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carmyboobear · 1 month

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ALEXITHYMIA CH 4: piccata, bills, and ghosts

Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

ao3 link ch 1 ch 2 ch 3

Chapter Rating: T (9.1k)

Chapter Summary: Carmy realizes that this is what joy looks like, and when he looks that truth in the eyes, he finds himself blissfully unafraid. Their company is an indulgence he's finally allowing himself to have in its entirety, and it's beautiful. The world is both unfolding and combining, all for him, all because of them.

Tags: carmy being mentally ill, panic attacks, happy carmy, silly carmy, physical touch

A/N: Here's our fluffiest (and longest) chapter yet! But the hurt/comfort is also on full blast this chapter…This one really has it all. You'll see what I mean. Here's the also start of Act 2, in which Carmy is gonna be realizing…and he won't stop realizing…until he realizes it all. Also I am taking creative liberties with how family actually works. Enjoy!

It doesn’t always stay the same.

When Carmy looks in the bathroom mirror this morning, he feels as tired as he looks. Exhaustion resides in his dark eyebags and temperamental curly flyways. The fire from last night had interrupted the little sleep he was able to snag. Despite all the weariness, though, there’s something different about today.

He’s used to a blazing fire in his brain, constant in its sweltering heat and pain, but today, the fire lays low. There’s actually room in his head for quiet, for silence to exist. It’s not the dissociative emptiness he’s used to. He thinks he can only describe it as peace.

The thought almost makes him laugh with how ludicrous it is. Peace and him don’t typically mesh.

He remembers the fire last night, crackling in the containers of pots and pans before billowing upwards. He imagines a different outcome, instead pondering a future where his apartment burned down. Where their apartment burned down, and in this alternate reality, he stands in the ashes, unsurprised that he’s destroyed yet another good thing in his life. Then the grief of him realizing that it was the only good thing left in his life destroys him.

But when he looks at their toothbrush next to his, their shared crinkled tube of toothpaste, he comes back down.

He doesn’t know how he managed to keep them. Somehow, they’re here to stay, and they’re going to be at The Beef for family in half an hour.

“Corner,” he shouts, breezing through the kitchen with a container and shallots and garlic. He still needs to finish mincing them for family this afternoon—lemon chicken piccata. At least he’s prepped the rest of the ingredients already, along with the plates and utensils.

The peace in the morning was momentary, because of course it was. There’s a tangled yarn ball of anxiety knotting itself over and over inside him at the thought of them having family with him and everyone else. He pondered on his commute this morning if inviting them was the right thing. If it was an overstep, either with them or at The Beef, but then he remembers the way their face lit up when he asked, and the anxiety grows quiet. Well, quieter.

And as it grows quiet, it opens up the space for his excitement to be the loudest voice in his head.

“Lemon chicken piccata?” Sydney observes the prepped chicken, lemons, capers. As she looks, her fingers fiddle with the small golden hoops in her ear.

“Yeah. Thought this’d be a good way to have everyone try it again, get a better feel for it.” He cuts the shallot into thin slices before cutting into them again, mincing it into tiny pieces. He notes a distinctly ugly slice of shallot and tosses it. This dish needs to be perfect.

“Heard.” Sydney traces a finger over the edges of the stacked plates before stopping. “Uh, chef, I think you got an extra plate here.”

Carmy stops, looks up from the cutting board. Quickly counts the plates again. Looks back down.

“No, I got it,” he reassures her. When she raises an eyebrow at him, he adds, “I, uh, invited someone. My…roommate.”

“Oh.” Sydney doesn’t even try to hide the surprise on her face, or maybe she’s just so shocked she couldn’t. “That’s—that’s great!”

“Sorry I didn’t, um, give a heads up. Or something. Uh…” He pauses, looking at her, trying to search for more words.

“No, it’s fine! I’m just surprised.” She shakes her head, seemingly to herself. “But now that you mention it, yeah, a heads up next time could be cool.”

“Next time,” Carmy promises with a nod. Next time, he thinks wistfully to himself. Maybe there could be a next time.

“So…I’m guessing no one else knows that you invited someone,” Sydney says, harmlessly, just as Tina and Marcus decide to come back into the kitchen.

“Carmy invited someone?” Marcus makes his way back into the kitchen, a sack of flour in one hand and a tin of cocoa powder in the other. They slam onto the counter at the baking station, resounding with a dull thud. “Lemme guess. Is it the roommate?”

“It's the roommate,” Carmy confirms, before anyone else can get a word in. Now, onto mincing the garlic.

“Jeff!” Tina exclaims, aghast. “Why didn't you say something earlier?” She’s walking some extra vegetables to her station to prep. “Way to surprise us!”

“Who’s surprising us? With what?” Carmy raises his head, and when he sees who's just come back through the front entrance, he lowers his head with an aggravated sigh. Richie. The last thing he needs right now.

“Carmy's bringing a date to family,” Tina tattles helpfully. Although Carmy begrudgingly acknowledges that he would've had to bring it up eventually.

“Not a date, just my roommate,” he mutters. Not that anyone's listening.

“Carmen, Carmen, Carmen.” Richie makes a drama production of swinging the door open into the kitchen, stepping through it with arms outstretched. An overpowering scent of pine cologne accompanies him. “So you do listen to your cousin when he talks, huh?”

“I have no idea what he's talking about,” Carmy tells Sydney, who just shrugs.

“I'm proud of you, cousin. Really proud.” Richie slaps him way too hard on the back, jerking Carmy forward.

“Don't do that when I'm using a knife, you asshole!” Carmy snaps, elbowing Richie out of the way. “Stupid fuckin’ idiot.”

“Jesus, fine, fine, I'll get out of your way!” Getting cursed at did little to deter Richie's smug demeanor. “Fuckin’ princess. If anyone needs me, I'll be in the back.”

“We won't,” Carmy says, and Richie flips him off as he walks away.

“Carmy's bringing his roommate, who he is not dating, to family,” Marcus projects to the rest of the kitchen, and Carmy resists a groan.

“It’s not a big deal.” Carmy slams his knife onto another clove of garlic, crushing it. “I don't see why you guys have to make such a fuss about it.”

“Because it's fun,” Marcus replies with a broad grin. “Sorry, chef.”

“Let us have our fun. We never get to poke fun at you,” Tina says.

“That is just not true,” Carmy groans, and everyone’s laugh resounds into a mismatched chorus.

They tease him relentlessly for a couple more minutes until it dissolves into sparse chatter, for which Carmy is grateful. Peaceful lulls in the kitchen are rare, especially in this particular one. He takes it while he can get it, honing in, oiling the pan, pressing the chicken into the bubbling surface until it's golden. The others gradually filter out as he cooks, leaving him to cook on his own.

Then comes the familiar chime of the front door.

Carmy turns the stove off, takes the pan off the heat to check to see who it is. Surely enough, it’s the guest of honor.

“Hey Carmy!” They’re looking cute as ever today, maybe even a bit more dressed up than usual. Part of Carmy thinks that maybe they dressed up for him, and another part of Carmy strangles the other one to death. “Hope I’m not too early.”

“Hey, you’re fine. I’m just about to finish up.” He guides them into the kitchen with him.

“Smells incredible in here,” they comment. “Also, before I forget. Is there somewhere I could put my coat? Break room or somethin?”

“Yeah, we can put it in my office.”

Upon entering, Carmy becomes acutely aware of exactly how messy his office is. It's not like he didn't know. He created the mess, after all, but having someone new bear witness to his stacks of papers and stuffed file folders is…embarrassing, to put it plainly. To Carmy's benefit and luck, though, they're much too polite of a person to comment.

“So this is where you're holed up.” Their head turns to look at all the posters and papers hung up on the wall, still largely unchanged from Michael's time.

“Yep. It's all bookkeeping, along with more bookkeeping,” he informs dryly. “Here, you can hang that on my chair.”

“Thanks.” They drape their jacket on the back of his chair, and Carmy is suddenly struck with the impression that it feels odd to see it there. “Oh!” They exclaim, looking at something on his desk.

He follows their gaze to the papaya pills and ginger candies sitting in the corner.

“Ah, yeah.” Why does he feel embarrassed? “I really need to thank you again for that.”

“No need, but I’ll take it. I hope they actually helped.”

“They did. I actually, uh…” He digs around in his apron pocket and fishes out a candy. “I’ve been keeping them on me.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.” They beam at him, visibly brightening. It’s infectious, and he feels himself smiling a little back.

A period of silence falls between them. This sort of thing keeps happening as recent. It leaves them looking at one another, and it should be awkward. Yet it’s not. It’s strange and peaceful, and then because Carmy is Carmy, his heart starts squeezing and telling him he needs to get out of here.

“Did you sleep alright? After, uh, last night.” He’s not sure why he’s asking that now.

“Yeah, I was fine. You?”

