Thunder Child

~ ~ ~

Somebody is staring at Carmen.

He can feel the weight of their gaze on the back of his neck although, since New York, he constantly feels as if he’s being watched. Studied. Scrutinized. Almost as if an invisible presence was looming over his shoulder, waiting for the precise moment that he slips up then they’ll strike. Just like Chef Fields. There were times when Carmen was so sure that somebody was watching him that he’d lift his head to address them, only to be met with silence and empty air. It was the echoes of a past life. One that he would much rather forget and yet, it seemed to haunt him like a ghost.

To say it had already been a tough day at the Beef would be an understatement. It was a miserable morning in Chicago with no promises of brightening up and the weather seemingly reflected Carmen’s mood. After a night of patchy sleep with familiar dreams of fire and smoke, Carmy woke up late and had to rush to get to the restaurant before opening. From that point, everything seemed to go wrong. The meat order didn’t arrive, somebody moved Carmen’s knife as a “joke” and Ritchie threw a bitch-fit about nothing. Again. Anger threatened to burn him from the inside, flames curled around his ribs and singed the back of his throat. It was getting harder to breathe. In an attempt to calm down, Carmen retreated to the sanctity of the alley, clutching his lighter and cigarette packet as if they were the solution to his problems.

“Hey Chef, you’ve been out here a while…” 

Something loosened in Carmy’s chest at your too-sweet voice and he watched over his shoulder as you came to sit beside him on the pallet. You were beautiful. Even dressed in your faded work shirt and black jeans, Carmen felt his eyes drawn to the length of your legs and easy sway of your hips. He’d never admit to it, but occasionally he’d catch himself watching you move through the kitchen with practiced grace that he could only compare to a ballet dancer. Carmen tried not to let his eyes linger on you too much now; choosing instead to stare at the familiar lines of his own fingers and the lighter held between them. 

“Has Ritchie stopped acting like an asshole?” 

“At this point, I think it’s part of his personality.”

A soft rumble of laughter rolled through Carmen’s chest and you found yourself chasing the delicious sound. It was low and feather-light, but it filled your ears. There have been less than a handful of times that you’ve made Carmen smile at work, let alone pulled a genuine laugh from him. And you yearned to hear it again and again and again...

“Aren’t you cold being out here?”

Without thinking, you reached over to take Carmen’s hands in your own, wrapping your warmer palms around his chilled fingers. It was a small gesture. One that could be shared between friends, but Carmen’s heart stilled in his chest. His entire world was reduced to nothing, but the feeling of you holding his hands. Carmen couldn’t help wondering if you could feel the ever-present shake in them which only seemed to stop when he was plating. Or the rougher patches on his fingertips from grabbing too-hot pans and burning his skin. Or that scar on his left index knuckle that took weeks to heal. 

God. Carmen was beautiful. In a similar way to a statue carved from marble with sharp cheekbones and the long line of his nose. Your eyes trailed down until landing on the slight bow of Carmen’s top lip. It would be easy to close the gap between you, to press your mouth against Carmen’s and silence the thoughts spiralling in his head. To taste the acrid burn of cigarette smoke that lingered on his breath. You’ve pictured a moment like this before. Perhaps too much. The details were ever changing with each new scenario flashing behind your eyes until your mind became overly crowded to think of anything else. 

Would he push you away? In your time at the Beef, you never heard or saw Carmen talking about dating anybody and, whenever Ritchie brought the subject up, you were quick to notice the blush on the shorter man’s cheeks. Subconsciously, you leaned further into Carmy’s space with your knees bumping against his and the tiny movement brought him back to reality. He was no longer lost in his own mind. The ends of your noses brushed together, a tentative touch to give each other enough time to pull away. Neither of you dared to move. It would be so easy…

“Cousin, get your ass in here before you turn into Frosty the fuckin’ Snowman.” 

