Richie's distracted by his dick for a moment, kind of in awe of the fact that he just came inside Carmy, just fucking creampied Carmy. And he's also sweating and gross, weak in the knees and gross, ew, but he can't decide if he should wipe himself on his shirt or find some paper napkins or something. In the end he just sort of swipes himself with his boxers as he pulls them up, doing up his jeans and squinting at his cousin.
"What? No, we weren't too noisy. If we were too noisy it was your fault, moaning like a bitch."
He wants to kiss him very badly, those bitten lips and blue eyes, their one shared feature in the reality where they're not related at all. Blue, so blue.
"Moaning like a fucking.. you were the noisy one, man, not me."
"Fuck you," Carmy informs him, and he's taking off his apron so he can get a fresh one without cum on it, balling up the blue material, crumpling it between his hands as he looks up at Richie.
"Hey uh. That was good, though," he says seriously, low, like the words are being forced out of him. Getting better at saying shit like that. Figuring out - fun, and emotions, and letting people know when they've pleased him. Runs the back of his hand over Richie's abs a moment then smacks there lightly. "Um. Wash your hands before you touch anything in the kitchen, please." He's gonna go have a cigarette, out in the awful heat.
Good is worthy praise from Carmy. Richie fights against the smile that wants to arrive on his face and adopts an annoyed expression instead, putting it on like an old jacket.
"Hey, fucko, why don't you wash your.. mouth." That's the best he can do, okay, he's still a little come-drunk.
Richie considers it for a beat or two more, his brain slowly arriving at the point of revelation that Carmy is going to go back out there with those panties still on, with his cum in his ass. Maybe he'll even work the rest of the shift like that, slippery with it, feeling the ache of being fucked by him. That thought makes his higher functions short out a little bit, so he tries not to linger on it for too long.
"Fuck you," he finishes lamely. Turns away to head out (hands held up a bit, he's going to try to negotiate the door handle with his elbows), then turns back again. Swoops in fast to kiss Carmy clumsily somewhere in the region of his mouth, then turns back around and fumbles his way out of the fridge and to stinking, overheated, noisy freedom.
The total stress-relief of that fuck carries him through the heat wave of the next couple of days, a meeting with Uncle Jimmy, and some dish trials with Sydney. It's hard to pin down his feelings, to think about wanting something instead of just existing, to imagine having a way to unwind that isn't work or working out. He's nursed a weird little crush for a decade, but it's not like he ever initiates anything, it just happened, keeps happening, in between trying to put together a restaurant.
But that kiss. He's at home in his kitchen, touching his mouth, fucking thinking about it. Palming his dick a little, his usual intense focus when cooking distracted. It's annoying. He's going to break his sauce or congeal his reduction or some other amateur move. He turns the burners off.
come over.
He's been flirty, sure, made eye contact heading into the bathroom that meant Richie knew if he followed Carmy would kneel on the dirty tile for him. But this is direct, and he's a little nervous.
The heat builds and builds and doesn't break. Richie showers twice a day to stop himself going fucking nuts and allows himself, in those cool wet twenty minute segments, to think about Carmy, specifically Carmy's mouth. He jerks off to unsatisfying conclusions and, generally speaking, goes about his day. Bullshit piles up from the restaurant, from Carmy, from the Faks, from Jimmy and all the rest of them. He can almost kid himself nothing has changed, almost gets good at it, but then he catches Carmy's eye across the kitchen and something hot and stupid happens in the pit of his stomach and he has to admit it's just getting worse. Building and building.
Shit.
He's at home alone watching RoboCop with a beer and a profound sense of having missed out on something indefinable, when his phone buzzes and Carmy's message pops up. That hot and stupid feeling comes back almost immediately.
He doesn't write fuck off like he knows he should. Instead, he stares at the message. Drinks some beer. Listens to Peter Weller hand out some justice. Outside, the first grumbles of thunder creak through the dense summer air.
