," can't face her, can't face anything, fucking coward.

"breathe," she laments, too close and yet out of reach; her voice, a thin sheen of balm over bruises and wounds he doesn't want to heal, "have you been–"

"yes." he grits, quick, harsh, apologetic. turns from her, staring out the window – can't see nothing. it's raining. it's been raining a lot. "yes, i, i do. them. the exercises, i do them."

there's a pause in which the woman might smile or might not. "that's good," it isn't, "it's a good start." it's pathetic.

the white frame's like a picture. inside – bleak light and billowing clouds, a murky rendition of the city's landscape drowned underwater. he hears the clock ticking, he hears his foot tapping, and he hears the pelting on the glass. the last he can almost feel on his skin. 

the downpour.

"shit."

the damp august air washes over him all at once, humid and cold simultaneously. he holds the backdoor of the kitchen open, squinting, car keys jingling on his finger. thunder rumbles somewhere not far off, and it's the only sound loud enough to pierce water hitting pavement.

he feels her against his shoulder rather than hears her, she and her curious expression scrunching into a wince. "no kidding."

"i'll give you a lift." he says.

"you sure?"

"you wanna fucking freeze or somethin?" no, she doesn't, and all socials were quick to inform of halted trains. the city's on lockdown from the storm, and the weathermen relayed this news with a stiff upper lip. it might ease up tomorrow morning, it may not, we have all the technology in the fucking world and still can't accurately predict the weather.

the tracks are too slippery, or something like that, she doesn't know because she only read the headline and trusted it as gospel. unsurprising, but he's not exactly complaining.

"where's your car?" 

in a quick motion, he points into the murky distance, "uh, there. somewhere."

she grins, fixing the strap of her bag over her shoulder, head tilted slightly, inquisitive, playful almost, "we make a run for it?"

carmen can't help the smile that curls on his lips, and he regards her with raised brows, almost surprised by her suggestion but not opposed to it, "yeah? yes? do you have a, a jacket?" eyes flit over her, not lingering, not daring, "or, to cover yourself, you know."

"carmen it showed 93 degrees this morning," right. the question answers itself.

"then we run."

he moves first and she follows after and he's drenched in moments, wet hair sticking to his face and the harsh rain cold on his hot skin. behind him he hears the door slam shut and thunder rolling and her airy laugher getting lost in dark gray clouds. he looks at her from over his shoulder but he can't really see much with his eyes half-closed. he can't stop smiling.

he unlocks the car quickly, ducking inside, and she falls into the passenger's seat and for a moment it's just the laughter on her tongue and the rain and him breathing. she catches his gaze and water drips down his nose and it drips down her chin. the roof pounds and his heart pounds and he's overcome with an unbearable urge to kiss her.

he turns the ignition instead, pressing the heater, then the windshield wipers. "seatbelt," is all he says.

"yes, chef." she rasps, god, stop it. fingers curl tighter around the wheel. he hears the familiar click before he turns on the radio – too loud at first, it's fucking jarring, but then tones it a little, only to drown out the sound of her small breaths. his throat is dry and his lips are wet and he wipes away the water from his forehead before it drips down into his eyes.

don't look at her . "can you, uh, give me the address?"

"yes, yes, one sec," he sees her wiping her hand on the seat before she tries to use her phone. after a few more seconds, "okay, got it, where do–"

"gimmie," doesn't wait for an answer, blindly reaches for her phone, brushes warm skin against warm skin and pilfers the device. sets it by the mileage.

"not too far?" she asks, "you can drop me off somewhere closer."

"nah, need to go that way anyway," not really, but he won't tell her. needs to see sugar, though it's not that he's exactly looking forward to it. this trip is out of his way, but if he enters the highway, which he will, it doesn't really matter.

maybe it does. maybe it really fucking matters and he just doesn't realise it yet, doesn't want to. carmen's unreceptive to change, hardly notices when he's the instigator, and he usually is. for better or for worse. 

she settles in her seat, head resting on the glass, and it can't be all that comfortable, but it looks somewhat endearing. maybe. he'd need to take a better look, so he does, and it's only a flit of his eyes to the expanse of her neck and down her shoulders and fuck , don't, god.

she's soaked. her shirt clings to her like second skin, almost translucent, and the fabric stretches across her chest, the round slopes of her tits and perked nipples. shit. sorry. you're so fucking pretty.

he tears his eyes away before she can catch him, clearing his throat, his whole body turning away from her as heat pools in his lower abdomen and his erection presses against his pants. fuck. tries to suppress his reaction, to push it back down where it belongs, but it's already too late.

the car shudders and his knuckles whiten and he's so distracted by the swell of blood between his legs that he barely notices that he's sweating. the air feels too fucking warm and he slams the heater off harsher than he intended. she startles. his jaw twinges.

"sorry," he mumbles, and he's not sure what he's apologizing for specifically. she doesn't say anything but her gaze weighs heavy on him, raking his arms and leaving goosebumps, and fuck, please, don't look at me, don't fucking look at me.

he chews on his bottom lip, elbow on the windowsill and palm against his hot cheek. his eyes flick to her phone and he almost groans – 20 more minutes of this, this, fuck, whatever this is. 

the engine hums and the radio sings and the rain keeps pouring. he keeps glancing at her. can't stop himself, and each time he does it, he swears it's the last one. catches her eyes and she looks away first, too quickly, and he doesn't dare to hope, but maybe, just maybe, he isn't the only one feeling like this.

Chapter Text

day, night, or in the odd hours between, carmen would make his way down stairs bent from footsteps and into the restless landscape of the city that never sleeps, never dreams, for sure, unless dreams might mean nightmares of beanie-sporting fuckers selling weed in dim corner alleys and wrinkle-tired ladies spatting spittle in 24-hour laundry service. he’d stalk down the street in a denim jacket reeking of cigarettes and vegetable oil and the first pair of sweatpants he could find, turn the corner, down 26^th, and into the shabby quarter of mattress shops and street vendors to find his favorite bodega. he’d get a coffee there, sometimes two, and a pack of smokes; take a sip that scorched his tongue, go outside, almost throw up from the taste. keep drinking. the flavor almost washed out the bitterness that lingered, and it always lingered after yes, chef when being asked if he’s a fucking idiot at noma.

his fingers would cramp and lock up from holding tweezers; black dots and white flashes swam in his eyes, and it must’ve been from the blaring lights of the kitchen and intense focus on perfection. he’d be still and wouldn’t blink when the head chef breathed down his neck. there was a stress rash on his hands that went up to his throat. he didn’t sleep and he didn’t crumble when shouted at but the fissures would rupture into messy cuts in the quiet.

the fire alarm punctures through his eardrums.

a moment. then, “shit, fuck.”

he has a fire-extinguisher for these hiccups – bought one after the third time of setting his kitchen on fire in the middle of the night. there go boxes of breakfast meals he doesn’t eat anyway, coated in white powder that mixes with the sooty veneer of multi-ply stainless steel. panic thrums in his stomach and it grows turbulent because he’s acutely aware that he’s not afraid that he started a fire but rather each time he catches himself doing it he wants to stop it less.

