Do the Thing! | Toilet Repair
logline; Today's itinerary: Fix the toilet, catch up with Syd, try not to cry when everyone asks you where you've been.
series history; Previous Chapter
portion; 7.1k+ (this shit got away from me man, idk what to say)
possible allergies; Negative self-talk (It's the Bear, babe, everyone's sad). I did no research on plumbing and am truly making it the fuck up-- I know for a fact I'm not using any word correctly and I simply will not be fixing it. Reader eats meat!! Specifically pork!! Your 'name' is 100% just Tony now.
pairing; Carmen 'Carmy' Berzatto & Fem Reader (No pronouns, but 'handywoman' and 'Miss' are said. Plus a chest reference).
you ever start writing and you just cannot seem to find an end so you keep going forever? yeah.
“I think my name is just Tony now.”
You sip your overpriced orange juice. You really have to fucking savour it, now a days. That’s like 25 cents a sip, and Syd’s treating you to this breakfast outing, so it’s not even your own wallet on the line here.
“You lose all sense of identity, in a restaurant.” Syd straightens her back, mocking her very own mechanical movements of whenever she steps in a kitchen. “I am Chef.”
This diner isn’t more than two blocks down from The Bear. It was probably your second favourite spot in this neighbourhood. Probably still is. Sitting in the back corner booth (your favourite) with Syd is nice but distracting. She’s been updating you on everything since the catering scene and her botched credit, and you’re absorbing all of it, you swear, it’s just hard to not remember why this was your favourite booth.
Not because it’s seats are the least worn in, not because it’s got the right amount of sun through the window without blinding you, but because of the company you kept here. You’re trying to not notice your own name carved into the table. Especially since it’s not your handiwork.
You laugh at Syd’s joke on time, thank God. No awkward pause. “Yeah, you fuckin’ are. Head, right?”
She nods. “It’s cool. It’s like, vomit-worthy stressful but also…”
“You wish you were dead when you’re there, but you’d rather be dead than do anything else?”
“Yessir.” She nods again, digging further into her pancakes. “I really fucking owe you, by the way.”
“You’re paying me off through breakfast.” You wave her off. “Plus, I was available and it was like maaayybe 5 minutes of manual labour, it’s nothing.”
“Y’know what?” She hums, “I think actually, you owe me.”
“Yeah?” You grin.” Please, let me clear my debts, Syd?”
She smiles, pointing her fork at you. “You owe me the fuckin’ Beef background I’ve apparently not unlocked. Everyone was talking about you after.”
“Good things?”
“Vague things. Shit made me even more curious.”
You laugh. No shit they’d be vague. What can they say? “When my dad was running the repairmen gig, Cicero or Fak would call him in—”
“Oh fuck.” She snaps her fingers, seemingly in realization. “Your dad’s the connection!”
“The connection?”
“Fak said he had a connection for our fire safety test shit, and then said he didn’t—”
“Ah.” You nod knowingly. “Dad cut the cord on his business phone when it transferred to me, didn’t really keep people updated. Whoops.”
She nods, taking another bite of her pancakes, speaking mid-chew. “You could’ve saved our asses way faster, and I’ll-I'll never forgive you, but continue.”
Snickering, you continue, “Well, they’d call my dad in, and then my dad would call me in as his like, like his fuckin’ Sous of Repairs. And shit broke all the time at the Beef, as I’m sure you’re well aware, so I hung out around Mikey and everyone a lot.”
“Ah. N’ then…”
“He fuckin’ died.” You laugh, because there’s no way to say it smooth, so you might as well say it bad. You stretch out your arms and lean back in the booth. “I kinda took a step back, after that, so we didn’t manage to crossover ‘til now. S’ironic that you’re the one that brought me back instead of an oldie, honestly.”
She desperately wants to ask more about Mike, but she can tell now is not the time, so she just lets it lie and moves on. “You stopped being an EMT to take up the handyman shit, then?”
“Yessir.” You nod, finishing your straggling home fries. “Just kinda made sense to trade off, and I didn’t want to see the family bizz die. Do I have to occasionally pick up shifts bartending to make rent during slow months? Yes. But I also don’t watch people die anymore, so that’s a win.”
“In a way, you’re watching people die still, just slowly.”
You bite down hard to stifle any semblance of a smile or laughter, deadpanning, just to see her squirm in awkwardness for a moment. It works with flying colours, of course it does. It’s Syd. She’s still Syd. You speak at the same time.
“Cause of the alcohol?” “Cause—Cause of the alcohol.”
You both break into laughter, she throws her napkin at you. “Can’t stand you, oh my god. Let’s go clock in.”
She pays your bill before you can try to sneak your card in, which feels all too familiar, and you’re off.
Off to fix an exploded toilet.
“How the fuck do you fix an exploded toilet?”
Your hands rub over your face, lifting your safety goggles for a second. Too fucking foggy. Too fucking sweaty. Plumbing never really was your biggest strength. You’re staring at the bane of your existence, and it’s the latrine. How far we fall.
“You good, Cousin?” You hear from behind. You don’t need to turn to know it’s Richie in the doorway. It’s a fair question, you’re sitting criss-cross in front of a toilet, head in hands.
“Yeah, Cousin, I’m good.” Your words are muffled by your hands. Fully not cousins. For the record. You would argue you're not even that close, but he'd slap you upside the head. You turn to look at him over your shoulder. “Can you like, get me a pen and note pad? I need to like, strategize an attack.”
“It’s not that bad, Cousin—” “It’s that bad.” “Just tape the—” “Fuck off with the tape!”
You click your teeth, staring at the gurgling porcelain before you— At least it’s clean, it’s just fucked. “I shut the valve and it didn’t do shit. I think I have to remove it entirely so I can see what’s going on with the underground pipe.”
“Heard.” Richie and you both know that his hotfix handiwork has absolutely contributed to this penultimate mess you’re in now, but you’re both letting that go quietly for now. “You charge by hour or service?”
“Service flat rate and then after two hours it’s by hour.”
He hums, knocking his fist on the doorway a few times before walking away. “Pen and pad, Chef.”
“Not a Chef!”
“Term of Respect, Chef!”
You tap your leg incessantly, groaning like you’ve got an 80-year-old body as you stand to your feet. Richie’s grown a lot. He wears suits now. Hasn’t even poked at you for vanishing. Though you have a feeling it’s coming. If not from him, from someone.
You step out into the hall, leaned against the wall with your arms crossed as you wait for your pen and pad. And now you just have more time and a better view to take in how much has changed.
Gutted. A few walls gone. Makes sense, you told Mikey he was getting a mold problem. He never listened. Seats are new. The booths are the all-around style ones now. Ritzy. It’s too good for this neighbourhood. Is that a good thing? Yeah, right? Despite the fact that The Bear should feel out of place, you feel out of place being in it. Could you afford to eat here? Could the people who work here afford to eat here? Syd said she’s not getting paid for the next few months, so at the very least, the Head Chef can’t.
“Strange?” Tina sidles up to you on the wall, wiping her hands on her apron. Completely knocking you out of your dissociative fugue state.
“Yeah.” You nod, a little too quickly, that felt judgey, you correct, uncrossing your arms. “It’s daunting, I think; to see it all at once rather than slowly built in. Like, I know objectively this is very cool, but—”
Tina hums with understanding. “Feels gutted?”