“Okay,” he replies instinctually. “Sorta,” he amends. “I’m doin’ better.”

“That’s good. Better is good.”

“Yeah.” He exhales out his nose, runs a hand through his hair.

There’s the muffled sound of laughter in the distance, and it reminds Carmy that they’re not quite alone. That he still has dishes he needs to finish cooking.

“I need to finish back in the kitchen. Let me show you where we’re sitting.”

Minus a few faces, everyone’s already seated at the table for family. There’s some idle chatter floating in the air, but it drops to the floor as soon as Carmy enters. Makes him feel like a deer in headlights.

“Everyone, this is my, uh—“ Something in Carmy’s brain buffers. “My friend,” he finally decides. He introduces them to the four that're seated already, those of which being Sydney, Marcus, Tina, and Ebra. There’s a mix of enthusiastic hellos and simple nods in response. He turns back to his roommate—friend—whatever—and they’re waving back. “I'll be back soon. Sit wherever you want.”

“Sure thing,” they reply easily, and it makes Carmy feel a little less guilty about abandoning them.

To his credit, he does try to finish cooking quickly. All he had left was the sauce, and he already prepped all the ingredients. Between the aromatic browned onions, emulsifying the sauce with wine, and dousing the chicken in it, he couldn't have taken more than 15 minutes.

He wasn't sure what to expect upon returning. The worst possible scenario would be complete silence. Or screaming, but that was unlikely. On his walk there, though, plates in hand, he hears pleasant chatter.

“The coffee down the street is overpriced,” Carmy hears his roommate saying. There’s a murmur of agreement. When he walks in, he sees all the seats at the table are full. “Don’t get me wrong, it's not bad, but you'd get coffee just as good one block down the other way at—”

“At Ironclad?” Marcus guesses hopefully, leaning in.

“At Ironclad,” they confirm, and there's a mix of cheers and boos.

“Grit is better,” Sydney challenges. “More espresso bean options.”

“You make a compelling point,” they reply. “A latte for $4 though? In this economy? Just try and beat that.”

“It's less at 7-Eleven,” Richie chimes in, and everyone boos. “It's one of the pillars of the working class! Admit it!”

They're not like him, Carmy remembers. They're actually socially competent, and they can do well for themself in a group of strangers. Seemingly with little effort, they’ve already assimilated themself.

“Family's up,” Carmy announces, sliding plates into the table. “Lemon chicken piccata and caramelized rosemary potatoes.”

“Jeff, didn't you show us this last week?” Tina asks. She leans in to waft the savory smell towards her nose, and she hums in approval.

“Yeah, I did. I just thought it'd be good to make it for you guys.” He finishes getting the rest of the plates from the kitchen, making sure everyone has a plate of food in front of them. He can tell who's started eating by the pleased expressions on their faces. Other than the fact that their food has a dent in it, of course.

“Carmy. This is on fire,” Ebra praises, nodding in approval towards him.

“Ebra, it's ‘this is fire’, not ‘this is on fire’,” Gary corrects, amused. “But I agree.”

“Good, good,” Carmy says. He settles into his seat at the front of the table, which is…weird, actually. He doesn't remember the last time he's actually sat and had family with everyone.

“Actually eating with us for once, Carmen?” Richie points out. He says it like a jab, because that's always how he speaks, but it lacks the fight that it usually does. Carmy can hear what he's really expressing—I'm glad you're joining us.

“I am,” Carmy responds evenly. He feels his roommate's curious gaze to his right, but they don't say anything. That's when he notices that they haven't started eating yet. His mind supplies a million different reasons at once. None of them sound sane, so they'll go unspoken. “Not hungry?” he asks instead.

“No, I just wanted to wait until you were here.” They say it like it's not a big deal. “I always did it with my family growing up. Just a habit, I guess.” Now that they're saying it, some of Carmy's memories start to make more sense. He suddenly remembers sitting with them at home, and he had to take a call right before they were about to start their dinner. When he came back, their food was still untouched. He didn't think much of it then, but now…

“Oh, cool. That's…” In the time he's searching for a word, they've taken a bite. “How is it?” He asks instead.

“Fuck.” They're shaking their head like something's wrong, but it's obvious from the gigantic smile on their face that it's anything but. “Carmy. Carmy. You're crazy.”

“Am I, now?” He knows he's probably got a stupid expression on his face.

“So crazy. This is incredible.” They slice themself another piece of chicken. “These capers too, man. You actually made me like capers.”

“The capers made you like capers,” Carmy jokes, and they snort.

“No, that's severely underplaying your part in all this. Seriously, this is delicious.” They always get this glowing smile when they're eating good food. He's witnessed it in their shared kitchen, whether it's food from their mutually favorite joint or their own two hands. He's never seen them smile like this, though. It's a joy that's possibly unique to Carmy's own cooking.

Carmy doesn't know how to handle that. Not even a little bit.

“Glad to hear it,” he says instead, ignoring the fullness in his heart, and he starts eating.

“I’mma start this week,” Marcus begins. “I'm grateful for the fact that my roommate Chester actually managed not to spoil the episode I missed of this show we’re watching this past week. He’s still a jackass, though.”

“You can say it’s The Bachelor, we all already know,” Sydney teases. Marcus huffs, but he’s smiling.

“Just for that, you’re goin’ now,” he replies, motioning towards her with a fork.

“Sure, sure. Yeah, um, I’m grateful for my dad’s good health.” Sydney shrugs, nonchalant when there’s a group of “aww”s. “I am! He had this, ugh, awful case of bronchitis, but he's good now. It was scary. Tina?”

“Hm…” Tina chews thoughtfully as she thinks. “Oh! My dumbass son actually passed his finals. Even with some A’s!” She claps her hands excitedly and clasps them to rest under her chin. That gets a variety of cheers. “If he actually tries, he can be so smart. But not without stressing me the fuck out first. What about you, Rich?”

“Easy. I found that pine cologne that Marcus hates,” Richie says, smug.

“I noticed,” Marcus replies mildly. “Everyone hates it, by the way.”

“I smell like the fuckin’ forest! It's majestic as shit.” Richie makes a show of sniffing his shirt amongst all the booing mixed with laughter. That's when he looks to Carmy’s roommate, who's been politely listening and eating. “You wanna have a go of it, guest of honor?”

“Oh, sure. Something I'm grateful for, right?” They put down their utensils and thoughtfully rub their index finger across their chin. “Well…I’m feeling pretty grateful to be eating this delicious food. It's not often I get to eat food this good.” It's not that good, Carmy wants to say to combat the fluttering in his stomach, but it's far too contradictory. He made sure to make it good since they were going to be eating it. “How about you, Carmy?”

“Huh?” Carmy's been on autopilot, comfortable to watch everyone else. He's not much of a participant. Now everyone's got their eyes on him. “I'm grateful for, uh…”

I'm grateful for that smile you get when you eat my cooking, he wants to say. I'm grateful to have someone like you.

“I'm grateful to be in good company,” Carmy says. That receives a round of hearty reactions, including a look from his roommate that he can only describe as affectionate. He pointedly looks back down at his half-eaten plate when he feels his ears getting warm.

“Aw, you softie,” Richie snickers. “What, are we embarrassin’ you?”

“Shut it,” he mutters, but there's barely any heat behind it. His reaction only creates more laughter around the table. “Ebra, you go next.”

Little does Richie know what he's really embarrassed about. Everyone's teasing isn't helping, sure, but it's not his fellow chefs, it's them. It's their stupid smile that he keeps looking back at. It's that he knows it's from the food he made for them, it's that he doesn't know what to do with all these feelings taking up residence in his heart.

Between the energetic chatter and the cleaned off plates, Carmy realizes that a part of what he's feeling is happiness. It's an odd sensation, which says a lot about the type of person that he is. It's the truth, though. He's just cooked a good meal for people he cares a lot about, and the happiness that has come with that is weird.

Not bad weird, though. Good weird.

If anyone noticed how strange he looked smiling with a fork in his mouth, they didn't mention it.

Family goes by faster than Carmy is used to. That's what happens when you actually join in for once, he supposes. He just wasn't expecting it to wrap up so quickly. Or, it's more accurate to say he didn't want to see them go already.

“Guess you guys have to get ready for service now, right?” They've returned to his office to grab their jacket, giving the two of them a brief moment of privacy.

“Yeah. Service starts at 3.” He sighs, and they sympathetically return his sigh.

“Right. Well, I really enjoyed eating with everyone. And the food? Seriously, it was so good. You knocked it out of the park. I’m sure you get this all the time, but you’re seriously incredible at what you do.”

“I don’t hear that so much anymore,” he admits. “Not like I used to. Um…” He clears his throat, shakes his head. “I’m just glad you enjoyed it. I should really cook more outside of this place. Maybe cook for us in our kitchen for once.”

