[ Stepping in sideways through the open door into Carmy's apartment, Richie blinks at the sight of him. There's a bizarre sense of nostalgia looking down at the figure Carmy cuts, never mind that it's been over a decade since he's had to help him around a living space, but it's gone as swiftly as it had come. ]
--open. Uh, thanks. [ Carmy didn't even need him to ask, so Richie keeps walking until he's able to put the last box down on the designated space on the floor. ] Fuuuuckin' A.
[ His arms stretch over his head, something in his back cracking with the force of its arch. Richie doesn't waste any time after, though, pulling a pencil from his jacket pocket and hanging it over his ear as he walks again. There's something about being helpful that always gets Richie ready to go, and now's no exception.
He heads towards one of the empty walls in Carmy's living room and presses his right palm flat against it. His left, meanwhile, knocks gently at the surface to find the studs behind. ]
Gonna need you to stand here a sec so we can figure how high you want these fucking shelves, Cuz. Unpack the table after?
You can’t just eyeball it? [ But he’s walking over, nudging away a box of clothes he’d halfheartedly opened a couple months back and then left, still full, next to the couch.
It just hadn’t factored in. Shelves, unpacking, whatever the fuck was still stacked in corners around his apartment never had a chance to register through the noise and the triage nightmare of the last year. It had taken Richie asking and Carmen failing to give a satisfying answer as to the state of his apartment to finally get here, at shelves and tables. He hadn't even had it in him to argue all that much with Richie over the offer of help, convince him it wasn't necessary -- it would've just made things a little more insufferable for everyone but, also, really, it hadn't been unappreciated.
The sense that shit could blow at any second, that jagged sharp edge that had, to Carmen, been the shape of their relationship in the months after he got back -- it had changed. Still sharp, not as jagged, he figures. Better. Getting better. There's a familiar weight to it he doesn't think about because there's already too much to think about, too much to do.
He drops the bag of hardware store supplies against the wall, at their feet. ] Table after, sure.
The moment I fucking eyeball it [ seeing Carmy come around, Richie pulls the pencil from his ear to mark the wall by him ] you're gonna bitch at me for making it too high or low when I'm done.
[ He's speaking lightly, though, for the most part. Teasing as ever. Bitching and moaning seem to go hand in hand with working with Carmy as of late, but then again, ever since he came back from Copenhagen things had been different, anyway. In the few times he'd seen Carmen before he came back home to Chicago to stay for good, he'd been restless and fidgety-- always moving, always brushing his fingers over his lips. Richie could've asked what it was that had him so keyed up all the time, but now he gets it.
Elevating the Beef-- the Bear, whatever the fuck it is now-- to some "higher level" had come with a lot of shit. He imagines it's probably worse being surrounded by snobs who can't afford mistakes at all. Richie hasn't forgotten about to-go day, but like most things, he pushes the ugliness that'd come out of both Carmen and Sydney into some long-forgotten corner in the back of his mind. ]
All right. [ Having gotten the marks he needs, he claps a hand on Carmen's shoulder. ] You're good, Cuz. Thanks.
[ Then he's bending to grab one of the mounting brackets to mark those in, too. ]
No. [ A brief pause. Questions about his time away have tended to come with some kind of barb attached, or lead into a stupid joke barely worth a reaction. He's used to it, doesn't really care anyway, although it also means he's tended not to say much about it beyond what's been instructive in the restaurant. ] No, everything I needed was already there.
[ Carmen takes a few steps back, gives Richie space to work, watches the efficient lines he makes on the wall start to sketch out something new.
It's weird. Richie is the first person he's had in his apartment since he moved back.
--That's not the weird thing, not really. He runs a hand through his hair, follows the next set of marks Richie makes on the wall for long seconds. In a move only partly intended to shake off the feeling of being slightly out of his depth, he gestures toward the kitchen. ]
Yeah, [ Richie hasn't even turned away from his work yet ] for you to start unpacking the... [ Finally glancing over his shoulder, he catches Carmen's hand and the direction it's pointed towards.
And blinks. ] Oh. [ It was a serious question. ] Uh... [ So he shrugs. ] You got any pop?
[ Having finished up his plans drawing on the wall, Richie replaces the pencil over his ear. ] 'sides that, I'll have whatever you're having.
[ He goes to one of the toolboxes he'd brought over to put his drill together: practised motions, easy work. Richie'll never admit it, but he does like being useful (needed, even). Wanting to help Carmy move in had come from a place of concern he'll never outright speak of, but he'd been happy when he agreed to it.
