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butchcarmy · 8 months ago

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ALEXITHYMIA CH 5: detergent, thrifting, and cake

Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader

Chapter Rating: T (11k)

ao3 link, ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4

Chapter Summary: It’s his roommate’s birthday this week, and Carmy doesn’t find out until it’s a couple days away. Once he finds they’re unluckily spending their birthday alone, he makes it his mission to make their lonely day better. It’s the least he can do. Little does he know how much more he has to discover about them and about himself.

Tags: reader having trauma, carmy having trauma, toxic families, domesticity

A/N: It’s time… it’s time. I said last chapter was the longest…just kidding. THIS ONE is the longest, and it was hardest to write so far. The duo gets to have a lot of fun this chapter, though! arguably the most so far! A lot of domestic goodness and good food and shopping! Until… :)

also HUGE shoutout to @justaconsequence on tumblr for being my beta reader for this chapter! she was so kind and so helpful. this behemoth of a fic is too much for me to proofread on my own. anyway, thanks for reading and enjoy! can't wait to hear what y'all think!

Typically, by this time on Monday morning, Carmy's usually three cigarettes deep into paperwork, urgently (and poorly) calculating the sales the restaurant needs to make this week to stay afloat. Because even though it's a Sunday closing activity, he never seems to find the occasion to get around to it, and by 10 pm, he doesn't have the capacity to be crunching numbers.

Not that 8 am is much better. At least he's not dissecting the debt this morning—he's studying detergent prices.

“Why is this one, like, almost 20 dollars?” Carmy stops reading the price tags and glances over at his roommate, who's squinting at products on upper shelves. The lights are always too bright in this place. “And for such a small bottle…”

“Pre-mixed organic sulfate-free 100% vegan bleach,” Carmy reads dully.

“So stupid.” They shake their head. “Does grocery shopping ever depress you?”

“Usually,” he replies dryly. “Inflation is pretty depressing.”

“Don’t even get me started. Capitalism in general depresses me.”

“Hm, yeah. That too.” He sighs through his nose and tries to refocus. He's having a hard time processing all the numbers and letters today. “You see any unscented detergent? Somethin’ mild?”

“Um…” They crane their neck up and down, and then they crouch on the ground. They pick up a white bottle. “How's this? It's like, 8 dollars. It's not name-brand, but…”

“You know I don't care.” He kneels with them, huddling in close. They smell faintly of a sweet, yet musky perfume. He reminds himself to focus on the detergent, not the way they smell (even if it's far more interesting). “Yeah, this looks good. Thank you.”

“For your vintage denim, right?” They stand up to put the detergent in their shopping cart, which is barely separated with his stuff vs. theirs. He doesn't understand why his face grows warm at their comment, but it does.

“Uh, yeah. It is.” If the blush shows on his face, they graciously don't comment. “Although I'll admit I don't get around to washing them as much as I should.”

“You're not supposed to wash jeans that often anyway, right?” They lean their elbows onto the rickety cart as they push it, and he ambles along next to them, matching the slow, relaxed pace of their walk.

“Yeah, but I really…” The implications are clear. They fail in suppressing a laugh, and it makes him smile. “And I’m supposed to hand wash them, so.”

“Oh, so what you're saying is that you never wash them,” they tease.

“That is not at all what I'm saying.” They make an unimpressed face. “I do laundry, it's just…”

“Not often,” they supply helpfully. He tries to come up with something, but he's got nothing. “It's okay, I understand.”

“I promise I wash my clothes,” he mumbles, wilting.

“I know.” There's that new smile he's grown to recognize more clearly. It's this mischievous one they get when they’re teasing him, and it's so cute he doesn't have any room in him to get even a little irritable. “I've seen you do laundry maybe once or twice.”

“Hey,” he says, warning, and they laugh and run ahead of him, the squeaky wheels of the cart giggling alongside them.

After the night he almost burned down their apartment, he had felt different. It was like a switch being flipped, light abruptly filling up a dark room, and he's been squinting, struggling to adjust. But as he walks with them today, grocery shopping lit by blinding white fluorescents, he finds that he can see them rather clearly.

The connection between the two of them is tangible, palpable. It's workable pasta dough that's been kneaded to uniformity. The dough is malleable, clean, and when he touches it, sticky, glutenous residue doesn't cover his palms. When he catches at them peeking over their shoulder to make sure he's still following them, he chases away the urge to pull them into his arms. He throws the desire into boiling water in hopes that enough pressure will change those feelings into something more palatable. He's not sure if it's working.

Something happened when he hugged them that Saturday night. He doesn't dare name what that “something” is, but it's rising from where it's sitting at the bottom of the pot, just about to hit the surface—

“Hey, I gotta get some stuff in this aisle.” Carmy snaps out of it and follows them as they veer the cart to the left. He raises his eyes to read the categories on the sign.

“You bakin’ somethin’?” They both move out of the way for an oncoming cart.

“Yeah, was thinking about it.” They halt to a stop in front of the boxed cake mix and step back to fully peruse the shelves. He stands next to them, and they glance at him out of the corner of their eye. “You’re not judging me for getting box mix, are you?”

“Not at all,” he answers honestly. “Food is always better when made from scratch, but box mix has its uses. Besides, I’m not a baker.”

“That’s true, but I’m sure you still make an insane cake.” Carmy’s aware he can’t make them unsee his flash of a smile, but he still shrugs. “Sure, stay humble.”

“I try. What’s the occasion?”

“Ah, nothing much. It’s just my birthday.”

“Oh, okay.”

…And he's about to move on, just as casually as it came, but then the processing finishes.

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” They ask confusedly.

“Is it your birthday today?”

“No, um, it’s this Thursday.” He exhales in palpable relief.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He hates at how worked up he sounds.

“Um…” Their face is twinged with guilt. “...There was never a good time to bring it up?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be getting upset.” He sighs, shakes his head. “I just feel like I should’ve known, I guess.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not your fault. I never brought it up. Um…” Their hands are fiddling with the edges of their sleeves. “I just have complicated feelings about my birthday.”

“Ah, I see. I get that.” That, he can understand. “Is it all the gifts and stuff?”

“Kinda. It’s a part of it.” They lean down to grab a box of devil’s food cake, and that makes him remember that they’re in a grocery store. Not quite the best place for a personal conversation like this. They’re being vague, but he won’t press. Not right now.

“You shouldn’t be baking for yourself on your birthday,” Carmy mutters. They smile at that, but it’s different. It’s heavy with melancholy.

“It’s alright. I’m gonna be celebrating with my friends this weekend, just not on my actual birthday.” His conflicted expression persists. “It’s okay, really. It’s just a day. It’ll be enough of a present to not have to go into work.”

“Put that back,” he blurts out. “I’ll make you a cake.”

“Don’t you work?” Their eyebrows are arched in surprise. “You really don’t—”

“I know I don’t. But I want to. I do work, yeah, but I’ll, I’ll get someone to cover me.” He’s never said those words before in his life, and now that they’re out, he can’t take them back. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t want to take them back. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course,” they reply quickly.

“Then let me do this. Please.” He has no idea where this courage is coming from. “I want to. I know I'm always working, but I really…” Their eyes are wide with wonder, yet watchful. It shouldn't make him falter, but it does. His heart stutters and whatever bravado briefly gripped him fades away. “I’m…probably being too pushy right now. Tell me to fuck off?”

“I’m not gonna tell you to fuck off for wanting to bake me a cake,” they laugh, easing his worries like they always do. “C’mon, Carm.”

“So, uh, is that a yes, or…?”

“Just so we’re clear, I’m not trying to ask you to take off of work for my birthday,” they start carefully, “but I wouldn’t object to it. So, yeah. It’s a yes.”

“Okay.” He can’t help his giddy smile. There's someone saying you look stupid like this, but he’s with them, and it makes everything else silent. “Okay, good.”

“You’re…being super sweet about all this.” He doesn’t understand why—maybe it’s the way they say it—but hearing that makes his neck go hot.

“I mean…friends do stuff like this, don’t they?”

“Only the good ones.” They beam beautifully at him. He hasn’t done anything to warrant their affection, he thinks, but the feeling of their smile is so warm. He can’t resist soaking in it.

He's glad that lady luck blessed him just enough to stop their birthday from passing him by. He's been itching for an opportunity to repay them for all the bullshit they've had to take from him as of recent (although he knows if he brought it up, they would say it wasn't anything worth repaying). They deserve something good from him for once, not panic attacks and nightmares.

He just wishes he could figure out why they were going to spend their birthday alone. He knows them a lot better now, but there's still so much left shrouded. He wants to know them inside and out—he wants to learn what makes them tick, what keeps them up at night, what makes them happy. He wants to know all of it in its entirety, to fill in the gaps in the puzzle he doesn't have the pieces for.

He has some of the pieces. He understands that their relationship with their family to his—distant, strained, and difficult. Unfortunately, that’s about it. He doesn’t know any of the specifics. It’s not like he’s talked to them about his family outside of the off-handed bitter remarks, just as they have, but he finds that this fact leaves him dissatisfied.

He just hopes that they'll let him in. He's not sure if they will, but…he's gonna try. He has to. He's sick of not trying.

. . . . .

“You want to take off?” Richie’s staring at Carmy like he’s grown a second head. They're taking a smoke break in the back. “I don’t know what sort of doppelganger bullshit this is, but if you’re trying to pretend to be Carmen, you’re doing a shit job.”

“Very funny, jackass,” Carmy mutters. “I’m being serious. This Thursday.”

“All day?” Carmy grimaces, but he nods. Richie shakes his head. “You’re being weird. Really fuckin’ weird.”

“I know I shouldn’t. It’s a bad idea, but—”

“Cousin, no, that’s not at all what’s goin’ on here,” Richie interrupts, and Carmy’s at a loss for words. “This is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“What?” Carmy squints at him. “Are you being serious?”

“‘Course I’m serious. I’m always serious.” Carmy decides not to comment on that. “Do you know how many times I’ve tried to get you off this ship for just one fucking second?”

“As the owner of this place, you’ve tried way too many times,” he replies dryly.

“Uh, as the original co-owner of this place, you don’t listen to me enough.” Again, Carmy decides not to elaborate on that one. It’s not worth it. “Take the day off. I was running it fine before, and I’ll keep running it.”

“No, no, we’re not saying that, it was not fine,” Carmy starts, but Richie’s already flipping him off.

“Whatever, I already know, new fucking system and all that. Don’t get anxiety or whatever over it, that’s why you got Syd hustling shit your way, right?”

“Uh.” Carmy didn’t realize that Richie had even been paying attention to the new hierarchy in the restaurant, let alone respecting it in any capacity. “Yeah, she is.”

“Then it’s fine.” Richie blows smoke in his face, and Carmy swats it away with a glare. “It was fine when you came in an hour late today, wasn’t it?”

“You guys knew I wasn’t gonna come in until later,” Carmy argues, defensive (although he’s not sure if there’s actually anything to argue about).

“Exactly.” Richie sighs all of a sudden, a long one that sounds like it’s bone deep. “Carm. Let me be straight with you. You need to do this. Okay? No backing out of this one.”

“Why’re you sayin’ this? What are you sayin’?”

“It’s ‘cause of your roommate, right? This Thursday?”

“...Yeah.” Carmy pales. “How did you��?”

“Fuckin’ knew it,” Richie says, grinning. “It was obvious.”

“No way. I didn’t say shit.”

“You didn’t need to.” Richie flicks the ash off his cigarette. “They’re changin’ you, man. We can all see it.”

“...” Carmy can’t deny that. He doesn't have time to ponder on that right now. “Is it really okay?”

“Yeah, you could stand to have an attitude adjustment.”

“I wasn’t talking about that, asshole. I was talking about Thursday.”

“Yes, for fuck’s sake, it’s completely fine.” Richie claps a hand on his shoulder, solid in its grip. It makes Carmy’s eyes snap to him, mostly in confusion. “So what’s the occasion? Must be important.”

“It’s their birthday. I mean, I could just go home early that day, but—”

“Yo, if you’re gonna take off, don’t halfass it—”

“That’s not what I was gonna say. When I’m here, I can’t seem to find my way out. This place…it just has a way of trapping you in.” He doesn’t expect Richie to nod, but he does. “I know if I don’t take the whole day off, I’ll never get out of here in time. Not until it’s too late.”

For some reason, that makes Richie laugh.

“Yeah. That's it.” Richie shakes his head as smoke trails out of his mouth. “That’s just it, man. You have to make time for the things that’re important. Even the recitals where you have to listen to five year olds play twinkle twinkle little star 20 times. You can’t miss shit like this. Because once you miss it, it’s gone.”

“Rich.” Carmy wants to say something to make that haunted expression leave Richie's face, but he doesn't come up with anything in time.

“Don’t give me that look.” Richie’s hand falls from his shoulder. “I’m just tryin’ to stop you from fucking shit up. They actually seem like a good person.”

“Y’think so?”

“I do. You?”

“Yeah.” Carmy doesn’t bother hiding his smile, even though he can already sense Richie’s teasing coming from a mile away. “They’re a really good friend.”

“Friend. Sure.” Richie snorts.

“Don’t push it,” and for some reason he adds, “they were gonna spend it alone.”

“Huh. Sociable guy like them spending it alone?”

“I know. I didn't ask. Maybe I should've.”

“Maybe. I dunno, cousin. Everyone's got their secrets. Especially the ones that try to act like they don't have any.”

“You're strangely full of wisdom today.”

“Fuck right off,” Richie responds in regular Richie fashion.

“I think they're like me. Like us.” Carmy's not sure why he's saying this on a Monday afternoon at work out of all times, but the truth bursts out of him beyond his will. Richie's expression shifts into something more solemn, something recognizable. “Y'know what I mean.”

“...Yeah.” Richie claps his hand on Carmy's back again. “Shitty parents club.”

As Carmy stands there in the back, feet sore and tobacco in the air, he sees his childhood in flashes. He's five years old again and is following Mike around with scuffed sneakers and untamed hair, although he supposes that unruliness never truly changed with time. There's warm sunlight filtering through green summer leaves. He hears his mother behind him, somewhere, but maybe he doesn't.

He thinks of home, of his bedroom, and it is cold. He has homework he’s failed to complete again. It's sitting on his desk, on top of all of the other shit he can't finish. There's screaming, and he's not listening.