“You know I’m here for that. I could have your cooking any time,” they gush, like it doesn’t make Carmy’s heart palpitate. “I get it, through. You spend all day cooking here, I get that you don’t wanna come home and cook.”

“Yeah, but…it's different.” It's different because it’s for you, he wants to say, but as expected, he doesn’t.

“W-What?” Suddenly, their cheeks go pink. “Well, if you put it like that…”

“...” The realization buffers in his head before fully forming. He actually said that aloud after all. Too late to take it back. “Uh, yeah, I mean, I just think, I should give you a break from making leftovers for the week,” he stutters in a weak attempt to cover his accidental affection. “And, um, I just want to, because I…”

“Because…?” He’s taking way too fucking long to finish this sentence. Their face doesn’t betray any impatience, though. It never does, and seeing that makes him relax.

“Because I—like that you like my cooking.”

“I love your cooking,” they correct, their smile teasing.

“Um, right—you love—” he tries to fix his words again, but this one’s far too much to say. The butterflies in his stomach feel similar to nausea. The conflict must show on his face in an insane way, because their smile turns into a wide grin full of amusement.

“It was a good attempt.” That makes him laugh a little. “Hey, if you’re saying I get to bring your cooking to work this next week, I’m not objecting.”

“I’ll try my best.” His eyes catch the clock on the wall. He needs to wrap this up. “I’m not trying to kick you out, but I really gotta get back now.”

“It’s cool. I should be heading out anyway. I’ll see you at home?”

“Yeah,” he says, poorly hiding the affection in it, “I’ll see you at home. And, uh—thanks. For coming.”

“Of course. I had fun,” they say with a smile. “See ya.”

He watches them leave through the entrance, hearing that familiar sound of the ringing bell, and they're gone.

Carmy is left standing there with an odd warmth in his chest. It doesn't overwhelm him, doesn't suffocate him, just sits there. It's a strange, but nice feeling.

This is what happiness feels like, he realizes, and in this moment, fear is nowhere to be found.

. . . . .

The dinner rush is fine. It's just fine. It's just another thing for Carmy to get through, and he does. Just another obstacle between him and getting home.

A wishful part of him always hopes that they'll be able to close before 10, but it is a very lofty wish to make, especially on a Saturday. With great regret, he puts his car into park at 10:44 pm. The night air is frigid and awful against his brittle dry skin and cracked lips. He can't get to his front door fast enough.

Opening the front door sends warm gusts of heated air across his face. He can't help his relieved sigh, especially not when he sees them sitting on the couch. They’re dressed in a loose t-shirt and bike shorts, a combo that makes his heart pulse.

“Hey, welcome back.” They give him a little wave. He finds it surprisingly easy to smile and wave back. This strange joy keeps finding new ways to pop up. “How was the rest of your day?”

“Fine,” he says, because it was. It was fine. “Busy, but normal. You know how it is. Weekends.” They hum in agreement. He kicks his shoes off by the door, walks over to where they're seated. This is when he notices the laundry basket on the floor with stacks of folded clothes. They grab a sweater from the pile of clothes on the coffee table and lay it out on their lap. “Doin’ laundry?”

“Yeah. I'm trying to be responsible.” They smooth out the sweater, working out the creases in the collar with their fingers. “I think some of your socks ended up in the wash with my stuff.” They motion to a neat stack of miscellaneous white socks sitting on the coffee table.

“Oh, yeah. These are mine.” He picks them up, turns them around in his hand. “Sorry, guess I missed them when I was last doing laundry.”

“It's fine. They're just extra clean now.”

“And folded.” He does his best to put his socks down just as they were even though he’ll have to move them anyway. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” They pull up another piece of clothing from their basket. Carmy immediately recognizes it as they throw it over to him. It’s his boxers.

“Shit, sorry,” he apologizes on reflex, heating up with embarrassment. He crumples it up in his hand.

“It’s chill. Besides, didn’t you get one of my bras once?”

“Ah, yeah. I forgot,” he says, like he needed a moment to remember it. It’s all a facade. He couldn’t get that moment out of his memories he tried. It was very lacy, and it made him more nervous than someone his age should’ve been.

“Oh, I forgot to mention when I saw you earlier. I paid the water bill today. It was 48 something.” They lean forward to grab a white envelope. The monthly payment from the water company. They flip it open and scan the paper again. “It was—48 dollars and 19 cents, to be exact.”

“Lower than last month.” He is grateful to be discussing the water bill instead of their underwear. “Much lower, actually.”

“I’ve been trying to cut back on my 30 minute showers, and I’d like to think that’s why.”

“Good job,” he says jokingly, and they pretend to bow like they’ve won an award. “I still think 30 minutes is just a little too long,” he teases after. This is a familiar conversation.

“Maybe to you, Mr. 5 minute showers,” they scoff. They kindly don’t mention how little he actually showers. “I have a lot of serious business to attend to in there! Lots of meetings, lots of calls…” They snicker, and he makes a dismissive noise, but he��s smiling. He's never been good at hiding his amusement around them. “So, yeah. Just venmo me when you get the chance.”

“Already on it,” he says. As soon as he sends it, their phone dings with the notification.

“Thank you, thank you. And, ah, not to bombard you with more housekeeping, but I'm gonna try and go grocery shopping this monday. Wanted to ask if you need me to pick up anything.”

“Uh…” Detergent, coffee, soap, peanut butter, bread, chips, he notes in his head, rattling off a list. “I need a lot of stuff, so don't worry about it. Actually—” He turns to look at them, and they look up from their laundry with a curious look. “When were you thinking about going?”

“It's my day off, so anytime. What, wanna join me?”

“If you don't mind going in the morning, then yeah.” It feels weird, asking for accommodations like this. When you're running a business that keeps you until 10 pm everyday, though, you don't have a choice. “Like, 9 am?”

“Not earlier?” They smile knowingly. “I don't mind. We can do 8 am, if you want.”

“I wouldn't wanna make you wake up any earlier than you already have to on your day off.”

“It's no different to me, really. Besides, I'm offering.”

“Right. Uh…” I shouldn't push it, he thinks to himself with near certainty, but he stops. Takes a moment. They're offering. “Sure, then. 8 am.”

“8 am,” they reply easily. A wistful smile appears on their face. “When's the last time we've gone grocery shopping together?”

“I can't remember, so at least over a month.” That's also the last time I properly went grocery shopping, he remembers, but he doesn't want to share that.

“Way too long.” They shake their head. “It's just hard to line our schedules up. You think it'd be easier since we live together.”

“Y'think,” he echoes tiredly. “Not like I’m makin’ it any easier, being at The Beef everyday and all.”

“Well…yeah, I suppose not. It is a little scary how long you go without a day off.” They make a face. “When's the last day you've had a day off?”

“Dunno. Just got a lot to do…all the time.”

“All the time.” They sigh. “Is that really how it's supposed to be? Being a business owner?”

“When your business is fucked, yeah.” The growing distress on their face makes the corners of his mouth twitch in an amused smile. “Scraping by from week to week.”

“Damn.” They raise their eyebrows, shake their head. “I don't know how you do it.”

“I'm used to it.” It's the truth. The longer he thinks about it, though, the festering dread starts to creep out from the hole he's kicked it in. So he changes the subject before it can come out and choke him to death. “Mind if I crack open the window for a smoke?”

“Only if you don't let me join you,” they reply with a wide grin, and he laughs.

After changing out of his work clothes into a tank top and gray sweatpants, he sits himself at their designated window. He cracks it open just a smidge—it's too cold tonight. The cars are quiet, at least. He pulls his pack from his pocket and places a cigarette into his mouth.

“You want a cig?” Carmy asks when they take the empty seat across from him. Their smoking device of choice today is their water pipe. It looks like a juicebox from the packaging, shape, and the plastic straw arching out of it.

“Can I just take a hit off yours instead? Not really in the mood for a whole cig right now.” He wordlessly passes his lit cig to them. They take a slow hit, the orange glow creeping up it. They look down at it and frown. “Sorry, I got a little lip gloss on it. I didn't realize I still had some on.”

“It's fine.” He takes it back and inspects it. Little oily pink smudges lay in a messy circle on the filter. “As long as it's not like that other lipstick.”

“God, no.” They drag a hand over their face. “I know I keep saying it, but I'm so sorry about that. That was mortifying.”

“Don't worry about it. Dust under the rug.” When he brings his mouth back around his cig, a faint stickiness clings to his lips. He bulldozes through the jittery feeling it brings with it.

They sit there smoking side by side for a minute. His gaze flickers between the moving city scenery out the window and the sight of them smoking from their bubbler. Clearly one is more captivating than the other. He watches the translucent smoke fill the glass, go up the straw, and out of their lips.

They catch him staring. His only saving grace is that he doesn't flinch.

“You want some?” They ask, turning the bubbler towards him. So that's what they thought he was doing. He can live with that.

“Sure, if you're offering.”