“Was gutted.” You nod. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like it, it’s just, I dunno. Adjustment period, all that.”
“I needed a second too, but Jeff is good. Change has been good.” You nod like you know who Jeff is. “Carmen, I mean.” Your nod is now significantly more understanding. She smiles, you’re a little surprised to see Tina’s got a lot more insight than she used to. She pulled the thought of Carmen right out of your subconscious before you even detected it for yourself. “He’s good. You’ll see.”
You nod. You know the good she means is not Michelin Star Good. You already know that. He’s Mikey good. Person good. You clear your throat. “How’s Louis?”
“Good. Y’know, he’s getting to that age, getting in trouble. S’been a while since he’s had a good influence.” She nudges you. There it is. There’s the poke. The ‘where have you been?’ The ‘it’s been a year’. The— “Y’know, Chef didn’t come to the funeral neither.”
That one you didn’t expect, your head swivels to her hard. “Carmen didn’t go?”
His brother didn’t go? Oh, who the fuck are you to judge...
She nods, practically with her whole body, she looks more amused than anything. But like, mom amused. The worst amused. “You’re both the sensitive type.”
You cock your head at her, raising a brow. Smirking slightly. “Wow, Tina, I thought you changed too but you still talk your shit, eh?”
“I’m not talking shit!” She laughs, hands up in defence. “I’m just saying, you’re alike.” You hope that the laughter makes her forget the topic but it doesn’t.
“Where have you been?” She softens. She’s not asking to be mean, she’s asking out of concern. Why does that make it feel worse?
You tuck your hands in your pockets and retrain your eyes on hers, even if it feels bad. “Thought time and distance would heal all wounds.”
“Did they?”
Before you can answer, “Pen delivery, cousin!” Richie returns, triumphantly, with a pen and pad held high in the sky. He makes you jump for it. You elbow him in the gut, not hard. “Fuck off, Rich…” He keels over enough for you to grab it. “Thank you, chef.”
You turn back to Tina, who you now realize has spent half her smoke break on you. She nods to you, and then the bathroom door. “I’ll let you get back to it.” You nod in return. When she turns to walk away, you grab her shoulder.
“Tina.” She turns again. You should say something. Something vulnerable and thankful. Words of affirmation are not your thing. But maybe they could be, “If you end up with a dead plate—” Or maybe not.
She grins, and part of you is concerned by this, but she waves you off, giggling like she knows something you don’t. Already walking off. “You’re gonna be taken care of, Terry, don’t worry.”
This is a bad new nickname scheme. The fridge guy is just gonna end up being called ‘fridge guy’ if you take all his names.
It’s maybe three hours later. 11 am ish. You’ve finally put the toilet back in place, the pipes fixed underground— Which is a huge win of progress, the problem is, it’s just seemed to open the toilet’s ability to have other problems that need to be addressed. There’s a strong chance you’ll be here until you die. And even after that, this stupid toilet will still be gurgling, outliving you.
But you seriously have to eat something, so you scrub yourself clean, set your safety equipment down, and head out of the bathroom for a much-needed stretch of the legs— And to hopefully get a plate from Tina.
On your way to the kitchen, you’re stopped and walked backwards to a booth in the corner by Richie. “Hey, Miss, happy to serve you today, my name’s Richard but you can call me Richie, how’re you doin’ this fine morning?”
They’ve yet to open front of house, so you play along, taking your seat with a laugh. “I’m doing perfect, Richie, how are you?”
He nudges the air . “Ey, better now that you’re here, ah? Can I get a drink started for you?”
“Really gonna practice your set on me?”
He shrugs, still smiling. “If you don’t use it, you lose it.”
You hum, then rub your temples, the headache is setting in— Not cause of him, just been a tough morning. “Just your coldest fuckin’ glass of water, Rich.”
“Right away, Cousin.” He slips off into the kitchen.
When the door swings open again, it’s not Richie coming with your ice water, but Carmen— It’s your first time seeing him since the walk-in. When you came in this morning with Syd, it was Nat that gave you the quick briefing on the schedule and goals for today.
“Tony.” He hums, corners of his mouth just slightly upturned. The nickname has stuck. Goddamn. He sets the water down in front of you, along with a plate— Covered by a cloche—Or the silver lid thing, whatever.
“Carmy.” You only mean to mimic his tone, but then cringe. “Is Carmy fine?”
He pauses mid slide into the booth, sitting across from you. He seemed all cool and collected and is now suddenly extremely caught off guard. Already sweaty. “Y-yeah, I’m better, thank you—”
“No, I meant—” It is so difficult to hold back laughter. You deserve an Oscar.
You’re not doing great to be fair but like, still, Oscar worthy attempt.
“I meant like, like is the nickname okay?”
The horrors just keep piling on his face, and you can’t help but feel guilty. No shit he feels like he’s starting on a lower playing field here. You knew his dead brother, you know his Head Chef, your first time meeting him was at quite possibly his lowest moment and biggest mistake— Of which you had to coax him out of, and now he’s misunderstanding every innocent question you have for a inquiry into his psyche.
He clears his throat for objectively too long of a time. “Carmy is fine. Tony is fine?”
“I’m doing okay, yeah.”
Thank God, he laughs, awkward sure but objectively amused.
You nod down to the covered plate, smiling, “Fuck is this?”
He leans forward in his seat to get a hand over the lid. “I, uh. Made you a thing. As thanks or like, an— an apology.”
Ah. That’s why Tina was laughing about you getting taken care of.
He lifts the lid, and what is revealed, if you weren’t careful, would be enough to make you cry. Thankfully, the shock registers as uproarious laughter, one that Carmen cannot help but join.
“What the fuck?”
Pork brisket sandwich. Something that Mikey made for you, specifically. Because you said one time you were more of a pork fan than beef and he absolutely lost it. In a cute way, though. Said ‘Oh, I’ll make you fuckin’ pork, alright?’ You’re not sure if he won or lost the argument, because you did find it better.
“I, uh, we had some cuts left over that we weren’t gonna be able to fuckin’ use, and uh, Tina showed me this, this recipe card, last night.” He slides over the very same brisket recipe Mikey had written down. Little doodles of angry faces and Xs over pigs in the margins.
“He was so fuckin’ mad.” You snort, looking at it. “All I fuckin’ said was I had a preference!”
“In The Beef!”
“He asked!” You quickly defend, through laughter. “And it tastes fucking good. All he did was prove my fuckin’ point— And spent hours doing it. Were you here overnight for this, slowcooking?”
He shakes his head, though there’s a hesitation in it— So you’re not privy to completely believe him. He sniffs, swiping at his nose “I, uh, just came in early. Had to fix some shit anyways.”
He’s staring at the sandwich, then occasionally you, expectantly. You look at him with equal expectance.
“Well?” You start.
“Well?” He astutely adds.
You nod down at the dish. “Do the thing.”
“The thing?”
You pick up one half of the sandwich, but you’ve got no plans of eating until he satisfies this craving first.
“The thing Syd does where she explains why she’s proud of her dish and why I should care. I know it’s Mikey’s, but you clearly made changes.”
“Oh. Uh…” He was both expecting and not expecting this soap box. “So, followed the rub to a T— Well, with a salt bed, this time. Put it on brioche instead of the old shit. And I uh, added uhm—” He snaps his fingers, staring at the sandwich in your hand. “Added pickled red onion, for acid and sweet, and garlic confit. I’m—I’m happy with my spin on it.”