He blinks. He’s 30, and he hasn’t talked to his mom since Michael died.

“Shitty parents club,” Carmy repeats hollowly.

. . . . .

When Thursday morning arrives, Carmy ends up greeting his roommate with flour in his hair and eggs sizzling on the pan.

“Um,” they say, just as Carmy goes “G'morning.” They both freeze, brief awkwardness circling between them before it dissipates with their breathless laugh.

“Good morning. I didn't think you'd actually take off,” they admit.

“I said I would,” he replies quietly, but it's not accusatory. How many times had he said he'd be home for dinner just for him to arrive when they're already asleep? He tries not to make empty promises anymore. Nonetheless, he understands their surprise. “Um, I'm almost done with breakfast. I didn't get to the coffee yet.”

“Am I supposed to be offended?” They laugh. “That's the least I can do, with you doing all of this.” They sluggishly shuffle behind him to reach down into some kitchen cabinets. “It's a special day, so I'll even make us pour overs.”

“That's true. It is special.” He peeks over his shoulder, pausing from basting the eggs in brown butter to see them setting up on the kitchen island. They gently place the hourglass-shaped glass onto the counter with a light clink. He silently switches the button on for the electric gooseneck kettle to his right. “Am I allowed to wish you a happy birthday, or should I not?”

“Hm, I don't mind. Just don't overdo it, which I doubt you will.” They pull out a bag of coarse ground coffee and a filter. As soon as they open the bag, he can smell the sweet scent of the light roast floating towards him.

“Okay. Then, happy birthday,” he says as casually as he can.

“Thanks, Carmy.” He studies their expression, searching for annoyance in their content expression, but he doesn't find any. “That's not even really what I meant by today being special, though.”

“How else did you mean it?” The eggs are done. He reaches over the hot pan to cut the heat.

“Well, y'know. I dunno if we’ve ever had a full day off together.” They're carefully scooping grounds into the filter fitted on top of the glass, creating a small hill. “I think I managed to catch you coming home early on my off days sometimes, but never a full day.”

“Huh.” Carmy has to take a minute to think about that one. “Yeah, I don't know either. I think you're right.”

“Then, like I said. It's special.” They seal up the bag of coffee grounds, and then they frown. “Shit. I forgot to turn on the kettle. Can you—”

“Already did it,” he reports, pleased, and his sense of accomplishment only doubles at their sigh of relief.

“Thank god.” There's the familiar clicking sound of the kettle reaching the perfect temperature. “Just in time, too. Can you hand it to me?”

“Yes, chef,” he says, because it always makes them laugh. Today is no exception. He slides the metallic kettle over to them.

“So what delights did you whip up over there?” They ask. They begin pouring the almost boiling water over their coffee grounds in a slow circle, gradually inching towards the middle. “It smells amazing. I want the full break-down.”

“The full break-down, got it.” On two circular plates, he's carefully placing a fried egg, thick cut bacon, and a slice of toast with jam and butter. “Uh…it's nothin’ special, just stuff we had in the fridge. We've got a, uh, brown-butter fried egg with a little paprika, sage, pepper, salt…”

“Oh, just an egg made with liquid gold, no big deal,” they imitate.

“Cut it out,” he snips back, but he's smiling and they know it. “There's honestly not much to it. This thick-cut bacon was in the back, so I cooked the rest of it. And the toast is just brioche with salted honey butter and blueberry jam.”

“Carmy. C'mon. That's nothing special to you?”

“I mean.” It's not quite nothing, he thinks. “I can make nicer breakfasts, is all.”

“That's what you said when you made me garlic bread, and that fucking blew my mind.” They set the kettle down with a thunk. The glass is full of dark coffee. Prepped next to them is their favorite glass mug alongside Carmy's. He's not sure how they knew that it was his favorite, but he doesn't question it.

“I'm just letting you know that you should wait to be really impressed.”

“Too fucking late, man.” He's turned around and placed the two breakfast platters on the kitchen island, and they gawk openly at it. “Holy fuck.”

“It's ready,” he says, surprisingly meek. He can't comprehend why anxiety's hitting him now of all times. He's served acclaimed food critics, top-security government officials, and celebrities more times than he can count. Before that audience, he never faltered, but in front of his roommate in their crumpled pajamas, his heart stutters.

“Oh, wow…” They regard the food with undeserved softness. Like a punctured balloon, his anxiety immediately begins deflating. They're staring at the food like it's a painting in a museum. “You seriously didn't have to do all of this.”

“I know. I just wanted to.” He feels heat on the back of his neck. “Is…is that okay?”

“It's more than okay.” Suddenly, he notices their eyes are puffy, like they were crying. “Goddamnit, get over here.”

He only registers what's about to happen for one second before they're hugging him. Their palms are on his back, and the top of their head tucks under his chin perfectly. He makes a small, surprised noise.

“I, I'm glad you like it.” He links his arms around them, allows himself to rest his chin on their head. With their face turned to the side, their ear's pressed up against his chest, and he's instantly struck with the paranoia that they're gonna hear his rapid heartbeat.

“I haven't even taken a bite yet, and I love it.” They lean back then, arms still wrapped around him and head craned upwards to look at him. It's far too intimate for what they are, and Carmy hates how his heart beats even harder. “Thank you for doing all this. Seriously. I…”

“The breakfast's just a side thing, I'm, um, still baking you a cake.”

“What? You're doing this and a cake?”

“Um,” Carmy repeats intelligently.

“Carmy. Carmy, Carmy, Carmy.” Their words ooze affection, but surely he's just imagining it. Their hands are crawling up his back. “God, I could just ki—”

“There's the timer,” Carmy blurts out, because his phone's ringing and so are his ears. At the sound, they let him go, and he grabs two towels to retrieve the two circular cake pans from the oven. A toothpick poked through the middle comes out clean, so he sets them on a wire rack to cool.

He needs to focus on the cakes. That's the most important thing.

“Oh my god.” They lean in close to the cake and take a deep breath. “Is this—”

“Devil's food cake, yeah.” The heat searing his face is surely from opening the oven.

“You—how did you—” Their smile is luminous with joy. “You really pay attention to every little thing, don't you?”

“Sometimes. When it counts.” He fidgets awkwardly, nails picking at the sides of his fingers. “Wanna eat by the window, or…?”

“Fuck yeah I do. Can you bring the plates over? I'll have the coffee over in just a second.”

Carmy sets up at their little table first, placing the plates just right across from one another. The morning sun casts a cozy glow through their speckled window, streaking planes of light across the floor. He patiently waits and watches them pace from the fridge to the counter, splashing cream into their mugs. Through the transparent glass, he watches the white fizzle into the dark coffee, blending into a warm brown.

“Just a tiny spoon of sugar for you, right?” They peek over their shoulder, catching his stare, and he nods. He's also not quite sure how they know that, either. They've had coffee in the morning maybe a handful of times before.

He supposes they also pay attention sometimes, when it counts.

“Alright, here we go.” They bring a mug in each hand and set them delicately down on the table. He notes that his coffee is the perfect color. “Oh, thanks for waiting. You didn't have to.”

“I, I guess so, yeah. It's just, uh, you always wait for me, so…”

“That's—that's true.” An odd tension sets in their face, but they laugh it off, and it disappears. “I guess I’m not used to it anymore.”

A part of him wants to ask further by what they meant by that, but they're already taking pictures of his food so dutifully. He doesn't want to ruin it, so he eats.

It's nice to have a solid breakfast for once. He had taken their advice from the other night and had been drinking milk with protein powder. It was nice not to feel like he was teetering the edge by lunch time, but truthfully, it was a bit unsavory. This breakfast platter is much more palatable. It also helps that his stomach pains aren't active today.

Time rolls by slowly this quiet morning, and Carmy recognizes the oddity of it immediately. It's clear to see when by this time, he's usually already done at least ten laps through the restaurant. An irritating signal in his brain is telling him that he needs to get up and do something, not sit around and eat, but for once, he doesn't want to listen.

A memory from roughly two weeks ago (or was it one week?) unearths all of sudden. He was up early, drinking shitty coffee and sinking into dissociation. Mornings were lonely, as he was usually the only one up, but not that day. His roommate came stumbling into the kitchen, awake from a restless night. They chatted before he had to head out, and he remembers wishing he had more time in the morning to spend with them.

He imagined a morning just like this one, with pajamas, food, and messy hair. He daydreamed about having all the time in the world, and he thought about getting to spend it all with them. Now he’s sitting in that moment he imagined, except that it’s real. They're across from him in their wrinkled pajamas and bedhead, contentedly mowing through their food. There's a smear of jam on the corner of their mouth. He takes a sip of his coffee, and it's perfect, just as they made it for him.

This amount of good should scare him, needs to scare him, but he just can't bring himself to care anymore. He wants more than nightmares, cigarettes, and floating just above the budget. He wants this.

He tastes his coffee and reminds himself that he’s still here. The moment hasn’t passed him by.

“Is it good?” He asks quietly. It’s a rhetorical question, it always is, but he can’t help himself. He wants to hear it from them.

“So. Fucking. Good.” They have to finish chewing before they answer. “You always knock it out of the park. If this is the prelude, I don’t know if I can handle what’s next,” they say, gesturing towards the cooling cake.

“It won’t be ready for a while yet. You have time to prepare yourself.” That makes them smile. All according to plan. “Got anything in mind for today?”

“Nothing glamorous. I was just gonna go out for a little. Go thrifting, maybe watch a movie later. Smoke a joint.” They shrug. “Just my usual sort of thing.”

“Mm.” He dusts off crumbs from the toast off his fingers on his pants. “Sounds like a good time. You still wanna go?”

“I do, yeah.” They stare at him for a moment, as if processing his words. Or just him. “Do you…wanna tag along, or…?”

Whenever they ask him if he wants to spend time together (whether it’s grocery shopping, smoking, or watching a show), they usually offer it with an air of nonchalance. Carmy’s assumed it’s been out of politeness, restraining their expression as to not put any pressure onto him. That’s the person he’s used to, not this uneasy anxiety, someone afraid to ask him to spend time with them.

It reminds him of himself in every way.

“I’d love to tag along,” he answers easily, just as they’ve always done for him. “I’ve got the whole day off, after all.”

“Right. ‘Course.” He watches their little smile double in size. “I promise to not make you watch me try on clothes for too long.”

“I wouldn’t mind. I like thrifting, y’know.” And you, he thinks to himself.

“You do? Oh, of course—” They make a contemplative noise to themself. “Vintage denim. I always wondered how you managed to have so many pairs.”

“Once you know where to look, they’re pretty easy to find. I can help you find some, if you want.”

“I’d love that. I realized the other day that I don’t have any dark wash jeans, so—actually, the truth is that I do have a pair, but they’re so fucked up and old that I never wear them anymore. Anyway, I need new jeans. Think you could find some dark wash blue jeans for me?”

“If you’re willing to hit up more than one store, then definitely,” he replies, just a smidge cocky.

“I’m willing to hit up even two more stores.” He pretends to gasp, to which they nod confidently. “Yeah. That’s right. Maybe even three.”

“We won’t need three,” Carmy promises. “I’m better than that. Probably won’t even need two, but…” He shrugs. “We’ll see what they’ve got.”

“Okay, Mr. Confident over here,” they tease. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”

They head out after they both clean the kitchen and freshen up. Carmy gets the flour out of his hair and rewets his hair to revive some of his curls. He silently thanks his past self for showering the night before. With the passage of the morning cold and the rising sun, the afternoon weather’s become brisk and pleasant. However, the weather’s barely a factor in how he’s dressing.

Is this too much? Is this not enough? He’s switching shirts and pants in the mirror like he’s about to go on a date. He knows he’s not, swears to himself that he’s not, but he’s put product in his hair and cologne on his wrists and temples. It’s not a date, but he can’t fucking decide what to wear.

He sucks it up and settles on a gray sweater, light wash blue jeans, and white sneakers. From under his collar and at the bottom of his sweater peeks out a brown button up. It’s probably too much, but this is his sixth outfit change. He’s fed up with it and himself.

After adjusting the gold chain that got hidden under his collar, he steps out.

He finds them already waiting by the door in this thick knit cardigan and fitted plaid pants that makes his heart stutter. When they hear him approaching, their head snaps up from their phone, and their skin sparkles with touches of makeup.

“You look really nice.” He has no idea how he let that slip, but he’s more shocked that he didn’t stutter once.

“Ah, th—thank you,” they stammer, fingers fidgeting with the edge of their sleeve. He’s not sure if it's their makeup or their skin that’s doing the blushing. It’s nice to see them being the one tripping over their words for once. “You look pretty handsome yourself.”

“Oh. Um.” Handsome? It echoes in his head. He instantly feels self conscious. So much for being the more suave one for once. “Thanks, uh…I just didn’t wanna wear my work clothes,” he lies in an attempt to ease his embarrassment.

“I gotcha.” He’s glad they don’t challenge him on it. “Shall we head out?”

“Yeah. Where we headed first?”

They take the metro to their personal favorite shop a little up north. The metro’s surprisingly busy for a Thursday afternoon, but the crowd forces the two of them to be huddled next to each other. They’re both standing close to a pole by the window, each with one hand wrapped around the metal.

As passengers come and go, they step closer to him to move out of the way. Eventually it just gets to a point where they’re standing nearly pressed up against his chest. He tries not to dwell on how that makes him feel, but he can smell the fragrance they put on, and it’s very distracting.

Luckily, the ride is short. Any longer on the train, he might’ve put an arm around their shoulder, god forbid.

“If we can’t find what I’m looking for here, maybe you can show me one of your favorite spots to go thrifting,” they say as they enter the thrift store. The interior is decorated, clean, and lovely, and unlike the metro, it’s not packed to the brim with people. It smells faintly of incense, and there’s local art framed all over the walls for sale. It oozes warmth and excitement, much like them.

“There’s a ton of shit here, so maybe we won’t need to after all.” He finds himself intaking everything at once, eyes flickering from sign to sign. “I’ve never been here before. This is really cool.”

“It’s my favorite place to find new clothes.” They trail down the racks, finger flitting between clothes. “I hope you can find something you like here, too.”

“I’m sure I will.” He’s already walking to their denim section and immediately spots some contenders. “I think I already have.”