Their trust is getting better, Richie likes to think. Hopes it is, anyway, considering the trash fire that everything's become these days. The relative calm as he puts the drill together and Carmen does whatever it is he does in the kitchen feels like a good sign, though. ]
[ Pop happens to be one of the few things currently stocked in the fridge; it's a key part of the routine highly unbalanced outside-the-restaurant meal. Carmen grabs a can for Richie, and a carton of cigarettes off the counter.
Maybe this is actually the most normal thing in the world, the way Richie makes it look, like he's done this a million times (probably has), immersed in assembling pieces that, realistically, Carmen would never have bothered with on his own. What's weird -- a compressed feeling like something left behind, made so unreal with time and deliberate distance that it had become just a recurring motif in a dream, totally abstract but somehow still heavy. Still there.
What's weird is how this makes him think about Richie's sci-fi movies. Blade Runner, Solaris, so many others. He thinks about the suspension of disbelief, the other worlds, other lives. He thinks about Richie's commentary, hilarious and insightful by turns, and about feeling grateful for the company. He thinks about the flicker of the TV in the dark in that other living room, the snow outside the windows, the close warmth inside. He remembers a movie playing, but not paying attention to the screen.
Carmen rubs at his face, fishes a little overzealously in the carton for a cigarette. Stupid. ]
Heads up. [ He tosses the can of pop over to Richie: normal. ]
[ Carmen's voice seems to come out of nowhere, and with one hand holding the drill, Richie fully expects the pop to fall and explode because he's missed it. (It wouldn't be the first time he's failed, nor would it be the first time something blew up because of it.)
Instinctively, he swears as he reaches out for it. ] Shit--!
[ But he catches the thing somehow. Miraculously, even, and with his left hand instead of his right. As he shifts the can to rest more safely against his palm, it sweats in his hand, and Richie can't help the smarmy grin of triumph. ]
Ha! [ Pleased as ever. You see that, Bear? ] I still got it, eh? [ Never mind the fact that saying that gives his age away.
And after Richie pops the tab with his thumb, he takes a few gulps before setting the can down on some unopened box. It's better than letting the water stain Carmen's floor.
Richie looks over his shoulder, meeting Carmy's gaze with both brows raised. ] Things're about to get noisy, [ the drill buzzes for half a second in emphasis ] so if you gotta step away...
[ Regardless of Carmen's choice, Richie's quick with it. Holes are made in the wall following the surprisingly thorough diagram he'd made, and he moves on to the brackets. ]
[ It is kind of a miracle Richie catches it, actually, with his hands already full, and the only one to blame if the situation had just become a real mess involving rags, a mop, windex, and possibly a change of clothes would have been Carmen for fucking aiming too hard for "normal," apparently. For the seconds it takes for Richie to get a handle on the can, he kicks himself.
(If you don’t want people dealing with your stupid mess, don’t get distracted. Got it.)
Carmen shakes his head as Richie plays the catch off as a victory, covering a little relief (and some amusement) with the flick of his lighter at the cigarette. ]
Smooth.
[ The noise from the drill isn’t a problem, in the way the loud and monotonous usually isn’t. He's already rounded the kitchen corner and begun digging in the bag of hardware supplies at Richie's feet when he asks for one of the shelves, and Carmen pauses to grab one from where it's propped against the wall. ]
Yeah, here. [ This was always more Richie -- and Mikey --, this kind of working with hands. As much as he'd tried to keep up -- be useful in ways that seemed to matter to people, or maybe were just expected -- and as much as he'd picked up from the two of them, it had never come naturally to him.
He lifts the shelf to where Richie's placing the brackets, lining it up with what's already in place. ] Good?
Yeah, [ is Richie's answer-- easy. But he's easy when he isn't out of his depth, considering. ] Perfect, Carmy.
Hold it there. [ He likes to imagine this reasonable, considering the shelf's being put up for the convenience of Carmy's height specifically.
A thought comes to him, though, as he's drilling the thing in, settling with a whisper in the back of his mind. As the shelf is secured one screw after the other, simple and methodical until Carmy's hands are no longer needed, that whisper grows into a proper shout.
Richie's got a couple other shelves to go, but for a moment he furrows his brows at the one they'd just secured.
Then he faces Carmy to his side, eyes on wisping cigarette smoke and his decidedly unfairly striking profile. ] ...your landlord gave you permission to drill this shit in, right?
[ He likes to think this, too, is a reasonable question, even if permission is the farthest thing from his mind.
