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smut-angel · 2 years

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this is amazing i need a part 2!! 💗

the way to his heart

complicated feelings resurface when carmen, your ex-boyfriend, helps cater your nephew's birthday party — let me know if you want to see a part two!

——

If the month of September was palpable, it would be the hint of crispness in the air and the sound of children basking in naïveté.

The lawn, strikingly verdant and velvety, is currently being trampled on by hyperactive toddlers on a collective sugar high, their innocent squeals and ceaseless energy bringing a sense of entertainment to the otherwise humdrum suburb. A smoky scent wafts from the outdoor grill, burning charcoal and sizzling meat slathered with barbecue sauce traveling throughout the autumn air as the sun peeks out from behind puffy white clouds, shining over a primary-colored bounce house that takes up the yard's entire back corner. The inflatable columns that relatively represent a castle push against the picket fence posts each time a kid purposefully catapults themselves from one side to the other.

The event itself is not officially under way yet. People are still arriving, gaudy gift bags and more rambunctious kids in tow, causing Carmen's social battery to substantially drain by the minute. He has to continue reminding himself that he’s doing all of this voluntarily on your behalf, having agreed to help with the food catering for your nephew's fourth birthday party. Piles and piles of sub buns freshly made by The Beef crew were driven over earlier this morning by Richie. An early arrival was also a part of Carmen's plan in order to set up the catering station and start cooking the meats, and he actually went through with it (arriving three hours before lunch is to be served), but maybe he should've just waited until you were at the party already.

Standing behind his scarred folding table peeling oranges, he's been suffering through conversations with your family members including, but not limited to: Painfully awkward questions about where he's been and why you haven't mentioned him as of lately, to which he has to skirt around the fact that he's not necessarily involved with you anymore. This leads to terribly uncomfortable and prying questions about what happened, why was this travesty not disclosed, how are you both handling it. Then there's the recognition in their faces, a piteous lightbulb of oh, that's right, you're the boy whose brother killed himself with a gunshot to the head, which then tumbleweeds into half-sincere condolences and the good ol' pat on the back. During these excruciating exchanges, he just plasters on a fake smile all while putting the finishing touches on the orange sherbet punch he concocted, the scorching beginning-of-autumn-sun beating down his back and the unpleasant ache in his chest growing.

Carmen hasn't been around your family since the breakup, close and extended alike, which makes him feel awkwardly misplaced. On top of that, work keeps him so busy to the point that he barely sees you anymore, so he can't imagine being able to properly function when he's eventually in the same vicinity as you.

When you called him out of the blue having a minor freakout because the fickle caterers for the party dropped out last minute, he swooped in and said to let him handle everything, no qualms about it. Now he's at your cousin's (first, or maybe second; he forgets) unfamiliar house, feeling trapped inside his body and hoping that whoever arrives next will be you and only you.

The patio door slides open with a slow scraping sound, lifting Carmen from his clouded thoughts. His eyes travel to the noise, finding a paunchy man holding his arms out towards him like he's a longtime friend, calling him by his full name with a certain paternal warmth. Jolly and jubilant as ever, he’s your father. He's a likable man, very sociable. Carmen has fond memories with him — watching a Thanksgiving football game on TV, the smell of an apple cinnamon candle you lit making him love autumn. Learning how to properly swing a golf club, shades of cropped green stretching for miles while beer warmed his belly. His favorite is when last Christmas everyone got drunk off Baileys Irish Cream and played a very competitive game of Spoons around the dining table, festive lights twinkling while the little ones watched The Polar Express in the living room.

It felt like home, something he had been chasing for years. It escaped as quickly as it was captured.

Carmen blinks hard as a gruff, familiar voice says, "Just the man I wanted to see!"

Smiling lopsidedly, he scratches behind his neck, his blunt nails getting caught in the curls there. He can never tell if your father is always a bit tipsy or if he's just indulgently loquacious to a fault. "How you doin', sir?"

"I'm good, I'm good. What took you so long to see me again, eh?" He beckons him closer using the spatula he's holding. "Come inside, won't you? I've got some chip dip I want you to critique. It's a whopping ten layers with hot dogs and mayonnaise, and by golly Berzatto, you won't believe what else..."