He’s not sure if they mean to spend hours in there, but he certainly does. There’s more than just clothes to look at, although that’s what takes up most of his time. There’s dishes, furniture, cds, vinyls, books, even electronics. He goes back and forth with them, clothing articles piling up in his arms as they sit on battered couches together and peruse scratched cds. Everywhere he looks, there’s just more, more, and more.

“Okay, I’ve gotta cut myself off,” they say as they leave the furniture section. They’ve sat on nearly every chair in that place. “I already have so many clothes to try on, and that’s not even including the jeans you’ve picked out for me.”

“If it helps, some of these are mine.” Carmy flips through the layers of hanging jeans that have built up on his forearm. “If you can believe it, I even found some stuff that isn’t denim.”

“I’m not sure if I can, but seeing is believing.” They thumb through some long-sleeves he’s carrying that are seeping out from under the jeans. “I’m just glad you were able to find some stuff for yourself, too. Not that I was that worried.”

He hands them the jeans he’s found for them, all dark wash and in their size. To his surprise, they also hand him an article of clothing for him to try on.

“I thought you’d look good in this. You’ll have to show me when you try it on,” they say, and it’s innocent, completely meaningless, but as soon as Carmy agrees and rushes to hide in the changing room, he views in the mirror and sees his flushed face.

Doesn’t mean anything, he repeats to himself, over and over and over. Stop getting in over your head.

He tries on his items of choice first. The first is a dark green henley that looked better on the rack than it did him, so he puts it in the reject pile. The second is a dark blue long sleeve that fits just right. It’s cheap, too, so it’s an automatic purchase. He presumes the way to word it is that it hugs him in all the right places, but he’s not sure. The rest are jeans, of which only one he decides to buy. A bit pricey, but for the brand and year, it’s worth it (although he basically always uses this reasoning with himself).

Now, for the piece of clothing they picked out for him. It’s a dark brown t-shirt that seems like it’s just the right length. It’s a muted, yet warm brown, a bit rosey in hue. He doesn’t realize it’s a v-neck until he gets it over his head and down his shoulders.

“I’ve never worn a v-neck before,” he calls out to the room next to him.

“Oh, are you trying it on? Do you like it?” Their slightly muffled voice calls back to him.

“Um…I’m not sure,” he admits with a shaky laugh. The collar is lower than he’s used to. It dips below his collarbones, and between them dangles his chain. “Should I show you?”

“Yes! Hold on, lemme get some pants on. …Okay, I’m stepping out!”

He hears their door open alongside his. When they see him, their expression snaps into what he believes is surprise and delight. He’s sure he looks somewhat the same.

They’re wearing one of the vintage jeans he picked out for them—dark blue Levi’s. Although they’re rolled up a couple times at the bottom, it seems to fit them just right. As he stares, he’s reminded of his many pairs of Levi’s, and it’s more or less like seeing them in his clothes, which is. Which is. Uh. Yeah.

“I knew that would suit you,” they say with a grin, to which he realizes he can’t hide his blush.

“It’s not weird?”

“Not at all. It looks good.” They tilt their head to the side as they openly look him over, hip cocked. Something in their gaze is making him hot. “No pressure to buy it, of course.”

“It’s different from what I’m used to, but…” He looks down, smooths the fabric with his palm. “It’s kinda nice, something like this. Um, and what do you think about the jeans?” He needs to direct the attention off him quickly.

“Oh, I love them. The others ended up fitting not quite right on me, but that’s how it goes.” They move from side to side, almost twirling. It’s cute. “I love these, though. Just a little long, but I’m used to it.”

“That’s how it always is. I can hem them for you, if you want. I usually hem mine.”

“And he sews,” they say, seemingly to themself, but they’re looking right at him. Embarrassing. “If you don’t mind, that’d be amazing. Either way, I’m probably getting them.”

“Good. You should. They fit well.”

“Yeah?” They glance back into their fitting room, likely examining themself in the mirror, and then back at him. “Okay, then. Definitely getting them.” With that and a cheeky grin, they go back into their dressing room to try on the rest of their clothes. Carmy follows suit, grateful to hide his embarrassed face.

Carmy heads to check out with the dark blue long sleeve, a pair of jeans, and the brown v-neck. They’ve decided on the pair of jeans they showed him earlier and a little purple tank-top he wishes he got to see on them.

“Will that be all for you today?” The cashier asks him as he checks out first. Even the cashiers here are pretty nice, he finds.

“Oh, their stuff, too.” He nods to them, who’s standing right next to him.

“Carmy.” They glare at him.

“What?” He feels himself smiling.

“You can’t do this to me.”

“C’mon.” He nudges them gently with his elbow. “It’s my present to you.”

“Oh, so the present wasn’t the breakfast? Or the cake? Or helping me pick these out?”

“Why can’t it be all of them?” He decides to stop this in its tracks and takes the clothes out of their hands, sliding it onto the counter. “Just these two, and that’ll be it.”

“Just you wait until your birthday hits,” they mutter darkly, shaking their head. “Just you wait.”

“I haven’t told you my birthday.” He pauses. “Right?”

“I’ll ask Richie.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You’re giving me no choice.”

“You could also just, I don't know, not ask—”

“I wouldn't have to if you didn't force my hand—”

“You guys are cute together,” the cashier comments with a smile, surely a harmless, meaningless thing, but it shuts the both of them up. Carmy can already feel the impact of it on his psyche, and he decides to tuck away the surging emotions to unpack later. At least, he'll try.

“You really didn't have to get those for me,” they tell him when they're exiting the store. “But I guess I should just be saying thank you. So…thank you.”

“Sure. I mean, it would've been better if it was wrapped and stuff, but…” He shrugs. “Had to get you a real present, not just food.”

“Not just food, my ass.” That makes him laugh. “It'll be nice to have something to remind me of this day, though. That's one of the nice parts of getting gifts. Everytime I wear these clothes, I'll think of you.”

“Good. Yeah, that's…good,” he finishes lamely. He nods like their words haven't flustered him, but he's sure they can tell. They laugh, and he can tell it's because of his reaction.

“I'm sorry that the cashier said that,” they say out of nowhere.

“Why're you apologizing? It's not your fault.” Any embarrassment he was feeling before is immediately replaced with a new, more potent sort of embarrassment. He was hoping they wouldn't mention it.

“I guess that's true. I don't know, I just…” They trail off. “Just hope it didn't upset you.”

“Not at all,” he lies, and he prays they believe it.

. . . . .

The metro is less crowded on the way home. They sit comfortably next to each other and watch the city pass them by. A part of Carmy mourns the closeness they had on the way there, but the other part tells him to get it together and keep his distance.

“I'mma take a nap,” they say with a yawn. Their cardigan and bag have been tossed onto the couch. The new clothes have been thrown into the laundry machine, and there's the muffled sound of running water. “Maybe we could smoke and watch a movie later, though.”

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” He peers into the fridge to check on the cake rounds. Just as he left them. “Have a good nap.”

“Thanks, Carm,” they reply sleepily. “Wouldn't be a good day if I didn't get to have a nice nap, after all.” With that, they shuffle into their room and shut the door behind them.

Carmy spends the next two hours flying around the apartment, baking, cooking, cleaning. The sun slowly sets as he goes. He keeps his body and hands moving in hopes that his head doesn't have a chance to catch up, but it manages to keep the pace. It always does.

The crumb coat's fucked up on the left, his first train of thought says. He inspects the surface, eyes following the circumference of the cake. There's a little loose crumb. With the edge of his spatula, he tucks the crumb away.

The faint smell of chocolate wafts up from the cold cake rounds. He's hunched over the kitchen island, hands reaching between dark chocolate frosting and cake. The afternoon sun casts harsh lights onto the cake, and it glistens. He genuinely can't remember the last time he's made a layered cake. He's never been much of a baker, anyhow.

You're going to disappoint them, his second train of thought interrupts, running parallel to the other one at full speed. Who do you think you are? You don't make cakes.

He leans back, inspects his work. The crumb coats are perfect.

Fuck off, he thinks back, triumphant. Look at that shit. He runs his finger along the spatula, picking up congealed crumbs and frosting. He licks it off, and it's delicious. And it tastes good, asshole. So shut the fuck up.

You're being a nuisance, the thoughts continue. Carmy's pops the crumb coats in the freezer for a quick set. They don't actually like any of this. They're just being nice to make you feel better.

They seemed happy to me, he thinks, but he's faltering. He's washing the dishes, and the sensation of the warm water feels distant. They loved the food I made.

Couldn't you tell they were lying? He doesn't understand why these thoughts are rampaging through his head now of all times. It's not unfamiliar, but it's inconvenient. Keep this up, and you'll actually be surprised when they drop you.

Without warning, a memory hits him . As his hands drip with soap, he's reminded of playing with Michael and Sugar in the summer when he was five. Or six, or seven, he's never quite sure. They were outdoors at a local park, and the heat made the metal of the playground searing hot to the touch.

He was blowing bubbles, and the sticky mixture from the bottle was getting all over his hands. In his memory, Carmy watches the way the iridescent bubbles floated away and left little circles on the surface of the plastic slide. He can't remember why he wasn't playing with the others. He can remember the sound of their laughing voices in the distance, gleeful and delighted without him. He thinks he tried to join in, but it didn't work. It often just didn't work, and it was all his fault.

The memory ends, and Carmy's finished washing the dishes.

This is working, he thinks to himself. His hands are dried out from the hot water and soap. I swear to you, it's working. So just stop. Okay?

There's no response. Good enough.

He hears the door opening as soon as he's putting the finishing touches on the cake. With a damp paper towel, he carefully swipes away stray drops of frosting that fell onto the cake stand. He thinks it's best described as if a tiramisu was turned into a devil's food cake. It's not the best cake he's ever made, but it's definitely up there in terms of looks. All the components of the cake tasted good separately, so he hopes it makes sense in his mouth as much as it did in his head.

“Have a nice nap?” He asks before he turns his head. They're standing in the hallway, bed hair hastily tied back.

“Sorta. It was okay.” Their eyes are glued onto the cake as they walk up to the island. “Is this…?”

“This is for you, yeah,” he finishes for them. They take a seat on one of the chairs at the island. “It's a, uh, devil's food cake with vanilla mascarpone cream on the inside. The outside's this coffee buttercream…” He trails off, not knowing what else to say. He could mention the dutch processed cocoa powder, the expensive vanilla bean pods, or the endless sifting, but it feels too gratuitous.

“Wow…” They're still staring, as if it's not quite real to them. “I can't believe this is for me. It almost looks too pretty to eat, but you know I can't wait to tear into this.”

“We could, uh, have it now, if you, if you want,” he says hesitantly.

“I don't know if I could wait.” Their smile grows wider. “You even put candles on it?”

“We don't have to light them or anything if you don't want to,” he adds quickly.

“The candles are the fun part. I don't mind that. The song is…okay I guess, but…” They give him an expectant, excited look. “Were you gonna sing for me?”

“...Only if you wanted to,” he mumbles, suddenly stricken with embarrassment.

“Would that be okay? If I wanted that?”

“I wouldn't mind.” Not if it's you.

“Okay. Then, yeah.” They pull out a lighter from their pocket. “I’d really like that.”

Carmy cuts the overhead lights before taking out his own lighter to help them light the rest of the candles. One by one, the dark room gradually illuminates until it's filled with a warm, orange glow. The flickering flames cast shifting shadows onto their smiling face and reflect into their glossy eyes.

“Ready?” He asks quietly.

“I'm ready,” they whisper.

Carmy doesn't really need to clear his throat, but he does so anyway. He can't recall the last time he sang happy birthday to anyone, let alone by himself. This is the first time he's ever sung in front of an audience, too.

I can do this, he thinks to himself. I can do this.

His voice is awkward and scratchy. He never uses it like this, has never sang for anyone in his life. His ears burn, and he hates the sound of his voice, but he reminds himself to focus on their delighted little smile and warm gaze. The room is far too quiet for his voice, making the words painfully clear.

“Happy birthday to you,” he finishes singing, voice trailing off awkwardly. He's more than ready to finish singing now. “Uh, make a wish…?”

“Right.” The two of them sit in the flickering candle light for a moment longer, the silence thick. Carmy watches their face, their eyes boring into the candles with an expression he can only describe as longing. Then, they blow out the candles with a decisive blow, and the room goes dark.

He moves to switch on the lights. When he turns back to look at them, tears are streaming down their face.

“Hey,” he says softly. He props his elbows on the counter, standing across from them and tilting his head to the side. They're not meeting his gaze, glazed eyes boring into the dripping candles. “What's wrong?”

“I'm sorry,” they whisper with a sniffle, and it sounds like a reflex. Something about them suddenly seems so much smaller. “I shouldn't be crying.”

“It's okay. I don't mind.” That makes them smile, even if it's shaky. “Was the singing too much?”

“No, it wasn't your singing,” they say with a laugh. “Your singing was lovely. It's just—I'm so happy. You made today so special.”

“Yeah?” He fights the urge to reach over and wipe their tears. “I'm glad. I wanted to make it good. I…” He hesitates. “...I didn't like the idea of you spending it alone.”

“I didn't either. And I thought I was going to have to be alone…but then you—then you took off work, and you made me breakfast, you went shopping with me—even got me clothes—and now this—” Another rush of tears gushes from their eyes, and they hastily wipe at it with their shirt.

“You've done way more for me. This is the least I could do.” Before he can stop himself, his hand is brushing hair out of their eyes. They freeze for a split second, eyes finally flickering up towards him. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It's okay,” they whisper back. “Um…” They let out a shaky sigh, the sort of trembling sound that happens after crying too much. “I feel like I should explain.”

“You don't have to if you don't want to,” he assures them quickly, “but I…I'd like to know. If that's okay.”

“I want you to know. I, I do.” They open their mouth to keep talking, but shaky breaths continue to stifle them. It's hard to watch.

“Breathe,” he reminds them, quietly. He visibly takes in a deep breath, silently encouraging them to breathe with him. They follow suit, closing their eyes and taking a slow breath. Tears slip silently from their eyes. Gradually, their breathing becomes less of a staccato, evening out into something much more manageable.

“Thank you,” they murmur. He nods. They already sound a lot calmer. “I'm not sure where to start. I…I suppose I'll start with today.” Another deep breath. “I didn’t get a call from my parents today.”

“Ah…” The first missing piece.