can’t breathe. his mouth tastes like smoke. he drops the extinguisher and doesn’t hear the shrill rattle as it hits the floor; opens all windows, let’s the cool night air wash over him like a soothing balm on clammy skin but it doesn’t work. maybe he’s breathing and maybe he’s not, and he’s not sure, he doesn’t know, and a trembling palm grasps for a heartbeat it can’t find, and he could try naming the 5 things he sees but quite frankly he doesn’t give a shit about any of that and no one would even fucking care if he dropped dead and no one would show up to the funeral because he didn’t show up to mikey’s and

did he see her? back in nyc, on his walks through twisting streets with a coffee in hand and a cigarette between his teeth? was she in the gaggle of sophomores smoking weed in parks after dark? maybe nursing a bottle of champagne stolen from mom’s cabinet in the backseat of a friend’s car that always blasted music too loud and always aimed for the puddles? was she one of the kids donned in a private school uniform in the metro reciting the choose life monologue after watching trainspotting for the first time?

maybe he saw a glimpse of her at noma sat by a small round table covered in a pristine white cloth – she on one side, mom on the other. maybe she read the menu and ordered and when she saw the dish she thought she’d like to be the one to make it.

maybe. the world is smaller than it looks.

it’s an oddly calming thought. like they were always meant to meet. like their paths crossed once and then crossed again and a passing face weaved into reality. he finds his heartbeat and he’s fucking freezing and he can’t quite breathe without choking but it’s plenty. she’s nice enough to show off her new tattoos and she looks dumb when she juggles spoons to make him laugh and she’s pretty when she leans her hip on the counter and crosses her arms over her chest.

his heart skips and tumbles after racing thoughts, because it’s the way she tries to involve him in conversations as he wouldn’t dare to intrude on his own and it’s the way she asks for an opinion only because she wants to hear what he’s thinking.

the way she says something stupid and then glances at him to make sure that he’s smiling and the way she looks away when he does.

her name leaves his lips with a little exhale. can feel his heart hammering against his ribs, but his fingers are no longer numbing. hears the way he’s breathing, and he really is breathing, sharp and quick and not enough to feed the lungs but enough to make sure he’s alive. a grimace, maybe a smile, and fuck, sorry, thank you, thank you, sorry, thank you.

she’s made home in his mind, found a space between the wayward memories sticking to the walls, the remnants of a house fire. doesn’t scrub, simply exist, and she’s color, a mellow, calming blue, like a nightlight – glimmer of the ocean, maybe, or the liquid purple-blue reflections on mirror-glass shop windows.

he’s not fond on his own reflection. always turns away when met with a dim shadow, a vague outline of a distressed expression that to him appears so obvious in its unhappiness. no one could find such a thing palatable. maybe it’s one of the reasons he turned to cooking. if anything useful can come from him, let it be something universal, something required.

he leans against the wall of his restaurant, even if it’ll never really be his. didn’t build these walls, didn’t spend nearly enough time within them to nest. smokes a cigarette, hears muted laughter coming from within that makes him sweat. not good at this, not used to this. would disappearing into his apartment make him happier? not sure, he’s miserable everywhere, but friendly faces are better, even if he’s not entirely sure they’re truly friendly. maybe he never will.

the weather in chicago has cooled significantly, but not enough to warrant a jacket. the cold is preferable after the stuffy hot air of the kitchen. the night is still, and there’s a beer waiting for him inside and there’s richie waiting also, ready to complain why he wasn’t invited to carmen’s mandatory smoke break. he usually goes every hour on the dot if he’s not busy. and if he’s distressed he simply doesn’t stop smoking.

a car pulls up down the street, and he stands at attention – this isn’t the safest neighborhood in chicago and wouldn’t be the first time someone tried (and succeeded) in shooting through the window (nothing duct tape can’t fix). not that he’s exactly expecting trouble. he’s not really expecting anything, but his heart hammers and then hammers some more when she hops out the passenger’s seat, waving to the driver before fixing the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

the car drives away, and he doesn’t catch who’s behind the wheel.

even from afar, he’d recognize her anywhere, and he suddenly feels like the biggest idiot on earth just watching as she draws closer, watching as her lips stretch into a smile of recognition, watching as the dim lights spilling from the windows illuminate her face.

her: hey, [hey] carmen! sorry [hey] I’m late, i just, i had this, this thing [oh] it’s whatever
carmen: ‘s fine. uh, it’s fine, we just – just started without you, since
her: that’s fine [yeah?] ‘course, it’s just, it’s my dumb brain, messed up the time and all, but hey? i made it [yeah], so, that’s? [yeah] good? [yes] is everyone
carmen: inside? yes. yes. cousin made shots
her: oh god

he dips his head, shakes it a little – maybe it’s to hide his smile, maybe because oh god indeed. “you don’t have to drink,” he says after a moment.

she makes a face, “what? why? it’s a team building – how else do you build a team?”

fair point.

she doesn’t head inside, simply stands and waits. he catches her gaze, follows it – his cigarette. blinks. “do you, uh,” he holds it out to her, not much left but embers and the murky orange filter, “do, do you want? one?”

“oh, no, no, not now,” she says, “maybe later. I’ll steal some from richie.”

steal some from me

“okay.” it’s hoarse, quiet. not disappointed, but not nothing either. his eyes flit to her and flit back to the street, back to the trek she took from the car to come here, like he’s retracing her steps in memory. a thing. there’s always a thing with her, but he doesn’t entirely care what it is when she’s here.

he wants to be closer but finds no good reason for it, no necessity. only that he wants, and carmen wants a lot of things he never allows himself to have.

movement will upset the balance. he’s not sure what the balance in question is, but he knows that she feels it, too. a shift in the air, the slight crooked frame of the CLOSED sign handing by the entrance.

suddenly, everything feels so important. maybe it’s just all in his head.

they enter, together, but she goes first and carmen lingers behind, and this'll become a pattern – he'll always walk behind her, one or half-a-step after because there's something so comforting about watching her lead the march whether it be a coffee shop down the street or the newly cleaned space of the restaurant that still has a faint tint of citrus-flavored cleaning detergent underneath the pinch of tequila and damp stench of beer.

it's comforting because she tilts her head a lil to catch him in her peripherals. to make sure he's close. even if she hears him, even if she feels him. soon, he'll slide a hand down her vertebrae, feel the ridges of her spine before settling on her lower back, and it'll mean i'm here, i'm here, don't worry. but it's all new now, still unknown, and when she does this and the warm light douses her features he feel struck by something he can't yet name.

he'll figure it out eventually. it'll be like learning to read all over again.

they nestle by the game machines. the table's clad in alcohol and red paper napkins and food prepped in advance – they're chefs, it would've been a shame not to take advantage of all of that raw skill. the kitchen is off limits – avoiding sharp edges and operating angry appliances under the influence isn't the safest option, it's actually really fucking dumb, richie – and so is the register – glass, mugs, logs kept in heavy stacks of paper, the whole shabang best left untouched by uncaring fingers.

they all fit here, their low chatter and faint notes of music from the stereo. there's the whine of the game machines and an odd crack of electricity from the clusterfuck of wires plugged, bound, taped, melted into the socket. fak keeps glancing at that ticking time bomb, but beer is a priority, and maybe fak makes a mental note to fix it the same way carmen narrows his eyes to tell fak to fucking fix it.

they share food – can you pass me that, fork, lemme try some – and open drinks for one another – we have an opener, no, i have keys, jesus don't open it with your teeth – and it's not home but it's definitely the beginning of one. each sets out the foundation: brick, cement, and wiring. carmen feels like he's holding the blueprint.

richie passes her a can of beer warmed by his hand like passing down the olympic torch.

richie: you even old enough to drink?
her: fuck you

her first drink goes down surprisingly quick. too quick, almost, and it's not of nerves or any other reason carmen suspects at first but of sheer habit. she always downs her first drink, like she's craving for it, or maybe she simply craves the ease of buzz in an environment familiar that demands to be more of herself. but it'll always be like this. she's talking and sipping almost at the same pace which means by the time marcus finishes sharing dough techniques (solid 15 minutes) she's flagging down carmen, passing the torch to him.