Outraged, at his brave booty call being questioned. At being expected to put anything into the damning eternity of a text message, outside of deeply obsfucated euphemisms. Picks up his jus and starts scraping it down the sink, then gets mad and puts it down to text again.
He's right, though. Which makes it worse, that he knows what's going on. Makes it feel more like an act of charity, like he's taking pity on Richie because he knows his life is shit.
But Richie is already pushing himself to his feet, draining the last of his beer. Texting one handed while he starts gathering his shit. He should probably take another shower, but decides to let Carmy deal with him sweaty and unwashed, the price of making him do the work.
Five different tiny slices of steak, each with a different glaze, a slightly different cook. He's not really happy with any of them, but Richie might not even be able to tell the difference, so he refrains from dumping $200 of wagyu in the trash.
its getting cold
It's not, he's got them on a warm plate, tinfoil, is now throwing together a little salad - watercress, grapefruit, green apple, fried shallots (the Maesri ones). A Richie salad, somehow, rushed and piquant.
The gathering storm is like a hand on the back of his neck pushing him down, humidity dialled up so high he's sweating by the time he gets to his car. It's not a long drive to Carmy's place but it's long enough for Richie to talk himself out of turning around at least ten times, between which he checks his phone at red lights (bad habit) and tries to hunt down the last of the breath mints in his glovebox.
It's not until he's parked up and heading up to Carmy's apartment that he remembers he should have stopped to get a bottle of wine or something. He curses, turns around on the stairs, goes back down, stops, turns around, curses some more, comes back up. Keeps going up. Pounds his fist on Carmy's door.
The door opens and Carmy looks at him for a long, strung out moment. "Get the fuck in here," he says, letting Richie in and closing the door, locking it again with fussy little movements. His neighbourhood isn't great, and there's some shit worth stealing in here: his vintage denim in the oven, his rare cookbooks, his macbook, and the plates and kitchenware stored safe from the clumsiness of the renovating Faks in boxes stacked around the cramped apartment. Apart from that, though, Carmy lives like an ascetic, only a step above a bare mattress on the floor because Sugar made him buy a bed.
The urge to start something right up against the door is immense, but instead he wanders into his kitchenette. "Sit," he says; he set the table while Richie drove over, nothing too fancy. The salad divided into two old take-out containers, a jam jar of cooking wine, and the promised steak, though he's only given that to Richie. Emphatically casual, except for how much tension he's holding as he swings into the seat opposite.
It's a step up from what it could be and a step down from what it should be, Richie's well aware of that and can't possibly comment on it without being a hypocrite and running over old scars, so he just looks around and feels even worse for not bringing some wine. Rules of being a good guest already irreparably broken, he at least follows Carmy inside.
"What the fuck is this?" Because it's a requirement, he can't not argue about something. It's what they do, it's how they work. But he's sitting down. The steak looks amazing. The salad looks amazing. Richie twitches his knife and fork straight alongside his plate. Outside, thunder grumbles and the first droplets of rain start tapping against the window.
"I'm tryna figure out steak right now, cuz," Carmy says with an annoyed eye roll, though he does feel a little bad that he didn't make something special for Richie. The salad doesn't count.
On the other hand, he's not sure he could handle the familiar garlic and tomato smell of the family spaghetti on the back of his tongue when he's sucking his dick. He chews the side of his cheek, glances from under his lashes, stirs his fork through his salad without eating any.
"I uh, it's just practice, better you eat it than having to toss it," he explains, tines of his fork digging into the grapefruit to pulp it.
"It's fine," Richie says, to keep Carmy from getting a big head about it. The steak isn't as warm as he'd like but it melts in his mouth and goes great with the sharpness of the salad. More importantly, Carmy made it, so of course it's fantastic. Richie forks it down, feeling Carmy's eyes on him, figuring out while he eats the weight and heat between his legs, the nervous flutter in his stomach.
It's like being on a date. Why is it like being on a date?
When he pauses for breath and some wine -- another pang for his missing bottle -- Richie looks over at him.
"So what's the menu? The rest of the, uh. The menu. What are you thinking about?"