“I knew they weren’t going to. But a part of me still hoped…” They stop and shake their head. “It's the first year that it's been like this.”

“What happened?”

“Uh…I went no contact with my family about a year ago.” Another pained, hollow laugh. The second piece. “I didn't even really want to—it was a complicated, shitty situation. My parents were being their usual shitty selves, and I just wanted them to apologize. It was over such a small thing, and, and I just…I don't know. I thought maybe I could fix things.” He's never seen them with such a heavy expression, etched with such weariness. “I just wanted them to apologize to me, Carm. That's all I wanted. And then they cut me off cold.”

Their voice is trembling again, and the tears are falling faster. The collar of their shirt is dark with moisture. Carmy hates that he doesn't know what to say. He hates just staring at them, silent as he tries to find the words.

Suddenly, he thinks of Michael.

“Michael never let me work in the restaurant,” he tells them. “That's why I went to culinary school. A big part of it, anyway. He just cut me off, didn't let me in no matter what I did, and it was…” He makes a vague hand gesture. “I felt insane. I was so fucking angry. I couldn't understand him. And I'm not saying that's anything like what you've been through, but…” He looks into their watchful eyes. “I'm sorry. I think I'm trying to say that I, that I understand. A little.”

“I…I appreciate that.” They give him a small, wobbly smile. He adores their smile, but seeing it through their tears twists something painfully in his chest. “He would've been lucky to have you. You're an excellent chef.”

“I am now, anyway.” He sighs. “Your family's missing out on you, too. You're…” Say it. Just say it. “You're a really wonderful person. I can't imagine…”

I can't imagine anyone looking at you and not loving what they see, he thinks suddenly, and he instantly realizes he can't say it. He can barely even comprehend that he just thought it.

He can't process this right now. This isn't the time.

“I keep trying to wrap my head around it all, wondering what I did wrong, what I could've done better… Sometimes, the conclusion I arrive at is that I must have done something to deserve this. That I just, I don't know, that maybe I'm just this permanent fuck-up, and…” They run a tired hand over their wet face, through their hair. “My parents fucked me up real good, man.”

There's something familiar about their words, and Carmy realizes it's because it sounds like him. He would've never guessed that under their easy-going smiles was a reflection of himself. He recognizes himself in their self-deprecation, the bone-deep pain. There was always a sense of sympathetic connection between the two of them, but he had no idea. He had no idea how far deep the mutual experiences went.

A part of him still can't believe that this is the truth, that this is what lies at their core, but then he remembers. He thinks about the night they were throwing up into the toilet. They were sobbing, crying into his shoulder about how much they hate themself.

“You know you didn't deserve it. Right?” Carmy's not sure when they started leaning in so close to each other. He's looking at their wet eyelashes with startling clarity. “You did all you could.”

“You don't know that.” Their words are so soft-spoken, but it still catches him off guard. “You don't know what happened.”

“You—” Irritation prickles inside him, his instincts itching to snap back, but he doesn't. He sees himself in them, and he holds back. “You're right. I don't know what happened. But I know you.” The shock is on their face as clear as day. “At least, I think I do.”

“I want to think you do, too,” they whisper. “But this—this messy bullshit is also me. I wish it wasn't. I wish you didn't have to see all this. I…don't want you to…think any less of me.”

“I don't think there's anything you could do to make me think less of you.” He doesn't resist dragging his thumb across a stray tear on their cheek. To his surprise, they lean into his touch. “Y'know when I almost burned down the apartment?”

“Oh my god.” They smile, and he feels their grinning cheek against his palm. “Yeah. Is it crazy to say I remember it fondly?”

“A little bit.” They laugh. It's quiet, but it's real. “Remember that talk we had after?”

“I do. Why?”

“You're allowed to mess up on onions,” he says softly. “It won't push me away.”

They stare at him for what feels like a long time. Their eyes refill with tears, but they don't spill. With a clammy hand, they shakily place their hand on top of his hand that's still cradling their wet cheek.

“Fucking onions,” they say finally with a wet laugh. Fresh tears drip onto his thumb, and he wipes them away again. As many times as it takes. “God damnit, Carmy.”

“No one deserves to have shitty parents, let alone ones that walk out on them.” He thumbs away more tears. “You being an imperfect person like everyone else doesn't justify that.”

“There must be something more I could've done,” they whisper. “Something I did wrong.”

“Maybe. But they're your parents, not the other way around. It's not your fault.”

“I know. I know that. I do. There just has to be a reason, because—fuck—the truth would just be too fucked up.”

“...And that is?”

It takes a long, still minute before they can get their words out.

“...It’s—it's that—” Their cries are verging on sobs, increasingly more staggered and uncontrollable. “It's that s-some kids—are just—some kids have parents that will never—never love—”

They can't finish. Their sobs have overtaken their whole body. Their body's hunched over the counter, curled into themself. Carmy can't think of a time where he's ever seen them crying so hard.

Without another word, Carmy pulls them into a hug.

They cry for a long time. Through it all, fleeting condolences pass Carmy by in his head, but they all feel too cheap, too meaningless. So all he does is hold them tight, letting them grab onto his shirt and soak the fabric on his shoulder. It's all he feels he can really do.

After a while, the tide subsides. He feels them wilting in his arms, exhausted from sobbing so violently. He doesn't actually want to let them go, but their sniffling nose sounds like it's completely stopped up.

“I'm gonna get you some tissues, ok?” He says quietly. They make a quiet noise of acknowledgement, and they pull back. He snatches up a box of tissues from the coffee table. He places it in front of them before grabbing them a glass of water.

“Thank you,” they mumble, voice scratchy. Carmy stands and watches as they blow through several tissues. The water gets downed instantaneously.

“Better?”

“Yeah. A lot better.”

“Good.”

“...I think, deep down, I know I didn't deserve what happened. Or just having shitty parents in general.” They sigh. “It's just easier to think that I do. That I deserve it.”

“...Yeah.” That resonates with a part of him he's not quite ready to acknowledge. “You're one of the kindest people I've ever met,” he admits quietly. “If someone like you deserves a shitty hand in life, I'm fucked.”

“Carmy…” Their smile is small, but genuine. “Thank you. I want to be able to genuinely believe that, one day. I'm going to try.”

“I know. I get it.”

“I know you do.”

That makes both of them smile, even if it's bitter.

“Thanks for telling me. About everything.”

“No, thank you for listening. For just being there for me.” They prop their chin in their hands, their elbows resting on the counter. “Y'know, this past year, I've been trying to find a sense of joy in all this mess. Sometimes it just feels so far away, like…like any happiness is just impossible. But I think I've found it. Rather, I've already found it.”

“Yeah?” Carmy looks at them expectantly, but he never expected this—

“I found you,” they tell him.

“...” He immediately fixes his shocked expression. He's at a loss for words.

Me?

“I never found a chance to mention it, but…my parents are the reason I decided to live with you. That's why I wanted to be your roommate, even though we were strangers.” They shrug shyly. “My lease was up on my last place. I was gonna go home, but then all that stuff happened at the last minute, and…yeah. I needed to find a place to live.”

“Seriously?” They just nod. “Damn. Uh…Yeah, that's fucking crazy. I had no idea.”

“At the time, I was miserable. I kept thinking to myself, ‘I can't believe how shitty this situation is!’ Don't get me wrong, it was fucking awful, but…it led me to you, so…it wasn't really all that bad, in the end. I got lucky.”

Fucking hell, he thinks to himself. Fuck.

“If you hadn't roomed with me, I wouldn't have been able to come back home for my brother's restaurant,” he says, mostly because he's so embarrassed that he swears his whole body's red at this point. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. “I think I'm the lucky one.”

“Can't we both be lucky?”

“I guess we can. Just doesn't seem very realistic.”

“Little too late to say that. It's already real.”

“...There's no other shoe?”

“Not that I know of. I think the other shoe's already dropped for us a while ago. Surely there's no other shoes left?”

“I hope not. I don't know if I could take another one.”

“Me neither.”

“...”

“Do you…want to eat your cake now?”

“Fuck, oh my god—I completely forgot! Yes!”

Just as Carmy planned, the flavors go perfectly together. Even though he knew it was going to be delicious, when he takes the first bite of the cake, relief washes over him. They seem to be overjoyed, inhaling the cake at dangerous speeds.

“You're gonna hurt yourself if you eat that fast,” he observes, both amused and concerned.

“Can't talk. Need to eat this.” That makes him laugh so abruptly he nearly gets cake up his nose. “This is the best birthday cake I've ever had, both visually and taste-wise.”

“I'm glad. Like I said, I'm not really a baker, but…I make an alright cake.”

“You make a fantastic cake.” They’ve got a bit of frosting on the corner of their mouth. “It doesn't get much better than this—eating a cake made by you.”

“Because I'm a chef, you mean?”

“No, not that. Not just that, anyway,” they amend with a cheeky grin. “Because you're my best friend.”

You're my best friend.

…

I'm their best friend, he repeats to himself. I'm their best friend.

He thinks about crying. He won't cry, but he thinks about it.

“Oh,” he replies intelligently. “...Really?”

“Y-Yeah. Unless, uh, you don't—”

“You're my best friend too,” he blurts out, and the anxiety on their face fades away into a relieved, beautiful smile.

“Thank god. That would've been pretty awkward if you didn't…” They shake their head.

“I've never been anyone's best friend before,” he confesses.

“Seriously?” They recover from the shock quickly. “Lucky me, then.”

“I thought you established we were both the lucky ones.”

“Oh, right.” They chuckle. “Lucky both of us, then.”

Carmy thought that life would always be the same. He thought that he was fated to a routine of nausea and nightmares, never quite close enough to reach a rest point. He thought that he was okay with it being his fate, because he never knew anything else.

He thought that loneliness, cigarettes, and memories would be enough, because it always stays the same. Nothing ever changes.

Until them.

He thought he had outgrown happiness, that his body had grown accustomed to living without it. That there was no longer space in his heart to withstand the weight of joy. But as he sits here with his roommate, chatting and laughing over a cake he made for them, he finds that's not true.

His capacity for happiness had never left. It had been there all along.

And with that, something in him lets go.

Carmy sees it all at once. It starts from the beginning—he sees the first day he met them, an initially hesitant meeting gone surprisingly well. He sees the first time the two of them smoked together, deliriously laughing through shared smoke. He sees them in the mornings, messy hair and wrinkled t-shirts. He sees them in nothing but an apron. He sees them in tight black clothes that leave little to the imagination. He sees them laughing at a joke that he didn’t think was all that funny.

He sees them in his dreams, red tomato puree bleeding from their gums. He sees them holding his trembling hands in theirs, soothing him back down from the storm in his hand. He sees them comforting him through his tears. He sees them sobbing, hot tears on their cheek and his hand. He sees them heaving into the toilet, whispering that they want to know him. He sees himself, embracing them tightly in his arms.

He sees it all. He knows that he can't avoid it anymore.

Carmy is completely, undeniably in love with them, and there is absolutely nothing that he can do to make that realization disappear.

…Some things, he understands, refuse to stay the same.

@zorrasucia @carmenberzattosgf @carmenbrzatto @thehouseofevangelista

#carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #the bear #jeremy allen white #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto x you #the bear fanfiction #carmy berzatto imagines #carmy the bear #the bear fx #my fics #alexithymia fic #GOD. IT'S FINALLY HERE. THIS ONE'S A BEAST.#ch 6 is gonna be the climax..... it's gonna happen yall. it's finally here. hahahaha #anyway this one took so long to write because it was so revealing for me... as i'm sure yall have guessed. sigh.

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pea-brain · 5 months ago

Text

example donation link

if you are an artist or something and want to offer the same commissions, please feel free to take any of these images and use them yourself (edit however you want, remove my art, obviously), the text is free to use.

*in the unlikely event i receive a ton of these, i might have to close them. will let you know. reblogs will be turned off if i close commissions

extra information below v

thank you so much for reading! i used all caps for ease of read, it comes across super agro lol sorry <3 i will be nice in person

also, small note, i dont consider mobility aids (including wheelchairs) to be props, those are free to add.

any further questions DM away!

TEXT IN FIRST MAJOR IMAGES BELOW

------------------------------------

HOW DOES THIS WORK?

FIRST: AGREE UPON AMOUNT IN APPROPRIATE CURRENCY (SEE "QUESTIONS")

SECOND: WE AGREE UPON ONE OR (IF THE COMMISSION IS OVER $40) MORE GOFUNDME'S TO SEND IT TO TO SEND THE AMOUNT TO

OPTION 1: PAYPAL

SEND ME THE AMOUNT AGREED UPON VIA PAYPAL

I WILL IMMEDIATELY SEND THIS AMOUNT TO THE GOFUNDME OR GOFUNDME'S WE AGREED UPON

I WILL SEND YOU PROOF OF DONATION (SCREENSHOTS, FORWARDED EMAILS, WHATEVER YOU NEED).

(THIS IS MY PREFERRED BECAUSE I CAN BE 100% SURE THE MONEY IS SENT)

OPTION 2: STRAIGHT TO THEM

CREATE AN ACCOUNT WITH 'GOFUNDME' AND ALLOW THEM TO SEND YOU AN EMAIL TO SEND YOU A DONATION RECEIPT

SEND THE MONEY STRAIGHT TO THE AGREED UPON GOFUNDME/S

SHOW ME PROOF (SCREENSHOTS AND FORWARD THE EMAIL CONTAINING THE RECEIPT TO ME)

IF YOU CANNOT FORWARD THE ACTUAL EMAIL TO ME, I WILL NOT ACCEPT YOUR COMMISSION.

THIS HAS TO BE A NEW DONATION THAT WE MAKE TOGETHER (PEOPLE NEED MORE MONEY RIGHT NOW, I WILL NOT BE ACCEPTING COMMISSIONS BASED ON OLD DONATIONS.)

additions:

+75% extra character, complex background/ scene*, full render, complex outfit design by meee ;)

+50% medium background/ scene*, flats (will include nice lineart), complex outfit/ design, simple outfit design by me

*scene means a complex pose or it looks like they're actually in the background. interpretation of this is up to me

addition prices are calculated based off of the base price and do not compound

example calculation: half body ($30) + extra character (+75% of $30 = $23) + medium background/scene (+50% of $30 = $15) = 30+23+15= $68

for stuff not covered here (like a complex prop) just shoot me a DM

will draw: furry (not great but i can try), gore (incl extreme), horror, artistic/ casual nudity, fanart, your roc's, my doc's, romantic/ ship art, anything LGBT+ (people might not know me i felt i should add that)

wont draw: porn, fetish (up to me to interpret what i consider that), ship/ romantic/ nude art involving persons who are or appear to be under the age of 18 (even if they are 'aged up'.) even if its like kids kissing, i'm not comfortable with that cheers, anything i consider 'hateful' (i dunno man i felt i had to add it)

if i am uncomfortable i reserve the right t refuse aspects or the entire request

ownership of the art is yours, if you dont want me to post it to my account i wont

QUESTIONS

USD? AUD? CAD? EUROS?