"can you get me another one?" not a demand, simply an inquiry pillowed by a smile. amused, embarrassed almost. she shakes the empty can for emphasis.

he raises a brow, "i'm an errand boy now?" and he takes it anyway. her fingers are slightly cold and a bit wet.

"please, chef."

"better."

the next is to savor, let it melt on her tongue, imbue her senses – she drinks and holds for safe keeping, and she doesn't invite anyone to share because everyone's drinking the same thing anyway. but

carmen stands close. marcus is talking again – more methods, carmen's noma dishes have left a heavy impression on him – and she lingers beside him, passes the drink as a wordless offering and he takes it as one without hesitation. communication isn't always verbal, can't be, else why would it feel like so much has been said? he gives it back with his gaze set on marcus and she takes it back without looking at him and nothing really happened except everything did.

the second drink goes back and forth, back and forth until there's nothing left and carmen tastes the last drops of lukewarm beer reminiscent of watery bread and he goes for another one.

it's a glass bottle with a cap instead of a can, and he weighted it in his palm without thinking, but... he opens it with his hands, flexes muscles against a white tee only because he noticed her watching and decided he likes when her gaze weighs him down. there's a hiss, and his palm doesn't hurt but the metal leaves marks she inspects when he gifts her the cold bottle.

"woah," she mumbles, long fingers neatly inspecting his hand like he inspected hers seemingly not so long ago. her touch is fleeting, tentative, masked behind tipsy curiosity, "my friend could open one with her teeth. get me another?"

"absolutely not."

despite his efforts, she gets one anyway. "actually, when we were in rome, m' friends and i, we didn't have any cash, and, like, you need cash there, you know? you need it, because we went to eat, all four of us, and, we would search for a place all over, so," she positions the neck against her mouth, "anhd w' rheallhy hd thiz thi–"

cap hooked between her molars, teeth gleaming in the blinking light.

"no, no no no–" sydney yanks the drink from her and maybe the action itself causes it to pull open because there's an unmistakable pop and a drastic grimace on her face, like she tasted something sour. she smacks her lips a few times as sydney stares, faintly drenched in horror, bottle clasped to her chest.

"mm," she starts, finger checking as if she'd find something amiss, "fuck," and she laughs, because it's so funny, apparently, to chip a tooth for a stupid party trick.

carmen won't know this until she'll tell him a few weeks from now, but when she went to the restroom right after the incident, she spit out a small piece into the warm bed of her palm, and for a moment, wondered if she could somehow glue it back: "well," she'll huff, grinning, and he'll keep an eye out but he won't find any crooked borders, "what was i supposed to do? just...just carry it with me? put it under my pillow? 's not so bad."

it really won't be that bad, but in the time that he'll spend with her, she'll only threaten to do it but never actually do it again.

for now, however,

"okay, that just happened," sydney sounds, "and now what's not gonna happen is you choking on that cap."

she tilts her head back, mouth parting, and if the dim atmosphere allowed it, his gaze might have lingered a moment more than necessary in the well-lit hollow of her throat. it feels natural, almost, as if they had done this before, a multitude times that granted him permission to trace invisible patterns across her skin. they haven't. they can't. he can't.

so he doesn't – or rather, he tries, so, he doesn't really.

she fishes out the cap with about as much grace as expected. it's funny, it's a minute, it's so fucking dumb.

"no choking," carmen confirms.

"good, yeah," she clears her throat once, twice, maybe the rim scraped her tongue a bit, or maybe carmen is staring, "yeah, no choking."

"no fucking choke," richie echoes with surprising conviction, only it earns a scalding look from sydney and something a notch milder from carmen. still, he raises his fist for a bump, she complies, two bombs meet and lock between their knuckles before the explosion ricochets in stupid sound effects that get lost among the chatter. richie’s grinning and she’s laughing and carmen’s eyes linger somewhere on the line between them.

carmen could never be a friend like that.

(he wouldn't really want to be, and he knows it.)

thus ends the spectacle, and the piece of her chipped tooth is currently curled into the nook of her upper lip, but no one knows that, of course. carmen’s keen eyes couldn’t be able to tell either and not only because he dreads looking at her mouth. he has imagined it enough times to know everything there is to it. except the feel and taste, but he has theories on that, too. stop it. he takes another drink.

the clock ticks past 11. he has one arm draped across the back of her seat, just behind her head. casual, a form of comfort. he doesn't touch, but his fingertips feel warmed by the heat that emanates.

her: my friends and i [jesus] went to this place [not again] it had the fanciest desserts and... shit, what was i saying?

her fourth – yeah, the fourth – drink is half-finished and there's no coherence to her little recollections, random stories she feels the impulse to share. she tilts her head, catches carmen's stare expectantly, as if he'd already know what she's talking about, as if he's been there, as if he must finish for her because that's the only logical thing to do.

it works: "you had dessert?"

"yah– no, yeah, yes," and she sips, trying to go along with the story with a momentum lost but eventually regained, "uh, desserts. cool ones. fancy, you know, like, real, nice looking?” and she keeps gazing at him like he’s the only one that knows what she’s talking about, but doesn't she look at everyone like that? like she wants more out of them, like there's more in them and, fuck, he's probably getting a little tipsy, because, yeah, he wants to say, i know, i know, like there’s a rapport between them no one else shares. no one else can.

so he plays along, for the time being: "you ate it?"

"yes!" eureka, the grand reveal, but in her imagination, carmen knows all of this already, and knows to nudge the story forward, and this is how she will recount it next time, he decides, with hints already tucked into the fabric of the second, "i did, i really did, we all did, you know, we sat down, this whole fancy, i was wearing a dress—"

"macaroons?" he asks, smiling slightly. she stutters in her tracks, momentarily amazed that he would recall such a detail about her and bring it about so suddenly, as if he kept it on hand, tucked somewhere in his back pocket along with his lighter, "you ate macaroons?"

he isn't sure, but her smile is so reassuring. small curl around the edges, the peek of teeth, "no, not then, but," he's wrong but she says it like his guess was right, a mere mistake, harmless. it happens, so he lets it slide, nodding as if to say, okay, i will remember that next time, i will, "after," she continues, and her nose scrunches just the slightest when he drinks, it's endearing, "after, after yeah, we went to this, fuckin', christy's, it's on fifth avenue, just this little place. got a bunch there, cuz, christ, i needed to wash out the taste."

