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clarionglass · 4 months

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here we go :) part one of three, updates to be released weekly!

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sam says 4 (game master cinematic universe, part 3)

Ruby was at her mum's for a family dinner she couldn't miss on pain of death, apparently, and the Doctor was many things, but a family dinner kind of guy wasn't one of them—particularly when Carla had already slapped him once in the short time he'd known her. He thought he'd broken his streak of bad luck with mums, but… well, seemingly not. So he was companionless for a few hours, and while he could wait for her to get back, maybe catch up on his reading—what was the point of waiting when you had a time machine?

He ran his hands over the TARDIS console, marvelling at her clean lines and metallic flourishes, the way that even now she felt brand new but familiar, and paused. He’d just pop off for a quick adventure, nothing too dangerous, but—where to go?

He could scan for a distress call nearby, and pitch in to help. He could drop in on Donna and Shaun and Rose, beautiful Rose, and see how they were all doing. Or he could just hit the randomiser button, and jump in feet first wherever he ended up.

He remembered a conversation from a long time ago, when he wore a different face, and his gorgeous TARDIS wore a face too, for the first and only time.

“You didn't always take me where I wanted to go.”

“No, but I always took you where you needed to go.”

He grinned. Who could resist an offer like that? He pressed the button and whooped as the time rotor spun into action, ready to see where the universe would take him.

---

Apparently, he was needed pretty close to where he already was. Earth, 2024. Huh. Same planet, same time—within a few months of where he’d left Ruby, even. The main thing that had changed was the location: he was now in the good old US of A. California, to be more specific, and Los Angeles to be more specific still. And to really narrow it down, the Doctor discovered as he poked his head out of the TARDIS doors, he was in… a broom closet. Not bad, as a parking spot—a bit squeezy, but out of the way. And as he poked his head out of that door, he could finally see he was in the backstage corridors of a studio of some kind. Film or TV, if he was to hazard a guess, it was a different vibe from Abbey Road.

With a shrug, he decided to go exploring.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute before a young woman wearing the full-black outfit, headset, and permanently stressed expression of a production assistant came running up to him.

“Are you the fill-in Sam organised?” she asked breathlessly, and honestly, seeing the look on her face, the Doctor didn’t have the heart(s) to tell her no. And really, what was the Doctor, if not a professional fill-in? This, this was why he had a randomiser button on the control panel, because whatever he was about to get himself into was going to be fun.

“Sure!”

“Oh, thank god,” sighed the production assistant, relief dawning across her face. “When Ally tested positive this morning, I thought we were sunk for the record, because we called around and we couldn’t get a hold of anyone. But then Sam said he could get someone in, and, you know, here you are, and just in time, so—ah, yeah, if you could follow me this way?”

Smiling all the way, the Doctor followed his guide through to hair and makeup, looking around as they went. The studio seemed to belong to a company called Dropout, according to the branding scattered around, and things seemed, at least on the surface, to be… well. Fine. He couldn't tell why he'd been brought here yet, which meant that when he found the reason, it was going to be particularly tangled. He couldn't wait!

And then he looked back at his guide, still engulfed in a miasma of anxiety, and realised he'd been too busy looking for clues to notice the person right in front of him.

“Hey, it's cool, you've found me,” he started with a gentle smile. “You can relax. Hi, I'm the Doctor. What's your name?”

“Oh!” she said, startled. “The Doctor, yeah, of course. Um, hi, I'm Kaylin. Look, sorry, it's just that I've been so busy this morning, I'm so distracted… Shit, and I would've completely forgotten to get your details too. There's paperwork to fill in, but you can do that later. Um, just for now, though, can I get your pronouns?”

The Doctor thought for a moment. “He/him, for now.”

Kaylin nodded, making a note on her phone. “Okay, cool! And do you have any socials?”

“Not me, babes,” he replied. “I'm hardly sitting down long enough to be able to update, you know?”

“On a day like this, I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “That's okay, Lou didn't have socials either for the longest time. Right, so if you go through there, the team will get you sorted, and once you're done, someone will take you up to the greenroom. All good?”

“All great,” the Doctor replied. Kaylin flashed him a quick, relieved smile, then hurried off.

Hair and makeup was a fairly quick process, the sound mixer fitted him with a microphone, and before too long, Kaylin was back to take him upstairs.

“This is the greenroom,” she said, pushing the door open. “The rest of the cast for the episode are already here—they’re great guys, and they’ve both been on the show a lot, so they’ll be able to help if you’ve got questions. And if you need anything else, just come find me or any of the other PAs, okay?”

The Doctor nodded, beamed at Kaylin, and walked in.

---

The greenroom was small but comfortable, and its occupants, two men around the same age as the Doctor appeared, looked up as he entered.

“Oh, you’re new,” the taller of the pair said, clearly giving him the once-over.

The other sighed with a mixture of fondness and exasperation, just as clearly used to his friend’s antics.

“Hey, I’m Brennan,” he said, levering himself up to standing from his perch on a chair arm, and holding out a hand. “That’s Grant.”

The Doctor took it warmly. “The Doctor. Just passing through, and happy to help.”

Grant’s eyebrows quirked. “Doctor… something?” he prompted.

“Or is it just ‘the Doctor’?” Brennan asked.

“Just ‘the Doctor’,” the Time Lord confirmed cheerfully. “You’ll get used to it, everyone does.”

Grant didn’t look convinced, but—

“Copy that,” Brennan shrugged, and settled back on the arm of the chair, returning his gaze to the door.

Grant, in turn, looked at the Doctor and rolled his eyes in a clear expression of ‘no, I don’t know why he’s like this, either’.

“Okay,” the Doctor said after a moment of watching the watching. “I wasn’t going to ask, but now I think I have to. What’s up with the door?”

Brennan huffed a laugh. “Well, the last time there was one of those up—” he pointed to the Out of Order sign stuck to the bathroom door, “—we got locked in here for the game.”

“He’s paranoid,” Grant interjected.

“Well, yeah, maybe,” Brennan retorted. “Or just cautious. Because Sam’s been acting weird lately, and we’re coming up to the last few records of the season, so he’s probably planning something way out of the box for the finale. And the original cast was you, me and Beardsley, so…”

He shrugged one shoulder meaningfully, and Grant nodded, conceding both the point and the potential for chaos.

“So if Sam comes in to give us the briefing, rather than waiting til we’re on set,” Brennan continued, “or there’s anything else weird going on, I’m gonna know about it right from the beginning.”

He turned to the Doctor. “The only reason I'm not quizzing you is because I know for a fact Beardsley was genuinely scheduled for this, so you can't be a plant by the production team. No offence.”

“None taken,” the Doctor smiled. “That sort of thing happen often, does it?”

Grant and Brennan exchanged a look.

“More than you'd think,” Grant answered with a grimace.

“Alright,” the Doctor said slowly, then brightened. “So what is it we're actually doing?”

Grant gave him a disbelieving glance. “You don't know—?”

“Very last minute fill-in,” the Doctor said breezily. “But don't worry, I'm a quick study.”

“Well, you're not that much worse off than the rest of us,” Brennan said encouragingly. “You know about Game Changer, obviously, if you know Sam, and we only find out the rules of the game once we get on set. Hopefully,” he added, with a dark look back at the Out of Order sign.