Like being on a date with a nervous animal, Carmy watching him eat like he wishes he was the steak. Intense little weirdo.
The question has him crack his jaw, because — he knows what he wants to do, but he doesn't know how to say it to Richie, who is a test run for telling Sug. "I've drawn some ideas up," he says, looking at his hands. "A welcome broth over grapes. The steak, we gotta have beef." For obvious reasons. "Still working on pasta. And uh. Fish seven ways? Like, little tastes, mussel, sashimi, some grilled branzino." Like those awful Christmas dinners with Donna. He looks up at Richie, chest tight. "You wanna see?"
He's already getting up to go get the sketchbook from the kitchen, where he dreams up possible meals and then tries to make them actuality. Comes back and perches on his table next to Richie's plate, opening it to the seven fishes page.
He asked so he gets the answer he doesn't fully understand, but he likes hearing about it. Likes seeing Carmy thinking about it, even though it feels as though he's watching a man negotiate a migraine every time, like something inside Carmy is suppurating and painful and the only way he can deal with it is to spit out these ideas. But Richie eats his steak and nods along, then when Carmy looks up with those big blue eyes it's like getting punched in the chest a little bit, and he can't help but think he should be doing this with Mikey.
To try and get rid of that he takes a hasty swallow of wine while Carmy's hunting out his sketches, has to cough and choke it back down to try and appear fucking normal.
"That's great," he says, as soon as his gaze lands on the page. It is. And so is Carmy sitting so close. Obeying that hot and stupid impulse before he can think otherwise, Richie lifts his free hand and puts it square on Carmy's thigh, big and warm, and tries to keep looking at the sketchbook like his heart isn't going a mile a minute.
"That's great, look at that. With the.. the little. What's that on the side?"
"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.
You think we can afford fucking caviar goes unsaid, chiefly because Richie's mouth has dried up and he's got his heart lodged somewhere in his throat. He doesn't notice until it happens that he's got the sketchbook in his hand because Carmy has let go of it, and then he has to figure out where to put it because Carmy's slid kind of sideways and landed in his lap somehow, a heavy weight with his ass planted it feels like right on top of his dick.
"What is, what is this, what are you doing," he's saying, somewhere, from a distance. He lets the sketchbook go, hears it thump onto the floor, whoops, but he's too busy to care, putting both hands on Carmy's thighs and looking up at him. Baffled, terrified, already viciously turned on by the possibilities starting to unfold.
"What are you doing? Is this what we're doing now? Cousin? Is this what we're doing?" God, he needs to shut up. "Carmy, what are you doing?"
"You think I fucking know?" Carmy responds, too loud. Embarrassed. Not getting up. He doesn't want to talk about it, define shit, he just wants—
The first kiss is just his mouth jammed up against Richie's mouth to shut him up, hand at Richie's jaw. Licks in there hard, tasting shitty wine and good steak, rocks forward, chubbed up in his sweatpants. His eyes are closed even as he tilts his head to keep kissing, needy and tense, waiting to be pushed off. This is what he wanted when he texted, it feels like this is all he wants these days.
This isn't what Richie expected to happen, except for the fact that it definitely is, like it's been inevitable ever since he crowded Carmy into the corner of the walk in and stuck his hand down the back of his pants to twist his fingers into those panties. Ever since he and Carmy jerked each other off that one time, and the time before that. Ever since that drunken, sloppy blowjob in the blurry months after Mickey died. Since, since, since. Since always.
Since forever.
He kisses Carmy back hard, gripping his shoulders, then his biceps, then just sort of clinging to him. He's rock hard in his jeans already, dick throbbing like a toothache. Thunder rumbles uneasily overhead; rain rattles against the window. Richie moans into Carmy's mouth.
"I think," he tries to get out. "I think." But he doesn't know what he thinks, except maybe he's going to cum in his pants if Carmy starts moving even an inch, he's so convinced that's going to happen that it makes him panicky and giddy at the same time.
"I wanna --" More kissing, he needs to never stop kissing Carmy. "I wanna fuck you again."