"what'd you eat?"

her mouth opens, and he waits, and she wonders herself, too: "i don't know. uh. the chocolatey stuff? thing–" her hands makes a vague gesture that's nothing close to helpful, "you know?"

"you'll have to be more specific."

and there's laughter, bubbling, overflowing, and her head tips back, showing him what he has already seen and always wanted, like he was supposed to. like she was supposed to let him see. except he was never supposed to look. the little nook in her throat feels strangely personal, "i don't, i'm not a pastry chef, fuck if i know what it was, whatever," she slaps her hand on the table, like this point of discussion is done and she has cleared her good name, "fact of the matter is, it was fuckin' weird. like velvet, like, what?"

sydney: you mean the texture?
her: no, like fuckin' fabric [what] like, like it was the taste of fabric
richie: what kinda fancy-fucking-hole did you find a tart tasting like fabric?
her: 's new york, baby

that's not an explanation, exactly, but they don't question it.

"must've felt all sorts of wrong going down," fak takes a long sip from his beer – a thoughtful sip, "like getting a wedgie?"

"oh, you'd know all about that, huh," richie grins, and everyone kind of laughs a little because yeah, fak and the wedgies.

"where'd you find this place anyway?" carmen asks, effectively steering the conversation away from any past clothes related mishaps, "christy's, fifth avenue?"

"no," she says, voice ridged with a certain disappointment, "noooooo, we got macaroons at christy's after eating the-the chocolate. velvet. thing, whatever. it was smith jane’s, then, uh, mindy's dad's apartment – not to be confused with her mom's, which's in brooklyn, way too far, – and then, we went to noma. i got the, the velvet thing, my dad made it, and—"

"your fucking dad works at noma?" richie gapes.

her: he's like, really good, but he doesn't cook anymore, he's the exec, has been for many years, but, he's, good. brilliant, just, such a shit pastry chef, god, can't make an eclair to save his life. did that, too, once, but it was for my 15th, and christ, he said my palate wasn't mature enough. but how was i supposed to know a chocolate eel has nothing to do with seafood? you know what? actually? fuck the chocolate eel

richie's eyes, almost pointedly, stare at carmen. sydney, too, and then the rest, because the mention of noma has everyone bristling. carmen can almost feel them thinking it, taste it in the air like wet stone: carmen worked at noma, carmen worked with her dad. it rings around him like a force field, this knowledge randomly revealed to them that he had found out on his own and negated to share and looking surprised would be dishonest and not looking like anything would paint him guilty but he already is.

"chocolate eel?" he humors her, only to move along this topic before anyone else can ask something he doesn't want to answer, "so, like an eel? covered in chocolate?"

"no."

"then what did it look like, exactly?"

"not, like, what? like, er, well, no, yeah, but it was like, in the shape of an eel," she puts a hand under her chin, she hums, deep in thought, or perhaps, very distracted and more than tipsy, "but it's such a stupid name. so dumb, god, french, of course, ahn-gweel oh shoh-koh-lah."

the pronunciation, christ, he tries not to laugh. a french accent from someone who can barely remember her drink is a hilarious and unfortunately cute juxtaposition. the rest don't hide their snicker.

carmen: maybe it was an eel
richie: why would they make an eel covered in chocolate?
carmen: we made salmon in licorice broth
richie: that’s fucked [well] some dumb rich shit [cousin] if you're saying an eel should be coated in chocolate for whatever weird-ass reason
marcus: maybe the eel was a metaphor [what?] the chocolate's the sweet, delicate shell you eat, and the eel [jesus] represents something tough, maybe
sydney: that's a hell of a interpretation

"it, uh, it wasn't on, on the menu," carmen voices, and when his fingers graze the curve of her head, just a few strands tickling the skin of his knuckles, something inside clenches and holds. not tightly; loosely, but still firm enough to leave him grounded, with intent. he moves away. her eyes catch him briefly, then avert entirely too soon, a kind of recognition where everything is clear and hidden at the same time, "not, not when i worked there, at least. they made it just for you?"

just for her.

"mhm. uh, or for us, probably," she admits, "i can make it."

"no."

"i'm a chef, i can make it," and she's already abandoning her seat, and no way in hell will carmen let her anywhere near a knife, not when she's like this, "i remember the taste—“

"hey, hey, no," he catches her by the elbow, gentle, mindful not to touch or move her too quickly, so not to alarm or startle, and she turns back toward him immediately, almost relieved at the contact. hot skin in the warm room. it might be colder outside, but somehow, the clammy warmth of his palm radiates in a way alcohol never will. or can, "no one's going in the kitchen. not tonight."

"i'm a chef, i should be in the kitchen," a strange set of words, and her voice almost tumbles over them.

carmen shoots richie a look so scalding that the women in the kitchen joke dies on the tip of the latter's tongue.

"next time," carmen promises, and realizes just a second later he'd used the word, too soon, because sure, next time, this wouldn't be the last time she'd crack open a bottle and get talkative over some anecdote he should have magically known or story he wasn't part of.

she listens, no trouble, sits back down and his hand is no longer necessary to keep her so it falls. the table rattles with chatter and he thinks she must be amazing to make something out of pure recollection, even if that something isn’t exactly delicious. she looks at her emptying bottle and falls strangely silent, like a spell broken, the fun slipping away from her piece by piece with each roll of the label under her thumb.

carmen will learn that she has her mind occupied. he'll wonder if her thoughts have enough spaces, free spaces, and if he'll inhabit them one day, when, if, and, just like he has space for her in his, will hers have space for him, too? he won't ask and won't demand and will wonder about and imagine a reality carved up from nothingness like an open sky. her and him; nothing. the possibilities, the hopes – he's filled with them.

but for now, he'll take what he can get, and she's right here, sitting not even a foot away, too close and too far.

beer pong next. her suggestion, and she's surprisingly sober when she and flak set everything up, sharing their own private conversation. she's easy to talk to when she's buzzed, much less reserved than how she is in the kitchen with her knife-sharp concentration. her hands don't shake when she sets up the cups, pours the continents out of cans with an expertise of a retired bartender.

she seems determined to win. it's a matter of principle. fak fixes his hat, cracks his knuckles, leans on the table, watching with a slight frown as she holds the tennis ball in her hand. her expression is grieve and there's a slight pout on her lips; eyes gleam in the dim light, cheekbone speckled in liquid fluorescents from the game machines "ready to lose?"

"bring it on, chef."

she tosses. it misses. the ball bounces off the rim of the cup and rolls onto the floor. "that's warm-up." she points out.

"sure, kid." richie leers from the sidelines.

she misses another shot. carmen's lips press together, because he's definitely not laughing at her or with her or anything: he's trying to hold his breath and pretend like he didn't just start, and she can't read expressions so it's kind of his duty, really, to not let a muscle move, even if it's all in vain, because she's staring directly at him as if willing her gaze to manifest physical damage.