I TRUST YOU TO BE HONEST, IF YOU ARE AUSTRALIAN, AUD, IF YOU ARE AMERICAN, USD. IF YOU DON'T USE THOSE, PICK ONE. (EUROS AND USD ARE WORTH MORE SO I WILL PUT MORE EFFORT IN NGL)

DO I (THE ARTIST) KEEP ANY OF THE MONEY?

NO!! 100% GOES TO A GOFUNDME (OR MULTIPLE) WE AGREE UPON MUTUALLY

WHEN DO YOU (THE COMMISSIONER) PAY?

ASAP! (BEFORE I START PREFERABLY) THESE PEOPLE NEED MONEY NOW. IF YOU CAN ONLY PAY HALF NOW, HALF LATER, THAT'S FINE. I WILL NOT SHOW YOU THE FINISHED PRODUCT UNTIL ALL THE MONEY IS DONATED. (I WILL SHOW YOU PROOF OF WORKING ON IT (A SKETCH))

WHEN WILL YOU (THE COMMISSIONER) RECIVE THE ART?

I AM CURRENTLY A FULL TIME UNI STUDENT, AND IF I RECEIVE A LOT OF REQUESTS IT MAY TAKE SOME TIME. I DON'T KNOW HOW STRESSFUL THIS WILL BECOME

HOW MUCH WOULD ONE LIKEDRAWING FROM MY (THE ARTIST'S) ACCOUNT COST?

DM IT TO ME I'LL TELL YA

HOW IS 'RENDERING' DIFFERENT FROM A 'FULL PAINTING'

RENDERING INCLUDES CONSIDERED LIGHTING AND SHADING AS WELL AS ATTENTION TO DETAIL. A 'FULL PAINTING' INCLUDES THAT PLUS INTERESTING COMPOSITION, BETTER LIGHTING AND DETAIL, A BETTER 'VIBE' TO IT. ITS HARD TO EXPLAIN, BUT YOU CAN SEE IT FOR SURE. IF YOU DISAGREE

REFUNDS?

NO FULL REFUNDS

IF I AM UNABLE TO PRODUCE A DRAWING IN A MAXIMUM OF 3 MONTHS I CAN REFUND YOU 50% OUT OF MY OWN POCKET. IF THIS HAPPENS, YOU WILL NOT RECIVE ANY ART FROM ME FOR THIS COMMISSION

IF THERE IS AN ISSUE WITH YOU DECIDING YOU NO LONGER WANT THIS, OR YOU ARE UNABLE TO PROVIDE SUFFICIENT PROOF (OUTLINED ABOVE) FROM THE ACTUAL GOFUNDME THAT IS NOT MY PROBLEM. YOU HAVE JUST DONATED MONEY TO PERSON/S IN DIRE NEED SO THATS AWESOME ACTUALLY

TO BE CLEAR: IF YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND AND THE MONEY IS SENT, I WILL NOT REFUND YOU. I WILL ONLY REFUND 50% IF I FAIL TO PRODUCE A DRAWING IN 3 MONTHS FROM TIME OF COMMISSION

#gaza #palestine #donations

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shyhandart · 11 months ago

Text

Commissions Closed!

Thank you for your interest! Heres what you need to know:

I Will do:

Humans/Humanoids (object heads/elves/mermaids/etc)

Anthros

Ferals

Ponies

cannon x oc or self ship

fanart

complex/detailed designs

and more!

I will not do:

nsfw

rude/offensive gestures

hateful or bigoted art

Maybe:

• Gore (depends)

I maintain the right to turn down any commission for any reason

Pricing

I currently accept PayPal and Cashapp only. All prices are in USD

Full bodies:

Flat color: $50

Shaded: $65

Colored lineart: +$10

Half bodies:

Flat color: $35

Shaded: $45

Colored lineart: +$8

Busts:

Flat color: $20

Shaded: $25

Colored lineart: +$5

Each additional character is +50% of the base price*

*(except for busts, which are +75%)

If you have an idea for something not listed here, please ask!

Backgrounds

I have recently changed my tune about backgrounds. If you would like a background, let me know and i will tell you if i think im up to it. Complex backgrounds are a fee of +%50 as they take a lot of time. If you have multiple characters, the background price is calculated AFTER the price of the additional characters. It is up to me to decide what a complex background is.

Simple/abstract backgrounds remain free of charge. If i think a work would benefit from it, i will put a solid or swirly colored shape behind it and send you a version with and without the background so you can decide which you like better. You may request a basic background on your own.

TOS:

I retain the right to post your completed piece to any of my social medias to use as an example of my work and a testament to my reliability. I will credit you when I do.

All payments are non-refundable unless for some reason i am unable to finish your piece, or we get part way through the process and i feel that i am unable to do your character(s) justice.

You MAY:

Post your completed piece wherever you please WITH appropriate credit by either linking my page or simply stating my name and platform.

edit my art in regards to cropping for profile pictures, adding an overlay to fit a theme, and resizing to fit a platform better

You may NOT:

feed my hard work to ai

use it for anything NFT related

claim it as your own

remove my watermarks

use it commercially

What is the process?

It's pretty simple! Send me a dm with a photo of your character(s) and tell me what you'd like. Let me know if you need a few days to get the money, or if there's a time constraint (like if the piece is a birthday or holiday gift). If you don't have an idea for a pose, please include a brief description of their personality. If there's characters interacting, let me know their relationship to one another and their dynamic.

I will respond with a price and if you're ok with proceeding I will mock up a vague sketch so you can get an idea of what it would look like. This will be watermarked and it will not even be very recognizable as your character. That's because I have been scammed and ghosted in the past, even with a very rough and watermarked sketch.

After that you will send 100% of the payment in order for me to proceed. Do not send payment via friends and family. I don't want to be banned from paypal lol

I work on a first come first serve basis, but i may work on a piece while waiting for approval on another. I will let you know if there is someone ahead of you. Once payment is received i will message you frequently with updates and for approval. Once lineart is finalized, i will update less often in order to creater a better final reveal. Your final piece will already be glazed to fight against ai stealing my style.

Depending on my life circumstances, this whole process could take from 1-3 days up to a month. The later is very unlikely, and i will message you with updates if i feel i am taking too long.

Examples of my work:

These are simply commissions that ive done in the past! I have many more examples of personal art on my blog

top to bottom: Bunyo and Sasha who belong to @/ilikecorndogs, Honey who belongs to to @/mei, and Solace who belongs to @/sundryd

#art #digital art #mlp #commissions #open commissions #furry comissions #furry art #artists on tumblr

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mitamicah · 5 months ago

Text

New look but same old commissions!!

I updated my commission sheet so it also fit with IG - all information is the same as the previous (x)

I will link terms and conditions under the line :3

Terms and Conditions

1 General Information

At this time, I will be taking digital art commissions only.

Standard canvas size: 1200x1600 px, 300 dpi.

It is possible to ask for a different canvas size - the price will be raised for a bigger canvas and lowered slightly for a smaller one.

I have a limit of up to 5 characters per canvas unless something else is agreed upon.

Are you interested in a style not featured feel free to ask me and I can give you an offer.

2 Ownership

As the artist I own the final product: Please credit me if you post it (with permission) and do not delete the signature.

The art must not be used commercially.

3 Drawing limits

Things I will draw;

OCs; Shipart (within reason); Humans/humanoids; Animals of the canine, feline or equine families (cats, dogs and horses); Dragons; Anthropomorphic characters (to an extend); Children (to an extend); Elderly characters (to an extend); Fanart (more later); Armour (to an extend)

Things you have to ask me about;

SFW nudity; Muscular men or women; Big-busted women; (Mild) Gore; Monsters with undefined features; Birds, big fish and other less often drawn animals (eg. goats, rhinos, elephants, bears etc.)

Thing I won’t draw

NSFW nudity and scenes; Hateful art (lgbt-phobia, racistic, ableism etc.); Fetish art; Super detailed backgrounds

Specifically about fanart

I will gladly draw fanart of properties (movies, franchises, books etc.) that I know of and may also be persuaded to try fanart for stuff that I don’t know.

Please keep in mind that no matter what I will draw it in my style; I won’t replicate the style from a specific show/manga/book etc.

4 Work in Progress updates

I'll send work in progress (WIP) pieces when I am done sketching. Exceptions will happen when:

The owned art is a sketch drawing.

You communicate that you are not interested in wips

5 Payment options

At this time, Payment will happen through paypal only.

I will send you an invoice using the PayPal address you've stated in the commission form (more later).

The invoice will be in Danish Kroner, DKR.

Please do NOT send any money before I've accepted your commission.

Please pay within 3 days of getting the invoice - if this is not possible send me a dm/mail.

Have I not recieved the payment within the 3 days' deadline, the deal is off.

It is not possible to split the payment. (aka paying half now and the other half later)

6 Refunds

As a commissioner you can get refunds before I send the first wip and/or if I do not update you within 14 days.

updating include the following;

sending you notes about the progress.

showing you wips of the progress.

being tagged in posts about possible setbacks.

If you decide to cancel your commission following the description above, you get 75% of your money back (little fee of asking for a refund).

If you want refunds for any other reason than stated above, the same rules still apply IF you ask before the first wip has been sent.

If you ask for refunds AFTER the first wip the percentage will be calculated depending on how far I've gotten in the drawing process.

7 How to order

If want to commission me, please either DM me or send me a mail at [email protected]

If you want to make it easier for me you can fill in this form:

Username:

Offer: (eg. sketch bust)

Character(s): the name(s) and pronouns of your character/person(s) you want me to draw (to make sure I don’t misgender any character/person I may not know).

Reference(s): reference picture(s) of each character/person – (I prefer fullbodies for original characters). Please choose reference pictures in a good quality.

Background: (if you are not interested in a background or are indifferent, please tell me so as well).

Paypal adresss: (e-mail that I may send the paypal invoice to).

Other: some other details worth knowing - do you have a pose or expression in mind? do you not want wips? Etc.

#commissions #open commissions #my art #my own art #micahs foolery

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neverchecking · 2 years ago

Note

Oh my godddd I love your writing sm

And I also love @welcometothefairgrounds , I am her 🧚‍♀️ anon. May is a lovely person

If you’re doing requests, could I get yandere time? My daddy issues are calling lmao

If not feel free to ignore, I got too excited and forgot to read lmao

- @fairly-linked-buffet (don’t want this on my sfw acc and tumblr is being dumb so here)

I love her sm! She is honestly a gem. I'm glad to have someone from her page here with us! And don't worry! Requests are currently open so you're all good!

Some Father Time to bless your day, Darling~

I really liked how this one came out so I hope you do too! Personally, one line in this- Idk, it hit me and I wrote it and I still am just :O everytime I read it.

(IDK if I got his sword right??? I think I did, but idk-)

CW: Just some disturbing imagery, but it is Yandere!

Anything

Warrior's Hyrule was just as nice as it was last time he was here. The people still bustled as they always did, calling out demands, or bargaining for a better price, maybe haggling over a trade. It kept the streets busy and full, foot traffic flowing in every which way. Exactly why Time needed to keep an eye on you at all times. Not only an eye, but a hand. Your fingers, delicate and slim, were kept interwoven with his own, feeling so soft against his calloused digits.

Every bit of you was so soft when compared to him. From your gentle movements as you walked, with the sway of your hips and head, to the calculated movements of your hands whenever you patched him up, not that he ever wished for any blood, let alone his, to sully your perfect skin. It always pained him whenever you had to see him injured in any capacity. The pinch in your browns and the furrow of your lips, all of it enough to make him internally panic before trying to fix it. Having you upset in any capacity was enough to poison his mood. He was built and formed to be a weapon of destruction, unbeatable and a figure invincible to anything thrown at him. A weapon fit to protect only the finest of jewels bestowed upon humanity. You. He was convinced he was put on this wretched world for you. To protect and love and cherish someone as soft as you. Till his dying breath and even then he would be hard-fought to not crawl out of his grave to ensure your safety.

All of that to say, he kept your hand clasped tightly in his with no intention of letting go. Not when the risk of you getting lost, or run over or goddess forbid hurt was too high. While he was more than happy to escort you wherever your heart desired, he was not willing to risk your wellbeing in any way, shape or form. That was too far beyond what he could allow. At least when he was with you while you went from stall to stall, he could watch over you. He could use his stature and his attitude to ensure your safety.

Time knew he was tall. And Built. And looking every bit a soldier the other knights of this time wished they could be. And he knew how to use it. He knew how to angle himself in a way to shadow over anyone who thought they could fool you into spending three times what the object was worth. He knew how to set his jaw and level his brows to...dissuade any possible passerby's from leering at you. He knew how to be intimidating to anyone but you.

Sweet, perfect you who saw through all of his defenses and touched him like he was a porcelain figure. Like he was capable of laying down his weapons and being a regular civilian. Like he was nothing more than the man you proclaimed him to be.

Like he was not a pagan of war but rather a child of peace.

It's what made you so perfect for him. Someone so akin to a saint saw something worthy of loving in him and clung to it. And he'd be damned before letting your love go to waste. Why waste it when he could use it to live? Live for someone, something, other than himself and that damned duty bestowed upon him. That destiny he was cursed with by that fraud of a Goddess. Why waste his time and feelings on hating the circumstances placed around him by a fake, when he could devote his being to his real goddess?

That's not to say everyone else saw you the same way he did though. He saw you as an otherworldly being worthy of his respect above all else.

Apparently that went above other pests comprehension though.