The Doctor nodded. No, he didn't know Sam, and he didn't know Game Changer, but he could work out the situation from context clues. This was a game show. And with the Toymaker banished, and Satellite Five not coming into existence for another 198000 years, give or take, he found himself smiling. Maybe third time would be the charm.

“Mmm, hopefully they aren't going to throw you in the deep end,” Grant said. “Because Brennan might seem lovely now, but as soon as we get out there, he's a whore for points. He'll stab you in the back and won't even blink.”

Brennan barked with laughter. “Yeah, and you wouldn't?”

“Excuse you, I'm always a goddamn delight,” Grant replied, the very picture of injured dignity.

“Oh, absolutely!” agreed a new voice. The Doctor turned to the now-open door to see a bearded man in a pinstriped suit smiling broadly. “That's why we keep inviting you back!”

Grant bowed sarcastically. “Why, thank you, Sam. Good to know I'm appreciated by someone here.”

“Always,” Sam replied, gently but firmly ending that particular path of the conversation. He scanned the room, and his eyes lit up when they landed on the Doctor.

“Ah, you must be the Doctor!” he said with obvious delight, walking over with his hand outstretched. “I'm Sam—thanks for filling in for us, you've made sure we're going to have a good show. Seriously, it's a pleasure to have you here.”

“Aw, cheers!” the Doctor smiled, shaking the offered hand. “Glad I could help out, I'm really looking forward to this!”

“Well, great!” Sam exclaimed, then took a step back, regarding all three players in turn. “Now, folks, I'm just letting you know that we're just about ready to start the record, so if you can start heading down, that'd be great.”

Grant and Brennan nodded—Brennan, the Doctor noticed, with relief.

“See you down there,” Sam said, smiling. “Have a great show, and—”

His eyes caught on the Doctor's for a second, twinkling.

“Good luck.”

---

Backstage, the Doctor, Brennan and Grant were marshalled into podium order and given a final briefing from the crew. And then, with a thumbs-up from Kaylin, that was it.

Showtime.

“Get ready for a Game Changer!” came Sam's voice from onstage. “Tonight’s guests: he can shoot off a monologue with laser accuracy; it’s Brennan Lee Mulligan!”

Brennan, his back to the camera as the curtains opened, spun on his heel and, with a stone-cold expression, pointed finger guns straight down the barrel, before letting the facade crack open. “Hi!” he exclaimed, and walked over to the leftmost podium.

“It’s his first appearance, but he’s already on fire; it’s the Doctor!”

The Doctor leant against the archway to the stage and flashed a broad smile towards the camera, then in a few skipping steps, had bounded over to the next free podium. What the hell, why not make an entrance?

“And even in the toughest of mazes, you’ll always be able to find him; it’s Grant O’Brien!”

Grant dipped his lanky frame into an approximation of a curtsey, spreading his arms wide, then sauntered over to the closest podium with a grin.

“And your host, me!” Sam announced, a ring of manic white showing around his irises as he beamed down the barrel of the camera. “I’ve been here the whole time!”

“This,” he continued, pushing his microphone shut and stowing it in his jacket pocket, “is Game Changer, the only game show where the game changes every show. I am your host, Sam Reich!”

As he said his name, he looked at his hands, front and back, as if he was pleasantly surprised to be himself, then gestured towards the three podiums.

“I am joined today by these three lovely contestants! Now, you understand how the game works.”

“Of course not,” Grant started. “You know we don't.”

“We can't, Sam, that's the whole point of the theatre you've set up here,” Brennan said over him.

“Not yet,” was all the Doctor said, anticipation starting to drum a tattoo of excitement against the inside of his ribcage.

“That’s right!” Sam said brightly, shooting finger guns at the camera. “Our players have no idea what game it is they’re about to play. The only way to learn is by playing. The only way to win is by learning, and the only way to begin is by beginning! So without further ado, let’s begin by giving each of our players fifty points.”

The Doctor, biding his time, watched the reactions of his fellow contestants. Grant looked at the front of his podium, checking the point total, and nodding approvingly when he saw that yes, it was sitting at a round fifty. Brennan, on the other hand, was starting to frown.

“Players, Sam says: touch your nose,” Sam began, and Brennan sighed the sigh of someone who wasn’t happy to be proved right.

“Oh, no,” he groaned. “Oh, you son of a bitch. Wasn’t one this season enough?”

He touched his nose anyway, as did the others, and Sam smiled encouragingly. “Sam says: touch your ear.”

When they all did, Sam nodded. “Touch your other ear.”

Everybody held still, fingers on the ears they had originally touched.

Sam beamed. “Easy, players, right?”

“You say that now,” Brennan said darkly. “Which makes it worse, because all you're doing is setting us up for failure.”

Sam gasped, pretending offence. “Would I do that?”

“Yes,” Brennan and Grant replied in unison, which drew a grin from the Doctor and set Sam off chuckling.

“And I'm not having it,” Brennan continued, leaning his elbows against his podium and pointing at Sam with the hand not touching his ear. “You better watch yourself, because I know how this game works, and you're not going to get one over on me.”

“Strong words, Brennan!” Sam said, clearly delighted by this response. “Okay, then, let's start making things a bit more interesting!”

The game continued as per Sam Says usual, some rounds done as a group and some individual. Points were won, sure, but lost slightly more frequently, and even the Doctor found he was having to concentrate to avoid getting caught in the host's traps.

It was fun. Genuinely, it was like playing a game with friends, and the Doctor felt himself leaning into it. There wasn't any sign of danger—maybe there wasn't a mystery to solve at all, and the TARDIS just decided he needed a total break.

Well, probably not. But the way things were going, he was able to let himself hope.

“Alright, players,” Sam said a good few rounds in, just as pleasantly as he would start any other question, and the screen behind him dinged as a new prompt popped up. “Survive the death beam.”

For a second, everything was frozen perfectly still.

And then came the crash, the explosive noise of heavy machinery moving relentlessly through a drywall set.

The Doctor was already moving. “Everyone down!”

“Duck!” Brennan yelled at the same time.

The two of them hit the ground within milliseconds of each other, but Grant was still paralysed in the face of the giant, science-fiction type laser cannon that had just ploughed through the wall.

It whined ominously, screaming its way to fever pitch. And then a sharp pain in Grant’s ankle made him stagger, pitching forwards onto the carpet behind the podiums as the Doctor rolled away to avoid getting pinned.

“Sorry, babes,” the Doctor whispered. “But it was either kick you to get you down, or—”

A hideous metallic screech ripped through the air, and all three of them could feel the crackle of ozone as a beam of energy swept across what had, moments ago, been neck height.

“…Or that,” the Doctor finished with a grimace.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Grant breathed, suddenly very conscious of every inch of his 6’9 frame. “Thanks.”

“Well done, players!” Sam exclaimed delightedly from above them. “But… sorry, I didn’t say ‘Sam says’, so that’s a point off for everyone.”

“What the fuck!” Brennan snapped.

“Are you actually insane?” Grant demanded at the same time, his voice overlapping with Brennan’s.

In response, Sam just wheezed with laughter. “You can come back to your podiums,” he said, cheerfully ignoring them.

Nobody moved.

“Very good!” he acknowledged, and even without seeing his face, the grin was obvious in his voice. “Okay, Sam says: come back to your podiums.”

Although the words were innocuous, and his tone was just as light and breezy as usual, there was nevertheless an edge hiding just underneath the surface. And while the death beam loomed large in the minds of all three players, it was impossible to consider disobedience as an option.