You whistle as a form of praise, he flushes with a glow of pride and is desperately trying to not show it. He’s proud because it’s curated, personal. Ah, he is Mikey good. You nod and take a bite, trying to control your reaction. Worst part about having Artists as friends (especially chefs): They fucking stare so hard when you’re taking in their work. And they’re over analyzing every micro expression. He’s no different.
Fuck. It’s fucking good. Is it bad that it’s better than anything Mikey ever made? Nah, that’s how he’d want it.
“Ah fuck, that sucks—” Is the first thing you say, and his face falls, “Expensive food is worth it.” Right back up. Easy to please. “It’s really good, Chef. Thank you. Did you try it yet?”
He shakes his head, so you push the plate with the other half of the sandwich— It’s brisket, anyways. You’ll be full by the end of this one. Portions generous. He looks momentarily hesitant, which is cute, but inevitably leans forward and takes the sandwich. He nods with each chew.
He hums when he finishes chewing, pointing emphatically at you, though his voice is neutral. “You don’t like something, though.”
“What?”
“What’s wrong with it?” He stares at into the cross section of his bite. “Chewy? Texture?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it.” You’re quick to deny.
He shakes his head, hand over his mouth to hide the sauce on his mouth. “M’not gonna be hurt.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the dish, Carmen.” You take another bite to prove your point. Also you’re hungry. Two things can be true.
He zones in on the emphasis immediately. “It’s the plate, isn’t it? I told Syd—”
“Your tables aren’t bolted.” You interrupt, swiftly. Mouth semi-full.
“Huh?”
You put your sandwich down and swallow, taking your time with it. “Your booth tables.”
You knock on the pristine wood with the joints of your left hand. You swivel your body to look under the table, he follows suit, meeting you there. His left leg has been violently shaking, but he’s thought you wouldn’t notice it until now.
You put a hand on his knee to stop the shaking. He bristles, slightly, but you’re not even doing it on purpose. Your focus isn’t on him. It was making the table imperceptibly shift— Which, of course, you clocked. You tap your foot to the bottom of the table leg. No screws. “They aren’t bolted down.”
You lift yourself back up, moving your hand back to yourself in tandem. He stares at it for a little longer. How you noticed that, he will never know. Repairmen are a different breed…
“I just thought it was a weird choice. Nothing wrong with it, per say. Maybe you wanna test different layouts.” You shrug, taking another bite.
“The booths aren’t bolted either.” He adds, lifting his head up above the table, finally. “I don’t— we’re not gonna fuck with the layout, I don’t think.”
“Should get Fak on that, then.”
“Fak’s big-timing us.” You cock your brow, mid chew. He explains. “He’s focusing on hosting, f'now.”
You nod, swallowing, hand in front of your mouth so you can lick the sauce off your upper lip in non-humiliated peace. “This another job for me, then?”
“If you’ll take it.”
“If your fuckin’ toilet doesn’t kill me, I will.”
“How’s that going?”
You shake your hand so-so. “Ask me in two to three hours how it’s going.”
“Heard.” He sighs, leaning back in the booth. The stress is too apparent not to ask.
“How’s the second day open going?”
“I’m not in a fuckin’ freezer, so that’s a win.” Oh-ho, he’s acknowledging it. You were very comfortable forgetting that moment for his sake. “Thanks, uh, f’ that.”
You shake your head, shrugging off the thanks. You lift your last few bites of the sandwich to him. “You’re good. You’ve gifted me brisket. You relax since?”
“Not really.” He replies bluntly, taking a deep inhale. He pulls at his face from the top down, with both hands. Oof. Bad sign. “I think I’ll be good by tomorrow. Gonna get off early, tonight.”
“You don’t seem happy about that.”
“Ask me in two t’ three days if I’m happy about it.”
Back to work and this is taking so much fucking longer than it needs to take. Why is there tape there? Fucking Richie. Fucking Fak. Fucking Mikey. Godssake. Pipes are fixed. Water pressure is fixed. What the fuck is still wrong with it? What the fuck is wrong with you? Everyone is going to hate you if you can’t fix this. You’ve been here for like 5 hours and you can’t figure out what’s fucking wrong here? You’re nothing. You’re—
The toilet does you the favour of knocking you out of your episode by spraying you in the fucking face, soaking through the top of your jumpsuit. With a groan, you unzip the upper half and tie the wet sleeves around your waist. “Son-of-a-bitch.”
Maybe you just need a change in task for a second. Also, a new t-shirt, because your tank did not survive the waterworks either. This room isn’t the thing you need right now. You slip down the hall to the kitchen. “Who needs a coffee? Or water?”
There’s a chorus of orders, all of which sound like you’ve just asked ‘who wants a gift from God?’, which, you might as well have. This is what you like about being a handyman. The relief you bring. You just need a smidge of praise to get through the rest of this job. You’ve got this.
The small, but serviceable coffee machine in very back of the kitchen calls your name, but Richie sticks his arm out, blocking you from walking past expo up front.
“Hol’ up, Cousin, you look like a fuckin’ wet dog.”
“Well, what ‘ya gonna do about it?” You retort, despite the retort not honestly making any sense, you put your hands on your hips. “Do you want a fuckin’ coffee or not?”
He rolls his eyes, falling back onto the balls of his feet before walking off. “Ey, Sug, are those shirts still in the basement—”
You’ve won for now. You scrub your hands clean before getting to work. This is good. Oooh, Marcus has fresh coffee beans (that he’s willing to share!)— This is easy. You can already fix most broken things, but a machine that actually fucking works? Baby, you can make that sing.
Plus, the bartending gigs you’ve done don’t make you a barista by any means, but they certainly don’t hurt. Oooh, Marcus has syrups! Fuck it. Steamed and frothed milk. That toilet has you on your ass, you need to go above and beyond here. Make each cup personal. You need a win in the form of admiration.
You gather a tray of coffees (and a water for Sweeps, who is too fucking sweaty for a hot drink right now, so fair), all varying in milks, sugars, syrups, intensity. “Coffee run, I hand ‘em out, don’t just take! Corner!”
Ebra, to no one’s shock, likes his coffee black— But, and he’ll tell no one this, you just know it on instinct— He likes it a little too watery. “Good.” Who are you to judge? He likes what he likes.
Tina would take hers black for simplicity, if you let her, but of course you don’t. 2 sugars, foamed milk, chocolate and cinnamon syrup. “Too good to me.” It’s too worth it, when she says it like that and slaps your cheek. Balm of the soul.
Marcus, who watched you make these, did opt to let his imagination run too wild and added one of every syrup to his own cup, wanting to experiment with you. It doesn’t taste good. You switch it for a spiced coffee when he’s not looking. He’s silently very thankful.
After handing out a few more to the new cooks, you come up to Syd. “Take this one, take this one.” Then whisper, so no one knows you are displaying supreme favouritism. “It’s the one oat milk latte I made.”
She turns to you from her station, then darts looks over her shoulder like she’s making an under the table deal before grabbing it from you. She takes a delighted sip, eyes rolling just slightly in the relief of caffeine, she nods. “Fire, Chef.” Ah. This will get you through the day alone.