Time had been keeping an eye on him the whole time, with his greasy, clicked back hair and sunken eyes. Looking every bit a rat Time thought him as. He slithered about like a worm as well, watching you and your every step. Nothing seemed to deter him. Not any of the glare's Time shot him, not any of the ways he stepped as to cut off his view from you, not the Biggoron sword clunking against his hip in an unsaid, but no less serious, threat.

He just wouldn't let up.

He even looked brave enough to consider approaching you, one foot stepping past the shadows of the stalls and alleyways.

Kill him.

He need to take care of him. Take him away from you before he could sully your divine form. He could feel the power of the unspeakable buzz beneath his skin as he stepped closer.

KiLl HiM.

He could do it. He could easily do it. Take care of the pest. Drag him behind one of alleyways after finding one of the boys to look after you for the time while he took care of this degenerate.

KILL HIM.

It would be elementary. He had probably faced Bokoblins that put up more of a fight than he would. He was short and stout, something Time's own broad form shadowed at least twice over.

KILL HIM

His sword would just slice right through his flimsy flesh, painting his surroundings a dark red as his worthless body slumped to the ground, before being left to the wolves to pick apart. He doubted even those feral beasts would touch such a slimy creature such as this merchant, who was still inching closer.

KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIMHESGETTINGTOOCLOSEKILLHIM

Just as his hand raised to the hilt of his sword, your hand, perfect and soft and light and grounding, settled on his forearm. "Ooh, look, Time!" Your eyes, gorgeous pools of every color he saw in his dreams, were alight with excitement as you remained completely oblivious to the stray in the background. "There's a bakery! Can we go, please?" You then turned your pout to him, melting his fiery rage into a simmering pool.

It wouldn't disappear, oh no, but it would be lowered from a boiling rage, full of livid restlessness and cold turmoil, to a stewing annoyance. Something he would nurture and let grow into a full fledged plan to dispose of this creature. It no longer had to be quick, not anymore, now it could be a slow and painful demise worthy of daring to creep on his Goddess.

He smiled, that special smile just for you, as he used his free hand to gently angle your chin upward to meet his eye just a little more. "Of course, darling, your wish is my command." If only you knew what you could wish from him. What he would do to ensure it came true.

Anything to see you smile.

(Anything. Including sneaking off in the late of night, nodding to Wars and Twilight, who were on watch, and disappearing into the night.)

(Anything. Including breaking into a non-assuming house, full of dust and mold, vines crawling up the sides. Doing so practically silently.)

(Anything. Including pulling out the Biggoron sword and holding it high enough the moonlight reflected off of it just enough to gently light up his target. )

(Anything. Including plunging the tip of his blade into their shoulder to pin them to their stack of hay and blankets, holding a hand over their screaming mouth as they shot to the conscious world.)

(Anything. Including spending the late hours making sure this filth understood exactly where he went wrong. Exactly why this was happening. Making him think he had a chance at life. Making him believe that Time would let him go. Only to snuff that pathetic life away with just enough time to clean up and get back to you.)

(Anything. You just had to wish it.)

#linked universe #linked universe x reader #yandere linked universe #yandere linked universe x reader #linkeduniverse #lu time #Yandere time x reader #Yandere LU time x reader #link x reader #Loz #legend of zelda #yandere legend of zelda #yandere legend of zelda x reader

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webseotoolz · 2 years ago

Text

Simply calculate your website URL value with the help of the Link Price Calculator tool - Webseotoolz Visit: https://webseotoolz.com/link-price-calculator

#webseotoolz #webseotools #seo tools #free seo tools #online seo tools #online tools #free tools #link price calculator #calculate link price #free link price calculator

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kassandras-one-braincell · 9 months ago

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Oathsworn brainrot: Soma

This doesn't even scratch the surface, and there's 2000 odd words under the cut. This entire AU was built around Soma. I am unwell. As a big supporter of women's wrongs, the fact that in the game's canon, she allegedly managed to piss off the entirety of Mercia within a couple of years of being in England appeals to me greatly. That's a nefarious feat. Her hands are bloody.

The whole Oathsworn premise post is linked here.

The King isn’t a tactful man, and managed to piss off a very powerful nation overseas just a year after his coronation. They’re cunning merchants, and equally as cunning on the battlefield. The Danes are governed by a war council, led by Guthrum Jarl, with formidable politicians and warriors seated beside him.

Guthrum does not like the acting King. But neither side would profit from an all-out war. Your kingdom has money and connections from trade that the Danes (creatively named) didn’t want to compromise. And in terms of prowess in battle, your army didn’t stand a chance. Tensions were high, with neither side willing to escalate things past sanctions, a few shot messengers, minor sieges of neutral territory, and a lot of threats.

Three years ago, the King – bored of current circumstances – acted against the advice of the court and ordered a disproportionately sized infantry unit to attack a very small encampment flying a Dane banner on neutral ground, breaching the peace. He smiled while the council were left to develop one hell of a contingency plan. Thirty men sent to kill three or four Danes, according to the scout.

One soldier returned, his right leg dragging limply behind him, utterly harrowed. He trembled, wide-eyed and halfway retching as he recounted how the one Dane who survived the ambush sprinted into the swamp with thirty men on her tail. With a single axe, murky water and the darkness of the night, she cut down the infantry. She sliced the sole survivor’s heel and forced him to watch her butchery of the twenty-ninth soldier. Then she escorted him back to her camp. Cleaned and dressed his wound, purely so he’d live to tell the tale.

The court froze with dread as he gave a description of the woman. Specifically at the scar, ragged and deep, cutting through her face from her ear to her nose. That woman was Soma: one of Guthrum’s most trusted councillors, and something of a nightmare to your kingdom’s soldiers.

Your court anticipated full retaliation. However, they were met with diplomacy. Despite the breach of unspoken contract, Guthrum had no intention of returning the gesture, still believing that the price of a war wouldn’t be worth its rewards. He arranged to visit the kingdom with his war council after sending a draft of a new peace treaty, full of mutually beneficial trade outlines, but pending one unfinalised condition.

Soma, looking like Soma does, caught your immediate attention upon the Danes’ arrival. She immediately recognised you as the crown princess without introduction, despite the King’s children also being present. She knew something, and that was unsettling, but she was courteous nonetheless. Her smile was warm, her eyes betraying her calculation. You weren’t completely in the dark yourself, though – the scar was unmistakable. This woman could likely take on all the Kingsguard in the room without the help of her colleagues. Whatever their game was, she was an integral player.

Guthrum said he was content to forgive the King for his misdeeds, and while the phrasing angered his Majesty, the animosity was silenced by the treaty’s very generous terms. The Danes saw profit in an alliance, but needed a reason to believe the King would honour it. After this, Guthrum nodded to you and bowed politely; word of your stride towards free public education had reached their shores, and he found it an admirable goal indeed. No wonder your kingdom spoke fondly of their heir, he remarked.

His caveat to the treaty was simple. Your court, by now, was familiar with the capabilities of Soma. Guthrum had heard of the Oathsworn tradition. Soma was prepared to abandon her port and her seat at his council in favour of swearing the Oath. This way, if the King was to lash out again, she would be within striking distance to take the life of the kingdom’s crown jewel – and your death wouldn’t be painless. The oath would be sworn with him and a noble of your choice present as witnesses, and it would be sworn.

Very few people in the court were aware of the King’s intention to eventually dethrone you, and he was in no position to refuse the treaty. The Danes did not come without reinforcements. He agreed to the terms, signed the papers, and you asked your queen mother to bear witness. She was sickened by the thought of the Oath being sworn under these circumstances, suspecting her husband’s intentions regarding his succession, knowing your life was doubly at risk here. But she agreed, because it wasn't up for negotiation.

That same evening, yourself, Soma, a priest and the two agreed-upon witnesses took to the chapel. She recited the sacred vow, never breaking your gaze. Her tone was steeled, but there was no mistaking her contentment to abandon the tenet, should it be asked of her.

The first attempt on your life occurred a mere month after the Oath ceremony. The assassin concealed the family crest of one of your kingdom’s nobles on a cufflink. He struck when you were checking in with the headmaster of a school you recently built, dealt with swiftly by Soma, who shadowed your public appearances. She was professional – positioning herself between you and the attacker in a suit of armour she had yet to adjust to, incapacitating him. The visit was cut short as she wrapped you in her cloak to mask your identity, leaving the other guards to formally arrest the assassin.

She had an authoritative, no-bullshit attitude about her as she used her newfound influence over the royal guard – a perk of the position given the politics – to organise an inquiry, presenting to the King the engraved cufflink found on the assassin. No doubt, she took pleasure in getting information out of him, but how she handled the inquiry made it clear that your life was paramount, and you took peculiar solace in this. The conspiring noblewoman who sent him was soon tried and punished accordingly. Soma insisted upon standing in as her executioner.

You cursed yourself as your defensive, wary demeanour around her cracked over time. There were other attempts on your life, and she took her role as your Oathsworn seriously, seemingly more so with every new perpetrator. Beyond duty, though, she showed you kindness. And as you learned about one another in your close proximity, you grew fond of each other. A profound respect was building, and it was mutual.

At one point, you both had problematic revelations. You had never felt safer around the woman tasked with taking your life, should the causal circumstance arise. And Soma realised she had no desire to act on that kill order. You made a promise to her: when you were queen, you would grant her deeds to the kingdom’s port, because she had once confessed to you how she mourned that part of her old life, and the gods knew she could bloody run it. She pondered the promise being empty, but dismissed the thought. You listened to her in a moment of vulnerability. This changed things.

A dalliance was inevitable, but this was neither fleeting nor inconsequential. Your affection for one another, your devotion in all its intensity, was a secret well-kept from all eyes, ears and quills.

And it was intense. Fast. Hasty, even. The threat of a sudden awful change loomed over you both, leaving no time for courtship. Butterflies were reserved for the newfound gesture in Soma’s hand on your back as she escorted you through crowds. Her solitary company was filled with dizzying kisses, passionate rendezvous under the moonlight and unbridled laughter.

At first, your mutual desire for physical intimacy was overwhelmed by a sudden anxiety in your closeness. There was the persistent fear that the kill order had been given, and that Soma was waiting for you to be at your most vulnerable before she ended your life. It choked you, frustrated you, but you were honest with her. The first time it happened, Soma assured you that she would sooner cut off her hand than lay a harmful finger on you. She thanked you for your candour, bidding you goodnight with a comforting smile and a chaste kiss to your knuckles. She would not lay with you until you felt safe enough to trust her with your body, and she wanted you to realise this safety on your own. With time, that safety came about. You made love, and confessed that love shortly after.

Your relationship introduced a new variable to the political equation. Until the present, you tried your best not to question any loyalties. Foolish as it were, you were content in the illusion of security.

With his reign coming to an end, though, the King is under pressure to secure the line of succession for himself and his children before he’ll be forced to abdicate. Never having had a penchant for patience, this urgency is beginning to seep into his actions in court. None of the assassination attempts were successful. His co-conspirators are dwindling in their numbers; those who haven’t been convicted of treason are succumbing to fear.

Truthfully, he never anticipated Soma would honour her vow, nevermind with such ferocity. He had hoped one of his carefully organised, bloody fates would befall upon you, and her subsequent execution would bury the evidence of his crime. But she complicated things terribly, and in his frustration, he begins to suggest processions that would put the treaty at risk. Gambling merchandise due to be exported form your kingdom to Guthrum. Proposing a mandatory armistice for all Danes in the kingdom. Inquisitions, the likes. All fortunately talked down by the court, but not without rapidly building concern.

You and Soma begin to see through the cracks. The King isn’t intelligent, but he also isn’t naive enough to accidentally compromise the kingdom’s safety. As your step-siblings begin to look at you through a different gaze, you're forced to navigate court with a pit in your stomach. Conversations with Soma following the string of conspiracies only reinforced the idea that foul play is at work.

Soma caught word some weeks ago that Guthrum’s war council had undergone a few changes of seats, and not all of the new councillors share his ambitions. They seek conquest. She suspects they’re in contact with your King, most likely manipulating him into pushing for political moves that would spiral the kingdom into a war you would certainly lose.

Her fears reside in whether Guthrum could have a change of heart, or if he would be willing to isolate you from the actions of the King with your coronation inbound. There is every possibility that the King could overrule the democracy of the court regarding one of his rash decisions, and the kill order would be given. There would be war, and if she refused to take your life, she’d be an enemy of her people – her family – as well as your own.

Yet when she confides in you, distressed, it’s abundantly clear that Soma doesn’t see a dilemma in all of this. She paces about your quarters and thinks aloud, knowing you’ll always lend your ear and comfort to her. If all negotiations failed, she would rather live as a pariah than betray you. The idea of taking your life is unfathomable.

Amidst a sea of uncertainties, you’re unable to avoid doubt. Those panicky feelings from the early days of your relationship are resurfacing, as much as you want them to stop. Your heart yearns to trust Soma. You hear the truth in her words, the humanity in her voice, but you can’t shake the fear that it’s an elaborate act. Your apprehension hurts her. It wounds you both.

A bitter few days pass by. You’re sick with worry, unable to sleep. Questions of if she’d do it bleed into how she’d do it. Your mind lingers on poison, to the extent where you employ somebody to taste your food and before you so much as touch the plate.

Soma knocks on your bedchamber door one night with a goblet in hand. She lets out a pained breath when you flinch away from it. It’s a sleeping aid, she tells you gently. It’s agonising to watch your health deteriorate under paranoia. You are her heart, after all. As difficult as it is to acknowledge your wavering trust in her, her love for you has not lessened.

You’re exhausted. And scared – not just for your life, but for the future of your kingdom. Apologies flood from your lips as you crumble before her. Soma can’t stop herself from holding you. Tears of her own escape as you sob at the sensation of her embrace, trembling in her arms as your sleep-deprived, anxiety-riddled mind tries desperately to refute that immediate feeling of safety.

It dawns that neither of you have the luxury of certainty in anything but each other.

Tenderly, after a small eternity in each other's arms, Soma asks if she can renew her vow, right here. She wants you to hear her Oath anew, her tenet solemn, devoted, and devoid of political motivation. Fuck the chapel, the priest, the gods. Witness be damned. The only blessing that matters is yours.

You give it to her.