Slowly, they stood, returning to their places. Now they had the time to look at it properly, the death beam was even more sinister, and Brennan and Grant both kept flicking nervous glances its way, ready to move if it looked like it was charging up again.

The Doctor, however, was focused purely on the man standing in front of them. Unbothered, Sam met his gaze like a challenge, a mischievous smile playing about his lips.

“Oh, you’ll love this one,” he said, and the screen changed. “Sam says, starting with Grant: say my name.”

Grant frowned in confusion, but answered quickly nonetheless. “Sam Reich?”

The man himself shrugged tolerantly, moving on. “Brennan?”

Brennan just stared at him coolly. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“Well caught, Brennan!” Sam said happily. “Sam says: say my name.”

“Sam,” Brennan replied, suspicion clear in his voice. “Samuel Dalton Reich.”

He nodded, still with a hint of indifference. “And lastly, Doctor.” His smile broadened. “Sam says: say my name.”

It was easy. Too easy. And as the Doctor looked into the eyes of the man calling himself Sam Reich, he felt his hearts stutter in recognition, because something had changed. He wasn’t hiding himself anymore, and while the face was different yet again, the Doctor would know the shape of that soul anywhere. It was impossible. It was inevitable.

“You can’t be,” he breathed.

Sam smirked, leaning in across his podium. “Oh, but Doctor… I’ve been here the whole time,” he stage-whispered with a wink.

“He said you lost,” the Doctor said, shaking his head, looking wrong-footed for the first time that Brennan and Grant could recall. “You lost, and he trapped you.”

The other two watched, uncomprehending, but Sam just smiled, drumming his fingers against the podium with an audible beat, fast but distinct. Four taps, four taps, four taps. “I’m waiting.”

The Doctor took a slow, deep breath. Set his jaw.

“Master.”

---

missed an installment of the game master cinematic universe?

original idea by @ace-whovian-neuroscientist: x

art by @northernfireart concept: x scissor sisters sketch: x sam and his doppelganger: x

writing by me (!) part one (escape the greenroom): x part two (deja vu): x part three (sam says 4): you are here!

#game master #sam reich!master #doctor who #dw #dropout #game changer #you know what let's chuck some character tags in here #15th doctor #the master #sam reich #brennan lee mulligan #grant o'brien #kaylin mahoney #clari speaks #clari writes #ah darlings i'm putting my chat down here rather than in the post body for once #so i've thought of this whole saga as 'part three' but i will be a) titling them all and b) just keeping on numbering the parts sequentiall #rather than 'part three part one' etc #otherwise we're getting into homestuck act titling territory and that is ground i do not wish to tread #also fuck i hope i've got the time zones right #i'm planning to post this when an episode of game changer would ordinarily be released. to plug the gap. to tide us over.#(the finale trailer is so delightfully unhinged and i cannot wait til next week)#anyway gang this one was wild #the slight but significant genre shift from 'game changer with doctor who elements' to 'doctor who with game changer elements'#it was fun to write! and hopefully fun to read :)#also i MUST say that eugene northernfireart has a baller comic in the works that this entire thing is based on #this is thousands of words of setup and continuation because the sketch idea was so good it possessed me #and we decided that it had to be a proper dw episode #(hey rtd hire me pls)#anyway eugene is on hiatus bc of life so in the meantime go give him love and be Fuckin Hyped for the comic when it appears bc i know i am

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butchcarmy · 7 months

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ALEXITHYMIA CH 3: nightmares, pepto, and fire

Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

ao3 link ch 1 ch 2 ch 4

Chapter Rating: M (7.9k)

Chapter Summary: Carmy can't run from how he feels anymore. His dreams, his conversations with his coworkers and friends, everything is forcing him to face reality. Upon being pushed to his limits, he will finally have to start to speak the truth.

content tags: wet dreams, repressed carmy (as per usual), self deprecation, mental illness

A/N: Carmy gets a wet dream AND a nightmare this chapter! I'm putting him through the ringer babes… I had a lot of fun with the drama, interactions, and imagery this time. Also fun fact, this is the end of what I refer to as "Act 1" in my notes! Act 1 consists of repressed Carmy to the max, barely even acknowledging his feelings… but that's gonna change after this chapter :) enjoy!

After a torturous day at work, one that makes his limbs feel like lead, Carmy is more than relieved to see the door to his apartment.

Surprisingly, though, it swings open without him even touching it. He's too tired to think twice about it. He steps inside, and the first thing he sees is his roommate. They're dressed exclusively in a black apron, just like they were that other night.

“Hi, Carmy,” they say quietly, and their makeup is messy and dark just like that night they were trashed. He remembers how he felt the first time he saw them like that, because he feels it now. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” he hears himself saying.

They walk up to him, and suddenly, they're on top of him. Their hands press gently against his tense shoulders. His back hits his bed, pillows under his neck.

“You snooped through my stuff, didn't you?” Their hands move behind them to drop their apron, revealing skin, skin, and more skin. It goes on forever.

“Sorry,” he mumbles half-heartedly, distracted by their nakedness.

“Hm. I don't think you're all that sorry, but…that's okay.” They drag their hand down the center of his chest, slowly, teasingly, lovingly. “I wanted you to see.”

A bottle of lube materializes in their hand.

“You did?”

“I did,” they whisper. They uncap the lube with a low pop, and suddenly, their skin is shiny with it. Carmy runs his hand down their chest, squeezing, and it's slippery to the touch. “You wanna see what I like to do with this?”

“Please,” he whispers back, breathless, desperate for it. They smile, and it doesn't quite look like them. Heat circles in his gut nonetheless.

“You're so sweet,” they say quietly. “I love that about you.”

He can't respond, not with the way they're touching him. Not that he can come up with a response to that. The pleasure is like fire under his skin, hot, alive, and painful.

“Don't say that,” he pleads, and it feels so good.

“Why not? It's how I really feel about you.”

Their mouth is on his neck now. He can barely breathe. A part of him worries that there's gonna be lipstick marks he'll have to get off again, but he honestly couldn't care less. He'll go to work covered in lipstick marks if he has to.

“Shut up,” he tries again, but it's even weaker this time.

I'm gonna end up hurting you, he wants to say, but he can't.

“Don't you like how good I can make you feel?” They lean up to seal their lips against his, and smoke fills his mouth. He takes it in like water. The high hits him immediately, along with the spike in pleasure.

“I'm close,” he whispers, bucking against their hand.

“Me too.” They straddle his waist then, a playful look in their eye. “I know just the thing…”

Just as they go to unbutton his jeans, an alarm screams into his ear, and his eyes fly open to see his bedroom ceiling.

Stunned, he slams his hand down to shut up his alarm. He lays there in the silence, slowly processing everything. From the moment he woke up, his heart's been racing.

He moves to sit up, get a sip of water, and that's when he feels how sticky his boxers feel.

“Motherfucker,” he mutters under his breath. He doesn't even have any water on his nightstand, and he just came in his sleep for the first time since highschool. “Shit.”

The shame is too much. He has to sit there for several more minutes in silence before getting himself clean.

There are no words to express the emotion he feels as he changes his boxers and wipes himself down. It's a strange mixture of guilt, shock, and lingering arousal. He needs to make sure he doesn't think about it at work unless he wants to walk around with an obvious bulge in his pants.