Carmy groans in response to that, and the soles of his feet tingle, the blood rushes up to his cock so fast. "I uh, bought lube," he admits in a low rasp, rocking forward to try and get some friction against Richie's stomach. He'd had to take the bus to another neighborhood so nobody at the drug store would see him getting what Buzzfeed assured him was one of the top ten best lubes for anal. Felt it burning a hole in his pocket the whole way home.
So yeah. Yeah, he wants them to fuck again.
Another kiss, his hands intimate on Richie's neck, his stupid face, keeping him where he wants him, right up close. "You got any more questions for me?" he asks, aggressive, and then pulls back, not to give him space to ask like an idiot but so he can pull Richie's shirt up his lanky torso and over his head, lets him untangle himself while Carmy's hands wander his chest, the cut of his ribs, always trying to do five things at once.
"No," Richie answers automatically, breathless, looking down at Carmy's hands on his body, stone cold sober and thrumming with energy. His gaze travels further down to Carmy's own body, to what he can see of his crotch and the tented fabric of his sweatpants. It's a dizzying view, an incredible compliment, like touching a girl for the first time and finding out she's already wet.
"No. Yes." He looks up again to meet Carmy's eyes. His mouth is abraded from Richie's stubble, pink and puffy. Richie wants to kiss him again so bad it makes his stomach hurt. He settles for tugging meaningfully at the hem of Carmy's shirt, wanting to pay him back in kind.
"Why'd we wait so fucking long to do this, cuz? What changed? You? Me?"
"I dunno," Carmy admits, hides in his own white tshirt rather than look at the expression on Richie's face asking that question. Pulls it up over his head, revealing golden fuzz over muscle, and emerges with his hair mussed upwards, a little down in the mouth. The rare happiness he doesn't know how to name turning sour.
"I mean, you were Mikey's." Not that he knows how true that is, he just means: "Sugar had Pete, Mikey had you, I had cooking." For a while he had nothing. For a while he had longing, and he got too used to it. Carmy tosses his shirt on the floor with uncharacteristic carelessness, leaning his forearms on Richie's shoulders, his brow pinched a little. "So I guess the question is, when did that change."
Maybe the walk-in? Definitely not when Mikey died, falling into each other feeling like betrayal in the aftermath every time. Feeling a little like betrayal now, still. Fucking sick to think about his brother's death while sporting a hard-on, while he's staring at the mouth of his brother's brother and coveting it all to himself.
Contrary to popular opinion amongst the kitchen workers and the Faks of the world, Richie has a keen sense of when he's fucked something up. He has it now, itchy and uncomfortable, when he sees that look on Carmy's face. It makes him want to do something to fix it, to turn it around.
Change the subject, away from Mikey and that whole messed up situation. Try, with his blunt hands, to do something, to pull it back to that hot energy they had before he stuck his stupid foot in it.
"When I wanted you instead." It's mostly the truth, though it could have been Carmy wanting him instead. God knows he spends most of his time in charge. He looks down so he can plant his hands on Carmy's tits instead, thumbing over the curves of his muscles like he's never had a chance to appreciate them before.
"Yo, look at you. You're cut, man." He rubs the pad of his thumb over one of Carmy's nipples to see what that will do to him. "Wanna touch this all day."
It's very successful in taking Carmy's mind off whether or not this is okay, is what it does to him. A shiver, nipple tightening under Richie's finger. Richie's hands on him, his gaze on him. A bashful little grimace, and he leans in to bump his nose against Richie's jaw, annoyed that he's flattered but always a little too easily swayed by Richie's charisma. He feels — young, doing this, and not in a good way. He's gotten too used to being a genius beyond his years, forgot that outside the kitchen he's nothing.
"You can," he says quietly, "You can do whatever." Coy little all-access pass, though he reserves the right to unearth a lengthy small print terms of service and boss Richie around about it. To get his head back in the game and get back to work instead of fucking around. But later, later.
Right now: another fierce kiss, a little sloppy. "Um. So are you planning to fuck me on the table, cuz, or..."