It also gets you through the willpower it takes to ignore Fak running by you to steal a coffee off your tray. Out of the corner of your eye, you point to the one meant for him— As if you didn’t make it for him, c’mon…
“How’s bathroom?” Syd asks, taking another long sip.
I’m going to fucking explode, not unlike your drainage pipe. “Needed a thinking break, but I’ve made a lot of progress. How’s kitchen?”
“Made a lot of progress. Auto-piloting through this prep.” She looks down at her cutting board, cracking back to it. “Latte helps, a lot, thank you. You should join for family, if you’re still here for it. Unless you don’t want more brisket.”
Fuck. She doesn’t think you’re so slow that you’re gonna be here until family, does she? “Yeah, maybe.” You look around, three coffees still on the tray. “...Where’s Carmen?”
She grimaces. Uh oh. The tension she glossed over at breakfast is still definitely there. She nods her head to the back door. “Smoke break. Or temper tantrum. I don’t fuckin’ know. Don’t tell him I said that.” You laugh, nodding. “You think a coffee would help—” “Please.”
“Corner!” Yells Richie, returning to you. He silently flicks out a shirt for you, holding it up proudly, ‘THE BERF’ stares back at you. You give it a solid five seconds to process before you say anything.
“Collector’s item...” You nod, tone sarcastically impressed. You pivot your shoulder for him to throw it over, hands too busy.
“That’s what I fuckin’ said!” He throws it over your shoulder. “No one fuckin’ listens, these days.”
You bite back laughter and nod, handing him his coffee. Hot. Dark. Two sugars. And, to his delighted surprise, a touch of cinnamon syrup. “Oh, fuck, missed your twists, Chip.”
You wince at what was a long-forgotten nickname, and so does Richie. Funny how remembering origins can do that to you. He’d just said it so instinctively, really. “My bad—”
“Chip is good.” You interrupt, rolling your shoulders back. And it is good, really. “It’s kinda—It’s kinda comforting.” It’s nice to not forget. He nods, and you give each other the ‘we are still so fucked, eh?’ smile before lovingly bumping shoulders as he returns to expo and you head to the back alley.
Carmen’s squatting, cigarette in one hand, creating a halo of smoke around him, and his phone in the other. He snaps out of his mental fog when the door opens, slipping his phone into the pocket of his apron like he’s got a secret to hide.
You hesitate at the doorway, maybe this is not the moment. “Sorry, Chef, I just wanted to offer a coffee? If you need air alone—”
“No, no, I’m good—” He’s quick to correct, then even quicker to correct himself. “I— I’ll take a coffee, I mean. You can stay, s’fine.”
He reaches for it when you sit next to him, but you pull the tray back to hand him the correct one. “Sorry, I—I like, did a thing, for yours. I dunno how you take your coffee, so I thought I’d do it weird.”
He takes the cup, eying it curiously. “Do it weird?”
“Do it like, like a Chef. Can’t make anything fuckin’ simple. The lot of you.”
He hums, amused, staring at the cup, then looks at you expectantly. “Well?”
“Well?”
“Do the thing.”
You snort, shaking your head. “Oh, fuck off.”
“C’mon, tell me why I should care.” He teases.
“Ah, fuck.” You sniff, oh to have your own words turned on you. Looking at the coffee in his hands, “I figured you’d like strong black coffee, but like, complex. So, it’s got like, cardamom and lavender n’ maple syrup. Shout out Marcus.” He smiles. “And then, I know I did just say black coffee but I wanted the aesthetic so I spooned foamed milk on top and sprinkled on some dried lavender.” You take your own cup in hand, putting the tray down. “If you hate it, we’ll trade.”
He pays close attention to your explanation. Man, his eye contact is simultaneously so soft and so scary. He takes a sip. Let’s it sit in his mouth for a second. “Excellent, Chef.”
Oh, if Syd’s ‘Fire’ could get you through the day, Carmen’s ‘Excellent’ will get you through the week to spare. You hide the way you beam by drinking your own coffee.
“How’re you doing?” It’s far too obvious that he’s had something heavy on his head all day, but you’re not going to say the quiet part loud, yet.
He takes a long time to respond. “I, uh…” And when he does, it’s weak. “I’m alright, yeah. I’m alright.”
You nod repeatedly, digesting the huge lie. “Ask me how I’m doing.”
He squints. “…How’re you—”
“Fuckin’ terrible, Carm.” You cut him off, putting your cup down next to him, standing up. You speak emphatically, gesturing with your whole body.
“I’m at my wits, Chef. Completely out of my depth. I fix the main pipe, I fix the water pressure, I triple check the tank, I fuckin’ power cycle the valve— I’m absolutely at a loss as to why it’s still gurgling— Why it shot water straight at my tits— Close your eyes, if you care, by the way.”
With barely any warning you peel off your tank top, you’ve got a bra, it’s fine. It’s very cute that he still looks away. You slip the new shirt over your head as you speak, muffling the words.
“—I’m wearing a shirt that says Berf, and the only way I can feel any semblance of not being utterly useless is by making coffees so good everyone has to praise me for them. And now I’m telling the fucking owner, my boss for the day all this.”
He nods, slowly. There is perhaps, not a single person in his life that has ever been this forthright. Someone he hasn’t had to over-analyze or dig into to figure out what’s actually going on. It is refreshing, terrifying, and for some reason, removing your walls have completely shattered his.
“So.” You lower your head to his level where he sits. “How are you doing, Chef?”
He takes a long sip of his coffee. Stews on the question before he spills his guts, calmly. “I’m sitting outside of the restaurant I started that I own, and my brother should be here, but he’s not and— And I was locked in a fuckin’ freezer on my opening night, which was my own fuckin’ fault— And the tape is wrong and the painting is stupid and that new hire did meth so now we’re down one.” He takes a deep breath.
“And we have Heinz instead of Frenchies, and it’s fine. That’s the fucked part— It’s fine. The ship did not sink without me— It went fine. Better, maybe. My problems aren’t fuckin’ problems. I’m just making it worse for myself— everyone. And I know Syd is mad at me, and I know my— My girlfriend? Is mad at me, and I know that I’m gonna break up with her tonight because I’m not meant to be— that.” He says the last part fast, more to himself than you, really. And then he finally looks back up at you.
“And I’m telling all of this to the person who saved me from hypothermia and a fuckin’—Fuckin’ meltdown, who probably thinks— knows that I’m a psycho.”
You take a beat before nodding, sitting next to him again, arms crossed. Silent. Contemplative. “I have thoughts.”
He nods, taking a drag. “Don’t pull punches.”
“Well, to start most honestly, we must remember, I love Syd. So, I’m not gonna mince about her.”
“Heard.”
You recall everything Sydney had told you at breakfast. The recap of how she got to this point. “Syd isn’t mad at you, she’s disappointed and distrustful.”
He grimaces. “That sounds worse.”
“It is.”
“Oh.”
“But in a way you can fix.”
“How?”
“Handle shit different. Actually show up to shit and make calls. Manage your priorities by urgency— Not by favourites. If I broke my fuckin’ arm and your ‘girlfriend’ had a runny nose, who are you taking to the hospital?”
“You can’t take yourself?”
“Bitch?”
“Kidding. Heard. What else?”
“You’re not gonna tell her I said this because she would rather die than tell someone she wants something.” You lean closer to him, peeking over your shoulder to make sure no one’s secretly come from the kitchen. You knock into his knees.