"it was really close," carmen rasps, inhaling slowly. richie laughs for the both of them.

it was nowhere near, actually. fak's good, has a few more years of experience under his belt, but when it's her turn again, she sets her elbows on the pool table and positions her thumbs on both sides of the white sphere. the way she grips the ball is so delicate in contrast to her demeanor, so focused on a single task. and

score.

it goes in. her eyes widen comically, bright and twinkly and so beautiful and she slaps a fist atop the table, ecstatic, a laugh bubbling out of her that goes to the high ceiling, and yeah, sure, cousin, it could've been a complete coincidence.

he feels like a boy trying his hardest not to stare, not to let his affection seep out of his every action like an oil spill, yet here he is, doused and drowning on how cute she looks when she wants to win something so badly (it doesn't seem to be much, but it's something nonetheless).

"ya got lucky," without richie's profound commentary, a game like this wouldn't really be a game at all.

"you tell her, richie," fak says, downing his beer, as per the rules.

they go on, back and forth, her throwing too far, missing by an embarrassing distance, "okay, time out," carmen states, just as she's about to try her luck again, "maybe, maybe, uh, we, you, need some more practice?" how does one say you’re holding it wrong without sounding patronizing? "try a different, uh, approach," he settles with.

"different approach." she repeats, because apparently, for the last ten minutes, she's become oblivious to her atrocious attempt at not losing. she has good aim, but in the context of a beer pong tournament, the lack of dexterity kind of negates her capabilities.

"yeah, you know, like a, a strategy."

"okay," she dips her head in a little nod, "so, you make a suggestion now."

she glances at fak, points at carmen, "he's my coach."

"fine," he relents, but, "then richie's my coach."

richie: oh, this'll be fuckin' good

and she watches attentively, takes in each instruction, eyes narrowed.

one. grab the ball, bring it up to the chin, like you're kissing it. maybe kiss it, actually, for good luck. she's seen it in a movie, and when talking about some character from new york – a friend, because she has so many, and it'll bother him that she'll never name the gender – always lands a "big fuckin' smooch” and never loses. the spit's a bit too much, though.

two. breathe, in. out. remember to breathe. she almost forgets, or maybe she'd already stopped somewhere along the way.

three. lean, not too far, feet have to touch the ground still. don't waver, keep steady.

four. eye contact. fak's nice, smiles in a comforting manner, not too distracting. he laughs too easily to be taken seriously. she cracks under the weight of that expectant, happy stare; her whole demeanor crumbles into an ease that lined her loses. snorts, giggles, shoots, misses. "for fuck's sake," and fak passes her a drink, clinks their cups together in solidarity. she's gotta land the next one. she will, ebra says, and ebra's all-knowing.

fak: alright, take the shot. the way it is now. you throw it
her: okay, like this
fak: no. the ball. your hand, finger. thumb. jesus-carmen, come get your student. please

carmen doesn't hesitate, a man on a mission with a goal not too far away. he claps his hands, runs to her side as quick as he can muster in his growing-drunk state, because he only gets a little teasable after a few. it's only a few, right, god. it's fine.

"hey," he mutters, her hands cupped under his, and the only word for the feeling the courses through him in this exact moment is warmth. it spreads to her, she tries not to smile and smiles anyway, a quirk of the lips and he counts it as a victory, "deep breath. okay?"

her: okay

"in," he leans closer. their hands tangle as the ball finds it way within her palm and fingers, something familiar, something that sparks a reminder he doesn't recall, "and out." she follows. their gazes meet over her shoulder. he watches her lips purse and nostrils exhale slowly, with a steadiness she might not realize. his left hand comes to her hip. they shouldn't. they are. carmen keeps his voice quiet, moves her, so gently, for better footing, "like this,” feels the curve of her hipbone, “hold it like, hold it with an o, not a s. an, an o," her head tilts, peering up, jesus, "not a, yeah."

the world stills and he smells her perfume and shampoo. scents that haunt him, will haunt him, when he walks and they randomly hit him like a phantom, a prelude to a hemorrhagic stroke. she says thank you (love you?) with a strange type of sincerity, his own personal nightmare manifested. why doesn't he let go? "don't throw too hard. let it," another breath, not his, too quick, his hands burns and clam with sweat. it's hot as hell in here, "let it fall." a squeeze. their faces are very close. everyone is watching.

he let's go with a big step back. crosses his arms over his chest because he doesn't know what the fuck to do with them anymore. feels like ripping a band-aid. nicking his chin with a razor and feeling the shrill sting. suddenly, he's aware of everything and everyone like observing the positions on a chessboard.

"that's how michael jordan shoots jump shots. and makes millions," richie comments loudly, and carmen's stomach tumbles, because if anyone noticed whatever that was just now, it's richie, "so just focus, focus, it's like-"

"hey, you're supposed to be my coach," fak interrupts him.

richie shrugs, the tension dissolves at the sight of his condescending leer; he motions in her direction, “look at her, she’s a fuckin’ ducklin’—“

“fuck you,” she snaps, her very own and-one!, and shoots.

scores. there's a full house worth of elation. carmen offers her a high-five because that's the only thing he can give her. thin-fuckin’-ice. her entire existence is a high-five, right now, and high-fives don't mean a thing, but he tries and grins wide when her hand bounces off his own, "did good," and he means it.

"good coach. good team," she agrees.

a team. is that the proper title? a pair? a duet, a two, a, they?

he leaves to find himself another drink and richie's stare feels like a nail being driven into the side of his head. he can't fucking do this. bound to slip and mess up, like he always does. just another thing to apologize for, and he doesn’t even know where to begin to explain. got it all wrong, he’d say, accosted by the cold air of the fridge as he fishes out his beer. i was just helping with the footing, right, a good coach makes sure the hips are angled just an inch away from a place forbidden.

maybe it’s not the position that’s the problem, it’s the look. even if the touching could be excused, camen knows the way he looked at her can’t. too obvious. the beer is disgusting, too sweet mixed with his spit. he needs some air.

he sneaks away, though there’s no real need for sneaking. not when everyone’s distracted by the tournament, enthralled by richie’s drawling commentary, by her lithe enthusiasm, and fak becoming increasingly drunker as he downs her beers in vaguely masked pity. he hears her squeak before the door shuts and mutes everything. it’s fucking cold. the mist that rolls in smells like salt and metal. somewhere not too far, a fire eats away a rotten heritage building. lights blare, glow a bright and monochromic blue. a firetruck rushes past. good morning, chicago will cover this story at 6 am and reveal the cause being a set of fireworks gone astray. carmen smokes one before he takes out the second. can’t quite feel his fingers by the third.

maybe no one will remember. maybe she won’t remember, either, a blessing and a curse in its own right. maybe it’ll bleed into the flow of a good evening, a ditsy memory no one mentions in detail because the competition was too interesting to linger on the minute. but carmen will know. just him and his cigarettes and mikey’s looming silhouette somewhere in the darkest cracks, the threshold marking the end of the well-lit restaurant to the gloomy depths of the kitchen. mikey would know before anyone else, before carmen, and he’d probably smile in the faux-mysterious way he did, and say, man, what the fuck are you doing?