“Yeah, I am. This one's real sleepy shit, just so you know.”

“Good. I need that tonight.” The taste of the weed is strangely floral as it goes down, but he can't place what it is. “Did you mix this with something?”

“Not this time. Tastes weird though, right? It's kinda…detergent-y. One of my friends says it tastes like dryer sheets.”

“So am I smoking laundromat weed? Tide pod weed?” It's a stupid joke, but Carmy finds that the dumber the joke, the harder it makes them laugh.

“Laundromat weed,” they wheeze. “No, it's not tide pod weed. I can't afford name brand.”

“Equate weed, then?”

“Kroger brand, actually,” they say, “but I hear Up & Up is pretty good, too.”

“I'm sure it's just as good as name-brand shit.”

“Most of the time.”

Carmy clears the rest of the chamber of the excess smoke before sliding it back across the table to them.

“Thanks.” The buzz is setting in. The mix of cannabis and nicotine always feels a little weird, but in a thrilling way. “I really just need to get my own shit, stop mooching off you.”

“I steal enough of your cigs, so don't worry about it.” This is when he notices that their eyes have gone a little pink from the weed. He also notes to himself that he shouldn't be looking so closely. “So, did something good happen today?”

“Good?”

“Yeah. You just seem to be in a particularly good mood, is all.”

“Oh.” He immediately knows why. Surely he can't just be honest with them, but the high's lowered his barriers, and he decides to just let himself say it. “Yeah, something good did happen, now that you mention it.”

“That's good,” they say, like it has nothing to do with them. “It's nice to see you with a little less stress on you. What happened?”

“You don't already know?” He asks, because there's no way they don't know. From the look on their face, though, they really don't. “It was you.”

“...” Their face colors. “Oh,” they say, just like he did a second ago. He likes seeing them smile with a blush to match. “I mean, I thought, maybe, I just didn't wanna assume…”

“It was nice. Having you there with everyone, I mean.”

“They're really cool. You've got some great coworkers.”

“I do,” he replies quietly, faintly. It's true, even when he wants to let The Beef catch on fire. “Everyone really liked you.”

“Really?” The surprise is clear on their face.

“Yeah, really.” Throughout the rest of the day, the others had come up to him expressing some sort of approval. Not that he needed their approval. It felt nice, though. How'd you find someone so…nice? Marcus had asked, entirely genuine, and all Carmy could do was shrug. It was a good question.

How was a person like him allowed to have anything good in his life?

“Am I allowed to ask what they said?”

“You're allowed,” he says, amused. “Marcus said you were really nice. So did Syd. Seems you hit it off with them.”

“I think I did, too.” They sit with his reply for a moment, staring out the window and idly tapping their fingers on the bubbler. “Feels weird.”

“Weird?”

“A good weird,” they clarify. “You ever get weirded out by the fact that people talk about you when you're not there? And it's like, good things they're saying, too?”

“Constantly,” he admits. “I don't know if I'll ever get used to it.”

“Yeah.” Their hands are fiddling with the ends of their hair. “I guess I just have a hard time believing that people will think the best of me when I'm not around. Like…like, I don't know, just…”

“No, I understand.” Carmy's feels acutely more alert now. “It's like, uh, object permanence, kinda. But with—with people.”

“That's exactly it!” They exclaim, and then they deflate again. “It's stupid, but I just…”

“It's not stupid,” he assures them, and their lips quirk in a tiny smile. “If it helps, I…I don't think the worst of you when you're not around.”

“Hearing you say it aloud makes me realize how crazy it is for me to think like that,” they murmur, “but thank you. That does…that does make me feel better, actually.”

“Sure.” It's better if you don't know the details, he thinks to himself, reminiscing on naked dreams and daydreams around their bright smile.

He really shouldn’t sit on the couch with them. It’s late, and he needs to be in his own bed at this time of night. Unfortunately, logic isn’t at the forefront when he sees them. He’s high and wants to stick to them like glue, so he does. They’ve turned on these HD videos of people making drinks. It’s like sensory videos for babies, except for adults, they told him, and that got the two of them giggling.

It’s nice. Far too nice than what Carmy’s used to. But this time, he doesn’t want to let it go, and he’s not afraid of that, either.

I want this to last, he thinks, unafraid, and he falls asleep listening to their voice.

. . . . .

Carmy wakes up by jolting up from the couch. He’s hunched and heaving for air, and all he can think about is that he needs to see Michael.

“Mike,” he calls out. His voice is raspy and shaken. His body feels like a piece of stretched twine. He’s about to call out for Mike again until he lifts his head to see his roommate who is definitely not Michael.

Fuck.

“Hey. Are you okay?” Their expression is alert, but gentle. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just keeps his mouth shut and breathes heavily through his nose. He manages a nod. He imagines it doesn’t look very convincing.

“Just need a second,” he gets out. God, he sounds awful.

“You’re fine. You don’t need to explain anything, just…take your time.”

“I thought today was going to be a good day,” he gets out between gritted teeth. “Stupid. Fuckin’ stupid of me. Fuck. Mi—” He cuts himself off. That indescribable fear he thought was far has resurfaced, pushing in between the cracks in his ribs, desperate in the space it’s vying for.

Why the fuck are his eyes hot? He shouldn’t cry. Not over this. Not over anything.

“Who’s—?” They stop themself, mouth closing in a thin line. “Sorry. I don’t need to ask.” The question starts and ends there, but he knows what they’re asking.

Who’s Mike?

It feels like two knives sharpening each other, the tinny sound of steel against steel. It pierces him once, twisting, turning into a dull, painful ache. Like an old wound that hasn’t had enough time to heal, an old throbbing scar.

Michael.

“He...” Carmy starts, but it’s too much. It’s too much, and his hands are trembling, shaking terribly. It’s gonna happen again. He can’t do this.

Softer hands hold his, thumbs rubbing soft circles on the back of his dry hands. With each rotation on his skin, with each lap, Carmy slows down. He returns.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” they whisper. Their hands are so gentle. “I didn’t mean to ask, it just sorta popped out.”

“No, it’s okay,” he responds without thinking, surprising even himself. Even though it’s not really okay, even though he doesn’t really wanna talk about it, maybe he does, because he hasn’t gone completely silent yet. “He was my brother.”

“Ah...” Realization sets in their voice. “I see.”

“He was a drug addict,” he explains, pretending like saying it doesn’t feel like crumbling dough, like sugar dissolving into boiling water. “Killed himself.”

The grip on his hands tighten. He appreciates the feeling.

This is the mark you’ve left, Carmy thinks suddenly. How fucked up is that, Mike? The first thing I tell people is the last thing you ever did. When did you stop being my best friend and start being my older brother who killed himself?

“I’m sorry,” they say quietly, because of course they do. That’s all anyone can think to say. Carmy’s too tired to feel angry about that anymore. “When did he pass away?”

“Last February,” he answers like it’s a quiz question, like it doesn’t mean anything. “It’ll be a year in a couple months.”

“I see.” Their hands are holding his gently again. Carmy finds he prefers this. “That must’ve been really hard. Still is, I’m sure.”

“...Still is, yeah. Especially with the restaurant. It was his,” he explains, when he sees the confusion beginning in their eyes. “He was the previous owner, and he left it. To me.”

“So that’s why you’re here and not in New York?” They ask. He nods.

“I’m trying to fix it.” He doesn’t say I’m fixing it, because that would mean he’s made progress.

“I don’t know how it was before, but it seems like you are fixing it. I know I’ve barely been there, you know it a million times better than I do, it just...it seems like people are happy there.”

“Happy,” he muses. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“Everyone seems to really like you,” they go on. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

“It is. Doesn’t fix the debt, but...” He shrugs half-heartedly. No, not even half. Quarter-heartedly. “It’s somethin’.”

“I had no clue.” There’s something regretful, rueful in their words. “This whole time, you’ve just been...”

“Don’t,” he interrupts.

“...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, I’m sorry,” he backtracks. “I just mean...don’t give me your pity,” he mutters. It’s a bitter thing to say. Luckily, he’s so drained it comes out without any of the venom. It’s better that way. They don’t deserve his poison.

“It’s not pity,” they argue, their reply so instant it sobers him. “It’s...respect, I guess.”

“Respect?”

“Yeah. You’ve got a lot on your plate. I couldn’t handle all the stuff you do, but you’re doing great.”

“I barely sleep most nights,” he says suddenly. He’s unsure why. It’s like he has to prove something. “When I do, there’s nightmares. You saw that tonight and yesterday. I almost burned down the house. My stomach’s still fucked. I’m not...” His eyes feel hot again. Breathing suddenly feels different. There’s ringing, static clogging his ears. “I’m not doing great,” he realizes with stunning, raw clarity, and the pain of it knocks the wind out of him.

“You’re doing great,” they say again. “Look at me, Carmy.”