He takes another drag, short, choked. “Sure.”
“You were kind of a bitch about the menu.”
“The chaos menu? She said—”
“She fucking lied. She lied when she said it was fine, Carm, it does not take a psychic to read Syd’s mind.” You interrupt, taking a sip of your coffee. “She was so excited to get to build a menu, especially with—” you, “—a partner, and then you completely ditched her. And then you just made your own! Total control freak shit! Cut her out of the fun part of being head chef completely! You get to invent masterpieces and she picks out the best cheap plate? Fuck is that?”
He nods contemplatively, poking his inner cheek. “Yeah, that, that makes sense. That’s shitty.” He turns his gaze from looking ahead to face you, hand over the bottom half of his face. “What else?”
“You’re reactive.”
“No shit.”
“How long do you think you were locked in the walk-in for?”
He swallows, thinking. “Like… an hour?”
“It had been 23 minutes.”
“Oh.”
“You catastrophize, it’s a fancy therapy word,” You cannot help but be impressed by this white man writing down the word in his phone for later. “It means, basically, when something bad happens you blow it completely out of proportion into something it isn’t. Your opening night was definitely a bummer from being in a freezer— But be honest with yourself, would you have let yourself have a good night if you weren’t in there?”
“…No.”
“No. Which is also bad. Which brings me to my key point.”
He tenses up, preparing for you to rip into him further.
“You’re doing a good job, Carmy.”
He immediately swivels back to you, almost dropping his phone. Knee knocking into yours. “Fuck off.”
“I will not.”
“You just said I was a catastrophe.”
“Fully not what I said.”
“I read between the lines.”
“Carmen.”
You take a breath, putting your arms on your knees, bent over. “The restaurant is beautiful, your cooks are talented and they’re prepared— So prepared that they can handle 23 minutes without you. That’s a good thing. You’re threaded into The Bear— The ship didn’t sink, not because you weren’t there, but because you had been. Everyone had the tools they needed to succeed, even with Heinz, a Mid painting, and torn tape. And listen—” You take one last sip of your coffee. “You need to check your ego if you think you’re the first man I’ve coaxed through a panic attack while doing a repair.”
He laughs, half-heartedly. He scratches his nose. “Heard. Yeah, thank you, Chef.”
“I don’t know shit about the meth thing though, I really couldn’t tell you.” You smile when this coaxes a better laugh out of him. You’re considering a career in stand up exclusively for him because it feels like such a reward to hear it.
“And the girl?” He asks. Amusement tinging but leaving his voice.
You click your teeth, shrugging your shoulders at him. “Based purely on your hesitation to say girlfriend, I’d say yeah, probably not ready for a relationship.” You reach your hand out to his shoulder when he flops his head down. “But, just asking, is this your first relationship?”
He thinks for too long before nodding slightly. “First one.”
“First restaurant too?”
He nods again.
“Yeah.” You pat his shoulder before letting it go, opting to hold your cooling cup. “I know you’re a Michelin star fuckin’ big deal but like, me personally, I can’t name a thing I got perfect the first time I did it.”
There’s something in his eyes, when you say that. Something wistful, nostalgic, hurt? No. Something different.
“It’s not that I didn’t do perfect—”
“You’ll do better next time.”
He wrings his hands together between his knees. “Yeah.”
“You’re gonna be fine, Carm.”
“You’re good at that.” He sniffs, head down, scratching his nose.
“At what? Self-help?”
He exhales what just barely sounds like a laugh. “Kinda. S’just, when you say it, you say it in a way where I actually believe it.”
You’re getting the fuck out of here before they open for dinner. You’re not letting anyone down tonight motherfucker. The Berf shall prevail. Maybe a win here will feel like a win for Carmen, too.
You run the sink to wash your hands, as you’ve done before here— But since fixing the pipes and the pressure… Something’s… different. You pause your scrubbing, listening closely.
…
When the sink is running, the gurgling flow of water from the toilet stops. Huh. You stop and start the faucet a few times to verify this. Yeah. You stare for a long moment before connecting the dots, then punch the sink in realization.
“Fucking Mikey!”
“What’d he do this time?”
You twist around. Ah, other sibling. Natalie. Clipboard in hand, business ready. You take a beat before remembering to smile, nodding to the sink behind you. “He connected the tank flow to the toilet and the sink with one wire.”
She tilts her head, squinting. “Why would he do that?”
“I suspect to save water?” You spin around, kneeling down to look behind the sink. “I think the idea was to have the sink not function when the toilet is flushing. But, it uh, well, did the reverse, kinda. Toilet doesn’t function when the sink isn’t running.”
“Oh.”
“So uh,” You shut the valve under the sink. “Your water bill should go down a little after this, since it won’t be running into what is an essentially a second trap pipe.”
“Oh!” Did she get what you said? No. But she doesn't need to. She heard ‘bill should go down’ and that’s really all she needed. “Thank you!”
“Not a problem. S’my job.” You stand, shutting off the valve to the toilet as well. As you kneel down to work again, you feel her gaze burning into your back. You don’t turn to face her. “You have questions.”
“Oh, ah… Am I so obvious—?”
“Yes.” You’re too quick to answer, unbolting the wires where it attaches to the toilet and the ground. You sniff with a panicked, “Ah, uh, it’s endearing.”
She’s quiet, for a moment. She doesn’t ask you what she actually wants to ask you, and you know that. “Well, I’ll need to exchange info for your invoice.”
“Ah, don’t worry ‘bout that, your brother already covered it.” You stand once more, before going to the sink to undo it’s valve, you fish through the deep pocket of your jumpsuit, pulling out a crumpled business card and handing it to her.
“But it’s good to have my info on hand, for sure. It’s ah… Kinda old.” Kinda is an understatement. Your dad’s name is still on it, scribbled out in pen and replaced with yours. The dead business line is also scribbled out in exchange for your personal cell.
“It’s uh… I usually only work for friends and family, these days, so I’ve kinda stopped trying to keep up appearances.”
She smiles at it. Thank God, she finds it charming and not sloppy. She tucks it into the clasp of her clipboard. “That’s fine, we are friends and family.”
All you can do is nod, pivoting to the sink. There's a beat of peace.
“Didn’t see you at the funeral.”
Ah. There it is. For a Bear, she sure knows how to poke one. You stutter in unscrewing the bolt.
“Would’ve been nice to meet you, then.”
You clear your throat, it's strangled. “Yeah, I think I was trying to avoid introductions, honestly. Grief comes in different ways, eh?”
“Does it?”
“Mine does.” You swallow, unbolting the wire. With it free, you can just yank it out of the wall. God, forgive your brain, but Mikey was right, she does like to fight. Too bad you don’t.
She just hums in reply, watching you pull the wire from the wall. “You’re a real lifesaver.”
Fuck. Fuck. Lifesaver? Is she fucking with you?
“That toilet sprayed me right in the face, yesterday. And you saved Carmen.” There’s an amused lilt to her voice. She’s not fucking with you. “There’s something about a handywoman that Fak cannot match.”
You can hear a faint ‘Hey!’ through the walls. You laugh through an exhale.
“Again, s’my job. I do my best. Did uh, what was it, Terry come by for the walk-in? I wasn’t looking when I was there.”
You sort through your tools, deciding caulking the holes closed is probably the best option.
