#theyyyyy

"fuck," the knife clatters on a messy workstation, and a hand cradles a hand and pulls up to look – look at what? the medical miracle of bleeding? careless action leads to unwanted consequences, and her expression shifts from confusion to something stuck between pain and surprise, and why is she gaping like a fucking idiot?

carmen: jesus [you okay?] sydney: does it hurt? [uh] let me [no] see richie: princess got a boo boo [fuck] woah [huh?] what the fuck? her: just scratch [what?] richie: you're bleeding on the fucking floor [hold on] sydney: you'll need stitches [wait] carmen, can you–

but he's already there, parting past the sea of people that flock around her like wayward birds at the promise of bread; squeezes past the gap between marcus and richie, all tense shoulders and stormy expression and he's too harsh for a situation so delicate. blue eyes gleam at the sight, the sheer audacity of it: she sliced her palm like a musician slices at the strings of their instrument. only once, but it's enough. it'll heal next to the line superstitious people proclaim fate, like a fork in the road, and maybe that's where it'll all go wrong.

sorry

"chef," sydney's voice, again, a calm echo over the cacophony of people offering condolences and drawling fucking ouch, "can you–"

"space, space, some fucking space." the hand with the hand pierced by a knife grabs at her wrist – sorry, fuck, i'm sorry  – and drags, not trying to be gentle, because he can't be gentle when the residue of a volcanic eruption pools between the cracks of his fingers.

to the sink, almost as quick as her hand had been to hurt, the tap flipped and, there, submerged under ice cold water that jolts up her bones, settles in the crevices, makes her shiver. his grip is numbing; lips pursed, nostrils flared, he watches the soft palm pale. glances at her, then, beside him, watching him watch her and fuck. i'm sorry.

can't look for long. "'s deep." he notes, quieter, to her only.

"how deep?" she asks, not cautious, not overtly blunt either, and to him it might as well be the mariana trench.

accidents happen, it's normal, especially where knifes are involved: sharp and pointy, pay attention to what you're fucking doing. still, a lecture seems unnecessary – it's birthed and buried on the tip of his tongue that suddenly wants to say so much. sorry. his heart drums anxiously, ready to flee. it's all music and her controlled breaths and the relentless rush of cold water.

"uh," blue eyes wander, liquid crystal in bleak kitchen lamps. there's blood soaking her sleeve and splattered on her linen apron. he tugs again, examining the new map carefully, "...'s, uh… not that deep." he finally concludes, but the scorn in his voice doesn't die down. maybe intensifies. he feels her pulse pound in his hand and his hold eases slightly.

"so i won't need stitches?"

"try not to sound too disappointed."

she quirks a small smile at that – he sees it in his peripherals, and it's almost enough to make him crack, too.

"hold it." it's less of a suggestion and more of a command. no nos. turns off the tap, "my office."

"there's a firs–"

"my office, chef."

inhales slowly, but the sound of water still rushes in his ears. he watches as she disappears around the corner, then glances at the crowd observing this whole ordeal, "what?" sharp, like an accusation, "get back to work."

they move like a well-oiled machine, returning to their stations. the scene of the crime remains untouched, as if they're scared to tamper with the evidence. he sighs, reels back a bit. washes his hands, slathers them generously with soap and rubs and rubs and rubs and he can wash the blood out but not what he's done.

i'll do it again. sorry

he'll never tell her, but she'll likely know, because his voice will betray him when he'll lay in bed with her, watching her drink coffee and fiddle with her phone, his thumb brushing over her cheek, "i like your pictures."

the office is a dim, dusty alcove, more broom closet than actual room: looming shelves with a thick layer of dust collected on top, a table sludged with papers chipped by the edges, a fan that doesn't work, a shit lamp that buzzes too loud at night, a plethora of sticky-note reminders, cigarette ashes sogging coffee grounds in the depths of a day's old cup. there's the chair in which she sits with her back straight and there's carmy in the threshold holding a first aid kid and there's mikey in the back where the shadows are the longest. don't.

he sets – smacks – the kit on the papers, and he doesn't clean up home because he never has any guests and he doesn't clean up here because no one stays for longer than 5 minutes. mikey left a mess, fuck, he can't tidy. can't, won't, his presence still douses this space, this isn't carmen's office.

"does it hurt?" carmen's attention is torn away from the corner, the endless expanse of a small room above her shoulder. you're so pretty.

she shakes her head, and she's lying, and he sees no point in believing her, but he sees no point in questioning her further, either, "lemme see."

he takes her hand again, but his hold is mild. maybe it's easier when it's just her.

his thumb presses on her fingers, opens the palm – shitty light, wound seems darker than it is, but not as severe as it appeared initially. clothing already. good. but his touch lingers, only a gentle brush down the side and over the strings of her wrist. only because he's sorry and he can't help himself.

clears his throat, makes the mistake of glancing at her and sees her looking up at him. it's in those eyes crowned by lashes, a swirl of light dancing around the pool, and maybe she's looking at him like that because she saw something slip from him, something that's usually hidden underneath taut muscle and a stiff jaw.

he doesn't know what it means, a part of him doesn't want to. but the air feels different now, no longer cigarettes and dust and mikey but carmen and his sweat and her and her perfume.