He looks at them. Their eyes are warm.

"I,” he starts, but he’s having an awful time trying to breathe. When he inhales, he feels like he’s splintering, a unified whole breaking into jagged, drifting parts.

Dread overtakes him in the blink of an eye. He doesn’t want them to see him like this. Hasn’t he already done enough?

“Breathe in with me.” They inhale, slowly, counting to 8. He counts with them like a lifeline, which it partially is. His breaths come out staggered, but he claws forward. Tries his best to keep his eyes interlocked with theirs. “And exhale...”

He clings onto every beat in their voice, every circle their thumbs make. Their words wrap around him, bringing the broken pieces back together, clicking them into place again. They restore his sense of gravity, returning his feet to solid ground with every breath.

“You’re okay,” they say softly. One of their hands moves up to brush back hair from his face. The feeling of their fingers tucking hair behind his ear makes his eyes flutter briefly shut.

“I’m okay,” he whispers back. It doesn’t sound very convincing. Fake it until you make it, he reminds himself.

“You’re okay.” They take one last deep breath with him, and when he exhales, his head feels clear again.

“Sorry. That was...” He shakes his head. “I don’t usually...”

“Never gotten one of those before?”

“No, it’s not that. I’ve had tons of panic attacks before, just...not in front of anyone else,” he finishes awkwardly.

“Yeah?” Carmy finds himself looking down at their conjoined hands instead of their eyes. “Well, you certainly don’t have to apologize. I get them too, from time to time.”

“Thank you. For...calming me down.” He takes another deep breath to steady himself. “It helped a lot.”

“No problem.” There’s that glowing smile he can’t get enough of. “How’re you feeling now?”

“I…” He tries to pinpoint something in all the noise. It’s proving difficult. “I’m calmer,” he notices.

“That’s good.”

“Yeah, uh, I don’t know what to, how to, explain my…feelings.” The words are so haphazardly put together that he stammers as they tumble on the way out of his mouth.

“Don’t worry, you’re doing great.” From anyone, the sentiment would make him shut down even more, turn his head the other way. From them, though…

“I’m okay,” he says, and it’s the truth. “I think, um, just a lot hit me all at once.”

“I get it. It often happens like that, doesn’t it?”

“It does. I just...” He briefly shuts his eyes, and there’s a flash of Michael. “It’s hard. Doing all this without him.” They nod. “I never wanted to. Not on my own.”

“He must’ve been a great guy.”

“He was,” he starts, and his throat closes up. They seem to understand, because they don’t say anything else. He doesn’t say it, but he’s glad for it. This is all he can bear.

It’s hard to put into words, the way Carmy feels right now. He’s never been great at describing how he feels, even when he was a kid. Sometimes he’d cry about the wrong things, and he wouldn’t cry at the right things. But there wasn’t quite any right or wrong way to feel. It just was. It just is.

The grief comes in waves. It always has, and it always will. Each wave is a natural disaster on its own, a tsunami that fills his lungs with water, leaving nothing in its wake. But something about this one just washed slowly over him, leaving just droplets of water in his hair. If anything, he just feels...lighter.

He supposes this is what really trusting someone feels like.

The moment of peace is eventually ruined by his stomach growling. Loudly.

“Hungry?” They say first with an amused grin.

“I guess.” He hadn’t realized. “I didn’t eat much today.”

“Hm, I do suppose you had a late lunch, too, if that matters.”

“Sure. That’s also all I had to eat today.” He doesn’t know why he lets that slip, but he does.

“Oh no!” That makes them jump up, detaching their hands from his. He tries not to mourn the loss for too long. “No wonder you’re hungry.”

“It’s fine. It’s like this sometimes,” he says, like it’s a normal and healthy thing to be doing. “Just one of those days.” They frown.

“What do you do when your stomach gets like this? What do you eat?”

“I don’t eat,” he answers honestly, and they gasp.

“Carmy! That is not the answer. I mean, like, don’t force it down, but is there really nothing you can stomach?”

“If I start chewing, I just feel worse. I’ll usually just have some water and a cigarette. If I have time, coffee.”

“You can’t be having that French girl breakfast. You just can’t.” That gets a laugh out of him. “You’re becoming a French girl, and you’re laughing. Carmy! This is serious.” That only makes him laugh harder.

“Do all French girls also have stomach issues?” He wheezes out. That sets off their laughter.

“I don’t know. You tell me, Ms. France.”

“Wait, stop, I don’t wanna be in a beauty pageant.”

“Then stop following their diet! Look—” They try to speak again, and they cut themself off with more laughter. “Okay. No. I’m fine. I’m not laughing. You, you need to eat. No skipping meals.”

“I usually end up having lunch,” he argues.

“Y’know, as someone whose whole life is food, I would expect you to know the importance of breakfast more.”

“Just because I know it’s important doesn’t mean I’m gonna have it.”

“Hm. I don’t love your reasoning. Stop laughing! I’m mad at you. I’m so mad I’m gonna give you homework.”

“Homework? Just so you know, I wasn’t a good student.”

“It’s okay, I grade on a curve. Here’s your homework—you are going to use my protein powder that is sitting in the cabinet to the right of the fridge, and you’re going to put it in some milk. And then you’re gonna drink that shit. That’s what I have when I wake up nauseous.”

“I think I can try that.” His cheeks hurt from smiling. “Do you accept late work?” That makes them sigh dramatically, making a show of it.

“I suppose. Just don’t make it a habit! I won’t be this lenient every time.”

“Yeah, you will,” Carmy says without thinking. They gasp.

“No, I won’t! I can be mean.”

“I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body.”

“That’s actually a really nice thing to say, but keep this up and you’ll see my mean side!”

He doesn’t mean to laugh, but he does. That just ruffles them up further.

“You just don’t seem real, sometimes,” he admits. “It scares me.”

“It does?” He has to commend them for their calm reaction.

“Good things scare me, I think. I know that's…fucked up, but…”

“No, it makes sense. It shouldn't, but…it does to me.” He can't place their expression. It's some mixture of nostalgic and haunted. Or maybe just plain haunted.

“Yeah?” They nod. “That's not good,” he mumbles, and the beauty of their shared, awful truth makes them both smile.

“Well.” Their cheeks are less flushed, but there's still a dusting of color, like faint cocoa powder on cake. “I promise that I am, in fact, very real.”

“Pinky promise?” Carmy doesn't know where that comes from. They have a habit of bringing a strange silliness out of him.

“Pinky promise. I'll even prove it to you.”

“How do you plan on doing that, exactly?”

“Easy.” They outstretch their arms, and it clicks in his head with a rush. “Unless you're the sort of person that's not into hugging.”

“No, I am.” The words rush out, as if they're desperate to keep the offer on the table. “I mean, I hug my family when I see ‘em.”

“I'll admit, I'm a hugger. I give my friends hugs all the time. I just didn't know if you minded that sort of thing.”

“I don't mind. I like them, um…just don't usually initiate ‘em, I guess.” The anticipation is speeding up the beat of his heart like a coach on the sidelines.

“Then bring it in, big guy,” they say, and he leans in.

The last time they hugged each other, Carmy was sleep-deprived and they were half-lucid from alcohol. This time is different. It's purposeful, tight, and all-encompassing. Their arms go over his shoulders and link around his neck to bring him in close. His arms naturally slot underneath theirs, meeting in the middle of their back.

He can feel their hair tickling his neck. His heartbeat is in his ears, and he prays they can't hear it. They squeeze him, light, and his eyes flutter shut.

“This is better,” Carmy whispers. He doesn't know why he's whispering. He supposes his mouth being so close to their ear makes him quiet.

“Better than what?” Their voice has gone soft to match his. The vibrations next to his ear send a slim shiver up his spine.

“Than the first time we hugged.” He pauses. “Unless you don't remember.”

“I remember.” They laugh, breathy and shy. “God. Sorry if that made you uncomfortable.”

“It didn't.” He tightens his hold on them. He doesn't know if they meant for the hug to last this long, but they're warm and perfect to hold. They smell like smoke and a flower he can't place.

“Good.” He feels them turning their head, shifting their face into his hair, and he thinks his heart is going to explode, turning into a red jam inside of him. “So, am I real or what?”

“Mm, you're real. You've convinced me.” He thinks he could fall asleep like this. Sadly, as soon as he says that, they take it as the cue to unlink their bodies.

Their hair's messy from where it was pressed up against the side of his head. He notices how cold he feels without them.

“If you need reminding, just let me know.” Their cheeks are rosy again. Cute. “Like I said, I'm a hugger, so…”

“I wouldn't be opposed.” I think I need that, actually, he thinks to himself.

“Okay. Good to know.”

“Um.” Awkwardness is suddenly his primary emotion. “Shit, I didn't even think to check the time. What time is it?”

“Lemme check.” They pull out their phone from their pocket. “12:40 am.”