It's too much, almost more than he's ever felt like he deserved, enough to make the hot and stupid feeling in Richie's stomach do a strange flip-flop. But he ignores that to kiss Carmen again, undeserving but greedy. It's getting easier each time, kissing him, thinking I'm kissing Carmy.
"No, fuckhead," he says, when he pulls back. Spends a little time looking down at Carmy's tits before he looks back up at him. "Who fucks people on a table? It's a table. That's unsanitary. Not to mention uncomfortable. No, cousin, I'm going to lay you out on what I assume is a fucking futon on the floor and I'm going to take my fucking time, because I know how to do this and I'm not a fucking teenager. So if you want that to happen you'd better hurry up and take your fucking.. d-cups with you. Jesus Christ, who even needs muscles like that? You're like the fucking statue of fucking David. How do you even have time to get those fucking gains?"
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Richie's distracted by his dick for a moment, kind of in awe of the fact that he just came inside Carmy, just fucking creampied Carmy. And he's also sweating and gross, weak in the knees and gross, ew, but he can't decide if he should wipe himself on his shirt or find some paper napkins or something. In the end he just sort of swipes himself with his boxers as he pulls them up, doing up his jeans and squinting at his cousin.
"What? No, we weren't too noisy. If we were too noisy it was your fault, moaning like a bitch."
He wants to kiss him very badly, those bitten lips and blue eyes, their one shared feature in the reality where they're not related at all. Blue, so blue.
"Moaning like a fucking.. you were the noisy one, man, not me."
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"Hey uh. That was good, though," he says seriously, low, like the words are being forced out of him. Getting better at saying shit like that. Figuring out - fun, and emotions, and letting people know when they've pleased him. Runs the back of his hand over Richie's abs a moment then smacks there lightly. "Um. Wash your hands before you touch anything in the kitchen, please." He's gonna go have a cigarette, out in the awful heat.
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"Hey, fucko, why don't you wash your.. mouth." That's the best he can do, okay, he's still a little come-drunk.
Richie considers it for a beat or two more, his brain slowly arriving at the point of revelation that Carmy is going to go back out there with those panties still on, with his cum in his ass. Maybe he'll even work the rest of the shift like that, slippery with it, feeling the ache of being fucked by him. That thought makes his higher functions short out a little bit, so he tries not to linger on it for too long.
"Fuck you," he finishes lamely. Turns away to head out (hands held up a bit, he's going to try to negotiate the door handle with his elbows), then turns back again. Swoops in fast to kiss Carmy clumsily somewhere in the region of his mouth, then turns back around and fumbles his way out of the fridge and to stinking, overheated, noisy freedom.
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But that kiss. He's at home in his kitchen, touching his mouth, fucking thinking about it. Palming his dick a little, his usual intense focus when cooking distracted. It's annoying. He's going to break his sauce or congeal his reduction or some other amateur move. He turns the burners off.
come over.
He's been flirty, sure, made eye contact heading into the bathroom that meant Richie knew if he followed Carmy would kneel on the dirty tile for him. But this is direct, and he's a little nervous.
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Shit.
He's at home alone watching RoboCop with a beer and a profound sense of having missed out on something indefinable, when his phone buzzes and Carmy's message pops up. That hot and stupid feeling comes back almost immediately.
He doesn't write fuck off like he knows he should. Instead, he stares at the message. Drinks some beer. Listens to Peter Weller hand out some justice. Outside, the first grumbles of thunder creak through the dense summer air.
Eventually he sends:
Why
And then, after a beat or two:
What are you cooking
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why
you know why
Outraged, at his brave booty call being questioned. At being expected to put anything into the damning eternity of a text message, outside of deeply obsfucated euphemisms. Picks up his jus and starts scraping it down the sink, then gets mad and puts it down to text again.
i know you don't have anything else going on, cuz
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He's right, though. Which makes it worse, that he knows what's going on. Makes it feel more like an act of charity, like he's taking pity on Richie because he knows his life is shit.