You need to head into work so you can stop thinking about it, he tells himself, to which he agrees.

He does his best not to think about it on his way to work, which only garners minimal success. In other words, it's a spectacular failure. It's a miracle he doesn't clock in with a poorly concealed boner, but there are other factors.

For one, his nausea. It crept up on him soon after waking up, and it looks like it's here to stay. It's fine, though, because he's used to his stomach being fucked. His brain is on fire and so is the rest of his body—just as usual. He'll just take some pepto when he gets to work.

Except that when he reaches for it on the bathroom shelf, there is no pepto bottle. That's when he remembers the way he chugged the rest of it the week before. So the nausea remains.

When he arrives, the comments about the lipstick mark being gone is unavoidable. His irritation is also naturally unavoidable. His sour mood does him no favors. However, in a twisted sort of luck, he realizes they're behind on far too many things, and he hones in, focuses on nothing else. Everyone else is too swamped with work to keep up the teasing.

The lunch rush is expectedly awful, especially with the swelling tensions in the kitchen. Everyone gets through it with minimal screaming.

Staying busy is supposed to help. Keeping himself occupied is supposed to help, but the moment the lunch rush ends, the nausea hits him at full blast.

“You look like shit,” Richie kindly tells him. A ‘fuck off’ sits on the tip of Carmy's tongue, but so does the feeling of bile, rising in his throat. “Wow, you really are sick, aren't you?” He remarks at Carmy's lack of response.

In as little words as possible, Carmy relays to everyone he'll be in his office.

He keeps the lights off and the door cracked as he falls back onto his chair. The world around him seems to settle like sand. It's been a while since he's dealt with nausea this bad. He counts that as a blessing in itself.

The darkness and the quiet is nice. It relaxes his body. On the flipside, though, there's no noise to overpower the thoughts he's running from.

He closes his eyes, and he sees imprints of his dream. He feels their mouth on his neck, their voice in his ear, their hand on his—

Carmy slaps a hand on his forehead. Then, he sighs, dragging it slowly down his face. His stomach twists inward into itself.

He thinks about seeing his reflection in the mirror last night. His skin was free from the lipstick mark that everyone was relentlessly teasing him about. And yet, he was struck with a profound sense of disappointment.

You liked seeing it there, a voice somewhere hidden in him whispers.

Carmy really feels like throwing up now.

He settles in the darkness for a while longer until a notification lights up his screen, briefly illuminating the room with a low white light.

His first instinct is to groan and flip his phone face down, which he follows about halfway through until he sees the contact name.

The text message is from the person haunting his dreams and his waking life.

- hey thinking abt cooking chicken and rice tonite or something. u want some??

Just when he was able to get a break from thinking about them. Just like that, they're orbiting his brain again.

Visions of them jacking him off aside, he's unsure what to say. He doubts he's gonna be able to get anything down today. This isn't the first time something like this has happened on his end.

> maybe tmrw, stomach is fucked today. ill take leftovers if u make some

- oh no :( feel better man. u got medicine?

> no but its ok, ill take some after work

- but thats so far away!

He can't help but smile, even if looking at the screen isn’t making his nausea any better.

> ill be ok. ill make it

He’ll make it because he has to. No one else is gonna run the place for him. That’s a part of what makes him stand up, take in a breath, and return to the kitchen. The other part is the familiar distant sound of arguing. He slips his phone in his back pocket, stands up, and gets back to work. No matter how begrudgingly it may be.

A number of problems quickly make themselves clear to him. First, the toilet’s busted again. Two, the plumber won’t be here for another three days. Three, the cash register isn’t working. Four, the meat order got delayed. Carmy doesn’t even wanna start worrying about that last one yet with how awful it’s gonna be.

“When is Fak gonna get here?” Carmy asks Richie. They’re stationed at the front, taking the lack of customers while they can.

“He said he'd be here soon.” Richie's fucking with the aforementioned cash register. Carmy’s leaning against the counter, watching him aggressively jam receipt paper into the machine out of the corner of his eye. It's refusing to print receipts again. “He said to tell you to not get your hopes up. He's not a plumber.”

“I know, but he's got the best chance of fixing the thing.”

“I'm telling ya, if you just let me fuck around with it—”

“You don't know how to fix a toilet by watching youtube tutorials,” Carmy mutters.

“So you wanna have to keep going across the street to take a piss?”

“Cousin—this is my restaurant, not your goddamn apartment—”

“Alright, then be my fuckin’ guest—”

He's so in the middle of arguing that he doesn't even hear the bell on the door ring when it opens.

“Look, Fak's gonna be here in a couple minutes,” Carmy says, pinching his eyebrows together, “and then you can fight it out like alphas or whatever the fuck you were saying. Okay? God—”

When he straightens up, pushing himself off the counter and turning back towards the front, the last person he expected to see stands right in front of him.

They've got this bashful smile on their face, and their cheeks are flushed from the cold. Their hair sticks out from their beanie in a way that Carmy insists is not cute at all. Not one bit, not even the way it's messy when they yank it off.

He also insists to himself that the color on their cheeks doesn't remind him of his dream. Not at all. Not even a little bit. No way. No matter how much the visuals are rampaging in his brain.

“I was sorta worried I wasn't in the right place,” they admit.

“What're you doing here?” Carmy blurts out, even though he immediately recognizes it for how rude it is.

“Uh—” Nerves flash across their face. They hold up a little paper bag. “Sorry for just showing up, I just wanted to bring you some things.”

“No—don't apologize, I shouldn't have just…” He trails off, unable to find the words. He studies the bag in their hand. “Sorry. What did you bring?” He asks, softer this time.

“I know this might be a bit much,” they clarify nervously. They walk up the counter and set the bag down before him. “It's just, you were saying that you weren't feeling well, and I was in the area doing some shopping…”

Carmy reaches inside and pulls out several things. The items reveal themselves to be a small, green bottle of papaya pills, a little bag of ginger candies, and most importantly, a bottle of bubblegum pink pepto bismol.

As he stares at the items, a tiny flower blossoms in his chest.

“You really didn't have to get all this,” he says softly after a beat of silence. He stares at the items for a moment longer before looking up at them. There's an odd feeling in his chest.

“I wanted to. Seriously.” They still look oddly bashful, and it's captivating. “I mean, you helped me out a ton the other night, so…”

“You didn't owe me anything.”

“Then consider it a gift.” Their smile so effortlessly dazzles him. “Unless I can't give you gifts?”

“Yeah—I mean, no, you—” Carmy fails to stifle a quiet laugh at how ridiculous he sounds. They so easily fluster him. “Thank you,” he says finally, remembering himself. “This is…really nice.”

“I hope it helps,” they reply, and he tells himself the color on their cheeks is still from the cold. He tells himself that they're the one that looked into his eyes first, so it's okay for him to look back. “If you end up not liking it or needing it, though, it’s fine. Do whatever you want with it.”

“No, I appreciate it. Thank you,” he says again.

They're beautiful, he thinks all of a sudden, and the thought is so potent he can't hide from it for a single second. His anxiety tells him that they're gonna hear his thoughts if he keeps thinking so loudly. The bliss of tracing his eyes over their features is worth it. He's not sure if he feels any less nauseous, staring at their darling face like this, but he can't deny he likes the way this feels. His chest aches.

Then, the obnoxious noise of someone clearing their throat reminds him that they're not alone.