"keep, uh, hold it up for me."

she does, because it would be pointless to argue. he's made nothing but demands vaguely disguised as instructions. his shaky fingers fish out a white bandage and they continue shaking as he wraps. finishes with a neat knot and all, too.

he examines his handiwork the same way he examines the aesthetics of a dish brought for him to evaluate. he's got a critical eye for all things and he can't find a single flaw in her. so fucking pretty.

stop it.

there's dried blood on her forearm and a crescent moon by her elbow, teartracks up the bicep. they streak past her tattoos and into the unknown of her shoulder. so many pictures – are memories attached? he's sentimental, but would never admit it. each of his is with a meaning privy to him and him only.

roaming eyes halt by a tiny inked pastry. macaroon. it almost makes him smile, "you like those?"

her: oh, uh, yeah, i guess? my mom likes em, so carmen: does she have a, a matching? one? her: naaaaah [really?] no she, she isn't a real big fan of them, lost her fucking mind when i got my first four carmen: first four? [yeah] in one sitting? her: i mean, yeah, i [wow] carmen: it didn't hurt? her: wasn't so bad. this hurt more

"i make them. sometimes." she admits, but he already knows. "when i go to visit her. uhm, but, i'm really not a pastry chef, so, i'm, i don't know what i'm doing. can't tell if they taste good either since they're all coffee."

a small smile curls on the corner of his lips, "coffee? what's wrong with coffee?"

she grins, "no."

"what?" he's still holding her hand.

she snorts, "don't, don't tell me you're one of those people."

"one of those people?" his eyebrows flick upward.

"the ones that think coffee macaroons are delicious." her voice lilts with amusement. it's a breathy note.

he's not sure how to answer, but his voice lowers to match her timbre, "they're, well, they're, uh, a little bitter, but… i like em."

there's a pause.

carmen: but you like it? her: coffee? carmen:    yeah her: yes just carmen: not the macaroons? her: not the macaroons.

she doesn't like them because they remind her of nyc and the pastry shop her mom took her to after work. she was a kid, a real young thing, still needing a guide and still needing help to get on the seat. it's the touch, it's the trust, it's the dark brown interior with open windows filtering the sunlight in – so rare for a city so cloudy. she never goes down that street, takes a 15 minute roundabout. the sidewalk is marred by her small footsteps, lost without the click-clack of kitten heels beside her.

she'll make a batch for everyone at the restaurant a few weeks from now, bring it in on a saturday morning – strawberry for richie and tina, lemon for sydney, matcha for neil, almond for marcus, coffee for carmen. she'll knock on the door of his office and he'll look up and see her smiling and he'll smile, too. taste, then, and he'll tell her that they're good and it won't be because he's being nice but because they will be good, and she'll insist that he try pistachio because that one is her favorite and he will because by that time he won't be able to say no to her.

and when they're together, she'll always leave a few extra for him, until she won't, and when he'll ask her if she needs a ride to the hospital, something will crack underneath sleepless eyes and rigid weary features: "no."

he's still holding her hand.

overhead, the rhythmic drum of rain pours over the city. there's a squeak on the tiles of a slippery shoe, a methodic pounding that reverberates around, in and out. the tapping.

"carmen?" such a bleak face in the bleak backdrop of terror named therapy. the woman he deigned to trust handles that trust with care, never pushing further than he allows her, allows himself. he's mostly silent during their sessions, but even if his lips can't move, his body does the speaking for him. the tapping. stop fucking tapping your foot.

"yeah, yeah, i," blinks once, twice, thrice, and he suddenly can't stop, "i, i, i, uh," can't face her, can't face anything, fucking coward.

"breathe," she laments, too close and yet out of reach; her voice, a thin sheen of balm over bruises and wounds he doesn't want to heal, "have you been–"

"yes." he grits, quick, harsh, apologetic. turns from her, staring out the window – can't see nothing. it's raining. it's been raining a lot. "yes, i, i do. them. the exercises, i do them."

there's a pause in which the woman might smile or might not. "that's good," it isn't, "it's a good start." it's pathetic.

the white frame's like a picture. inside – bleak light and billowing clouds, a murky rendition of the city's landscape drowned underwater. he hears the clock ticking, he hears his foot tapping, and he hears the pelting on the glass. the last he can almost feel on his skin.

the downpour.