“He came over basically overnight to fix it, bless him, still don’t know his name.”
You laugh, it’s a little strangled. So Carmen did stay overnight. He must’ve. You smooth out the caulk with your thumb and a palette knife. Blending it into the grout as best as you can. “Good. Good.”
You dust yourself off. Standing. “Well. That’s uh. That’s my job done. Carmen asked me about—”
“Bolting down the booths?” She nods, checking the time on her watch. There’s not enough time before lunch to do it now. Plus you don’t have the screws. “You’re free to come by in the morning tomorrow—”
“But?” You interrupt, throwing your tool bag over your shoulder.
“But?”
“You said free like you’ve got a preference, what do you prefer?”
She chuckles, slightly. There is something about you that feels familiar. “If you could come after close tonight around 12, that would be nice—”
“It’s done. I’ll be there.”
“Lifesaver. I'll give you the code.”
Fuck.
Always gotta give the reader/mc some sort of mysterious background that even you don't have all the info on. Always.
Hehehehe, again, we're slowing this burn so much. Strangers to Friends to lovers but they're both so comfortable in friends it's hard to move !!
Forewarning, btw, if you've already sunk 10k worth of words into your brain for me (thank you!! I hope you've enjoyed!!), I've never written smut before and I feel like I probably will not build up the courage to do so by the end of this series, but I could prove myself wrong, I dunno. But warning in case that's your thing!! I might blue ball you babe!!
Pretty please tell me your thoughts or I'll eat my Berf shirt. Collector's value!! Thrown away!!
Next Part
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Rules and Roses Chapter 2
★ characters: kibutsuji muzan x reader x akaza
★ plot summary: Kibutsuji Muzan has finally decided to expand his empire, and the way he intends to do so is by running for the highest political position. With you, his darling wife, at his side, he believes he can achieve and have everything the world has to offer. He is, after all, the Phoenix of Phario.
★ fic playlist: sometimes, same day, as time stops, wolf’s song (this is also the vision board for the fic).
★ content warnings : implied violence and abuse, profanities, toxic relationships, smut.
★ Previous Chapter
a/n:
hello!!!
first of all, i am so sorry for taking so long to update this story. ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡
life happened and i got sooo busy. the time i uploaded this fic was when i just started at my new workplace and shortly after a few weeks, i was already preoccupied with work. at first, i was laser-focused on getting used to my new work and the culture. then later on, i found myself playing a more important role in the office that required my undivided attention lol. besides that, so many things happened in my personal life as well that i didn't have the time and energy to write.
btw i'm now a writer by profession as well so oftentimes i would feel drained af after writing corporate write-ups. tbh, i also got hit by writer's block, especially for this fic because the plot i have in mind for it is lowkey intricate, and for the most part, i haven't decided on what route i should take story-wise. so during those 2 years, i was constantly trying to reconstruct the story in my head, and here we are!
i'm back but i'm not so sure about updating regularly as i'm still incredibly busy, but i will do my best! the latest kny seasons inspired me to write again (aka my crush for muzan lol).
hopefully, everyone is still here to read this. ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡
as always, comments and kudos are highly appreciated!
happy reading!
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"Can you outline your key policy platforms should you be elected President of Phario? Given your extensive background in the human resource industry as well as your rich connections owing to your business ventures in Obelisk Kibutsuji, do you first plan to address the pressing issue of the national unemployment rate?"
"Indeed, that's correct. As President, one of my top priorities will be to strengthen our nation's workforce, which is crucial for advancing our economy. I have a comprehensive plan focused on job creation, vocational training, and support for small businesses. These initiatives will not only reduce unemployment but also stimulate innovation and competitiveness within our economy.
I also aim to implement policies that ensure equal access to education, equipping our citizens with the skills needed for the evolving job market. Healthcare reform is high on my agenda. I'll ensure healthcare assistance is accessible to everyone, public hospitals are well-maintained, and healthcare workers are fairly compensated and protected by the state in any dire situations. Additionally, I'll push for technological advancements and infrastructure development to attract both local and foreign investments.
Addressing social issues is equally important, and as a devoted ally of these communities, I'm committed to fighting all forms of discrimination, especially against women and the LGBTQ+ community. We must ensure everyone, regardless of gender, sexual orientation, or identity, has equal opportunities and protections under the law.
Moreover, I'll advocate for the rights and welfare of people with disabilities, ensuring they have access to the necessary resources and support to lead fulfilling lives. This includes improving accessibility in public spaces and promoting inclusive employment practices.
Animal welfare will also be a significant focus. We need to enact and enforce laws that protect animals from abuse and ensure humane treatment.
Lastly, I'll champion the rights of minorities and immigrants. Our nation is built on the strength of its diversity, and it's imperative we create an inclusive society where everyone feels valued and respected. This includes reforming immigration policies to be fair and humane and implementing programs that support the integration and empowerment of minority communities.
In essence, my administration will be dedicated to creating a sustainable and inclusive economic environment where every Pharian has the opportunity to thrive and contribute to our nation's progress."
Muzan stood confidently at the podium, a modest yet proud smile gracing his face after addressing a journalist's question amidst a room bustling with media personnel.
Today was the day where presidential candidates shared their platforms, which also served as an open forum for engaging with the press and fielding inquiries on a wide array of topics—from current events to personal matters.
With his seasoned composure before cameras and crowds, Muzan navigated the spotlight effortlessly. His articulate delivery drew admiration from all corners as he outlined his plans for the presidency, filling you with pride as you watched from the audience.
Among the attendees, your smile beamed with pride and unconditional support for him. Akaza, who is sitting right beside you, maintained a stoic demeanor outwardly, though inwardly, he couldn't deny a hint of impressed regard. Muzan's comprehensive platform and commanding presence left an undeniable impact on him.
Eloquence had always been Muzan's forte, a skill honed through years of being a businessman and somewhat of a public figure, as among his peers and in the business landscape in general, he is well-revered and widely celebrated.
Beyond his ability to articulate ideas, he possessed a magnetic charisma—an invaluable trait for navigating the intricate world of politics and public service.
Several hours later, the policy speech slash press conference finally ended, and now you were on your way to meet up with Muzan at the lobby of the hotel where the gathering was held when a few journalists spotted you among the sea of people who were also exiting the function room.
Akaza was right behind you and is also on full alert, an important instruction your husband told him when he appointed him as your personal bodyguard a few years back. Committed to his duty, he stood there in a stance where he is ready to take action should anything happen that is out of the ordinary.
Mics were stretched out and placed within just a few inches of your face, and one of them took the liberty to ask you a question: "What are your thoughts on Kibutsuji Muzan's campaign platforms?”
Very much like your husband, you also wore a modest yet confident smile on your face as you held eye contact with the journalist who asked you that question before displaying your own version of eloquence as you answered,
"To say that I am proud while listening to him share and advocate for the causes he wholeheartedly believed in would be the biggest understatement of the decade," you said with a fond chuckle before continuing, "even before he filed for his candidacy and even way before he became the man we all know now, he has always been outspoken about these things. He would always share with me his desire of making significant changes in the world, hoping no more children would have to endure what he did. As many of you know, Muzan, my dear husband, came from very humble beginnings, and unlike me, he has faced challenges far beyond my own. His vision and intuition surpass that of most, and so, as cliché as it may sound, his words and strong convictions carry a weight and authenticity that are strong enough to enable him in doing the impossible and inspire others to believe that a better future is within our grasp."