“Cousin.” Carmy's head whips around. How could he forget that Richie was right there? It's incredible how silent Richie could be when he wants to. “You gonna introduce us?”

“Shit, right, uh—” Carmy fumbles, making a hand motion with no words to match. “This is my cousin Richie. And Richie, this is, uh, my roommate.”

Oh, how he's dreaded saying those words for reasons he will see in just a matter of seconds.

“So you're the roommate!” Richie makes a big show of it, eyebrows raised in dramatic shock.

“Yeah, that's me.” They shrug. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Can't believe you're roomin’ with this guy,” Richie says, slapping a hand on Carmy's shoulder. It is promptly shoved off. “Carmen's not an easy guy to be around, I know.”

“Oh, not at all! He's a great roommate.” Carmy feels the tips of his ears growing warm.

“Really?” Richie gives him a skeptical look. “Who would've guessed.”

“Fuck off,” Carmy snaps, but the way he mumbles makes it lack any intensity.

They don’t stay for long. Something about needing to run some more errands. A part of Carmy wants to keep them there somehow, although there’s no logical reason for that. If anything, the faster they’re out, the better. It gives Richie less time to say something scathing that ruins their perception of Carmy.

Not that you need any help fucking yourself over, Carmy thinks to himself distantly.

“Well, I hope the stuff helps.” They readjust their beanie on their head, pulling it over their ears. “I’ll see you at home?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you,” he replies. “Thanks again.”

“No problem. Bye!”

They wave to him and Richie as they leave. As soon as the bell above the door rings and they’re out of sight, Carmy feels Richie’s eyes on him.

Actually, he feels a number of eyes on him.

He turns around to see his fellow chefs peeking over the deli counter, standing in a row like a line of matryoshka dolls. They freeze when they see him, but they don’t make any move to run away. Absolutely remorseless.

“Back to your stations, chefs,” Carmy scolds them, but his meak words are quickly overtaken by noise.

“If the two of you aren’t dating, then what the fuck is this?” Richie picks up the paper bag full of medicine. “That was some sappy shit the two of you were pulling!”

“The two of you? What the fuck did I do?” Carmy spits back.

“What the fuck did I do,” Richie imitates, rolling his eyes. “Fuckin’ goo-goo eyes over here wants to know what the fuck he was doing.” Carmy snatches the bag out of his hand.

“You were makin’ goo-goo eyes at them,” Marcus agrees. His elbows are propped up on the glass counter.

“And if they’re bringing you medicine, it’s serious,” Tina adds with a sly grin.

“There’s nothing to be serious about,” Carmy insists. He feels like a broken record. “We’re just friends.”

“Friends that kiss each other,” Sydney comments. “Right. Of course.”

“We don’t—I’ve never—” He’s a tea kettle, and the lid on him is starting to rattle. “Chefs—”

“Cousin, loosen up already. Why you always gotta make shit so serious?” Richie throws an arm around his shoulder, but Carmy shoves it off.

“Because this shit is none of your fuckin’ business. That goes for all of you!” Carmy whips around, gesturing accusingly with his hand at the line of chefs. “Get back to work! Now!”

A sad chorus of “Yes, chef” resounds, and everyone despondently trickles back to their stations. All except for Richie, who is not a chef.

“They’re obviously into you,” Richie tries, and Carmy’s glare could burn two perfect circles into his face.

“Drop it,” he hisses.

“Why’re you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like a little bitch? You’re a pussy, Carmen. That’s what you are. A pussy—”

“You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

“No. Y’know what? I actually do have a clue, because I know you, Berzatto. You act like all that shit’s above you, but it’s not. And I’m tryin’ to do you a favor—”

“A favor? What fucking favor?”

“I’m trying to help you get a fucking clue! That’s what! Because you’re too dense to see what’s right in front of you!”

“Richie, I happen to be doing just fine without your help. I don’t need whatever the fuck you think helping me is!”

“Then explain this to me. Explain this little thing to me, Carmen fucking Berzatto. You and Claire—”

“Richie. Don’t.”

“That could’ve been a good thing. A great thing. The two of you—”

“I told you—”

“You were obviously into each other, and yet—”

“Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit!”

There’s a rage threatening to spew out of him, lava coursing under his skin and in his head. Richie’s looking at him like he knows he’s right, but he’s not. He’s not right about Carmy. He’s not right about anything. Not about any of this.

“Fak is on the scene! What is up, guys?”

With comedic (or arguably tragic) timing, Fak bursts through the front door with his heavy tool bag on one hand. Carmy and Richie’s heads both snap to him when he arrives. Fak freezes in his steps.

“Fak,” Carmy says.

“Finally,” Richie mutters. “Slow ass.”

“Uh…I’m getting the impression I shouldn’t be here right now. Should I be here right now?” Fak takes a step back towards the door.

“Yes, I really need you to look at the toilet,” Carmy says. Richie is uncharacteristically quiet, but Carmy can’t stand to look at him.

“If you say so.” Fak shrugs. “What’s the damage?”

“Mild to severe, depending on how you look at it,” is Carmy’s dry response.

The rest of the day, Carmy operates on autopilot. When he finally remembers to open the bottle of pepto, nausea surges in him at the sight of it. He manages to force it down. Miraculously, the toilet gets fixed, and even more miraculously, no one mentions the roommate again. Not even Richie. Although Carmy does sense how badly he wants to bring it up again.

His stomach continues its incessant rampage throughout the rest of the day. Despite improving since the pepto, it’s still generally upset. This nausea leads him back to his care package again and again throughout the rest of the day.

The ginger candies have a sharp flavor, maybe even a bit too much, but the sharpness grounds him. It also does admittedly dim the nausea. He wonders why he’s never bothered to keep him on his person.

“Chef?” Carmy’s cleaning his station when he hears Syd next to him. It could only be her, anyway—the sun has set, and everyone else has gone home for the day. He perks his head up to see her concerned expression.

“Chef,” he acknowledges back. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “Nothing wrong with me, I mean. I was actually wondering if, uh, you were okay?”

“Me?” The question surprises him. “Uh, yeah. I’m okay. Stomach’s better, so…”

“Oh, good.” She nods. “Stuff your roommate gave you working?”

“Yeah. It is.” He rolls the candy around on his tongue. “Hand me my knife?”

“Yeah.” She slides it over to him. “And, uh, I just wanted to say—I don’t mean to be nosy. I really don’t. Earlier, everyone was just gathered over the counter, and—”

“It’s fine.”

“I just wanted to see what the commotion was about—”

“Really, it’s fine,” he repeats, firmly. “They’re just like that, anyway.”

“I—Okay. Okay.” She exhales. “It’s just—y’know. I don’t wanna be an ass. I just…”

“You weren’t. You’re not.”

“I’m just…wondering about one thing.”

“...Yeah?”

“Why have you never invited them to family?”

“Family?” This question surprises him even more than the last. “Well, family’s for…family. Just the workers.”

“I mean, yeah. But, like, sometimes it’s not, right? Like, you let Marcus’ roommate come last week.”

“Marcus was on family anyway.”

“Sure. Right. You let me bring my friend recently, though.”

“You wanted to show her where you worked, didn’t you?”

“And Fak has family with us almost, like, all the time.”

“Fak is Fak,” Carmy reasons, and Sydney can’t argue with that.

“I don’t mean to be an ass,” she repeats. “I’m just curious.”