Carmy sighs.

“Better than I thought.” When he stands up off the couch, he feels every aching muscle protesting in disapproval. “I should sleep in my actual bed. But, um…” He fidgets with his hands, anxious. “Thank you. For staying with me. And talking to me about stuff.”

“You don't have to thank me. Thank you for trusting me with all that.” They cock their head to the side as they look up at him. Cute, he thinks again, unbearably. “I feel like I know you a lot better.”

“Mm.” Carmy feels his face getting hot, meaning he has to change the topic as quickly as possible. “It feels nice. Being known by you. I…” He thinks about that night he held their hair behind them as they cried into the toilet. I want to know you, Carmy, they whispered, beautifully genuine even in their drunken stupor. “I want to know you, too,” he finally allows himself to say, and he knows by the full feeling in his chest that it's the truth.

They get that shy smile he's seen so much of today. Carmy realizes he likes that he's the one that keeps making them smile like that.

“Okay, then. I wouldn't mind that.” They stand up from the couch next, and they stretch their arms far above their head. “Maybe another night, though. It's late.”

“Right. I didn't mean…”

“Hey, if we didn't both have work tomorrow, I'd love to keep talking.” There goes their uncanny ability to wash his anxieties away so easily, a washcloth dissolving dirt. They start walking down the hallway to their bedrooms, and he trails behind them on instinct. “But I think we've kept each other up late too many nights recently.”

“I think so, yeah.” Without context, that'd make his stomach squirm with the implications. Their bedroom's first down the hall, so they move to hover in their doorway. “Um,” he starts, a sudden unspeakable urge gripping him, “just one more thing.”

“What is it?”

Fuck it, Carmy thinks. Fuck it.

With only minimal hesitation, he leans down and pulls them into a hug. They make a small noise of surprise, but they reciprocate almost instantly.

“Just wanted to double check,” he mumbles. He keeps the hug short this time, because he knows if he doesn't, he won't be able to let go.

“Still real, right?”

“Still real.”

“Good idea, to double check.” They step backwards, one hand on their door. “G'night, Carmy. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“G'night,” he murmurs back. “See you.”

I'm fucked, Carmy realizes once the door shuts. The hallway is dark, and there is an unusual amount of good in his life. I'm so fucked.

@zorrasucia @carmenberzattosgf @carmenbrzatto

#carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #the bear #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #the bear fx #jeremy allen white #carmy berzatto x you #carmen berzatto x you #the bear fanfiction #my fics #OKAYY this ones a big one. i had a LOT of fun with the prose in this. i can rly feel myself improving which is awesome #was gonna make it shorter but then i just kept playing around with the dialogue and! well here we are #also thanks again everyone that's actually stuck with this fic. i still have a hard time believe ppl rly read this with how long it is #carmy is on the verge of snapping soon.... i have a feeling next ch is gonna be a big one folks #alexithymia fic

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snowfolly · 18 days

Text

Want to give a HUGE thank you to @ollysoxisfree (JJJSchmidt on ao3) for not only beta reading this story and giving me awesome suggestions but for also for composing the SONG that Tali sang in the last chapter (!!!) - and also another huge thank you to @littol-rascal (littol_rascal on ao3) for singing this song - y'all made my whole month with this and I appreciate it so much ;u;

(Also I did this drawing of Tali singing from the last chapter - but wanted to post it with this fresh and new chapter for now)

Snippet:

This was too much, his feelings so tangled and twisted up as they were.

It was as if a ball of unkempt yarn had been tethered to his heart, unwinding and then tugging, squeezing, and snaking its way upwards, where it had tied itself neatly in a vice-like bow around his mind. His thoughts were always being strung back to that pretty bastard and his stupid lopsided smile, bound as those thoughts were now to his awful dead heart.

Gods damn the heavens and hells. Taliesin was a treasure he did not want, and yet he reluctantly held dear the quicksilver and gold, freckles like a spattering of stars — and those eyes that had seemed so woefully colored to him before, he realized, were akin to pink moonstone.

Precious things.

Taliesin, surname unknown, whom he absolutely had no right to be feeling any way for, beheld Astarion with mingling anger and sorrow and that look. It was a look he’d seen on the elf’s face a few times before – an emotion that he had not been able to place until this moment. And that damned look was the physical representation of his own confused feelings. It was a look of both longing and of treasure found.

#bg3 fanfiction #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion fanfic #astarion fanfiction #astarion ancunin #astarion romance #snowyfic #snowyart

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scorpioriesling · 28 days

Text

Unsettled (pt. 3)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Pairings: None confirmed, light Lucien x reader!

Warnings: None!

Summary: Lucien is sent on a task to meet with Y/N in her home, however this task leaves him feeling unsettled. He’s forced to remember his role in the Spring court over his feelings.

SR’s Note: More part(s?) are OBVIOUSLY coming as soon as I can crank ‘em out (; Read part 2 first if you haven’t!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Over the next three weeks, your family continued to receive order after order from the estate. You practically jumped at the opportunity to deliver the florals; trying not to look too suspicious, you still hadn’t told your family of the invitation to the ball. Were you truly invited? You supposed so, Tamlin did ask you with his own two lips, however you just couldn’t believe it to be so. The moment your mother found out of the affair, she’d make it a humongous deal, which you definitely didn’t want. Not yet.

On a particularly pleasant evening, you were curled up in your family’s sitting room sofa, your favorite novel in hand. The sun was just beginning to fade to an amber glow, and the smell from the kitchen led you to believe dinner would be ready within the hour. That is, until you heard an impatient knock at the front door.

“Y/N, are you to be expecting anyone?” Your mother asks, her footsteps padding down the hallway. You mark the page in your book and rise from your seat. The thing is, you weren’t expecting anyone, which made the ball of tangled yarn in your stomach twist. Could it be Tamlin?

“Not necessarily,” you begin hastily. Peering through the panes of glass that made up the mosaic of your front door, you spotted the unmistakable green and gold attire. You weren’t quite ready for your mom to figure out about the ball yet; so you quicken your steps, hoping to beat her to the door. However, you don’t.

She unlatches the door lock and pulls it open before you’re halfway down the hallway, and you pause. To your horror, the person outside and her have already seen one another and are talking. You’re far enough to barely make out what the visitor is saying, but you see your mother’s wide smile as she happily chats with your new guest.

“Yes please dear! Come on in.” She swings the door open wider, and lo and behold, none other than the flaming haired Vanserra is stepping through the frame. He offers your mother a kind smile, nodding to her as he steps in. Then he catches your eye.

“Y/N! I don’t know if you two have actually met, um…” Your mother starts. Lucien is staring at you, looking you up and down. You draw closer, swallowing the lump in your throat and willing him to understand the silent plea in your eyes. Please, please don’t mention the ball. Please don’t say anything, honestly just act like you don’t even know me.

As if reading your mind, he angles his chin slightly to her. “No worries, Miss.” He clears his throat, his eyes never leaving yours. “You would be correct. We haven’t met before.”

You never thought you’d be so thankful to Lucien of all males, but in this moment, you are. How he knew, you were unsure, but you didn’t let it show on your face. He bowed at the waist, a bit dramatically, you thought. Refraining from rolling your eyes was hard, but you smiled at him nonetheless. Your mother only beamed at you. She was practically screaming, oh my goodness look at this handsome boy in our home coming to see our daughter!

“My name is Lucien Vanserra. I am the High Lord’s emissary, and rather good friend at that.” It was your turn to bow, your mother’s eyes urging you to do so.

“Y/N.” Is all you say in response. Your mother scowls.

“Lucien, we’re prior to the Autumn court as well! I recognized you when I saw you, I must admit.” Your mother states, rather sheepishly. Lucien straightens, taking delight in learning this fact about you.

“Well it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, and that of other Autumn court natives.” He grins towards your mom, and she pats a hand on his large shoulder, giggling almost at him. What’s gotten into her? If only she knew the sassy, almost arrogant-

“I hate to be blunt and ask, but I am in the middle of preparing supper,” she begins. Lucien nods, hanging onto her every word. “What brings you to the square? Or, well, to our home I mean? I would be selfish and assume it to be my daughter who had caught someone’s attention, but-“

“MOM.” You cut in, your cheeks flushing. Lucien’s eyes dart to you, and a small chuckle escapes his lips. He shrugs, hands held up in mock defense.

“It seems we can agree you do have a beautiful girl, here,” he begins, earning a gleaming-eyed stare from your mother in return. Your hands begin to sweat. What is he doing?

Keeping her from finding out about Tamlin and the ball, just like you asked.

“…Uh, which is why I stopped in. To ask your daughter for the evening with me. I’d seen her a few times at the estate, but I’ve come to learn I’d like to spend time with her.” He stares at you timidly. You’d never seen him so… fragile? You couldn’t place his expression, but your mother almost jumped out of her skin.