Akaza listened intently to your answer, finding himself captivated by your words. The way you addressed the press made you sound like a candidate yourself who's also sharing her platform. In that moment, he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming surge of pride as he continued to absorb your statements.
The journalists surrounding you mirrored his sentiment, clearly impressed by your response—no surprise from the esteemed Ballerina Queen of Phario.
It had been quite some time since you last entertained interviews, having retired and chosen to stay away from public engagements.
"Among the plethora of initiatives he wishes to take action on once he's elected, what resonated with you the most?"
You paused, contemplating the list of campaigns your husband had presented earlier. Just as you were about to respond, an arm encircled your waist and gave it a tender squeeze.
It was Muzan.
"Knowing my wife's love for animals, I'm certain she's most excited about what I have planned for animal welfare," Muzan interjected warmly.
You playfully rolled your eyes, eliciting amusement from not only your husband and your respective bodyguards but also the press. "You say that as if it's a bad thing," you quipped.
Muzan chuckled fondly. "Not at all, my love. Your passion for animals is one of the many reasons I fell for you."
The same journalist who had asked you the second question now directed his attention to Muzan, eager for his response. "Based on the most recent public survey, you're likely the most favored candidate to win the elections. What can you say about that, Sir Kibutsuji?"
Muzan smiled bashfully at the reporter, his eyes reflecting a mix of humility and determination. "I'm incredibly honored and thankful that our fellow countrymen have placed such faith and confidence in me. It's a humbling reminder of the trust they have in our vision for a brighter future. This campaign has always been about bringing real change to Phario, addressing the pressing issues our nation faces with innovative solutions and inclusive policies. The support we're seeing reflects not just my efforts, but the collective desire of our people for progress and unity."
He paused briefly, his gaze sweeping across the room, before continuing with renewed conviction, "Though I would like to emphasize that I don't take this trust lightly, it actually fuels my commitment to serve with integrity and purpose, to listen to the voices of every Pharian, and to lead with compassion and foresight."
By now, the press was highly satisfied with the answers both of you had given, granting you the freedom to depart. Clearly spent after the eventful day, you exchanged farewells and well-wishes before going your separate ways.
With Muzan's arm still draped around your waist, he guided you towards the grand entrance of the hotel. Meanwhile, Akaza made his way to the basement parking lot to retrieve your car, preparing to drive you both home. Kokushibo remained close to Muzan, ensuring your security as you awaited the car's arrival.
Turning to Muzan, unfazed by the bustling activity around you, you placed a tender kiss on his lips, smiling warmly. "Great job out there, my love. You did so well today. I'm incredibly proud of you."
Clearly elated, Muzan mirrored your smile and returned your affection with a gentle kiss on your forehead. "Thank you, darling. Your support means everything to me."
"Truly, I was beaming throughout your speech. You were absolutely amazing. Phario is fortunate to have such an admirable leader like you," you praised sincerely.
Right there and then, Muzan couldn't help but raise his eyebrow and playfully smile at you, prompting a confused raise of your own eyebrow.
"What's that look for?" you asked.
Muzan shook his head with a playful smirk before replying, "You're not showing favoritism now, are you, my love? I know you adore me, but let's keep it fair, hmm?" he teased, his tone light-hearted and affectionate.
You rolled your eyes at his playful accusation. "Ha-ha. Very funny, Muzan. I'll take it back, then."
Muzan laughed wholeheartedly, drawing attention once again. "I was just joking!" He then smiled warmly at you, his eyes reflecting pride. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "Hearing that from you means more than any applause, you know?"
You reached out to pinch his cheeks. "You play too much sometimes, you know?" you said with a chuckle before continuing, "But like I said, hearing you speak today—and in all those times you shared your aspirations with me from when we were students up to now, as you finally have the opportunity to make all come true—it's evident how deeply committed you are. Beyond your skills and capabilities, your passion is what makes you so compelling, Muzan. It's what makes me believe in you, too."
Minutes later, while waiting by the entrance, Akaza finally pulled up with the car. You and Muzan bid farewell to those around you before stepping into the comfort of your vehicle.
As the city lights blurred past the windows, you reflected on the day's events.
"You know," you began, glancing at Muzan beside you, "I have a feeling your speech today touched more hearts than just mine."
Muzan smiled softly, intertwining his fingers with yours.
"I hope so. Though the election is still months away, and who knows how things might shift, that's why I don't want to take any of this for granted. I'm in this for the long haul. You'll be there with me, won't you?"
He looked over to you, and in that moment, despite his big words, he looked absolutely adorable, with his ruby eyes shining at you and his lips slightly pouty as he waited for your response, which you gladly provided through the means of placing yet another sweet and passionate kiss on his lips and squeezing his hand reassuringly.
"I'll always be here for you, Muzan, through every challenge and triumph."
"I love you," he whispered lovingly, his expression sincere and heartfelt.
"And I love you," you replied with equal affection.
With a comforting squeeze of your hand, you nestled against Muzan's shoulder, feeling a sense of contentment as the car navigated through familiar streets towards home.
Meanwhile, in the driver's seat, Akaza's face remained unreadable. He was outwardly indifferent to the tender exchange between you and Muzan, but inwardly, he was seething with rage.
You think you're so clever, spouting all those promises and pretty words, playing the saint for the public eye. But I see through you. You're nothing but a manipulative snake, a liar wrapped in a facade of righteousness.
His gaze hardened and his grip on the wheel tightened as he stared ahead, the streetlights casting shadows on his determined expression.
One day, your mask will slip.
I will fucking rip it off your face, even if it's the last thing I do.
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do you have any clingy/possessive landoscar thoughts? 🤔
Yes. I do have thoughts. Thank you for asking.
tell me what you wish I'd write
I am… obsessed with clingy needy Lando. And I don’t write him suuuuper that way a lot, I usually try and rein him in, but if you want me to be self-indulgent, I can and will.
snippet at the end!
update: second bonus snippet here
Lando basically always wants Oscar. His attention, his laughter, his hands, his everything. All of it. All the time. Lando’s always been like that with the people he cares about. Max F, Carlos, everybody he’s ever dated… He knows he’s needy. He can usually keep a pretty good handle on things, though (he’s had a lot of practice). But sometimes, when his guard is down or when things are bad, his control over it slips a bit. And with Oscar, it’s like it’s ten times worse.
Even before they were properly close, Lando would get drunk and start asking after Oscar. His teammate was never out with them, but Lando would have his eighth drink in the club, or he’d do some lines with Max, or whatever, and it would be “I wish Oscar was here” and “can you call Oscar and ask if he’ll meet us?” and “I bet Oscar’s still awake, should I text him?” Extremely noticeable. And some of Lando’s more casual friends would be kind of blindsided because - again - Lando’s really good at being normal about Oscar when he’s got his whole brain to work with. But it’s Saturday night in Monaco over winter break and he says “it’s morning in Australia, I can FaceTime Oscar, right?” and his friends are like “didn’t know it was like that, mate?”