“there you are.”

fuck. the smoke in his lungs freezes and burns, and he wills himself to exhale slowly before he chokes. he dares a glance at her, then another, then a third once he regains some sense of confidence – in what? nothing, his fingers shake, certainly only from the weather – and the metal door shuts softly behind her. her arms cross over her stomach. no jacket, the cold hits her full-force, and he’s glad for the dim lights because he doesn’t have the pleasure of seeing her expression, seeing the rise and fall of her chest, seeing the smile he knows is there because of the lovely lilt of her voice.

do something. he can’t move his limbs.

“jesus, get back inside,” he hears himself utter. the overhead lights illuminate her side, but the rest is drenched in shadow. what a slope it is, from the top of her hair down her cheek to the dip of her neck and the hill of her shoulder, “gonna catch a cold.”

“’s not that cold.”

“yeah it fuckin’ is,” he responds easily, too easily, and it’s embarrassing the way the tightness in his throat unravels and he can speak so freely without meaning to. how easy it is, to be protective of her, even from such menial things as the elements. so easy to care for her, to want to warm her up himself, even with his frost-laden fingers. hunger hurts, but starving works, and his hand furls into a fist before he flexes his fingers loose, “go inside.”

“so bossy,” she chirps, a great big joke. it’s her tone, it’ll be the death of him. a brief silence lingers, and she rolls her head up with an exhale. looks at the sky. no stars, “god,” she breathes a little laugh, “shoulda seen me in new york on nights like this,” he wouldn’t have, no way, because she infers to bars and clubs, exclusive ones for her and her cool friends, and he wouldn’t even find himself in a grimy dive bar, too terrified of people, “you woulda chewed my head off.”

yeah, probably, maybe. wouldn’t have approached her. not even if he knew her as he does now.

“yeah?” best he can come up with, but it sounds odd. too low.

and she sounds too sweet, “yeah.”

her hand rubs her forearm, the gooseflesh skin. let me, he thinks, let me.

“can i?” she asks, and he’d give her anything she requested, only to receive her favor in a form of a thank you (love you? stop thinking about that). he passes her his cigarette, half ash, and he feels strangely flattered that she didn’t steal one from richie. he shouldn’t get the head of himself, but he does. his fingers linger on hers – god, so fucking cold – and he doesn’t want to let go of her of this newfound closeness, and she doesn’t push or shove or do anything besides bring the ember to her lips and inhale. almost a kiss.

stop it

she coughs, a raspy sound, followed by a small laugh as his hand curls on her forearm for… for what? to make sure she’s okay? she must be, but, “shit,” and it’s cold in the way that it’s warm. her soft breath, too close, “what are you smoking?”

he hums, a faint amusement at the situation, at himself, at her question, “’s bad?”

“your lungs gonna collapse,” but she inhales a few puffs again, milder this time, and when has his thumb started drawing? doesn’t remember.

“cold?”

“nah,”

“you feel cold,” he mutters.

no response and his hand cups her elbow. the feel of the bone, skin, something between.

"look, you know what? let's-" he feels it everywhere, the tremors. the ash falls onto the sidewalk, "-should-," there's a new source of warmth, his forehead against the side of her head. lips brush, maybe by chance, or fate, or him, no fucking difference, "you should-" he isn't making a damn bit of sense, her breath shudders and he watches with keen interest how it fizzles up, "go-" inside is the word. and he should follow.

but the skin. the bone. starving works, but the hunger, the slight give when she leans a little back, resting her body weight on him just enough for it to count. it's fine. a short embrace. won't mean anything, right?

he sees his arm slink around her waist with a mind of its own. body’s drawn close, the warmth, the cigarette falling to the ground forgotten. this isn't like him. maybe not anymore, that is. she holds him there. thumb skimming his wrist, it's fine, it's nice, he tenses, at least he doesn't hear mikey, can't think much when her other hand comes to his jaw, brushing against the growing stubble. he tries not to flinch.

"i, uhm," his own breath mists her neck. his. her name on his tongue, "i,”

the rest of it stays lost as her kiss seals it up. like a cut with a needle, or, no, the flipside, a needle plunged through the tiny incision made by a scab, piercing straight into him, raw and sharp and just too much. she tastes like cigarettes and alcohol and spearmint gum, sweet and awful. his lips slant and move with her's and her tooth scrapes against him, one sharp canine. it sends a jolt down his spine and straight into his abdomen.

he pulls back a breath. his head hurts and his stomach twists, both symptoms of a deeper ache, “carm—“

another kiss, can’t get enough, and her nails leave faint incisions on his cheek. the groan lodged between his lungs bleeds into her open mouth. there's nothing he can do, not really. has never done anything. he wants and has gotten so little.

give me more

"carmen," she hums into him, half-intoxicated by the taste. he feels his face burn. deepens the kiss. wants to be ruined, the same way he's always been. she'd take him apart, sift her hands through each nook and cranny until he's as bare and empty as the night sky.

there’s a scrape; booming thuds that bely approaching footsteps and he almost doesn’t care, because the sound she lets out when his tongue brushes hears has him crumbling, pulling closer so tightly before something in him snaps and he shoves himself away from her, so quickly and harshly that the expression of a kiss must be still frozen on her face. a shuddering inhale, the door slams open and fak comes stumbling out, richie and angel behind him.

"move, fuckin' move it, people, this is a life or death emergency," richie thunders.

she slips in before the door shuts. the very real feeling of his numb, tingling lips spreads and his stomach churns and he can’t wrap his head around what just happened. did it happen? or was it all in his head?

he looks around, like he'd find a remnant of her. no perfume, no footprint, no evidence but the taste of her still fresh on his tongue. the feeble sound of her clothes rustling, the hitch in her breath, everything. the warmth of her palm on his skin, a physical memory.

"was, uh," he looks to richie trying to haul fak off the sidewalk, and he knows asking will betray him but his heart flutters strangely, a motion of the steady rise of panic, and he hears the sirens blaring blocks away that remind him of late night fire, "was, is," he glances back at the open door, "was? did she?"

"what?"

"was-" he scrunches his eyebrows together and can’t breathe, "doesn't matter," he mumbles.

“hey, you gonna help or what?” richie asks, but carmen heads back inside.

he's not, he can't, he

everything’s exactly as he left it. the world didn’t collapse into itself. time keeps on ticking as he feels something within him slow to a stagnant, uncomfortable halt. she and sydney are cleaning up, stumbling over one another carrying paper cups to the nearby trash dispenser. couldn’t have happened, he has a sick fucking mind and he can’t tell if the beeping is in his head half the time and if tina comes to ask how he's faring, a vague ghost of a touch on his shoulder, he doesn't bother to pretend that he heard her.

just stares, not waiting, but the noise quiets eventually and he feels empty, “…yeah,” he says, maybe, or maybe he doesn’t say anything at all.

the music cuts and the crowd scatters. there’s low laughter reverberating from somewhere, maybe everywhere, and the bell by the door keeps chiming as the dark streets outside swallow them whole. faint outlines glide by the windows before they’re gone, but carmen’s ghostly reflection triumphs everything.

he retreats to his office to collect the last bits of his stuff. stills, handle grasped in a numb hand, when he sees her sitting in his chair. she startles, stands quickly, awkward in motion and still for a split second afterward, “…hi.” she mutters, her fingers twining in front of her.