Truthfully, drilling holes into Carmen's walls had Richie wondering if this meant he was going to stay here for good. But there's no real way to ask that without bringing to mind all kinds of metaphors related to playing with fire. ]
[ It’s good like this, to focus in on keeping it steady where Richie needs it, and the simple facts of pieces fitting together. Focused and purposeful and positive — kind of what they’re aiming for more generally, right?
Carmen watches Richie make quick work of the screws. Whatever presses in the back of his mind, the weight of the familiarity of Richie here and beside him, hands, warm or cold, that fucking necklace he’s always wearing, whatever else, whatever— it’s not helpful and not relevant. This, here, works. He just needs to keep it together.
And then he’s staring back at Richie, the question so ridiculously reasonable, in fact, that for long moments it doesn’t even seem to make sense.
Did the landlord give permission.
Carmen drops his hands from the shelf that is now firmly embedded in the wall. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ Stepping in sideways through the open door into Carmy's apartment, Richie blinks at the sight of him. There's a bizarre sense of nostalgia looking down at the figure Carmy cuts, never mind that it's been over a decade since he's had to help him around a living space, but it's gone as swiftly as it had come. ]
--open. Uh, thanks. [ Carmy didn't even need him to ask, so Richie keeps walking until he's able to put the last box down on the designated space on the floor. ] Fuuuuckin' A.
[ His arms stretch over his head, something in his back cracking with the force of its arch. Richie doesn't waste any time after, though, pulling a pencil from his jacket pocket and hanging it over his ear as he walks again. There's something about being helpful that always gets Richie ready to go, and now's no exception.
He heads towards one of the empty walls in Carmy's living room and presses his right palm flat against it. His left, meanwhile, knocks gently at the surface to find the studs behind. ]
Gonna need you to stand here a sec so we can figure how high you want these fucking shelves, Cuz. Unpack the table after?
no subject
You can’t just eyeball it? [ But he’s walking over, nudging away a box of clothes he’d halfheartedly opened a couple months back and then left, still full, next to the couch.
It just hadn’t factored in. Shelves, unpacking, whatever the fuck was still stacked in corners around his apartment never had a chance to register through the noise and the triage nightmare of the last year. It had taken Richie asking and Carmen failing to give a satisfying answer as to the state of his apartment to finally get here, at shelves and tables. He hadn't even had it in him to argue all that much with Richie over the offer of help, convince him it wasn't necessary -- it would've just made things a little more insufferable for everyone but, also, really, it hadn't been unappreciated.
The sense that shit could blow at any second, that jagged sharp edge that had, to Carmen, been the shape of their relationship in the months after he got back -- it had changed. Still sharp, not as jagged, he figures. Better. Getting better. There's a familiar weight to it he doesn't think about because there's already too much to think about, too much to do.
He drops the bag of hardware store supplies against the wall, at their feet. ] Table after, sure.
no subject
[ He's speaking lightly, though, for the most part. Teasing as ever. Bitching and moaning seem to go hand in hand with working with Carmy as of late, but then again, ever since he came back from Copenhagen things had been different, anyway. In the few times he'd seen Carmen before he came back home to Chicago to stay for good, he'd been restless and fidgety-- always moving, always brushing his fingers over his lips. Richie could've asked what it was that had him so keyed up all the time, but now he gets it.
Elevating the Beef-- the Bear, whatever the fuck it is now-- to some "higher level" had come with a lot of shit. He imagines it's probably worse being surrounded by snobs who can't afford mistakes at all. Richie hasn't forgotten about to-go day, but like most things, he pushes the ugliness that'd come out of both Carmen and Sydney into some long-forgotten corner in the back of his mind. ]
All right. [ Having gotten the marks he needs, he claps a hand on Carmen's shoulder. ] You're good, Cuz. Thanks.
[ Then he's bending to grab one of the mounting brackets to mark those in, too. ]
You ever build a table back in Copenhagen?
no subject
[ Carmen takes a few steps back, gives Richie space to work, watches the efficient lines he makes on the wall start to sketch out something new.
It's weird. Richie is the first person he's had in his apartment since he moved back.
--That's not the weird thing, not really. He runs a hand through his hair, follows the next set of marks Richie makes on the wall for long seconds. In a move only partly intended to shake off the feeling of being slightly out of his depth, he gestures toward the kitchen. ]
You want something?
no subject
And blinks. ] Oh. [ It was a serious question. ] Uh... [ So he shrugs. ] You got any pop?
[ Having finished up his plans drawing on the wall, Richie replaces the pencil over his ear. ] 'sides that, I'll have whatever you're having.
[ He goes to one of the toolboxes he'd brought over to put his drill together: practised motions, easy work. Richie'll never admit it, but he does like being useful (needed, even). Wanting to help Carmy move in had come from a place of concern he'll never outright speak of, but he'd been happy when he agreed to it.
