#in case it wasn't clear: he is hallucinating the nyc chef speaking to him for. Much. of this first chapter. IT'S A LOT!!!!

[tenderhooked]

🌹🌹🌹

For whatever your heart desires <3

(altho ngl your the bear posts are steadily convincing me I need to watch it so if you happen to have anything related to that I meannn… not gonna complain lol)

YES. YES. MY PROPAGANDA IS WORKING. please do watch the bear it is very good and will make you deeply unwell. highly recommend.

for you, here's a bit from the first chapter of Things Are Different Since You've Been Here Last (the carmy goes to live with donna for a few weeks and has a uh. a Very Very Bad Time. and then gets hugged about it. fic). it's a bit um. it's a bit long so i put some of it under the cut sjkdlfj.

“You were distracted, Carmy,” Syd says, so firmly that the hot, mean spill of words pressing up against the boundary of Carmy’s lips gets suffocated and dies. “You didn’t set a timer, and you grabbed that thing without mitts. Sure, the—the burn isn’t that bad—actually, I don’t know if I trust you, lemme see that—” Carmy’s ribs constrict. I don’t know if I trust you. His vision swims. Vaguely, he recognizes Syd taking a step towards him and without purposefully meaning to he takes a step back from her. “No, don’t,” he begins and then stops because he can’t quite figure out where he wants that sentence to go. “I said it’s fucking fine. I can handle it.” “I know you can handle it, you big baby, but you’re clearly not with it right now—” “I’m fucking with it,” Carmy snaps, curling his arm to his chest. Animal caught in the trap. He’s felt like that a lot recently. Like he’s stuck in a cage and there are eyes everywhere just watching, waiting for him to fuck up so they can wash their hands of him and leave and never return. The fist in his chest tightens, squeezing the breath from his lungs. He can’t—he can’t—he can’t. He can’t. “It was one mistake, okay, and I said I’m fucking sorry so can you please just drop it?” He’s aware of how he sounds and he still can’t stop it. All he can do is stare at Syd warily, daring her to come closer, wishing that she would, until she shakes her head with such quiet disappointment that it’s like a punch to the stomach. “Heard, Chef,” she says, already turning on her heel to go drop her bag off and change. “Consider it dropped.” Breathe. In. Breathe. Out. Do not fucking pass out. Yeah, those black spots are normal. Happens every time I can’t breathe. Yeah, I can’t breathe a lot sometimes. Happens every time I’m a jackass. Happens every time I ruin something good. No big deal.

Carmy presses up against the edge of the countertop, the dull pressure to the small of his back enough to ground him even as the world seems to fall away beneath him. The heels of his palms go to his eyes, push into the sockets. It hurts, then, his hand—the contact of it to his face, igniting the faint burn to a fierce throb. But it’s. Deserved, probably. He should be in pain. He should be in as much pain as he causes everybody else. “She doesn’t trust you. Nobody trusts you, because everything that you are is worthless, including your word. Do you hear me? Nod so I know that you’re hearing me.” Carmy nods into the cradle of his palms. “Say, yes, Chef, everything that I am is worthless.” “Yes, Chef,” he whispers. “Everything that I am is worthless.” The dark behind his eyes accepts it as the truth, and so does he. A shuddery inhale rattles through him, through vein and blood and spine and throat, and he lifts his head from his hands and goes to clean up the spilled loaf. There’s crumbs all over the place that he mops up using a damp paper towel, and the loaf itself goes in the trash. Waste. Such a fucking waste. No wonder Marcus thought he needed help bandaging a cut. No wonder Syd doesn’t trust him. More flour. He’ll do better. More oil. He’ll be better. More yeast. He’ll make up for it. More water. He’ll make up for everything.