“I’m sure she’d love to go with you! She’s got nothing to do all night. Well, I mean you are more than welcome to stay for dinner of course, I’m making meatloaf and-“

“I’d be happy to go.” You stammer. Lucien’s trademark smirk returns, and he extends a hand to you.

“I shall have her back by dusk,” he says, and your mother nods eagerly.

“If not, that’s okay too! You kids take as long as you need. If you get caught up in whatever you find yourselves-“

“MOM!” You pull the door closed behind you.

* ✧･ﾟ: *

“What the hell was that?” You ask, once out of earshot of the front entryway. You knew your mother would see you off; so you kept your back to the house. She couldn’t see, however, your mouth and words flying at Lucien instead. His eyes narrow at you.

“You didn’t seem like you wanted her knowing anything about the ball, or Tamlin, or even me. In my book, I’ve only done you a favor.” You allow your eyes to roll this time.

“Yippee, you’ve done me a solid then.” He snickers.

“Favors can be transactional, you know. Which means, technically, you owe me one now.” You shake your head, finally approaching the chestnut horse at the end of the cobblestone path from your front door.

“Whatever you say, Lucien.” He drops his hand, hoisting himself onto his horse and slinging his leg over. You stare up at him from the ground and cross your arms.

“Haven’t you ever heard of ladies first?” You ask, cocking a brow at him. The sun is dipping lower in the sky, sending streams of gold through his tousled red locks.

“I’ve seen you get on and off your own before,” he states. “And, I didn’t think you’d much appreciate my hand on your ass, helping you off the ground much.” You take his outstretched hand in yours and realize that he is pulling you up to sit in front of him. In his lap.

Once you’re comfortable, you turn and face him. His hands settle lightly on your hips for a moment, and you glance down, then back up to meet his golden and amber flecked eyes.

“You’re right… I wouldn’t.” You feel breathless almost. Like the lie was as unbelievable sounding coming out as it was feeling inside. You quite enjoyed his large, warm hands on your hips. You were glad when he didn’t move them.

“Grab the reins.”

* ✧･ﾟ: *

“So,” You ask casually. “What was the real purpose of your unannounced visit to my home, anyway?” Lucien sighs and you can feel his chest rise and fall against your back.

“Tamlin sent me, of course.” He states. You wait a beat, growing impatient.

“And?”

“And,” he continues. “He wanted me to bring you to the estate to practice with him for the upcoming masquerade.” He finishes. Your brows knit together in confusion.

“Practice? Like what, dancing?” You say.

“Yes, Y/N.” Lucien groans out. You almost groan in response.

“I didn’t know this would need a whole lot of practice and work… I thought it was just. I don’t know. Fun?” You say vulnerably. Lucien squeezes your hips once, and you sit up straight.

“Who says you can’t have fun?” He muses. Within the hour, you’re at the estate, following Lucien from the stables where you’ve stationed the mare up to the front doors. You can’t help but take him in walking before you; the emerald green fabric against his tan, freckled skin; the radiant red hues of his hair; his strong muscled legs straining against his tight pants-

Stop it. You’re here to see the High Lord.

As if on cue, Tamlin meets you both in the estate foyer, dressed simply but looking ravishing. His white button down and black slacks don’t distract from the sculpted features his face provides. He offers a small smile when he sees you.

“Ah, Y/N,” he breathes, taking your hands in his own. “I’ve been thinking of you all day.” You blush, knowing this is just too good to be true.

“I was told we were… practicing? Dancing?” It comes out more of a question than a statement, and Tamlin nods.

“Yes, you will need to learn the traditional High Fae waltzes to prepare for the upcoming ball,” he says. You nod in understanding, and he leads you down a corridor and into a large open room. It has a huge skylight, the evening sky streaked with colors of red, orange, and lilac. The walls feature paintings of flowers of all kinds — it almost looks like an interior garden.

“This is the formal ballroom,” he explains. “It is much smaller than the master ballroom across the estate where the actual ball will be held. However, we can practice in here.” When you both reach the middle of the room, he holds both hands out in gesture to the expanse of space. You are still looking around and gawking when he claps twice. Classical music begins to play, and he takes your hand. Your eyes meet his, and one hand rests on your side as he begins moving, leading you through each step, each routine, each ballad and coaching you through them all.

* ✧･ﾟ: *

It’s dark when Tamlin finally queues the music. Warm white fae light balls around the ballroom illuminate the space; the sky overhead a sea of stars. During the last dance, you’d become frustrated with how difficult it’d gotten over the last few hours. You’d stepped on the High Lord’s feet countless times, and apologized for having to restart more than you can count. You felt a bit of relief when he finally turned the music off.

“Don’t fret; we’ll keep working on it.” He states. You nod your head, a light sweat working to the surface of your forehead. Tamlin motions toward the entrance of the room, where Lucien has appeared, leaning in the doorway.

“Lucien will return you to your home, I do have much to catch up on in my study,” he says. You bite your lip and murmur an okay, not making much of an effort to leave too quickly.

* ✧･ﾟ: *

“Was it really that bad?” He asks. You groan and drop your head against the back of Lucien’s jacket. He’d allowed you to sit behind him this time, per your request. Well… demand.

“It was! I was a fool. An absolute fool.” You mutter. “This is a cruel joke. I cannot go to a ball and not be able to keep up with the dances.” Lucien places a hand on your knee.

“Tamlin asked you to go. Are you really going to say no to him?” he asks tenderly. You bite your lip while contemplating, not for long as a big yawn pulls your lips apart. You lay your cheek against the back of Lucien’s jacket, the soft material and strands of his unbound hair tickling your cheek as the horse moves beneath you.

“No-“ another yawn. “No, um. I guess not, Lucien. I guess not. I wouldn’t have anyone to go with if I didn’t go with him.” You peer out at the stars, loving the simplicity of them, the darkness all around. That darkness grows darker as Lucien continues to answer.

“Y/N don’t be ridiculous now, you know half of Prythian would kill to take you to a ball of this sort,” he stops himself short, hearing your breathing slow and heavy. Thank the Cauldron, he thinks to himself. He’d almost said too much. What lied beneath.

So he continued in silence, listening to your breaths, feeling your arms wrapped around his torso, clinging to him. Did he mind it? Would he mind this? Mind you?

He tried not to think about all of those glittering and wonderful thoughts as he took his best friend’s love interest back to her home for the night. As a responsible emissary would do, he thought.

Repressing any pulling he felt for you low beneath the surface of where your hands lay above his skin.

* ✧･ﾟ: *

Part 4

#a court of silver flames #a court of thorns and roses #acosf #acotar #acofas #acotar smut #lucien acotar #lucien vanserra #lucien x reader

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palmofafreezinghand · 5 months

Text

thanksgiving of 1921

Esme encourages Carlisle and Edward to celebrate Thanksgiving for the first time in their supernatural lives. on ao3 here.

November 1921.

Esme held the yarn hank in either one of her hands, the fiber stretched taut between her hands, as Carlisle sat in front of her, winding the yarn into a working ball. It was a scene Carlisle thought greatly resembled J.C. Leyendecker’s painting, Lovebirds.

Carlisle had been attempting to teach her to knit for a few weeks; he was not the first, and judging by how she took to the skill he was confident he would not be the last, to embark on this endeavor.

During that particular evening’s lesson, Esme had snapped three metal knitting needles and managed to knot a skein in such a knot it should be impossible. Rather than unknot the tangled yarn, and make them both miserable, Carlisle decided to start from scratch and unpackage a new hank. Perhaps, he was making the lesson too difficult, although he hardly thought casting on was a difficult step.

“Carlisle, I must admit I admire your determination, ” Edward laughed as he walked into the living room, flipping through a new book of sheet music.

Edward had given up teaching Esme how to play the piano — correction how to play the piano well — she had played throughout her childhood. Six missed notes, failure to keep proper tempo, and a few harsh words made Edward realize he would rather be Esme’s friend than have an enemy who was a skilled musician.

“Esme, I admire your self-restraint even more.”

Edward had been Carlisle’s student on multiple occasions and had wanted to kill him every single time. It was impossible to learn from someone who was perfection personified and had expectations higher than Heaven.

“He’s quite charming when he’s attempting to teach me,” Esme grinned. “He gets this concentrated look on his face…” she trailed off, although Edward could still hear her train of thought.

“Gross,” Edward muttered, nose wrinkling as he set the sheet music down on his piano.

“You find me charming?” Carlisle asked with a smirk, leaning forward in his chair.

“Not when you acknowledge it,” she said, leaning forward as well so their faces were a half foot apart. Eyes at the same plane engaged in one of their typical staring contests, thoughts disgusting in their mutual adoration.

“You two are insufferable,” Edward groaned.

“Shall I remind you, we were both happy to never confess our feelings for one another but you insisted on playing matchmaker,” Carlisle recited, it was his typical defense for whenever Edward ranted and raved about the relationship he arranged, which was often. “Furthermore, you walked into a room you knew we were both in.”