Right, he thinks. She asked a question. Why have I never brought them to family?

He’s never even considered it before. Bringing them to family. It’s not a habit to bring outsiders in, for lack of better wording, but it’s not necessarily off-limits, either. He doesn’t actually mind when others bring people in. He trusts them not to bring in anyone stupid. Mostly. As for himself…

He’s never had anyone in his life to bring before. Ever.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I guess I just never thought about it.”

“Huh.”

“Wouldn’t it be…weird?”

“Why would it be weird?”

“I don’t know,” he says again, “I just…I just thought…” He sighs. “I didn’t wanna deal with Richie, but…”

“Little too late for that,” Sydney notes in amusement.

“Little too late,” he echoes.

“Well. I was just curious. Sorry if that was weird.”

“Why would it be weird?” He jokes, imitating her from earlier.

“Shut up,” she shoots back with a grin. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s fine. It’s not weird.” He pauses for a moment, thinking about Richie. “Everyone else is an ass about it. Not you, though.”

“I try.” She grins. “I…I think everyone just gets excited because…it’s different. Seeing you with someone else like that.”

“Mm.” Carmy nods, and then pauses again. Lets it sink in. “Do I…” I shouldn’t ask this, he thinks, but he’s already started. It’s too late. “...Do I act differently?”

“Around them? Yeah. A little.”

“...” Carmy straightens up, taking a step back from his station. This is starting to feel weird. Really weird. “I do?”

“Kinda. You just seem…calmer, I think.” Sydney’s expression seems uncomfortable. “I dunno.”

“No, it’s fine. It was a dumb thing to ask.” Carmy’s making the executive decision to stop talking about this. “I gotta stay and sort through some stuff in the office, but you should head out for the night.”

“What, can’t afford to pay me overtime?” Sydney teases. Carmy rolls his eyes.

“Partially,” he jokes back, although it’s not much of a joke.

Nevertheless, it is almost 10 pm, so Sydney does indeed head out for the night. The whole place is eerily silent without anyone else there. There’s the sound of the rattling AC unit, noisy plumbing, and passing cars, but there’s a distinct lack of sizzling pans, knives against cutting boards, and shouting. It just feels strange, is all.

Carmy barely remembers to replace the bottle of pepto in the bathroom before heading out. He puts the new bottle there on the shelf, and as he stares at it standing there, he considers putting other gifts there too.

He returns to his office where the small bag of ginger candies and bottle of papaya pills sits. They’re seated on the corner of his desk. He goes to grab them, but for some reason, he doesn’t. They look like they belong there.

Then consider it a gift, he remembers them saying earlier. Unless I can’t give you gifts? If you end up not liking it or needing it, though, it’s fine. Do whatever you want with it, he hears them saying again.

A certain possessiveness grips him then.

It was a gift, he tells himself. For me. No one else.

He decides to leave the candies and pills on his desk. Those will be just for him.

When he finally gets home, it’s almost 12 am. He does his best to open the door carefully, but it’s as squeaky as ever.

He’s greeted with a surprising, although not unusual sight. His roommate is curled up into a sleep ball on the couch, snuggled into the pillows and blankets. The tv is playing some youtube video essay about lost media from the early 2000s. All the lights in the apartment are off, leaving the only source of illumination to be the tv screen.

Carmy carefully moves to turn the tv off. After he does, he turns to see if he’s woken them up. He hasn’t. They’re still in deep sleep. Very deep sleep, rather, with how they’re lightly snoring.

That familiar ache he gets in his chest when he sees them makes itself known. It’s the ache that pulls him in, forcing him to sit on the floor next to the couch. It’s something beyond his will that makes him gaze at their peacefully sleeping face.

His eyes trace their features like he was earlier when they stopped by The Beef, except this time, much more unabashedly. He takes note of the faint blemishes on their cheeks, the loose strands of hair in their face. The squish of their cheek against the pillows.

Cute, he thinks to himself, not for the first time, and he’s too tired to push the feeling away.

You’re different around them, he hears Sydney saying. Calmer.

I don’t know about that, he thinks. He absentmindedly brings a hand to brush their loose hairs out of their face. I don’t know how I feel when I’m around you.

A part of him wonders if he should wake them up. The part of him that wins is the part that doesn’t want to disturb the peaceful look on their face. He wouldn’t want to upset them.

He trudges into his bed instead, flopping wearily onto his mattress. It’s been a taxing day, right down to the moment he woke up this morning. His mind and body were both in shambles, and now, he’s exhausted.

As he falls asleep, he distantly hopes for a dreamless night.

. . . . .

“Where’s the olive oil? The pan’s heated. I need to start cooking the beef.”

Carmy stands before a pristine stainless steel pan. Next to him on the counter sits stuffed beef carefully wrapped in twine—beef braciole.

“Guys,” he repeats, annoyed. “Guys, have you seen the olive oil?”

He turns to see Michael and his roommate sitting at a kitchen island. They’re both opening cans of San Marzano tomatoes, although it’s definitely not a two person job.

“We haven’t seen it, Carmen,” Michael says. “Anyway, like I was saying—you should’ve seen his face. Really! When I told him I couldn’t work at the restaurant, it’s like I told him our dog died or something.”

“What I wouldn’t give to see that,” his roommate remarks, snickering and shaking their head. “Such a baby.”

Next to them, Carmy spots the bottle of olive oil. With a scowl, he snatches it.

“Hurry up on those tomatoes, guys, I’m gonna need it real soon,” he reminds them, irritation growing.

With the bottom of the pan coated in olive oil, he carefully places the beef into the pan. The sizzle is strangely whistle-like and high pitched. He inhales, searching for the smell of cooking meat and garlic, but he can’t seem to smell anything at all.

“Did he cry?” They ask.

“No, but he looked like he was going to,” Michael sneers, and the two of them are laughing again.

“You wouldn’t wanna work with a guy like Carmy, anyway.”

“Exactly. Exactly. He doesn’t really get it, y’know. How much of a colossal fuck-up he is. I can see it in him, though. I didn’t have the heart to tell him then.”

“That’s okay. I don’t blame you. He probably wouldn’t have been able to handle it.”

“He has no idea! And he thinks he’s fooling everyone so well, but the thing is—”

“He’s not.”

“He’s not! He’s really not.”

“Chefs, I need the tomato puree. Hand it over,” Carmy interrupts abruptly. When there’s no response, he turns around. They haven’t even opened one can of tomatoes yet. “Are you two fucking serious?”

They look at him, eyes wide, and then they’re laughing so hard they’re crying. They’re doubled over the counter, cackling and kicking their feet.

“You’re too easy to fuck with, Carmen,” Michael gets out between chuckles. “You’ve always been like that.”

Carmy ignores him and reaches for a can of tomatoes.

“Give me the fucking can opener,” Carmy snaps.

“Oh, you won’t need it,” his roommate answers.

As soon as Carmy grabs a can, it explodes in his face.

Puréed San Marzano tomatoes fill his hand and drip from his hair into his eyes. He steps back, staggered from the red explosion. Somehow it got all over him and not on anything else.

“Fucking shit!” He wipes his eyes, and that’s when he remembers the beef. He rushes back to the pan. It needs tomato purée now. He lets the splattered tomato drip from his hands into the pan, filling it with sauce. It sizzles and smells like smoke.