 “…hi,” he’s terrified. he blinks, and blinks again, and then he can’t stop, nor can he stop the hot flashes that wreck up his spine. did i kiss you?, "were, you," is this, this a thing? or am i fuckin' insane?

"i was-,"

"am i-"

and when there's nothing more to say, a gap too large to fill, too great to pass through, carmen folds, closes the distance, "please," he whispers, a deep hush he doesn't hear or care to recognize as himself. and his hands reach around to cup her face, her body. warm, welcoming. her eyes slip close and she tilts her head up a tad, enough for his chapped mouth to collide into hers. an apology. a confession. his insides have wired into themselves, too cold or too warm to sustain the damage he knows he's going to inflict on her when they come apart. the damage he inflicts on himself.

she should let him go, no, he should let her go. he shouldn't have done this in the first place. but he pushes, and his hand wanders down to hook on the side of her knee and hitch. the table creaks as she sits, and her fingers cling to his shirt and pull.

don't look at me

her legs spread open and he exhales one shaky breath into her. it's devastating how her thighs tense under his touch, how the pleasure swarms him.

don't do this

her mouth, her tongue, wet. the quiet moan against him. the urgency to claim and keep and call his. just something, just one thing, just her, the worst he could ask of anyone. sorry, and so many other things he can't think to say.

there's a soft laugh somewhere, or maybe it's a pant or sigh or god, can't think, the noise of the world, her nose bumping into him. her hands move around, kneading his back. every sensation multiplied, so focused on her breathing and the gentle ache in his pants, the growing bulge as his hips rock a bit without his control. she helps him, her nimble fingers undoing the button to his slacks and unzipping. he could die here, like this. he probably will.

"no," he utters against her cheek, but he can't stop kissing her, "wait."

"okay," she breathes, the echo of a promise. okay, he says again, this time to himself. her pulse thrumming under her throat, where he presses a slow, lingering kiss – he wants to know every tendon, every ridge, every different rhythm made in response to his caress. another kiss, she makes that noise, it'll kill him. he won't survive the night, just from that alone.

"'m sorry," the words tumble out of him in a rush.

please stay with me

"... 'm. 'm," he repeats and groans as her hips move, heat twisting, wildfire, burning him away piece by piece, bit by bit. his palms anchor themselves on her thighs, the small of her back, never two spots at once, can't afford not to feel all of her, "fuck."

pleasedon'tgo

"can't do this," his forehead falls to her shoulder, huffing, the heat of his breath, traitorous hands plunging under her top, "you work for me."

"'m off the clock," an antagonistic response.

"like hell."

but she giggles, too much, almost, and something in his core rattles. the joy of her, his. hers. her and only her. no one else's, not ever. please, the back of her hair is soft and there, yes, perfect, the curve of her body molded into the nook of his own. she exhales when he palms her ribs, feeling the rims, "cold."

he's suffocating, "i," a nervous bubble catches in his windpipe, "... we-."

"is this...?"

a low rasp, no use fighting.

"this?"

"us," her knuckles brush his cheek, "are we-?"

please don't ask me that, "yes. yes. 'm," the want to devour her, make her part of him so he'd never be without. never forget, not once. the way she's looking at him. can't do it, can't get it, the want, the ache, "never seen anyone so, so fucking pretty,"

"stop," the shy sound of her laughter is barely there.

and his mouth descends upon her. the trail, the sensual kisses along the nape of her neck, the ease in which he pulls her top over her head despite his better judgment. just want, "pretty," his eyes latch onto new skin, so smooth, too nice to touch with uncared hands. she deserves better, "do you know," his eyes sting.

"it's alright,"

"you're too, too sweet. too fuckin', no, not for me," she shouldn't, why would she, why anyone? he doesn't even know what he's doing.

her hand covers his, pushing his palm to her breast, clutching, and he's momentarily struck dumb by the softness. she says his name and it's so slow, drawn-out in a murmur, a half-muted whine. her voice, the shape of it, so intimate. and he wants and he never did. not the way he has for her. sorry.

so fuckin' sorry for all of it, but when her hands, her beautiful hands, tug and yank at his own shirt it slips off, he feels a rush of adrenaline flood his veins. every bit of fear and self-loathing he's stored within him dissipates the moment he leans in to press a kiss on the side of her collarbone, lips gracing the hollow of her neck, tasting sweat and the tingle of saffron and cedarwood. he runs the length of his stubble down the tender stretch, to the slight crevice between her breasts.

"your tattoos,"

thank you is imbedded, not a bump or hill in sight when his finger brushes against it, thank you, so polite, her body saying it for the both of them.

thank you, “you’re so pretty.”

she hiccups something incoherent, so close.

"too, too fucking," and another, another one, another kiss on her sternum, tracing his finger further down. god, this is crazy. this can't be real. his teeth graze her skin, where a beauty mark hides, and it's fine because her leg wraps around the curve of his hip, pulling herself closer and the tip of his erection pushes into the clothed folds of her, hot and wet, too good, the way her lips press against his brow to kiss away the worry. he hears himself grunt. feels himself twitch.

"pretty."

her tits. the fleshy undersides, the bounce when she moves against him, a warm press of the heels of his palms, her gasps.

"'m," she tries to say and fails. his head dips and he pulls one nipple into his mouth. sucks. gently. she keens, the grip on his arm tightening.

he shifts, his nose digging into her stomach, mouthing, dragging lower.

"carmen," she arches into the sensation of his tongue striping the flat expanse of her abdomen. this is the only way he wants her to say his name.

too much for his heart, too much for him to endure. he pants, feeling the heat of the building boil and threaten to implode. his hands shaking as he feels up her sides and stops by the lining of her waistband, his mouth suddenly very dry.

"can i take these off?" his fingers hook into her bottoms, baby blue eyes blown wide with a question. an expression mirrored. she gives him a wordless nod, but it's not enough, not if he doesn't see her sure. so he presses a light, fleeting kiss to her navel, a whispered please that goes beyond the need for consent, "tell me."

"yes, chef."

too much. no coming back from this, "okay," his voice breaks. he's never done this before. and even as he pulls down the fabric, then her panties, drenched, there's not even a thought of stopping himself now that she's so bare, so soft and pretty, "this for me?"

another nod is all she offers, hesitant, embarrassed. love you, in the flesh, inked and appreciated under the rough pad of his finger. his heart is drumming against his ribcage, he can feel it everywhere, he can feel her, taste her, inhale the smell of her arousal, heavy and pure and fucking amazing. and he looks. oh, fuck. the smallest, a neat triangle of curls atop, dripping wet, pulsing, and tight and her folds just shy of his tongue. it's good. it's the most glorious fucking thing, all of her, he can't look away. he just

"is this, can i-" he nuzzles her thigh, warm skin to warm skin, his thumb lightly running up her slit before he circles the flesh just above her entrance. it feels a little unreasonably silly. she gasps, a sound that seems to echo his thoughts and makes him glance up just enough to catch her gaze.