~ ~ ~

“Carmen…” 

A soft voice tickles the shell of Carmen’s ear whilst nails drag down the length of his back, leaving angry red lines in their wake. The sensation is sharp, skating the fine line between pleasure and pain. His own hands grasp at the soft hips beneath him, driven by a symphony of obscene sounds, in hopes of bringing them closer. He needs them closer. Everything is hot and desperate. A sweat clings to the nape of his neck, dampening and flattening his curls. Carmen is burning, but he can’t stop. 

"C-Carmy..."

You look perfect. Carmen’s gaze can’t settle on a single part of your body underneath him, wishing to memorise every inch of you like this. He wants to watch the hypnotic way your breasts bounce with the force of each of his thrusts or how your thighs tremble either side of his hips. At the very edges of his vision, Carmy begins to notice the familiar orange glow of flames. They grew closer and closer.

No. Please no.

The world tilts on its axis and, suddenly, Carmen is standing in his apartment’s kitchen. Thick smoke fills the air around him, acrid and suffocating. There’s no time to think; Carmen switches off the burners before grabbing the burning pan and throwing it into the sink, successfully dousing the flames.  With each step around the apartment to open the windows and turn off the fire alarm, the panic burrows deeper into Carmy’s chest. What would’ve happened if he didn’t wake up in time? Carmen doesn’t even remember falling asleep. In one moment, he was collapsing onto the sofa to relax from another gruelling day and, in the next, he’s almost burning down the kitchen. Again.

It takes Carmy too long to clean the kitchen and it takes even longer for his heart to return to a normal pace. But still, he can feel the buzz of anxiety beneath his skin. It’s like an itch that he can’t scratch. It is maddening. With the prospect of sleep abandoned for tonight, Carmen grabs his coat and keys to head to the restaurant instead.

The early morning air is welcomingly cold. A stark contrast to the lingering heat that remains in Carmy’s cheeks and the back of his neck. There have been too many mornings where Carmen has awoken before the sunrise; some days were in hope of getting to the Farmer’s market before anybody else to get his choice of produce and others, unfortunately more frequently, were to struggle through the aftermath of a nightmare. God, he wished he could sleep through an entire night. Just once. If Carmen thinks about it, he hasn’t truly had a fitful night of sleep since… Copenhagen. 

Carmen becomes lost in the steady rhythm of his own footsteps until he spots somebody standing outside of the Beef. For a brief second, it’s Mikey. He’s leaning back against the brick wall, unbothered, in his favoured denim jacket and, once he’s spotted Carmen, he’s lifting a hand in a half-wave. It feels real as if Carmen could reach out and touch his brother’s shoulder, but it’s simply a ghost. An echo of a memory that is quick to dissolve and, in Mikey’s place, is you.

"Morning Chef."

Any reply Carmy wishes to give you is caught in the back of his throat as snippets of his dream flashes behind his eyes. A soft voice tickling his ear whilst softer thighs squeeze around his hips. He offers you a small nod in lieu of a verbal response and hurries to open the front door of the restaurant, silently praying that you don’t notice the shake of his hands. There’s always been a slight tremble to them, an unfortunate side effect of Carmen’s anxiety. The only time his hands seem to be steady is during plating when there’s no room for mistakes. Everything needs to be perfect. 

“Can I say something, Chef?” 

“Y-You can call me Carmy, everyone else around here does…”

You followed close behind Carmen to the back office, only pausing to flip on the kitchen lights, and you watched from the doorway as he collapsed into the office chair. There’s a strange peace to the Beef’s office. Between the looming towers of paperwork and overflowing filing cabinets, there was a tiny refuge from the constant chaos of the kitchen. Carmen found sanctuary here. It reminded him so much of afternoons spent tucked away in the furthest corner of the library and the hours that he spent hunched over a book.

"You look... tired, Carmy."

There’s a sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue to deflect, but Carmen stops himself from saying it. It’s true. Carmy was tired. For the first time since he was startled awake this morning, Carmen could feel the true weight of exhaustion sitting on his shoulders. He’d hate to think of what he looks like from your outside perspective. Darkened shadows beneath his eyes and hair unruly to the point of being wild. It took an effort to lift his gaze from the open ledger on the desk to meet yours, expression open and unguarded.

