Work Text:
The rough side of the sponge scrapes the plate with such fervor, one would think its holder is aiming to dig a hole through it.
The clinking of dishes and utensils mixes with the running water and quiet music emanating from the radio in the office nearby. Even with all that noise, the sizzle of each inhale of the cigarette hanging between his lips is audible, to his own ears though. Just like his continuously increasing heartbeat. And the harsh gritting of his teeth.
It's a miracle the plate is still in one piece.
"Go sleep, cuz. You've been washing the same plate for the past ten minutes." Richie's voice somehow manages to annoy him more than all those repetitive sounds combined.
Carmy doesn't bother with a reply more than a semi-attentive hum as he finally rinses the soap off the poor dish before moving onto the next, making a mental note to torture this one less.
He can't go home. Even if he does, the chances of sleep being achieved tonight are far too slim for him to risk taking them. He'd much rather work. And work, and work. It's all he knew before her.
It's all he'll continue to do now that she's out of his life - something he keeps convincing himself was for the best.
Placing that one too into the drying rack, he reaches for the next when he catches Richie approaching out of the corner of his eye. Before he can complete the action, his vision whites with the plate Richie holds up in front of his face, allowing him to take note of the very obvious stain he somehow misses while washing it moments ago.
He goes to take it from his cousin's hand but he retracts before Carmy could grab it. The exhausted chef turns to give him a piece of his mind but he's not given the chance to when his eyes meet Richie's. His gaze is laced with worry and something dangerously close to pity which fills Carmy's mouth with a taste of bitterness that prevents any words from coming out.
"Go home, Carmen." It's a soft demand, one spoken with a tone so out-of-character for Richie, it serves as the stamp Carmy needed to confirm he's hit rock bottom. And that is an abyss one can't simply talk their way out of.
So, instead of wasting air and breath on the matter, he responds with a weak nod as his hands reach back to undo the knot of his apron. Refusing to give his cousin any more time for him to potentially rub some more of his mistakes in his face, Carmy turns on his heel and heads for the office where he exchanges the now discarded apron with the jacket he came in wearing this morning.
He adjusts his collar, murmuring a quick goodbye to Richie on his way out. It feels wrong not being the last to leave the restaurant's doors but he's not willing to risk breaking all the fragile objects in the vicinity if he sticks around.
The walk to his place is short and yet it still manages to give him a proper bone-rattling chill, and not just because of the cool wind coursing through Chicago lately. With his hands shoved into the jacket pockets, he can't help but take note of the lack of a weight on his right arm. The arm she'd always link hers with on their walks home. Hell, he almost misses the turn into his street because her place is another three blocks further ahead. The area is awfully quiet with no goodbyes to be spoken, his arms feel empty without the routinely hug he'd give her every night.
It all feels so bleak and dark, much like he felt the first day back home. It all felt so familiar, but too many pieces were missing for the picture to be complete.
Carmy unlocks his front door, sauntering his way inside and he could swear he damn near hears her giggles echo from the hallway walls, accusing him of tickling her as his lips made their way from hers down her neck. He can hear the clicking of her heels on the floor, her steps leading to his room. He's almost able to convince himself he'll see her laying on the side of the bed they decided as hers when he gets out of the bathroom.
But the reality remains - he finds an empty bed.
The sheets are cold and don't offer any comfort or even attempt to promise sleep in the near future. His chest heaves up and down, missing that familiar weight of her head resting on it. Her cold feet don't tangle with his, her perfume doesn't fill his nose. He can't sync his breathing to hers and simply drift off like they'd do on the numerous nights she'd opt to stay instead of go home.
The ceiling stares back at him in the deaf silence threatening to drive him crazy. He gives himself a summary of the changes he's faced this past week.
"My head's clearer." - She's never plagued his mind more
"I can focus on myself." - His thoughts have never been focused on her more
"I have one less paycheck to give." - He gives the equivalent of money on bottles to drown out missing her
"I got more room in my own bed." - It's never felt colder
"I don't care anymore" - His heart has never ached for her more
He'll rue the day he ordered for her to leave the restaurant. The job position. And his life.
She never left his head though, nor his heart. As the hovering of his thumb over the call button confirms.
Is getting her back still in the cards? He'll never know. His pride won't let him find out because he shuts his phone off, tossing it on the floor before turning over, symbolically turning his back to her while still wishing her arms would snake their way over his chest and waist like they did when he was seeking comfort in her embrace.
Now the ghost of her touch fills him with nothing but dread, a consequence of his own doing.