#not a word of this was written at a reasonable hour so excuse my linguistics i beg #god i fucking love soma #soma jarlskona #soma x reader #❀ sugar and spice ❀#oathsworn au

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basicallyjaywalker · 4 months ago

Text

Trying To Make Something Out of Clay

It only took me getting back at school to finish editing this! I am not kidding good grief

Anyways! At long last @cboffshore I deliver you: JAY! my specialty

Prompt: Jay, Look Who’s Inside Again by Bo Burnham, eagle, fastidious, pardon, clay, separation, earthquake, and protest

AO3 Link

Fic also under the cut!

Pottery classes wouldn’t have been Jay’s first idea for a birthday gift to himself, but he could never dodge his mother’s chipper voice in his head.

Coupons! They’re like an excuse to do things. Always keep your eyes out for the real deals… From there, she’d go into a spiel about good versus bad deals, ones designed to make you spend money rather than save it, and eventually that would develop into discussions of unit prices and store brands and what-have-you about “mother’s know-how.”

All that to say, when the coupon came in for “Free Pottery Lessons!” with the purchase of a starter pack, Jay knew how to calculate the value. Cost was the starter pack, lessons would cover all of the basics of pottery, he would be able to make more cool gifts for his friends and family… worth it. Plus, the studio said once he finished his lessons, he was still welcome to come back and use their equipment to mold and fire the clay. Plus plus, if he decided he didn’t like it, he could always use the clay and tools in the starter kit for another project. No matter what, there wasn’t a way to lose! His mom would be so proud.

And that was how he ended up sitting in front of a clay-stained table, almost a month after his birthday, sculpting. Now Nya’s birthday was coming up and he was making her a seagull figurine. Unfortunately, they hadn’t gotten to the “figurine” part in his basics classes, so Jay was having to wing it with what he knew. However, what he knew seemed to be very lumpy and not very gull-like.

He frowned, examining the vaguely bird-shaped lump of clay on the table. Its legs were short and thick, holding the uneven, bulbous body up off the table. Jay had thought he made wings, but they seemed to be lost within the sinking mass. The head was little more than a drooping oval, the end of which molded into the torso much too high up (or maybe this gull's neck was just in the middle of its spine).

… Yeah, he couldn’t pass this off as a seagull. He could barely pass it off as a bird. Maybe he should just make Nya something else.

Just as he reached to put his tools up, the studio door opened behind him and he spun around to see his teacher, Kat, in her clay stained apron.

“Ah, pardon me,” She smiled at him and raised her hand in a wave, it was stained reddish orange, “just grabbin’ somethin’ for my next group. Whatcha makin’?”

“Something for Nya,” Jay said, trying to shield the misshapen heap from her view. The light-up grin on Kat’s face told him he failed.

“What a lovely turtle! I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“It’s supposed to be a seagull.”

“Oh.”

Jay sighed. “Yeah, we’re not quite there yet.”

“Well,” she clapped her hands together, sending a few splatters of rust-colored clay flying, ”trust the process! It’ll turn out swell, I’m sure. Do you need a reference?”

“That might help,” was what he said out loud. What he thought was, I know what a seagull looks like. I don’t think looking at another one is going to help. Still, he managed to hold his tongue. As much as he liked Kat, some days, her teaching just bugged him. She always went on about “the process.” Trust the process! Everything looks bad until it’s done! Sometimes, it even looks bad after, it’s just the artist's way.

As she left the room, Jay continued ruminating on that idea. Trust the process. He stared at the ugly lump on his table. He wasn’t sure “the process” could save this one. Still, he supposed giving it a try was better than giving up.

Frowning, he tried to fix the head, adding some clay to make it rounder, more… sharp? Less like a turtle. A few globs there, a dab here, some shaping… hey! Now that was a seagull. The legs could use some carving, but they were sleeker now; he could actually make out the shape of wings in the blobby body, and the neck wasn’t coming out of the middle of the spine! Jay could almost envision the thing trying to steal his french fries on the beach, as long as he was squinting really, really hard. Slowly, he drew his hands away.

Immediately, the head drooped and detached from the rest of the body.

“Oh, come on!” Jay exclaimed just as Kat walked back in and interrupted what was about to be a long string of words about the clay, gravity, and the concept of seagulls in general. In her hands she cradled a majestic gull perched on a rock, caught mid-caw.

“This is from one of our old students. She left it here and never came back, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you used it as reference.”

“Thanks.” Jay took the figurine and examined it. It was a simple shape, lots of round circles, and some small details for the wings and feet. It looked easy enough to make. Looked being the keyword.

Kat looked at the self-decapitated bird and tilted her head. “Fix-it attempt gone horribly, horribly wrong?”

He nodded, pursing his lips.

“You’ll get it,” she said, spirited as ever, “it just takes some time to master, y’know? New skills and all that.”

He nodded again. She’d told him the same thing during his first few lessons, when the teacup he tried to make for Master Wu ended up looking more like a soup bowl made by an avant-garde artiste. He knew she was right, it was just the way learning went, but it didn’t stop the nagging irritation he felt staring at the pathetic pile of muddy material in front of him.

“I’ve gotta get my next class started, lemme know if you need anything else.”

One last nod and Kat was gone, leaving him alone again. Jay sat down and continued to stare at the distended body. He placed his new reference next to it and felt the minute bit of confidence that sprouted from his forming gull fly away.

Maybe he could pass his off as a seagull that went through a tsunami or earthquake. Then again, that felt a little too morbid. Maybe a mutant seagull, left alive to propagate his species after a nuclear apocalypse wiped out the rest, save for him and the perfect specimen sat beside him, a symbol of a simpler time?

No, that was too far-fetched.

Sighing, Jay figured his best way out was to start from scratch. He pushed the majestic reference gull out of the blast radius before slamming his fist down on his failure. The wet clay gave easily under the force, body and head merging into one flat, knuckle-imprinted puddle. Jay knew it wasn’t necessary—and rather messy—to do it this way, but it allowed him some sort of catharsis. That alone made it worth the bit of splash onto his apron and face.

Now, he could start again.

His hands started to shape the clay, eyes focused on the reference as he tried to imitate the product in front of him. He didn’t need the rock, just the bird. That was enough of a change to keep it from being plagiarism, right? Could you plagiarize a clay sculpture?

As he worked, his mind wandered. Initially, it was just about the concept of plagiarism and if copying the reference counted. He was pretty sure he watched a video recently on that. Could one plagiarize an artstyle the same way they plagiarized research? Then it moved to the feeling of the clay. It squished under his hands like mud, but held like a sand castle. He used to build sand castles in his yard, when he was too young to help his parents build their various projects. His mom would give him a water bottle and tell him his job was to make a palace for the nearby ants to live in. Jay took his job very seriously, working fastidiously far after his parents went inside and even when Edna tried to call him in for dinner. He never truly mastered the art, despite various attempts to mimic the grandiose castles he saw in the storybooks his father used to lull him to sleep. His castles always ended up a solid mound. No doors, no windows, and definitely no rooms where the creatures nearby could rest.

Well, that little memory didn’t bode well for this project.

Jay clenched his jaw and forced himself to focus on the task at hand, but still his thoughts swirled about his head like a storm. He was good at so many things, how come castles and seagulls outsmarted him? He was an inventor, for First’s sake! Sure, he fell out of practice recently, but he’d done it his whole life! Surely no one loses skills that fast, right? All his years of practice should amount to something, should translate to making a clay bird? But wires and gears and cogs were so much different than clay. They were rigid, fixed. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle and always worked as intended. They were predictable. Clay wasn’t like that. It morphed not only under the weight of its creator’s hands, but under its own. Sometimes, it held its shape perfectly, strong like a tree in a storm. Other times, as Jay experienced over his time learning to sculpt pots and cups, it drooped or flattened or folded itself over like a cloud rolling over the horizon. Capricious, that’s the word he would use to describe it. Clay was capricious.

Okay, maybe inventing wasn’t his best comparison. He rifled through his skills toolbox again. An art form would serve better as a comparison. Painting? Paints could be difficult too. When he first started learning, driven by the small pieces his father used to make of the night sky, he hated it. The paints always turned to a muddy mess on his canvases, leading him to ruin more than one still-wet attempt by throwing it into the sand. He only got the hang of it after sitting down with his dad one day, both of them looking to capture a gorgeous eagle that landed in their junkyard. It was rare to see them in the Sea of Sands, as they preferred the shores of Ninjago more, but here this one was, perched on a pile of scrap his dad pulled out for a project the day before. At first, Jay didn’t understand why his dad had a sketchbook and pencil out or why he took a picture of the bird. Instead, Jay went straight to trying to capture its glossy feathers and curved beak, only to be vexed when the browns and whites he was using merged into one murky beige. He tried to fix it, but the problem only worsened until, with a yell, he scribbled over the whole thing in black. The commotion frightened the bird away, which only served to heighten Jay’s frustration. Great. Great! The bird was gone. Now he had to remember what it looked like to try and paint it again.

That was when his father picked up his painting, examining the mess he made. He commented on how they would have to repurpose the canvas for something else and Jay felt a hot flush of shame hit his cheeks. He apologized for his outburst, but his dad just patted his head and sat with him. He explained how painting wasn’t just about putting paint on the canvas, but how you needed a sketch to start with so you could have an idea of how to make the picture by hand, how to plan your layers so your colors wouldn’t all mix, and how to control your brush so there were no stray bumps in the smooth lines. Jay still didn’t fully get it, but this time he actually finished the painting. It was rough, looking closer to a pigeon than an eagle, but it was dry and not covered in sand. His dad hung it up in their living room.

Maybe Jay could draw on his painting skills. Paint was finicky, often felt like it had a mind of its own. Surely, there was something within this childhood memory that could help him out now?

Splat.

The noise roused Jay from his thoughts. In his daydreaming, he’d pulled the neck of the gull out too thin and the head—which was just a little bead at the end of the spaghetti string—now drooped on the table.

Dammit.

Jay squished the horror noodle back into the body and checked his watch. The place closed in an hour. He’d made no progress. His deadline wasn’t imminent (Nya’s birthday wasn’t for another few weeks) but it still weighed heavy on his mind. He wanted to get something done today, before Kat asked him to clean up. There was no telling when an attack on Ninjago might drag him away from this, swallowing his time and bringing the date closer and closer until he was forced to rush the project to completion.

Change of plans. He wasn’t good at sculpting, but he wasn’t willing to switch to painting. He was going to make the most of this studio and his work so far. He was good at engineering. He stared at the clay. This gull wasn’t a sculpture, it was a… a machine! Like Zane’s Falcon. Yeah, he could work with that.

First step of the process, separate the parts. Separation was easy, since the limbs of this bird seemed intent on breaking apart. There was the head, the wings, the feet, the torso… he could break those down further! The head had eyes, a beak, feathers on top? Little hairs? Whatever. The point was, he could break it down. He could maybe get somewhere with that.

What next? He had the parts, now he had to figure out how they fit together. The bird needed a base, otherwise its feet would be too small for its body (or alternatively, to support itself its feet would need to be comically large, which must’ve been why the original had a rock base). Then, the torso rested on the feet. The wings then melded to the torso, becoming almost part of it. The head was connected by the neck, which needed to be enough to set it apart from the body, but not too long and skinny that it would fall. That’s where his issue was. The first-forsaken neck. Solve that, he solved the whole thing.

Maybe he was a genius. Maybe he’d finally cracked the code! …Okay, maybe he already knew that was the problem, but breaking it down helped! The storm in his brain calmed and he could focus his attention on the task at hand: fixing this stupid bird before Kat—

“Hey, Jay!”

Are you kidding me?

Kat bounded over, her apron, arms, and even parts of her face stained orangish brown with clay. She grinned from ear to ear as she settled back into her spot across from Jay. “How’s it going?”

“Eh, fine. I’m just trying to figure out how to make the neck work.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I can’t figure out how to make it look like a neck, y’know? Like… How do birds even function? I know their necks aren’t super complicated, but it’s like I put the head on and it all goes splat!”

“Have you been using an armature?”

“...what?”

Kat burst into giggles. “You’ve not been using an armature this entire time? It’s what helps the clay keep its shape. You’ve been freeballing it?”

“I didn’t know!” Jay protested. This whole time he’d been missing a key part of the body—robotic, flesh, or clay—skeleton! Muscles! That’s why the stupid bird kept self-decapitating! It had no bones! How hadn’t I realized?!

Kat leaned over, examining the bird while Jay’s face cycled through shades of red. “Well, in that case, as an act of freestanding feathered figurine formation, you haven’t done a half bad job.” She held her hand out. “And if you can come back tomorrow, I’ll show you how to make a wire armature. Then, we can get you going on this project, for real this time. Deal?”

“I’ll try to make it.” Jay sighed and held his hand out, still covered in clay. “Deal.”

After a messy handshake, Jay washed, put away his tools, gathered his things, and left. The late afternoon sun hung lazily above the horizon, not ready to dip fully out of sight, leaving the sky a brilliant, cloudless azure. The golden light reflected off the lush zelkova trees that lined the sidewalk outside, turning the leaves chartreuse. Crickets chirped quietly at their feet and in their branches, warming up for their song later in the evening. Other than that, the streets were quiet. Warm rays hit his face and he sighed. In the distance, he could smell something cooking, maybe a barbecue in the residential area a few blocks over? His stomach growled. It really was time for him to head home.

Tomorrow, he’d come back and make an armature. Then, that stupid bird would finally come into form.

All things considered, Jay figured he made good on that coupon. Free figurine lessons! And he didn’t even have to buy a second kit. Plus, something about working, letting his thoughts roam free… Jay wasn’t sure what it was, but he was excited to go back there soon, and there wasn’t much more to say about that.

#never let anyone tell you i wont eventually deliver #it'll take me three months and a crisis but goddammit #i will fucking deliver #fr though i'm so sorry this took so long #hopefully it was worth the wait #ninjago #jay walker #lego ninjago #ninjago fanfiction #basicallyjaywalker150fictravaganza #lila tag

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infinite-riches · 9 months ago

Text

I Just Want You to Know I Tried

Summary: He felt numb. Ground down. Empty.

His alarm cuts through the silence of his room, not that he needed it. The red numbers blinked brightly in the dim space. 04:45.

C’mon, MacTavish. Get up.

It’s like this every morning.

Or: John "Soap" MacTavish is a burnt out gifted kid who finally hits his limit.