"if you don't stop teasing," a mirthful note at the end and he hums in mild amusement, all while ignoring the drought in his mouth and the building of his own impatience. she laughs again, her eyes sparkling and, shit, pretty, but the rest of the words slip away from her the very second he dares push his mouth between her, his tongue tracing, sucking, moaning, his nostrils filling with the heady smell of sex, her, nothing but her.

he wants this.

"god, carmen," a gasp, the curl of her toes, and she arches to meet his mouth. her fingers tug on his hair, and he's lapping up her cunt, and this is the best goddamned day of his life, "yes, don't stop, don't-"

yes, pretty, i know

his voice echoes inside him, her body trembling, "s-so good, so fucking- oh fuck," so cute, pretty, angel.

"so good, god, chef, 'm,"

her hips tilt, urging, and the tight draw between his legs is reaching its limit. her enthusiasm is invigorating. he groans, the noise low, muffled from between her legs, and maybe it vibrates into her because she moans with her head thrown back. so fucking sweet, her voice cracking, her hands winding his hair, "carmy," her words staccato.

"god, 'm, 'm, gonna- gonna- shit,"

how many times has he felt his stomach clench, imagining her in his bed, in the kitchen, at his office, pretending his cock was inside her mouth. and yet he's not prepared for the vice, the walls of her as he thrusts a single digit, slow and steady as he crooks his knuckle, to see her so undone because of him.

"yes, oh-"

and he takes a brief second to swallow when she shifts, opening her eyes halfway in a lustful, dreamy stare. a moan, a gasp of his name, a gush of fluid dripping down her folds and, oh, fuck, yes. he sucks her clit, laps at her juices, such a sweet, sharp taste. it makes him feel greedy.

her chest heaves as she rides the sensation, coming down. he licks his lips and stares, waiting.

"christ," it comes out in a breath and he can't help peppering soft kisses against her inner thighs. he leans in, pausing for a brief moment to lock eyes with her before pressing his nose to her slick and licking, suckling.

"carmen," a whiny warning.

"tastes too good, pretty."

he’s dizzy; words trip over each other. the desperation to fill her. someone needs to slap some sense into him, but she's too kind to do that. simply pulls on his hair, a sign for him to come up. knees hurt. his face aches, a good sort; wants it more, to wear like a badge, a job well done. lands a kiss next to her navel, leaving a print that cools rapidly in the stuffy air. meets her lips. sloppy. not caring. tongues, her moan into his mouth. the heat of their bodies flush to each other.

she's an angel. a mess.

"think i've neglected you," there's something of an apology in her voice, something that she finds the strength to murmur because her heartbeat begins to slow.

his eyes lift, half open, gazing into hers,. "m'fine."

"carmy," she’ll undo him, all those tight stitches that hold him together.

"m’good.” he leans into the crook of her cooling neck to avoid the temptation, like he could hide in his own private alcove and inhale her without her knowing too much of what she’s doing to him.

"liar," and a terrible one, too.

their bodies are a disaster, his more so despite her the one being in a compromised position. his brain isn't thinking clearly, and he should be helping her dress up and go so he could be revel in the growing misery in peace instead of being a fabric away from fucking her on the rigid desk of his office.

"carmy," she's doing it on purpose, he knows she is, because her lips suck a mark on his cheek and then suck a bruise into the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

a ragged, low moan claws its way out of his throat. his hands move to her ass and hold tightly, “no, no,” he grunts, “please just, just not, uh, not, not now. not now.”

their breathing, a rapid exchange, and it doesn't slow. the tension doesn't fade. his dick, fuck his fucking dick, it's still very much there. her skin hot and sticky and covered in a fresh coat of sweat.

she wants him. him. nobody else, him. he's actually starting to consider just giving in and letting her ride him senseless.

but it's not fair, and he's not proud, and looking into her dilated pupils settles a strange weight that steadily sinks lower. shame. dread. the guilt, the responsibility. it’s sobering, and he stares at her, and her slick, kissed mouth, at the tremble of her lashes and the faint curl of a smile, soft, encouraging, maybe hopeful. something cold slides down his back and it feels like every little sound and touch and sensation has been sucked out. he sees her, and he sees himself, and  he sees exactly what kind of a mess he is, exactly how unfixable and undesirable, everything he can't be.

"...carmen...?" her palm on his skin. his nerves are shattered.

"s'alright," it's just them, "want you home. safe," he doesn't think of the words, their hoarse quality, the fear that eats at him as he swallows, a reflex to mask it all, but there's no place for it in her eyes, not when she sees right through him, "do that for me?"

please

she smiles. his chest expands. "okay," she won’t fight him, not when he asks like that. he's overcome. the exhaustion in him runs too deep and deeper still, "if you're sure."

carmen clears his throat, shifts to glance at his surroundings, the reality outside the haze, "you- i can," a shake to the leg, "do you need a ride home?"

he's putting himself back together now. she doesn't stop him, because her eyes soften, and maybe her heart is a little broken, "you'll close the place?"

"always do," it's natural, "i can, uhm, get, get you an uber, or-"

“no, no no, got it covered,” she’s smiling, he thinks, or so her voice indicates, but he won’t look. his body feels cold without hers. he throws on his shirt as she collects her clothes, and he'd like to dress her himself, the least he could do. the shameful desire to run a washrag across her nakedness and take care of her in all ways he'd wish, a rush of air coming from his nostrils, a hissing sort of sigh as she buttons up, "do you..." and she approaches, somewhat shyly, but the rest of the question goes silent as she studies his reaction. it's clear she wants a kiss, or to comfort him, somehow, "want go for a smoke? while i wait for the car."

"right," he wants to pull her into his arms, just hold her and bury himself away, and hope for sleep or silence or time or nothing at all. whatever might happen, "right, can't, gotta clean. up."

"right," the sound goes straight through her lungs, "okay. i'll leave you. then. to it."

there's another beat. two. three. four. a series of muted pauses.

"... you should..."

she seems to struggle to fill the awkwardness with words. there aren't any that fit.

“well, goodnight," she murmurs, a final plea of her eyes that he pretends he doesn't notice. it'll break him. she holds the chisel without realizing it.

he nods once, tight and brief. she disappears behind the door again without lingering. he looks down at his knuckles, blistering and pink. stands in the middle of his office for a long moment.

he's stuck between somewhere and limbo. a quiet echo of an alarm sounds behind his back, growing louder.

what the hell just happened?

like always, he has made a great job at sabotaging everything. she probably loathes him, and she should, because he loathes himself. probably realized what a big fucking creep he is as soon as she escaped his clutches. she has to be repulsed. has to be already planning on quitting, and he can’t blame her, won’t blame her. he has the taste of her soaked into his gums and what the fuck has he done?

he gives the side of the desk an abrupt kick that sends the papers and supplies crashing to the floor. the beeping grows unbearable, an electric, screaming wail, the stench of burning plastic, sizzling oil, car horns and the tick of the walk sign, the background noise of hordes of people, the rancid city smells. mikey in the kitchen, donna's wild stare, the beeping, the roar of the car engine, the smoke, the beeping, thank you, carmy, love you, sugar calling to ask why he doesn't text back, the fucking beeping.

he presses the heels of his palms into his sockets and tries to breathe. can't, can’t do it, can't do this. fuck, shit, i’m so sorry.