"shit."

the damp august air washes over him all at once, humid and cold simultaneously. he holds the backdoor of the kitchen open, squinting, car keys jingling on his finger. thunder rumbles somewhere not far off, and it's the only sound loud enough to pierce water hitting pavement.

he feels her against his shoulder rather than hears her, she and her curious expression scrunching into a wince. "no kidding."

"i'll give you a lift." he says.

"you sure?"

"you wanna fucking freeze or somethin?" no, she doesn't, and all socials were quick to inform of halted trains. the city's on lockdown from the storm, and the weathermen relayed this news with a stiff upper lip. it might ease up tomorrow morning, it may not, we have all the technology in the fucking world and still can't accurately predict the weather.

the tracks are too slippery, or something like that, she doesn't know because she only read the headline and trusted it as gospel. unsurprising, but he's not exactly complaining.

"where's your car?"

in a quick motion, he points into the murky distance, "uh, there. somewhere."

she grins, fixing the strap of her bag over her shoulder, head tilted slightly, inquisitive, playful almost, "we make a run for it?"

carmen can't help the smile that curls on his lips, and he regards her with raised brows, almost surprised by her suggestion but not opposed to it, "yeah? yes? do you have a, a jacket?" eyes flit over her, not lingering, not daring, "or, to cover yourself, you know."

"carmen it showed 93 degrees this morning," right. the question answers itself.

"then we run."

he moves first and she follows after and he's drenched in moments, wet hair sticking to his face and the harsh rain cold on his hot skin. behind him he hears the door slam shut and thunder rolling and her airy laugher getting lost in dark gray clouds. he looks at her from over his shoulder but he can't really see much with his eyes half-closed. he can't stop smiling.

he unlocks the car quickly, ducking inside, and she falls into the passenger's seat and for a moment it's just the laughter on her tongue and the rain and him breathing. she catches his gaze and water drips down his nose and it drips down her chin. the roof pounds and his heart pounds and he's overcome with an unbearable urge to kiss her.

he turns the ignition instead, pressing the heater, then the windshield wipers. "seatbelt," is all he says.

"yes, chef." she rasps, god, stop it. fingers curl tighter around the wheel. he hears the familiar click before he turns on the radio – too loud at first, it's fucking jarring, but then tones it a little, only to drown out the sound of her small breaths. his throat is dry and his lips are wet and he wipes away the water from his forehead before it drips down into his eyes.

don't look at her. "can you, uh, give me the address?"

"yes, yes, one sec," he sees her wiping her hand on the seat before she tries to use her phone. after a few more seconds, "okay, got it, where do–"

"gimmie," doesn't wait for an answer, blindly reaches for her phone, brushes warm skin against warm skin and pilfers the device. sets it by the mileage.

"not too far?" she asks, "you can drop me off somewhere closer."

"nah, need to go that way anyway," not really, but he won't tell her. needs to see sugar, though it's not that he's exactly looking forward to it. this trip is out of his way, but if he enters the highway, which he will, it doesn't really matter.

maybe it does. maybe it really fucking matters and he just doesn't realise it yet, doesn't want to. carmen's unreceptive to change, hardly notices when he's the instigator, and he usually is. for better or for worse.

she settles in her seat, head resting on the glass, and it can't be all that comfortable, but it looks somewhat endearing. maybe. he'd need to take a better look, so he does, and it's only a flit of his eyes to the expanse of her neck and down her shoulders and fuck, don't, god.

she's soaked. her shirt clings to her like second skin, almost translucent, and the fabric stretches across her chest, the round slopes of her tits and perked nipples. shit. sorry. you're so fucking pretty.

he tears his eyes away before she can catch him, clearing his throat, his whole body turning away from her as heat pools in his lower abdomen and his erection presses against his pants. fuck. tries to suppress his reaction, to push it back down where it belongs, but it's already too late.

the car shudders and his knuckles whiten and he's so distracted by the swell of blood between his legs that he barely notices that he's sweating. the air feels too fucking warm and he slams the heater off harsher than he intended. she startles. his jaw twinges.

"sorry," he mumbles, and he's not sure what he's apologizing for specifically. she doesn't say anything but her gaze weighs heavy on him, raking his arms and leaving goosebumps, and fuck, please, don't look at me, don't fucking look at me.

he chews on his bottom lip, elbow on the windowsill and palm against his hot cheek. his eyes flick to her phone and he almost groans – 20 more minutes of this, this, fuck, whatever this is.

the engine hums and the radio sings and the rain keeps pouring. he keeps glancing at her. can't stop himself, and each time he does it, he swears it's the last one. catches her eyes and she looks away first, too quickly, and he doesn't dare to hope, but maybe, just maybe, he isn't the only one feeling like this.

ch.5: dogtooth