His boisterous voice fades as he marches back inside. Carmen supposes he should follow. Peering down at his melting sherbet punch that's probably lukewarm by now (kids will drink it and love it anyway, though, right?), he sighs and sticks his hands in his pockets, staring at the swaying wind chimes while reluctantly stepping foot into the house.

In the kitchen, the chatter is intense. Overlapping conversations buzz around his ears like bees, with no possibility of swatting them away. He picks out a few faces he recognizes — an aunt of yours that he enjoys, a cousin he has some things in common with. Before he can fully process his surroundings, an older gentlemen spots his shrinking figure and indecipherably stares at him. It's your grandfather, who's quite reserved. Carmen maybe had a single conversation with him in the past, nothing of importance.

The intimidating man weaves through the conversing bodies until he stands in front of Carmen, a plate of skewered teriyaki meatballs balanced on his palm. After assessing him for five seconds, he simply says, "Heard you're working at that sandwich shop downtown."

Carmen, stiff and sweating, nods to the floor. "Yes, sir. My brother's."

It's obvious as to where this is heading. The baiting tone of your grandfather's voice, the way his eyes light up like the joke of the century just popped in his head and if he doesn't say it, the world will go up in flames. It's all so goddamn predictable. This wouldn't happen if he was still working at a gourmet restaurant. He fell down the ladder, and now he's paying for it while everybody watches him crash and burn.

"How does it feel to work at a dump to make a living?" asks your grandfather, winning a few chuckles from the surrounding people. Uncles and cousins laughing in his face. Humans who only see the surface of who he is.

The thing about elderly people is that their boorishness and gall derives from a place of superiority. The generational divide is transparent, an evident ugliness. It's like fishing for a reaction and picking fights feeds their pomposity, because what's there to lose except someone else's respect? Doesn't bother them, apparently.

"Awesome," Carmen replies with a laugh of self-pity. He distractedly grabs a vanilla cupcake from the tray left out for guests. "Great. Um—"

"Grandpa, give him a break."

Carmen relishes in the cold wave of relief that washes over him when your voice cuts through the mirth and punctures him right in the chest. Like a knife that hacks away at all the thorns and prickly briar guarding his heart. You're the way to it. You've always been the way.

"Oh, it's all in good fun, sweetheart," your grandpa declares, clapping Carmen's broad shoulder.

"Yes, for sure," you say not-so-convincingly while coming out from hiding. "Can you please go help with the scavenger hunt outside?"

"Alright, alright." He kisses your head and waddles back out to the lawn, replacing his plate with a can of beer.

Carmen finally flits his gaze over to you. A matchstick of vehemence strikes the flammable pools of his irises. He comes to life when he sees you. He feels relief. It's been two, maybe three months since he last saw you in the flesh. Time is ever-changing and breakups are strange. How you both could go from seeing each other almost every day to being like two ships passing in the night is beyond his weak perception.

The separation was mutual, as mutual as two people deeply in love could get. It was both necessary and right. Carmen was grieving the tragic loss of his brother, and you granted him the space he needed to do so. If you were still with him, it'd be like talking to a concrete wall. You deserved not to be tied down and crushed by his emotional baggage.

It was heavy. It still is.

Yet here you are, looking effortlessly pretty in a sundress, a splash of solace in your eyes. That smile of yours is blinding and welcoming, as it always has been. Almost as if no time has passed, and his muscle memory could easily guide him over to tenderly kiss you hello.

You wave and tilt your head towards the corridor which connects the kitchen to the living room. Carmen raises his eyebrows while taking a bite of the cupcake, and before he can even blink, you're pulling him into the dark and narrow passageway where no one lingers and the chatter subsides enough to hear each other clearly. There's picture frames on the walls, all happy smiles and togetherness.

It takes him by surprise when you reach forward and hug him, inhaling deeply into his jacket. "Hi, Carmy."

His chest loses all tension as he naturally winds an arm around your waist, cupping your hip and squeezing. "Hi. All the sandwich buns are in the big box out back, ready to be served whenever. I also made some punch for the kids."

Your gratitude is manifested in your relieved sigh. "Thank you so much for helping us. You’re my savior."