“I thought you two deserved to be happy. I did not realize it would come at my expense,” Edward countered.

Edward’s back was to the couple, only able to see them through the other’s eyes, but he immediately turned around when he saw Esme’s face fall, clouded by Carlisle’s nauseating mental commentary about her eyes and how deeply she felt her emotions.

She was looking at the ground, “Are you truly unhappy about… this?” She motioned to herself and Carlisle with her hand. She thought the word ‘relationship’ but was unable to muster the courage to verbally acknowledge it as such, doing so would leave room for Carlisle to deny they were in one which she was confident he would do. The thought would be comical if it were not sad.

“No, Esme,” Edward said sincerely. “I am perpetually a teenager and by nature must complain about something. You have prohibited me from complaining about this eternal damnation and have left me no choice but to complain about your love.”

Esme’s jaw dropped slightly, her eyes widening, and brows raising. “We have not used that word,” she whispered as if Carlisle could not hear them and was not currently looking at her with a similar look of shock.

“You have not?” Edward stammered. The two had certainly thought it thousands of times. Even a telepath would be able to see they loved each other, could they not recognize it?”

“We have not,” Carlisle said. ‘Who’s trust are you betraying, Edward?’ Carlisle mentally asked, knowing quite well he had spent the better part of that morning waxing poetically about his unconditional love for the woman sitting across from him.

‘You promised me you would not tell him,’ Esme thought.

Oh no. They could only expect so much from him, truly did they think he could keep every single thought they had hidden away forever? Although, asking for him to keep their largest secret seemed the bare minimum.

Edward’s anxious spiral was abruptly cut off by Esme’s infectious laughter, Carlisle’s boisterous laugh joining not long after.

“Oh, look at his face,” Esme said between laughs, squeezing Carlisle’s knee.

“That was quite fun,” Carlisle grinned, “he was so worried.”

“Are you two done?” Edward grumbled, turning back to his instrument.

“We apologize,” Carlisle said.

“I don’t, it was awfully humorous.”

Edward sighed, beginning to play scales he no longer needed but worked on simply out of tradition. “You two have used that word?” He asked quietly.

“Oh, he said it before I even kissed him.”

“And quite a few times after,” Carlisle said. Edward was unsure of the movement Carlisle made with this line but was unfortunately quite aware of the effect it had on Esme.

“I amend my previous statement, your happiness is my torture.”

“We love you,” Esme said in a sing-song voice.

“And each other,” Carlisle smiled.

“That’s enough.”

“Apologies,” Esme said, drawing her hands back to herself, something Edward knew only through Carlisle’s pathetic mourning of the touch. “How was school?”

“Fine enough. I will admit I am thankful I do not have to attend classes for the rest of the week.”

“Why not?”

“Thanksgiving.”

“Thanksgiving,” Esme said to herself. “Is that this week?”

“Yes, three days from now,” Carlisle said gently, in the same voice he used when teaching her to purl and every time she forgot something.

“I never know what day it is anymore,” she laughed, but Edward could feel the pain behind the sentiment. ‘The year has gone by so quickly.’

“Today is Monday, the twenty-first of November,” Carlisle said.

“Thank you.”

The three returned to their tasks, Carlisle and Esme rewinding their yarn, Edward attempting to attack his newest sonata.

After ten minutes or so of comfortable silence Esme spoke. “I know you do not celebrate Christmas,” she said, repeating a lie Edward and Carlisle had crafted previously that month. It was an effort to not pressure her into celebrating before she was ready since the holiday was mere days before the first anniversary of the worst day of her life. “Do you celebrate any other holidays? Birthdays, Easter, Thanksgiving, anything?”

“Thanksgiving?” Edward scoffed. “The day of feasting on foods we can never eat.”

“It is a day for gratitude and spending time with loved ones,” Esme corrected him, hazy flashes of large family dinners in her mind. “As well as eating an absurd amount of apple pie, but I can not do that anymore so focus on the first sentiment please.”

“You wish to express your gratitude this year of all years?” Edward asked dismissively. Her eternal optimism was cloying at best.

‘Edward,’ Carlisle mentally scolded. It had been a careful balance — one neither man was confident they were on the right side of — managing a harsh tone and the rich devastating history that had been suddenly introduced into their lives.

“I see no reason not to be thankful. I am alive are I not?”

“That is up for debate,” Edward said, glancing back at her with a smile, assuring her his tone was one of familiarity, not anger or disdain.

She rolled her eyes in response, turning her attention to Carlisle. “I do not know how you managed living with someone so depressing all these years.”

“Do not discredit his influence on my worldview, Esme. His thoughts put my anxiety to shame.”

“There, you have something to be thankful for,” Esme laughed. Her mind was still focused on vague memories of moments spent with her family, helping an older woman, possibly her grandmother, in the kitchen, and playing games in the yard with her brother and cousins.

“You can not truly wish to celebrate Thanksgiving,” Edward blew air out of his nose. “What would you suggest we do to commemorate the holiday, Esme? Feast on deer laid out on our finest china, drink a squirrel out of crystal flutes?”

“Perhaps it was a foolish idea,” Esme muttered.

“I did not think so,” Carlisle said, speaking for the first time in minutes. Edward was unable to discern by Carlisle’s thoughts if he was saying this to appease Esme or if he was truly unable to recognize any of her ideas as foolish. “I am working on Thursday evening but I do not have to work on Tuesday and Wednesday. Perhaps we could travel up North to hunt? It may not be an apple pie but it could be a nice change of pace.”

“Truly?” Esme asked as if Carlisle had offered such a plan simply to tease her.

“If you would like, I think it might be an enjoyable trip.”

“Oh, that would be lovely!” She leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, one hand coming up to caress his jaw.

Carlisle mentally thanked God he was unable to blush. “Truthfully I have never celebrated the holiday before, but I have been fascinated by its evolution over the years. I think it could be a fascinating endeavor, even if our celebrations must be slightly untraditional.”

“Your first Thanksgiving!” Esme smiled, clasping her hands together.

“This is an absolutely foolish plan,” Edward groused.

“Edward, please say you will accompany us,” Esme pleaded, taking a seat on the edge of his piano bench, her back to the piano.

Edward paused for a moment as if there was ever a possibility he would not attend the trip. “Not without complaint,” he finally said.

“But you will?”

“I will,” he muttered, transitioning to a piece he knew Esme found ‘far too angry.’

Less than twenty-four hours after the group of three had hatched their plan they were gathered in the foyer, preparing to traipse out into the wilderness to celebrate a vampiric Thanksgiving.

“Are the coordinating outfits necessary?” Edward grumbled as Esme stood on her tiptoes to slip a rust-colored beanie on his head.

In the hours that had passed since Carlisle, and a reluctant Edward, agreed to go on a holiday hunt, Esme and Carlisle had made a breakthrough in their knitting lessons. Overnight, Esme was able to create a simple rectangle, albeit a quite lopsided triangle. She had utilized these rudimentary knitted shapes to make a hat for Edward, a scarf uneven in width for Carlisle, and herself a pair of mittens with no thumbs.

“It’s a tradition,” she beamed, pulling at the hat so it lay well. He could see the memories of Thanksgiving of her childhood, a time for hastily finishing winter preparations. Each year her mother would comb through the family’s winter wardrobe and find a way to replace what was missing or outgrown, either by crafting or clever sourcing.

“Do you have any other traditions you are going to force us to indulge in?”

“I object to the word force,” she said pointedly.

‘Edward, please be nice. For some reason this appears to be important to her,’ Carlisle thought from his bedroom, where he was changing into a sweater that better matched the scarf Esme had given him.

“I will admit I am interested in tasting turkey,” Edward admitted, attempting to be nice about the silly plan.

“Poultry is an acquired taste,” Carlisle said, fetching both his and Esme’s unnecessary coats from the closet. He slipped her coat over her arms and onto her shoulders. She shot him an appreciative smile, tying her belt.

“Have you ever had beef?” Esme asked as Carlisle opened the front door, holding it open for them.

“Once, I was quite desperate. I do not recommend it.”

Esme laughed, stopping mid-step as she passed Edward, finally noticing what was tucked under his elbow. “What is that?”

“A football,” Edward admitted quietly. “My cousins and I would play every year before dinner. I thought… perhaps the three of us might want to throw one around.” He kicked a piece of dust with the toe of his boot.

“Oh you sap,” Esme laughed. “This is an absolutely foolish plan,” she mocked in a voice that did not sound like him at all, no matter what Carlisle thought.

Edward tossed the ball at her, attempting to quiet her teasing, but she caught it at the last second, tossing it back to Edward as she bounded down the front porch steps. Perhaps this would not be so torturous.

#esme cullen #carlisle cullen #edward cullen #my stories

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