But Richie is already pushing himself to his feet, draining the last of his beer. Texting one handed while he starts gathering his shit. He should probably take another shower, but decides to let Carmy deal with him sweaty and unwashed, the price of making him do the work.
I want dinner
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Five different tiny slices of steak, each with a different glaze, a slightly different cook. He's not really happy with any of them, but Richie might not even be able to tell the difference, so he refrains from dumping $200 of wagyu in the trash.
its getting cold
It's not, he's got them on a warm plate, tinfoil, is now throwing together a little salad - watercress, grapefruit, green apple, fried shallots (the Maesri ones). A Richie salad, somehow, rushed and piquant.
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The gathering storm is like a hand on the back of his neck pushing him down, humidity dialled up so high he's sweating by the time he gets to his car. It's not a long drive to Carmy's place but it's long enough for Richie to talk himself out of turning around at least ten times, between which he checks his phone at red lights (bad habit) and tries to hunt down the last of the breath mints in his glovebox.
It's not until he's parked up and heading up to Carmy's apartment that he remembers he should have stopped to get a bottle of wine or something. He curses, turns around on the stairs, goes back down, stops, turns around, curses some more, comes back up. Keeps going up. Pounds his fist on Carmy's door.
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The urge to start something right up against the door is immense, but instead he wanders into his kitchenette. "Sit," he says; he set the table while Richie drove over, nothing too fancy. The salad divided into two old take-out containers, a jam jar of cooking wine, and the promised steak, though he's only given that to Richie. Emphatically casual, except for how much tension he's holding as he swings into the seat opposite.
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"What the fuck is this?" Because it's a requirement, he can't not argue about something. It's what they do, it's how they work. But he's sitting down. The steak looks amazing. The salad looks amazing. Richie twitches his knife and fork straight alongside his plate. Outside, thunder grumbles and the first droplets of rain start tapping against the window.
Richie looks down at his plate. Back up at Carmy.
"No spaghetti?"
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On the other hand, he's not sure he could handle the familiar garlic and tomato smell of the family spaghetti on the back of his tongue when he's sucking his dick. He chews the side of his cheek, glances from under his lashes, stirs his fork through his salad without eating any.
"I uh, it's just practice, better you eat it than having to toss it," he explains, tines of his fork digging into the grapefruit to pulp it.
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It's like being on a date. Why is it like being on a date?
When he pauses for breath and some wine -- another pang for his missing bottle -- Richie looks over at him.
"So what's the menu? The rest of the, uh. The menu. What are you thinking about?"
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The question has him crack his jaw, because — he knows what he wants to do, but he doesn't know how to say it to Richie, who is a test run for telling Sug. "I've drawn some ideas up," he says, looking at his hands. "A welcome broth over grapes. The steak, we gotta have beef." For obvious reasons. "Still working on pasta. And uh. Fish seven ways? Like, little tastes, mussel, sashimi, some grilled branzino." Like those awful Christmas dinners with Donna. He looks up at Richie, chest tight. "You wanna see?"
He's already getting up to go get the sketchbook from the kitchen, where he dreams up possible meals and then tries to make them actuality. Comes back and perches on his table next to Richie's plate, opening it to the seven fishes page.
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To try and get rid of that he takes a hasty swallow of wine while Carmy's hunting out his sketches, has to cough and choke it back down to try and appear fucking normal.
"That's great," he says, as soon as his gaze lands on the page. It is. And so is Carmy sitting so close. Obeying that hot and stupid impulse before he can think otherwise, Richie lifts his free hand and puts it square on Carmy's thigh, big and warm, and tries to keep looking at the sketchbook like his heart isn't going a mile a minute.
"That's great, look at that. With the.. the little. What's that on the side?"
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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.
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"What is, what is this, what are you doing," he's saying, somewhere, from a distance. He lets the sketchbook go, hears it thump onto the floor, whoops, but he's too busy to care, putting both hands on Carmy's thighs and looking up at him. Baffled, terrified, already viciously turned on by the possibilities starting to unfold.