Carmen believes it's the other way around, but that's beside the point. His thumb caresses your waist's curve, then he steps back and says, “Anytime. It's... it's really nice seeing you."

"You, too. Listen, I'm so sorry about what my grandpa said to you back there. He likes to just say things without realizing the consequences."

He shrugs. "I've grown used to it. Being a cook is an unsung job."

"Well," you start, "if my words are of any worth to you, I think you're phenomenal. And I could never do what you do." Smiling, you add sincerely, "I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks," Carmen replies in a quick breath. If only he could believe it himself. "Thank you. That means a lot."

"How is work, by the way?" you ask.

"Uh, absolute mayhem." Carmen pauses, staring off into space. "But we're managing. Somehow."

You nod your head solemnly, folding your arms across your chest. "You better be taking care of yourself."

Is he? Every night, he goes home after an exhausting shift, collapses on his tattered couch, then watches mindless television until fatigue envelops him. Then he wakes up and does it all over again. He's a masochist for self-sabotage. He doesn't know anything else, and the last thing he wants is to involve you in his destructive habits.

"I am. Promise."

"I don't believe you," you admit bluffly. He can see you examining his body language and expressions under your metaphoric microscope, but not because of scrutiny. It's because you genuinely care. "Are you still having nightmares?"

He doesn't have the heart to lie any more. "Most nights," Carmen says. "I wake up screaming sometimes."

"Have you thought of going to a professional for that?"

"Fuck no."

"Carmen," you innocently chide. "I really think you should consider it. Otherwise, you know you can still talk to me, don't you?

He shakes his head in disdain, declaring, "You have enough on your plate.”

You clutch his upper arms, clenching them one time, imploring him to take you seriously. "Is it such a crime to care about you?"

"What, your shitty ex-boyfriend who can't get his shit together because he's a piece of shit? Yeah, you should be arrested."

"Stop it."

Carmen changes the subject, remembering he's still holding onto the half-eaten dessert he stole earlier. "Want the rest of this cupcake? It tastes like shit."

It looks like you're about to scold him for swearing excessively, but your face quickly morphs into that of a guilty puppy. "I made those from scratch," you whisper, almost inaudibly.

"You made these? Fuck. Well, I... they're not bad." Your eyes are widening after every word he speaks. "They're not! Just dry, is all. Maybe went a little overboard on the flour."

Frowning, you remorsefully reply, "You just said it tastes like shit, Carmen."

"The frosting makes up for it, though. It's fire."

Your frown deepens, as does the plunge of your eyebrows. "The frosting was store-bought."

The smallest of smiles breaks out on Carmen's lips as he releases an authentic burst of laughter he hasn’t heard from himself in far too long. "I knew it," he murmurs, shaking his head and absentmindedly passing a hand through his hair. His arm then hooks around your shoulders, drawing you into him with an endearing squeeze. "You make me laugh."

You look up at him earnestly. "I've missed you."

I've missed you much, much more. I breathe you. You're my only comfort. You have taught me what it is to love something with such ferocity. Endlessly. Yet I stand here like a concrete wall as your devotion ricochets upon me. And I'm so sorry.

"You have?"

"Of course," you say, eyes searching his. "I worry about you a lot. You're dealing with the unimaginable, and I hope from the bottom of my heart that you're finding slivers of peace throughout it all."

Carmen feels oncoming tears burn the sinuses of his nose. He really doesn't want to start crying at your nephew's birthday party, so he blinks back the stinging sensation and finishes the cupcake still in his hand. His defenses are getting weaker in your presence. They crumble into ruins until he's a shell of a man on the verge of collapsing into desolation.

"Hey, you two! It's time to serve lunch!" The deep voice startles the both of you. Your father is leaning his body around the corner and insistently clapping his hands together, as if to say chop-chop, lovebirds.

You slide past Carmen, giving him a soft smile and leaving with a “You need a haircut.”

Carmen stands motionless with his head hung low, entangled emotions knotting in his stomach. Something has shifted. There was a yearning in the underbelly of the moment, crawling up to the surface, ready to break loose like a cannonball.

And he only has one chance to ignite the fuse.

——

part two? let me know your thoughts! 👀

here’s my other carmen writing!

#carmy berzatto

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