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 3090

Warnings: none :)

A/N: Burnt out gifted kid Soap has been bouncing around in my head for the past couple of weeks- enjoy <3

As always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): I Just Want You to Know I Tried

Twenty-nine years old. He had gotten so far in 29 years, and yet it somehow still wasn't enough.

16.

His mam and da had always told him how proud they were, what a good example he set for his younger sister, and how his older sister could learn a thing or two from him.

School always came easy to him. He flew through coursework for maths and sciences, especially chemistry, much to the chagrin of his older sister, Isla, who spent many a night pouring over her textbooks, and his younger sister, Nora, who saw his achievements as something to be bested. To top it all off, he was a star athlete— the best goalkeeper the county club had seen in years.

But when it came down to it all, he didn’t feel like he was enough it didn’t feel like he was doing enough.

Then there was that little flyer— an ad from the local recruitment office plastered with some line about “being more for your country”. That memory of the weekend his cousin brought him on base to show him around cycled through his mind, and what he remembered seemed interesting.

He called his cousin and was on base the following weekend, too.

It became a habit. Eventually, it was less about seeing his cousin and more so about talking to his roommate, who specialized in demolitions.

Soap was hooked. He could imagine the formulas and calculations in his head, and it finally felt like something big was clicking into place for him.

18.

Try as he might, they couldn’t let him join until he was properly 18, no matter what story or excuse he came up with. But once he was in? It was everything he needed— the structure that helped him thrive in school, the firm commands like the ones his football coach gave, plus, the goal of making the SAS shining in the distance.

No one could deny how driven John MacTavish was. He excelled in every aspect of training and even then didn’t let himself stop. His commander had his recommendation for the special forces written up before John could even ask— 3 months before he was even eligible.

John pushed himself even harder. He trained almost day and night, determined to make it through selection on his first attempt. He got his hands on any training material he could and spent every spare second he had scrounging up any spare information he could get from his CO.

20.

It was the hardest 5 months of his life. And at the end of it all, he became the youngest to ever pass selection. All his hard work had paid off in spades, but he still wanted more.

So he learned everything he could. Took the opportunity for specialized training, devoured whatever books he could get his hands on, worked out until his muscles ached and begged for mercy, studied until he fell asleep atop his notes— whatever he could to try and quell that desire for more.

He was Icarus, flying higher and higher.

25.

He was home for the holidays when his phone rang. It was John Price.

“I’m heading up a new task force and want y-” had barely left the older man’s lips when John said yes.

He was on a flight out a week later, despite his family’s protests and Isla’s pleas for him to slow down and enjoy life just a little while he was young.

The words did nothing to shake his hunger like his sister had hoped they would. He was fully consumed by his need for more, and the 1-4-1 was his ticket. He knew he couldn’t throw this opportunity away.

27.

Two years under the leadership of Captain John Price and Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley had pushed him even further. He was supernaturally clean in the field, a menace with C4, and something to be truly feared when he had his hands on his favorite sniper rifle.

Even with his hardened edge, he retained all the warmth and joy of a ray of sun.

Price and Ghost had decided it was time for him to start taking on more responsibility, starting with the rookies, so Soap took over their training anytime the team wasn't deployed. Rookies looked on as if he was something more than human. An impossibility in the world they all dedicated themselves to.

And then his bedroom door would shut, and everything would crumble to pieces. Unlike Atlas, he couldn’t bear the weight, and the sky would slip from his shoulders.

28.

It took every last ounce of strength he had to kick his boots off and shed his sweat-stained clothes. He stood under the scalding stream until his skin went numb, the thought of having to wash his hair a nauseating concept.

The words still rang in his ears. “Son, I think you should look into officer training.”

Price wanted more. He wasn’t enough.

It was all too much.

29.

He had every intention to go for his officer training, but then there were the missions. More and more just kept landing on Laswell’s desk, and in turn, they were handed down to Price.

He felt numb. Ground down. Empty.

His alarm cuts through the silence of his room, not that he needed it. The red numbers blinked brightly in the dim space. 04:45.

C’mon, MacTavish. Get up.

It’s like this every morning. He has to force himself out from between the sheets. Despite how exhausted he is. Despite how much he hates cold linoleum in the mornings. Despite how little coffee helps nowadays.

The cold air on his warm skin made him shudder.

He put one foot in front of the other, retracing the same steps from the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that… on and on.

He all but refused to look at himself in the mirror. He had lost weight, looking gaunt and pale. He could barely remember how bright and full of life he was at 27.

The day started with a briefing. The data recovery team had finally managed to repair a damaged hard drive retrieved on the last mission. As hard as Soap tried, the information quickly became jumbled and tangled with his other thoughts.

Ghost had stopped him the night before outside the mess. “Things look like they’re starting to calm down again. Have you given more thought to officer training?”

Soap had felt like he could have crumbled right then and there and finally let the weight of everything overtake and destroy him.

Instead, he did what he does best and played along, stacking something else on his plate. “Yeah, L.T., still a couple of months out from the next intake, though.”

The memory played on a loop in his mind. Officer training. Officer training? Now? He was so tired already…

The day went by like every other, filled to the brim with training, both his own and his rookies’, plus any mission prep, and now, preparing for officer training. There was no time for anything else, certainly not himself.

And then it was evening— another restless night, tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling.

Useless. Weak. Lazy. Not enough. Worthless.

And like usual, Soap found himself on autopilot, feet carrying himself towards the gym.

The treadmill sounded like pure torture, but he didn’t trust himself to deadlift in this state without a spotter. Punching bag it was.

He didn’t bother to wrap his knuckles and rarely did anymore, allowing himself to relish in the sting of freshly split skin and warm blood.

The minutes disappeared one after another, and suddenly Soap was lost deep within his own mind. Too deep to catch himself when the day finally caught up with him, the lack of food making him dizzy and sending him off balance. He collapsed into the bag, blood-slick hands grasping to make purchase on the sweat-dampened material as his knees made vicious contact with the unpadded floor.

He didn’t know how long he sat there in a haze and didn’t know he was crying, either. Not until Ghost crowded his vision, blocking out the buzzing fluorescents, face twisted in worry, lips moving but strangely lacking sound.

“-nny! Johnny, can you hear me?” The Scot looked up at him, ocean-blue eyes overrun with tears and confusion clear on his face.

“Ghost? What-?” Soap tried to put the missing pieces together, but no matter how hard he tried, there were still empty spots.

Ghost kneeled next to him, the faintest edge of panic in his voice, his firm grasp turning Soap’s face in his hand. “Where are you bleeding from?”

All Ghost could make out was a mess of smeared blood, sweat, and tears. There were no obvious injuries he could see. He didn’t know if that was better or worse.

“Bleeding?” Soap’s gaze seemed fuzzy as if he were far away.

“Yes, Johnny, you’re bleeding. Please, help me out here…” Ghost was begging.

Ghost doesn’t beg. The thought made Soap’s head swim even more. He reached up, resting his hand on Ghost’s outstretched arm. “‘m fine, Ghostie.” His voice was thick with tears.

A wounded noise escaped Ghost at the sight of Soap’s knuckles. They were covered in blood, and he could see the edges of torn skin. Blood trailed down the tanned skin he loved so much, wrapping around his firm forearms like trailing vines. “Johnny…”

“‘m fine, L.T.” Soap started to pull himself away from the Brit, wobbling despite not even being on his feet.

“John, please talk to me. Let me help.” Soap could see the concern and fear in Ghost’s eyes, and that cut him to his core and sent him spiraling.

“I’m sorry. I’m trying, I promise. Please, L.T., I can do this.” Soap’s words were a babbling mess as the tears returned in full force.

Ghost pulled the smaller man into his chest, holding him tightly and running his fingers through Soap’s hair.

Everything was starting to click for Ghost— the way Soap’s eyes didn’t shine like they used to, how his smile no longer reached his eyes, the way his laugh sounded dull. His Johnny was falling apart, and that thought made Ghost want to fall apart.

He knew he and Price had been pushing the Scot, but the man had never given any indication that it was too much. He took everything he was given in stride and seemed ready for more at any moment.

“Shh, Johnny. It’s okay, it’s okay…” He pulled Soap even closer, trying to soothe the broken man. “Everything is okay.”

It took Soap about an hour to snap out of the breakdown he had been stuck in.

And with one look, Ghost broke Soap’s walls, and everything came pouring out.

“I can’t do it, Ghost. Ever since I was little, I was supposed to be the best. School, then football, then the army. It was good at first, easy even. Took in everything I could get my hands on. But then the energy just… disappeared. And I tried. I tried to keep going and keep getting better. I tried to be everything you and Price want but I just… I can’t. It's too much. I’m sorry. I can’t be everything you want, and I understand if you want me off the team, I just want you to know I tried.” His words were interrupted with little sobs as he laid his soul bare for Ghost, head buried in the larger man’s chest.

And Ghost finally understood why Soap looked like a husk of his former self— because he was. He had given everything until there was nothing left, and then still kept trying.

“Oh, Johnny…” Ghost guided the Scot back, gently cupping his face with both hands. “I love you just as you are. Never could want more than what you are, ‘cause you’re perfect, Johnny. And I’m so sorry I didn’t see what this— what I was doing to you.” He placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, holding him close yet again as the sobs returned.

“You love me?” His voice was soft, stuttered, and choked with tears as he lifted his eyes to see Ghost’s, the barest glimmer of hope shining through. He had feelings for his lieutenant that ran deep, but he always assumed they were one-sided. That the flirty banter was just something to break the tension on missions, something that carried over from Las Almas.

A small laugh rumbled through Ghost’s chest as he cupped Soap’s jaw in his hand, his thumb brushing against the stubble. “Yes, Johnny. I love you. Now let's get you cleaned up.” Carefully untangling Soap from his arms, he began to push himself to his feet.

“Wait!” Soap caught Ghost’s arm, bloodied fingers wrapping around the pale skin of his forearm, catching the man before he could stand. Ghost caught his gaze, looking for what else could be wrong. The concern made Soap melt a little more.

“I love you.” Soap pulled the larger man into a surprisingly bone-crushing hug for how worn he looked. “And I hope you still want me…” The words came out muffled from where he had buried his face in Ghost’s neck.

“Johnny,” Ghost felt like his heart had just split straight down the middle, torn apart by the Scot’s worry. “I’ll always want you. Don’t ever doubt that.”

He placed a gentle kiss on the crown of Soap’s head despite the balaclava, and let the man find comfort in his chest for a few more moments. “C’mon, you need your rest.”

Without any protest from Soap, they untangled themselves, getting to their feet. Ghost guided Soap through the halls, hands intertwined, not fully able to trust that Soap wouldn’t lose his balance with how out of it the man looked.

Soap gave Ghost a look as they walked straight past his door, but Ghost only carried on, not stopping until they were at his door. He directed Soap inside and to the edge of the bed, placing another masked kiss on his forehead. “Stay here, I’m just going to get some things for your hands.”

Soap could hear the tap start to run in the small connected bathroom as he let his eyes wander. The space was clean and organized with precision, not unlike his lieutenant. The one space that captured his attention was the windowsill. It was cluttered with photos, some torn or worn with age, blackened at the edge, others that were well kept but just as old— none of them were recent. Soap could only assume they were family, but he couldn’t know for sure, because it wasn’t something Ghost had ever talked about.

“Johnny?” Ghost was standing at the head of the bed, not wanting to sneak up on the Scot.

“Hmm?” Soap caught his gaze and blushed, not expecting to find Ghost without his mask. He dropped his eyes to the floor and shifted over, making more space for Ghost.

“No need, love.” Ghost knelt on the floor in front of Soap, gently lifting his hand and beginning to carefully clean his bloody knuckles. Soap hissed and jerked at the sensation, trying to busy himself with studying the room, the sudden itch to do something returning.

Ghost noticed the way Soap seemed agitated by being left to do nothing. Initially, he thought it to be the Scot’s natural drive, but now it seemed more likely to be driven by whatever anxiety had pushed him past his breaking point in the first place.

“Talk to me, Johnny. Tell me about that new chemical composition you were testing last week.” Soap seemed to relax a little at that, his mind undoubtedly finding comfort in the familiarity of something that came so easily to him.

Ghost worked as Soap prattled on, explaining all the different components he had tested and why. The ease with which he spoke made Simon smile. It had become so commonplace to see Soap so wound up that this was like a breath of fresh air. This was his Johnny, the one he had fallen for all those months ago in Las Almas.

As Simon finished, it was painfully obvious that Soap was flagging. His eyelids were heavy, and he was starting to sag back into the mattress. Gently, Simon helped Soap out of his bloody mess of a t-shirt and into one of his own, laughing to himself at the way it hung off Soap’s slightly smaller form.

“I’ll be back, okay? Just going to get myself ready for bed. You get comfortable.” Simon placed a kiss on his forehead, lips warm on Soap’s cool skin.

“Here?” The confusion was clear on Soap’s face, despite the exhaustion.

Panic began to rise in Simon’s chest, worried he was pushing too fast. “Do you want to go back to your room?” His words were soft, not wanting to pressure the exhausted man.

Soap thought for a moment before shaking his head. “No, not if you want me here.” Soap couldn’t resist anymore, desperately craving to be held in Simon’s arms, to let someone else do all the heavy lifting, just for a little while.

“Always. Get yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back.” The door to the bathroom clicked closed, with the moonlight being the only thing to illuminate the space now.

Soap looked over his freshly bandaged knuckles, gently rubbing his fingers over the tape.

Simon loves me. He wants me. Wants me how I am.

It felt good to be wanted, especially by the man he had been pining after for so long, but he couldn’t deny how unsteady he still felt. Everything still weighed so heavy on his shoulders.

He shook the feeling away, kicking off his sweatpants and slipping in between the sheets of Simon’s perfectly made bed. He was hit by the subtle scent of peppermint, cedarwood, and eucalyptus, somehow warm and cool and home all in one scent. He let himself melt into the comfort of the space, the gentle sounds of Simon rummaging about in the bathroom providing the white noise that was making it harder and harder to stay awake.

Soap startled at the mattress dipping next to him, rubbing the first dregs of sleep from his eyes.

“It's just me, Johnny, go back to sleep.” Simon's voice rumbled through the quiet space. Soap nodded, humming happily as he felt Simon lay behind him, an arm thrown over his waist to hold him close.

“Love you, Simon.”

“Love you, Johnny.”

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #ghost x soap #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #simon riley x john mactavish

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