"Fish eggs," says Carmy, looking at the hand, and then at Richie. He hadn't known he needed this, actually — not the touch, the interest, the praise, even knowing Richie doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about and his enjoyment is totally meaningless, it's still...
It's like if Mikey said it. It's like if Mikey looked at his art and said this is great, which is all Carmy wanted in New York, and also his whole life.
His chest clenches with a feeling he doesn't understand. Hot and worked up but contained, packed down with intense pressure. It's good, though, he knows how to exist in that state, the sweet spot before a panic attack where he's all instinct. And he's a compact little fucker and finds it easy to fit himself into straddling Richie's lap, sliding in between the table and his body, running hands over his chest.
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It's like if Mikey said it. It's like if Mikey looked at his art and said this is great, which is all Carmy wanted in New York, and also his whole life.
His chest clenches with a feeling he doesn't understand. Hot and worked up but contained, packed down with intense pressure. It's good, though, he knows how to exist in that state, the sweet spot before a panic attack where he's all instinct. And he's a compact little fucker and finds it easy to fit himself into straddling Richie's lap, sliding in between the table and his body, running hands over his chest.