Their trust is getting better, Richie likes to think. Hopes it is, anyway, considering the trash fire that everything's become these days. The relative calm as he puts the drill together and Carmen does whatever it is he does in the kitchen feels like a good sign, though. ]
no subject
Maybe this is actually the most normal thing in the world, the way Richie makes it look, like he's done this a million times (probably has), immersed in assembling pieces that, realistically, Carmen would never have bothered with on his own. What's weird -- a compressed feeling like something left behind, made so unreal with time and deliberate distance that it had become just a recurring motif in a dream, totally abstract but somehow still heavy. Still there.
What's weird is how this makes him think about Richie's sci-fi movies. Blade Runner, Solaris, so many others. He thinks about the suspension of disbelief, the other worlds, other lives. He thinks about Richie's commentary, hilarious and insightful by turns, and about feeling grateful for the company. He thinks about the flicker of the TV in the dark in that other living room, the snow outside the windows, the close warmth inside. He remembers a movie playing, but not paying attention to the screen.
Carmen rubs at his face, fishes a little overzealously in the carton for a cigarette. Stupid. ]
Heads up. [ He tosses the can of pop over to Richie: normal. ]
no subject
Instinctively, he swears as he reaches out for it. ] Shit--!
[ But he catches the thing somehow. Miraculously, even, and with his left hand instead of his right. As he shifts the can to rest more safely against his palm, it sweats in his hand, and Richie can't help the smarmy grin of triumph. ]
Ha! [ Pleased as ever. You see that, Bear? ] I still got it, eh? [ Never mind the fact that saying that gives his age away.
And after Richie pops the tab with his thumb, he takes a few gulps before setting the can down on some unopened box. It's better than letting the water stain Carmen's floor.
Richie looks over his shoulder, meeting Carmy's gaze with both brows raised. ] Things're about to get noisy, [ the drill buzzes for half a second in emphasis ] so if you gotta step away...
[ Regardless of Carmen's choice, Richie's quick with it. Holes are made in the wall following the surprisingly thorough diagram he'd made, and he moves on to the brackets. ]
Hand me one of the shelves, will you?
no subject
(If you don’t want people dealing with your stupid mess, don’t get distracted. Got it.)
Carmen shakes his head as Richie plays the catch off as a victory, covering a little relief (and some amusement) with the flick of his lighter at the cigarette. ]
Smooth.
[ The noise from the drill isn’t a problem, in the way the loud and monotonous usually isn’t. He's already rounded the kitchen corner and begun digging in the bag of hardware supplies at Richie's feet when he asks for one of the shelves, and Carmen pauses to grab one from where it's propped against the wall. ]
Yeah, here. [ This was always more Richie -- and Mikey --, this kind of working with hands. As much as he'd tried to keep up -- be useful in ways that seemed to matter to people, or maybe were just expected -- and as much as he'd picked up from the two of them, it had never come naturally to him.
He lifts the shelf to where Richie's placing the brackets, lining it up with what's already in place. ] Good?
no subject
Hold it there. [ He likes to imagine this reasonable, considering the shelf's being put up for the convenience of Carmy's height specifically.
A thought comes to him, though, as he's drilling the thing in, settling with a whisper in the back of his mind. As the shelf is secured one screw after the other, simple and methodical until Carmy's hands are no longer needed, that whisper grows into a proper shout.
Richie's got a couple other shelves to go, but for a moment he furrows his brows at the one they'd just secured.
Then he faces Carmy to his side, eyes on wisping cigarette smoke and his decidedly unfairly striking profile. ] ...your landlord gave you permission to drill this shit in, right?
[ He likes to think this, too, is a reasonable question, even if permission is the farthest thing from his mind.
Truthfully, drilling holes into Carmen's walls had Richie wondering if this meant he was going to stay here for good. But there's no real way to ask that without bringing to mind all kinds of metaphors related to playing with fire. ]
no subject
Carmen watches Richie make quick work of the screws. Whatever presses in the back of his mind, the weight of the familiarity of Richie here and beside him, hands, warm or cold, that fucking necklace he’s always wearing, whatever else, whatever— it’s not helpful and not relevant. This, here, works. He just needs to keep it together.
And then he’s staring back at Richie, the question so ridiculously reasonable, in fact, that for long moments it doesn’t even seem to make sense.
Did the landlord give permission.
Carmen drops his hands from the shelf that is now firmly embedded in the wall. ]
—God fucking damn it. [ He hadn't even asked. ]