“I could always see you for who you really were, y’know. I always knew,” Michael goes on. “I could always see it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Carmy snaps. The growing anxiety in his stomach is tightening his body and ejecting the words out. “What the actual fuck are you talking about?”

“He’s saying that you’re just not a good person. That’s all,” his roommate reasons. Carmy tries to keep his eyes focused on the beef, hastily spooning tomato over it. The pan’s still filling with puree. It’s overflowing. “You’re just the sort of person who will never change. Once broken, always broken, y’know what I mean?”

“If you’re not going to help, then fucking leave!” Carmy snaps, finally. He whirls around and wipes all the cans onto the floor. They explode in glorious unison, staining the floors red. “Just get out and stop getting in my fucking way!”

“But you don’t want me to leave, do you?”

“I don’t care what you do, I just need to finish this—“

“No, you care. You care if I like or hate you. You care if I stay or leave. You care about me, Carmy. You really care about me.”

“I don’t fucking care about you. I never have, and I never will.”

The beef’s burning on the pan. It’s all burning.

“Oh, Carmy…” Their arms are wrapped around his torso, squeezing him in a gentle hug. “It’s too late for you to say that sort of thing. Not anymore.”

All of a sudden, there’s a gush of wetness that soaks through his shirt. He pulls back, and their mouth is oozing tomato puree. In an instant, Carmy knows they’re dying.

“Fuck,” Carmy curses. “Fuck!”

“This is what happens,” they say, gargling through mouthfuls of puree.

“Why?” He asks.

“Because it’s you,” they answer, and Carmy wakes up.

He wakes up stumbling back from the stove by someone pulling on his shirt. The stove has pots and pans filled with flaming frozen food. He can feel the blazing heat against his skin. The orange flames are flicking off the steel pans and arch towards the ceiling, reaching. As Carmy stumbles back, he falls to the floor, barely managing to steady himself with the palms of his hands.

There’s the familiar sound of the fire extinguisher, spraying out into the base of the fire. Propped up on his elbows, Carmy watches the fire shrink with a thumping heart. His heartbeat marches in time with the tune of the fire alarm, piercing and high-pitched throughout the apartment.

Carmy finally takes notes of his roommate, looking about as distressed as someone who just woke up to a fire in their own home. Their hair sticks up in several different directions as if they just woke up, which they…probably did. With a displeased grunt, they march over to the window to slam it open. The cloudy smoke compacted near the ceiling begins to trickle out.

“Fucking hell,” they mutter under their breath, coughing from the smoke. They turn around to look at Carmy, expression twisted with stress. “Dude. What was that?”

“I,” Carmy starts, but the words just won’t come. He tries to move to get up, but his legs aren’t moving.

“Carmy. Hey.” They lean down next to him, staring him in the eyes. He still doesn’t respond. “Carmen!” They snap, and he jolts.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he gets out. They help him up, wrapping his hand in theirs and yanking him upwards.

“We should step outside while the smoke clears.” They cough as they move to grab their coat.

“It’ll be fine, it’ll be gone in a couple minutes,” Carmy hears himself saying. He’s met with a blank stare.

“So this has happened to you before?” They open their mouth, as if they’re about to say something else, but they shake their head. “No, we’re not staying in here. We may smoke everyday, but this isn’t good for us. C’mon.”

He doesn’t quite feel his body moving as he grabs his wool jacket. He doesn’t feel it as he walks down the stairs, not even when he steps outside and the chilled night air whips at his face. He feels far, far away.

After leaving the awful song of the fire alarm, the quiet of the night is uncharacteristically loud. If he listens closely, though, he can pick out the sound of their fire alarm, distantly ringing. Or maybe that’s just his tinnitus.

The clicking sound of a lighter is what recenters him. He looks to his side to see them shakily holding a lighter up to their cigarette. After a couple more sparks, the flame lights.

They take a slow pull of it before wordlessly handing it to him. An olive branch of sorts. He takes it. They let the pool of smoke sit in their mouth, and then they exhale with a heavy, heavy sigh.

“What happened back there, man?” They ask quietly. “That was…” They sigh again. “That scared the shit out of me,” they whisper, and that’s what makes it all finally settle in.

Fuck, Carmy realizes with a pang. The realization starts in the pit of his stomach and drops lower and lower. Feeling returns to his body, and he feels cold inside and out. I really fucked up.

He can just imagine it—him, dead on his feet, sleepwalking into the kitchen. Grabbing the frozen food out of the freezer and turning the stove on high. Cooking nonsensically with plastic-wrapped chicken breasts and frozen peas. Too fucking asleep to stop the fire from starting, to stop the fire alarm that woke up his sleeping roommate on the couch.

“I used to sleepwalk, sometimes. When I was at culinary school,” he clarifies nervously. Shame douses him, coating him evenly like oil on a pan. “Or, sleepcook, I guess.”

He passes the cigarette back to them. They take it.

“Shit,” they mutter. “Never heard of anyone doin’ that before.”

“...Yeah. Me neither.”

The two of them are silent for a while before they speak again.

“Carmy—why didn’t you tell me? That you—” They laugh dryly, full of irritation. He doesn’t like seeing anger on their face, hearing it in their voice. He doesn’t know if he’s ever heard them sound like this before. “That you’re prone to cooking in your sleep? Don’t you think that’s something I should know? As your roommate?”

“I—I didn’t mean to hide it,” he protests, even though he did.

“We could’ve really gotten hurt, y’know.”

“You’re right, I know, it’s just—it hadn’t happened in so long, so I just thought that I had, that I was…”

I thought I was getting better, he wants to say, but it’s stuck in his throat. It won’t come out. As per usual, he can’t get the words out.

It always stays the same.

“...” Strangely enough, their face softens. “Must’ve been scary the first time.”

“What?” He wasn’t expecting their anger to dissipate so easily.

“The first time you caught yourself cooking your sleep. Were they all like this? With the fire and stuff?”

“Yeah. All the fire and stuff,” he confirms bitterly. A beat of silence. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. You shouldn’t have had to…put out a fire I made.”

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay you almost burned our place down, but…” The end of the cigarette sizzles, bright and orange as they inhale. “It’s not like you did it on purpose, did you?”

“Of course not,” he rushes to say, “I would never—”

“I’m just kidding with you,” they laugh. They exchange the cigarette again. “I know you didn’t.”

Impossible, Carmy thinks all of a sudden. The nicotine usually calms him, except not today. Not right now. This is impossible.

“I thought you were mad at me,” Carmy blurts out. He can’t compute seeing a smile on their face right now.

“I am,” they say calmly.

“Then why? Why are you—” There’s static in his head, fuzz filling his mouth. “Why aren’t you—you should be—fucking, I don’t know—why aren’t you yelling?”

“Do you want me to be shouting at you?”

“No! I don’t want that, I just—I just don’t understand.” There’s blood rushing in his ears. “I fucked up, so just—just get it over with already!”

“I—get what over with?”

“Just tell me that I’m a worthless piece of shit and that you were wrong for ever seeing anything good in me,” he spits out. His eyes feel hot. He doesn’t know where all these words are coming from. “I know you want to say it, so just get it over with. Please.”

A moment of silence, broken by the drive by of a car.

“...Is that really how you think I see you?”

“How could you not?” He laughs bitterly, shakes his head. Images of Michael flash in his head. “I’ve just somehow managed to convince you that I’m worth your time. I don’t know how, but…” Frustration surges inside of him. “But now you know,” he says, finally.