(He does FaceTime Oscar, on his walk home when there’s nobody to stop him, smile dopey as soon as Oscar picks up. The sun is shining in the background and making Oscar kind of glow around the edges, and Lando says “you look like an angel” and Oscar laughs and that’s even worse, Jesus, “you’re so pretty, Oscar, did you know?” and Oscar had been in the middle of a workout, but he sucks on his water bottle and grins and lets Lando talk nonsensically at him for 15 straight minutes until he’s safe and locked into his apartment with a glass of water on his bedside table. “Put some paracetamol out for yourself in the morning, okay? And sleep tight, Lando.” “Thanks, angel.”)
The second season is really different. They’re much looser and Lando forgets more often that he’s supposed to be holding himself back, giving Oscar space. It’s stupid, he’s been doing it with everyone all his life, but it’s like Oscar wipes his mind blank, and he’s weaseling his way under his arm every other minute at the MTC, hooking a chin over his shoulder while they review data, following him into his driver’s room after practice and talking Oscar through his entire hour, every lap. Oscar never really tells him off, though. He just nods and smiles his quiet smile and drops odd comments when Lando lets his train of thought go a little too far off track.
Getting closer with Oscar is probably a mistake for at least one of them, because it’s like giving Lando’s brain permission to think about him even more. Oscar’s thread is always near the top when Lando opens WhatsApp, and tapping his number to call is too near to muscle memory for Lando to talk himself out of it when he’s drunk. More often than not when he’s out, the night begins and ends with Oscar - a “coming tn?" as Lando walks in and a blurry, giggly “‘lo, Osc,” through a dark front camera on his way out.
Oscar starts out with a hint of decorum. He’ll throw a shirt on before answering Lando’s call, flick the bedside lamp on, and prop his phone up so his face is mostly in frame. That lasts a few weeks, then he starts answering in the middle of whatever he’s already doing (like brushing his teeth, one memorable time, when Lando had insisted on counting up to 120 for him to make sure he did a satisfactory job) and in whatever state he’s already in. By China, Oscar’s answering from bed half the time, face barely discernible in the dark of the hotel room, mostly just mumbling “mhm” while Lando tells him all about what he’s gotten up to at the bars.
SNIPPET (kind of? this was a bullet point and then I realized I was typing actual prose so it’s a bit of a blend… bare with me… it was like 2am for me when this was cooked up…)
Oscar doesn’t come out after Miami. But he does - and he’d deny this to anybody except Lando himself, probably, and even then only when Lando’s too fucked up to remember it - stay up waiting for Lando’s call. He’d congratulated Lando in person multiple times at the track, but it doesn’t feel the same. It’s embarrassing to admit, but as much as he used to find Lando’s drunk calls a little inconvenient (though always distantly amusing) he’s grown quite attached to them somewhere along the line - the quiet intimacy, the little jokes and admissions and compliments Lando hands out when he’s far gone and using Oscar to bring himself down. Lando doesn’t call anybody else like that (Oscar had asked him once, when he was waiting for his Uber in some city or another at half two in the morning). It’s just for them - a special them.
It gets late, though. Lando always rings late, but it gets late enough that Oscar starts worrying that Lando won’t call at all, that he’s taken someone home, or he’s passed out on someone’s couch, or he’s planning to be out so late it turns right over to early the next day instead. The sun is rising when his phone finally goes off. He’s dozed a bit on and off, the exhaustion of his own race winning out for minutes at a time, but he’s left his ringer on to make sure he doesn’t miss Lando. It’s a special occasion, yeah? He can’t be held accountable. He just doesn’t want to be the one responsible for bringing Lando down from his high inadvertently by shirking his cooldown call.
Anyway, it’s past 4 a.m. when Oscar’s jolted from his half-daze by the notification, and he sees he’s missed a few texts ahead of time, asking if he’s awake. He hadn’t answered, obviously, but Lando’s calling anyway. Oscar’s too tired, brain too soft and amorphous, to decide how to feel about that at the moment.
“Morning, angel,” he says when he picks up. It’d started as a joke, as most of their little idiosyncrasies had, a reversal, but it’s probably not totally that anymore.
“Oscar,” Lando says. Oscar had expected him to be loud, still riding out his high, but he’s practically whispering. When Oscar finally musters up the will to check the screen, Lando’s in the dim dark somewhere. All quiet.
“Yeah, babe.” They don’t talk like this normally. It’s like these calls exist in a liminal space between their day-to-day lives now and whatever Oscar’s convinced they’re headed towards.
“It’s not morning,” Lando says. A light turns on off-screen.
“Not for you, maybe. I was asleep.” Oscar rubs at his eyes for effect, even though Lando’s not really looking at the phone. His eyes snap to the camera at that, though, and Oscar watches his face fall a little.
“I woke you?”
Oscar doesn’t give it long before he’s shushing Lando gently, “It’s alright. I’m glad you did, I want to hear about your night.”
Lando brightens back up. He’s not as drunk as Oscar expected, but he’s far enough from sober to be pretty suggestible, still, pretty easy with a smile.
He launches into a story about Max and some other names Oscar instantly forgets and a band Oscar’s never heard of, and - as the camera jostles with Lando’s efforts to pry his own shoes off - Oscar realizes he’s already back to his hotel room.
When Lando hits a long enough pause in his rambling, Oscar says, “Hey, Lan, you want to get ready for bed? You should sleep a little.”
Lando’s nose wrinkles and his face takes on the petulant tilt Oscar is well-acquainted with after half a year of these late-night-early-morning calls.
“C’mon,” he encourages, “you’ll feel better tomorrow. I’ll help.”
Lando agrees, though he still looks a little sour about it, so Oscar talks him slowly through his nighttime routine between stretches of “Oh! Oscar! Max called Charles pretty five times, I think," and “Have you ever had a cherry bomb? Someone ordered me one.” Oscar helps him pick out a soft t-shirt to sleep in and reminds him to fill a glass with water for the bedside table and counts to 120 while Lando brushes his teeth, phone propped against the mirror.
When everything’s sorted and Lando is sliding into bed, Oscar yawns and says, “Good to go?”
Unexpectedly, Lando’s eyes go big and kind of watery at that, and he picks the phone up from the covers and brings it close to his face so Oscar’s screen is mostly pout.
“You’re going?” Lando asks, and he sounds so forlorn that Oscar can feel his heart ache in his chest.
“Was going to,” Oscar confirms, even though it hurts a little, “You want me to stay?”
The light’s off, but Oscar can still see Lando hide his face in his pillow. It’s no surprise, then, when Lando’s, “Yeah. Please?” comes out muffled by the bulk of it.
Oscar softens to it. It was never a question.
“Okay,” he says, “you need me to talk? Or just stay on?”
“Stay on,” Lando says. His voice is back to normal, but it’s tiny, a little fragile. So different from the hours and hours leading up to this, Oscar thinks, contextualizing.
“Might fall asleep,” Oscar warns. His lamp’s back off, too, and with Lando safe and sound, Oscar’s bed feels cozier than ever.
“S’okay,” Lando says, “me too.”
“That’s good,” Oscar sets his phone next to him on the bed. Lando’s done the same, both screens matching black and gray, matching hotel ceilings just a few doors apart. “Goodnight, race winner.”
Lando’s laugh is mostly just a hard exhale, but it warms Oscar from the inside out just the same.
“Goodnight, angel.”
(I wrote another whole scene for this ask but this got kind of long already.... so if anybody would like to see it.... all it takes is one little ask... lmk.... xoxo)
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