"I am. I'm really tired..."

At this moment, Carmen couldn’t bring himself to lie to you. His voice was uncharacteristically quiet and shook over the few simple words that he managed to speak. He was laid bare before you, fragile and defenceless, entrusting you not to take advantage of his state. You moved closer slowly, deliberately, as if you were worried about scaring him. As if he was a wild animal that you wished to tame. Time slowed. The air in the office grew warmer and Carmen instinctively tightened his grip on the arms of the chair, readying himself for whatever you’re about to do.

Carmen carefully watches as you lifted your hand, pausing for a beat then reached across the space between you. Your fingers were gentle, barely ghosting over his skin, as you moved a stubborn curl off Carmen’s forehead. It’s a small gesture; one that leaves Carmen staring up at you with widened eyes and an unbearable want to pull you in closer to him. Perhaps in another life, Carmen would’ve asked you to hold him, to run your fingers through the rest of his curls and assure him that the nightmare is gone. Perhaps you would hold his face in your hands and whisper words of sweet reassurance whilst peppering kisses over Carmy’s cheeks.

Perhaps… 

~ ~ ~

“Repeat it.” 

“I’m useless…” 

“What?” 

“I’m useless, Chef…”

For the briefest moment, Carmen was back in New York. The air around him is too warm with the looming presence of ‘Chef’ above him, scrutinizing and critiquing every single imperfection as venom dripped from each word. Everything was closing in. The world was spiralling out of control, but Carmen couldn’t stop it. He needed to continue to please ‘Chef.’ To become perfect. Out of the corner of his eye, Carmen could see the familiar orange glow of flames and their heat licked the length of his bare forearms. The collar to Carmen’s whites pressed painfully into his throat. He couldn’t breathe. 

Maybe this is the time Carmen will succumb to the fire. 

“Chef?” 

A new voice cuts through the noise, soft and gentle, carefully coaxing Carmen back to reality. He’s no longer in New York. Carmen is sitting on a stack of pallets behind the Beef; a once lit cigarette almost crushed between his fingers and heartbeat thudding violently behind his ribs. His body feels heavy with exhaustion, despite not moving in the past… Damn, How long had he been out here? Just as quickly as it began, the memory fades and, finally, Carmen can see you clearly standing in front of him, smiling too sweetly. You either had great timing, appearing before the memory could fully take hold and drag Carmen into a full panic attack, or Richie had sent you in search of him. 

“I brought tea.” 

Carmen found himself wanting to laugh. It had been weeks since you first placed that cup of tea on his desk and, since that day, he caught the faint scent of warmed honey whenever you passed by. It was maddening. It teased to soothe the ever-present ache behind his eyes and offered an unattainable refuge from his own anxieties. The corner of Carmen’s mouth lifted in a shaky smile as he shuffled to make enough room for you to sit beside him on the pallets, gladly accepting the offered drink. This one was different; less sweet and brighter with citrus dancing on Carmen’s tongue after the first tentative sip. 

“You okay, Chef?” 

“‘Course…” 

It was a lie. A blatant lie. One that both of you could clearly hear in the clipped tone of Carmen’s voice, but you didn’t comment on it. You had overheard enough whispered conversations between Tina, Sydney, and Richie to know that Carmen had some ‘issues’ that he was working through. And occasionally, you caught sight of him staring at nothing in particular, eyes vacant and completely cut-off from the reality around him. A part of you always yearned to reach out to Carmen in those moments, to bring him back from the darkest corner of his mind and save him from sinking even further into his own thoughts. Maybe that’s what made you bring him tea in the first place.

"Well, if you're ever... not okay, I've been told that I'm a good listener."

"Heard. Th-Thank you."

Carmen wouldn’t readily admit it yet, but he was truly thankful for you. Your mere presence brought a new sense of calm that he desperately needed amidst the chaos of persistent memories of a previous life and the Beef.