So this is how it ends, he thinks to himself. I knew it couldn’t last. Nothing ever lasts.

We’ll call it The Bear, he hears himself saying. Michael and him at Christmas. The drawing he made of the restaurant.

Michael’s dead, he hears Sugar sobbing over the phone. Her voice is crackly and broken through the speakers. Please come home. Please.

You didn’t even show up for your brother fuckin’ funeral, he hears Richie screaming. Your own fucking brother, Carmen! What the ever living fuck is wrong with you?

This is great, Carmy, Michael says softly to him, the gifted drawing of their restaurant in his hands. The house is on fire. There's so much fire. Thank you.

They don’t say anything for a while, opting to instead smoke their cigarette and stare distantly across the street. When they finally turn to look at him, their gaze pierces him. It’s that look that strips him bare, lays his soul out open for them to pick apart.

“You’re allowed to mess up on onions,” they say.

“...What?” Is all he can think to reply.

“When I was drunk, you told me about how you dropped some onions.”

“No, I remember, I just—why are you saying that now?”

“Because this fire is the same.” They tap the ash off their cigarette, the gray dust shattering in the wind. “People make mistakes, Carmy. It’s okay.”

“This is a lot worse than spilling some onions,” he reasons weakly. They just shrug.

“Objectively speaking, sure. I can’t deny that. But that’s not really what I’m trying to say…” They hesitate. “Can I speak plainly?”

“Please,” Carmy begs.

Two cars whiz by before they speak again.

“I can’t change how you see yourself,” they start. “I’m the same way. I think almost everyone is. I know I can’t make you less hard on yourself. If anything, that’s part of what made you into such an incredible chef.” They exhale shakily. “But this…with me…I don’t want it to push me away.”

“...I don’t want you to get hurt,” he confesses, messily. This isn’t like him, but he can’t seem to stop talking. I care about you too much, he thinks painfully.

“It’s impossible to go through life without hurting others. Look—I consider you a friend, Carmy. A good friend. And I thought you felt the same, but…”

“I do,” he interrupts urgently. “You’re one of the closest friends I have,” he confesses, and their smile is beautiful.

…I didn’t mean to say all that, he thinks, startled by himself. That was supposed to be, “I think of you as a friend, too.”

“Then fuck up some onions. You don’t have to be a perfect person. No one can be, and I don’t want you to be. Besides—I’m not stupid. You’re not tricking me about anything. I’m pretty good at making sound judgments of people.”

“I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were stupid,” he says quietly.

“I know you didn’t.” They keep being gentle, so gentle.

“I…I’m not used to this,” he admits, finally. He needs to be honest with them, regardless if saying the truth is like coughing up glass. “You're a good person. Really good. More than I'm used to, to be honest. I think…I think a part of me doesn't wanna believe it.”

“Oh.” Their pink cheeks could very well be from the cold, or from something else. “I—well. Thank you. That's nice to hear. But, ah, do you think I have some dark alter ego or something?”

“No, not like that. It’s just—there’s always another shoe, isn’t there?”

“Another shoe…” They hum. “Yeah. Unless there isn’t.”

“That’d be a first,” he says, and they laugh.

“True enough.” The distant sound of the train. “I'm not a perfect person, Carmy.”

“I know. I don't expect that.”

“Then stop expecting it from yourself.”

“...” He blinks, staggered by their bluntness. A million arguments begin and die on the tip of his tongue, but all of them feel as cheap as the last. He knows they're right, and there's not much room for argument there. “I'll try,” he says finally with a nod. It's all he can say.

“I say it like it's an easy thing to do. I know it's not.” Their smile is knowing, rueful. “I certainly haven't gotten over it myself.”

“You also…?” The implication lays silent in the air. They nod. “I’m sorry for starting a fire,” he apologizes again, because he feels like he has to. “And for…freaking out.”

“You are forgiven. But you don’t need to apologize for, like, having emotions. That’s fucked up.” They let out an abrupt bark of a laugh, and it makes him laugh, too. “Is it, like, a stress thing? The sleepcooking?”

You’re worthless, he suddenly hears a familiar voice saying. The head chef. You’d be better off dead. You don't deserve any of this.

“Usually,” he says simply. “I can’t really…predict when it’s gonna happen, though.”

“Unfortunate. I guess it’d be too easy if you could see it coming.” They put out their cigarette on the back of their lighter, flicking off the ash. “How are you doing now?”

“I’m fine,” he responds instantly, all on instinct. “I’m…better,” he amends, and they look happy with that. “I should be asking you that. Are you alright?”

“Not gonna lie, it was pretty scary, but I’m okay. I can look back at it as a bonding experience.”

“A bonding experience,” Carmy mutters, half out of amusement and half out of disbelief. “I guess you’re not totally wrong.”

“Nobody got hurt, right? And next time, I'll be ready.”

“There shouldn't be a next time.”

“No, I suppose not. But there might be, and that's okay.”

“But—“ He stops. “I'm sorry.”

“I know.” They pat his back.

“Do you wanna come to family tomorrow?” He blurts out.

“Huh?” They say, which is a pretty reasonable response. “I mean, probably. What is it?”

“Right, sorry. It's, uh, a thing we do everyday at work. One of the chefs cooks dinner for everyone, and we eat together. It's a way to, ah…have everyone get along, I guess.”

“Oh, cool!”

“And I'll be the one cooking tomorrow,” he adds hastily. God, why is this so embarrassing? “So. Yeah. If you wanna come, then…”

“You mean I get to have your cooking? Of course I wanna come,” they reply, their expression brightening. Carmy's stomach twists inward, giddy. “Oh my god, yeah. As long as it's not weird that I'm there?”

“Not weird,” he promises. “We bring people all the time. Not too many, of course.”

Except for me, he thinks. I barely even eat family enough as it is, let alone ever bringing everyone. You're the only one.

“Okay. Okay!” They make a pleased noise, stepping excitedly in place. “Then I accept. What time should I come?”

“We eat before opening, so come in around 2. The door should be open.”

“Sounds good.” They stop then, fixing him with a puzzled, amused look. “You're not just doing this because of what just happened, are you? Although I guess it'd be cool if you were—”

“I'm not, I'm not. I just…wanted to.” He's not being very convincing. To be fair, it's only half of a lie. “But I will. Make this up to you, I mean.”

“I'm just teasing. You don’t have to, but I won’t stop you. And…thanks for inviting me, I'm looking forward to it.” They yawn suddenly, eyes scrunching shut. “Think we're good to head back in now?”

“Probably, yeah.” He checks his phone. It's 1 AM. “Sorry for keeping you up.”

“It's fine, really. Besides, I did this to you the other night. And, uh—Carmy?”

“...Yeah?”

“I'm really glad you think of me as a friend,” they say, and it sounds like a confession. “I feel super lucky to have a roommate that I can call my friend, too. I…just wanted to say that.

There are countless unspoken sentiments that Carmy wishes he had the courage, the faith to say. I didn't know how important you were going to become to me, for instance. I don't know if I can go without your company anymore. I’m not sure if I've ever liked someone so much, and that terrifies me. I never wanted to admit how much I like you.

It's too much, far too much to say aloud, but at least, finally, he can admit it to himself.

It does not always have to stay the same.

“I feel really lucky, too,” Carmy says instead, and the words come easy, easier than they ever have before.

@zorrasucia

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