"What are you doing? Is this what we're doing now? Cousin? Is this what we're doing?" God, he needs to shut up. "Carmy, what are you doing?"
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The first kiss is just his mouth jammed up against Richie's mouth to shut him up, hand at Richie's jaw. Licks in there hard, tasting shitty wine and good steak, rocks forward, chubbed up in his sweatpants. His eyes are closed even as he tilts his head to keep kissing, needy and tense, waiting to be pushed off. This is what he wanted when he texted, it feels like this is all he wants these days.
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Since forever.
He kisses Carmy back hard, gripping his shoulders, then his biceps, then just sort of clinging to him. He's rock hard in his jeans already, dick throbbing like a toothache. Thunder rumbles uneasily overhead; rain rattles against the window. Richie moans into Carmy's mouth.
"I think," he tries to get out. "I think." But he doesn't know what he thinks, except maybe he's going to cum in his pants if Carmy starts moving even an inch, he's so convinced that's going to happen that it makes him panicky and giddy at the same time.
"I wanna --" More kissing, he needs to never stop kissing Carmy. "I wanna fuck you again."
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So yeah. Yeah, he wants them to fuck again.
Another kiss, his hands intimate on Richie's neck, his stupid face, keeping him where he wants him, right up close. "You got any more questions for me?" he asks, aggressive, and then pulls back, not to give him space to ask like an idiot but so he can pull Richie's shirt up his lanky torso and over his head, lets him untangle himself while Carmy's hands wander his chest, the cut of his ribs, always trying to do five things at once.
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"No. Yes." He looks up again to meet Carmy's eyes. His mouth is abraded from Richie's stubble, pink and puffy. Richie wants to kiss him again so bad it makes his stomach hurt. He settles for tugging meaningfully at the hem of Carmy's shirt, wanting to pay him back in kind.
"Why'd we wait so fucking long to do this, cuz? What changed? You? Me?"
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"I mean, you were Mikey's." Not that he knows how true that is, he just means: "Sugar had Pete, Mikey had you, I had cooking." For a while he had nothing. For a while he had longing, and he got too used to it. Carmy tosses his shirt on the floor with uncharacteristic carelessness, leaning his forearms on Richie's shoulders, his brow pinched a little. "So I guess the question is, when did that change."
Maybe the walk-in? Definitely not when Mikey died, falling into each other feeling like betrayal in the aftermath every time. Feeling a little like betrayal now, still. Fucking sick to think about his brother's death while sporting a hard-on, while he's staring at the mouth of his brother's brother and coveting it all to himself.
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Change the subject, away from Mikey and that whole messed up situation. Try, with his blunt hands, to do something, to pull it back to that hot energy they had before he stuck his stupid foot in it.
"When I wanted you instead." It's mostly the truth, though it could have been Carmy wanting him instead. God knows he spends most of his time in charge. He looks down so he can plant his hands on Carmy's tits instead, thumbing over the curves of his muscles like he's never had a chance to appreciate them before.
"Yo, look at you. You're cut, man." He rubs the pad of his thumb over one of Carmy's nipples to see what that will do to him. "Wanna touch this all day."
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"You can," he says quietly, "You can do whatever." Coy little all-access pass, though he reserves the right to unearth a lengthy small print terms of service and boss Richie around about it. To get his head back in the game and get back to work instead of fucking around. But later, later.
Right now: another fierce kiss, a little sloppy. "Um. So are you planning to fuck me on the table, cuz, or..."
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"No, fuckhead," he says, when he pulls back. Spends a little time looking down at Carmy's tits before he looks back up at him. "Who fucks people on a table? It's a table. That's unsanitary. Not to mention uncomfortable. No, cousin, I'm going to lay you out on what I assume is a fucking futon on the floor and I'm going to take my fucking time, because I know how to do this and I'm not a fucking teenager. So if you want that to happen you'd better hurry up and take your fucking.. d-cups with you. Jesus Christ, who even needs muscles like that? You're like the fucking statue of fucking David. How do you even have time to get those fucking gains?"
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