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?"
"It's got a frame," Carmy says defensively as he backs up and stands: it is a queen futon on a frame, the slat kind that can prop up and become a double seater sofa. There's a cover, a nice linen blanket — all Natalie.
He scratches across the peach fuzz of his upper abdomen a little self-consciously once he's standing, flattered and bashful. He works out mostly for the mindlessness of it than any aesthetic preference, and he hasn't fucked around enough to hear anybody say anything about it. His dick tents out his sweatpants stupidly — no panties, no nothing, not while he's home alone. He steps backwards, not wanting to stop looking at Richie. If he takes his eyes off him he might vanish.
Richie is skinny in a way he really likes, a tall lean string bean 11of a guy. Carmy wants to feed him, wants to pin him down and bite him, wants to wrap up in him completely. "C'mon then," he says bright eyes, smug mouth all pink from kissing. Leaving food on the table wasn't allowed in the Berzatto household, but he doesn't even look at it, just stumbles backwards into his bedroom, breaks eye contact to take off his pants and socks. Hair flopped forward, muscular shoulders hunched, standing on one leg a moment as he bends and pulls a sock off, casually flexible, maybe just a little aware of what he looks like. "C'mon jagoff, I need you."
There's a strong temptation to finish the plate on the way past, echoes of Donna and Richie's own mom ringing in his ears, but those big baby blues have a magnetic pull of their own, not to mention the heavy swing of Carmy's dick in his sweatpants, so Richie thinks fuck it and corners the table so fast he hits it with his leg and rattles the crockery. He doesn't notice; he's ensorcelled, pulled in.
Getting his shoes and pants off between kitchen and bedroom is its own puzzle, but he manages it, hopping on one leg to try and pull his jeans down and his sock off at the same time, without looking away from Carmen. He feels like a kid on a first date, but somewhere in there the nervousness has melted away, and he's all confidence by the time he straightens up in the doorway, naked, and takes two long steps to captue Carmy's face between his hands so he can kiss him again, long and hard and hungry, just like he wants to fuck him.
"You got me," he says, pulling back to look into Carmy's eyes. Rubs his hand over his cheek a bit, tangles his fingers in his hair like he wants to shake him. "You got me, I'm not going anywhere."
Because maybe they both need to hear that right now. Because there are a lot of ghosts, and because he wants nothing more than to make those words mean something.
He bends to kiss Carmy again, hands on his face, his shoulders, trying to keep him together.
That has Carmy's expression go painfully vulnerable a moment. Everybody goes somewhere, he wants to argue. Everyone leaves. He left. He can't promise you got me because who the fuck knows what that means? Can anybody have Carmen Berzatto? Is there anything of him to have beyond a body and some knife skills?
"Hah," he says instead, a wounded laugh encapsulating all of that, and then kisses Richie again, a man who is not his by any definition of the word, but Carmy wants him like an open wound.
He presses in, and it's the first time they've been naked skin to naked skin like this, electric all over, hair and nipples and he's sort of automatically trying to be polite with his hips but then they're kissing again and he forgets to be, cock a hot line up Richie's thigh, throat long, mouth open, hungry baby bird. "Don't be sappy about this," he manages in a voice so heavy with emotion it's innately a oxymoron. "Don't get sappy about this or I'll kill you," he adds, biting Richie's neck, eyes a little wet without realising it. "I'll rock your shit, I'll, fuck, Rich," broken as he humps Richie's leg a little bit.
"Don't," he says, even though he started it. "Don't, okay, don't do it, fuck you." Which could be a threat or just reiterating what he wants to do, Richie's kind of lost in the sauce of Carmy up close like this, all muscle and hot skin in the humid closeness of the bedroom, hard cock sliding over this thigh.
Automatically, Richie drops his hand to take hold of him, give him something to rock up into, feeling the length and throb of him in his palm, silky soft skin over the rigid core. A little slick wetness at the head, vulnerability all the way through. Richie strokes him against the grain and kisses his mouth with clumsy abandon.
Then he pulls back all of a sudden, trying to get back under control. Takes Carmy by the shoulders and sort of shoves him towards his own bed.
"Go on, get on there, hurry up before I fucking lose it, man." He's stumbling up on his own words as he says them, already climbing onto the futon -- fuck yeah, he was right -- and grabbing for Carmy again, rolling onto his back and pulling him over, messing up his own instructions just to taste him again. But they have time, at least. Lots of time.
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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
no subject
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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He scratches across the peach fuzz of his upper abdomen a little self-consciously once he's standing, flattered and bashful. He works out mostly for the mindlessness of it than any aesthetic preference, and he hasn't fucked around enough to hear anybody say anything about it. His dick tents out his sweatpants stupidly — no panties, no nothing, not while he's home alone. He steps backwards, not wanting to stop looking at Richie. If he takes his eyes off him he might vanish.
Richie is skinny in a way he really likes, a tall lean string bean 11of a guy. Carmy wants to feed him, wants to pin him down and bite him, wants to wrap up in him completely. "C'mon then," he says bright eyes, smug mouth all pink from kissing. Leaving food on the table wasn't allowed in the Berzatto household, but he doesn't even look at it, just stumbles backwards into his bedroom, breaks eye contact to take off his pants and socks. Hair flopped forward, muscular shoulders hunched, standing on one leg a moment as he bends and pulls a sock off, casually flexible, maybe just a little aware of what he looks like. "C'mon jagoff, I need you."
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Getting his shoes and pants off between kitchen and bedroom is its own puzzle, but he manages it, hopping on one leg to try and pull his jeans down and his sock off at the same time, without looking away from Carmen. He feels like a kid on a first date, but somewhere in there the nervousness has melted away, and he's all confidence by the time he straightens up in the doorway, naked, and takes two long steps to captue Carmy's face between his hands so he can kiss him again, long and hard and hungry, just like he wants to fuck him.
"You got me," he says, pulling back to look into Carmy's eyes. Rubs his hand over his cheek a bit, tangles his fingers in his hair like he wants to shake him. "You got me, I'm not going anywhere."
Because maybe they both need to hear that right now. Because there are a lot of ghosts, and because he wants nothing more than to make those words mean something.
He bends to kiss Carmy again, hands on his face, his shoulders, trying to keep him together.
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"Hah," he says instead, a wounded laugh encapsulating all of that, and then kisses Richie again, a man who is not his by any definition of the word, but Carmy wants him like an open wound.
He presses in, and it's the first time they've been naked skin to naked skin like this, electric all over, hair and nipples and he's sort of automatically trying to be polite with his hips but then they're kissing again and he forgets to be, cock a hot line up Richie's thigh, throat long, mouth open, hungry baby bird. "Don't be sappy about this," he manages in a voice so heavy with emotion it's innately a oxymoron. "Don't get sappy about this or I'll kill you," he adds, biting Richie's neck, eyes a little wet without realising it. "I'll rock your shit, I'll, fuck, Rich," broken as he humps Richie's leg a little bit.
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Automatically, Richie drops his hand to take hold of him, give him something to rock up into, feeling the length and throb of him in his palm, silky soft skin over the rigid core. A little slick wetness at the head, vulnerability all the way through. Richie strokes him against the grain and kisses his mouth with clumsy abandon.
Then he pulls back all of a sudden, trying to get back under control. Takes Carmy by the shoulders and sort of shoves him towards his own bed.
"Go on, get on there, hurry up before I fucking lose it, man." He's stumbling up on his own words as he says them, already climbing onto the futon -- fuck yeah, he was right -- and grabbing for Carmy again, rolling onto his back and pulling him over, messing up his own instructions just to taste him again. But they have time, at least. Lots of time.
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