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 26th, 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.