Work Text:
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Romanticism has never been one of the flourishing facets of Carmen Berzatto's life.
His fundamentality resembles a warm slice of oozing cherry pie. The golden crust, buttered and flaky, epitomizes what keeps him grounded: his kitchen family. Admittedly, they are all guilty of spreading too thin at times, including Carmen. But a snappish reminder for everyone to chill always seems to temporarily patch the breakage. No matter the chaotic and clashing blend of personalities running around, there is an unspoken level of respect, and if one were to peel back the layers of crispy pastry flakes, a sense of deep love present between the chefs would reveal itself.
And, of course, a crust is not thought to be perfect without adding a teaspoon of Sugar.
The thick filling, syrupy and tart, represents the heart of what Carmen does: cooking. It's his identity. From a young boy making hodgepodge recipes with his brother Mikey, to working his way up the ranks until he was honored with a prestigious James Beard award for his excellence in the culinary arts at one of the best restaurants in the world. He'd beg to differ that last part based on his degrading and mentally taxing experience being chef de cuisine there, but he tries not to dwell on the past. Everything has led him to where he is now, managing his dead brother's sandwich shop, The Original Beef of Chicagoland, and ardently attempting to keep it afloat even when the crew is drowning. Hell, every part of the place is being sucked into the depths of despair.
The intricate topping, latticed and bursting, symbolizes the woven pathways of Carmen's grief. Anger, anxiety, fear, and guilt all cross over one another like a mesh pattern of his torment, the sour cherries of his gashed heart desperately rupturing through the barrier. Mikey's suicide set up roadblocks that Carmen had never encountered before. The pain of his grief manifests itself in physical pain. Surreal nightmares jolt him from his sleep. Most noticeable is his repressed rage. It cuts loose at work, often unannounced and uncontrollable. Yelling, swears aplenty. Throwing objects, from pens to pots. He doesn't mean to outpour his anger onto other people, but it's busting at the seams.
So, Carmen may come through like a cold, frantic chef whose ducks are certainly not in a row. In fact, they probably all died at the bottom of a polluted lake, pale and poorly nourished. But, somehow, he met someone who has thankfully never witnessed his eruptions in the kitchen and has otherwise accepted his detached and diffident behavior outside of work.
There was a case a couple of months ago where a beautiful girl was standing at the Beef counter, looking at the top menu with a curious look. You looked like a classic city girl, plucked straight out of the posh suburbs and dropped into the grubby interior of a failing sandwich shop on the brink of bankruptcy. Sticking out like a sore thumb with your comically large tote bag and a shearling leather jacket, it was near impossible not to regard you with concealed fascination.
Carmen just so happened to be running Front of House that day, and when he glanced up from the dingy cash register while counting singles, he had to do a double take. Angelic was the first word that popped into his pounding head. It was as if the world around him fizzled away and solely focused on you, a radiant guardian angel sent from above. He froze and went speechless until he managed to stutter out the casual question he asked every customer: What can I getcha?
Long story short, he had a quick conversation before he was pulled away to diffuse a fiery argument in the kitchen between Tina and Ebraheim. He learned that you lived in the suburbs of Glencoe, which he might have guessed based on your conduct. Entirely unruffled by the bustling interior of The Beef, which consisted of orders being loudly relayed to the chefs in the back, the ticket printer whirring constantly, and the chatter of patrons waiting for their deli sandwich. None of this seemed to scare you, which piqued his interest as he mentally recalled and stored your order with the dozen others floating in his scattered brain.
Fast forward to today, a tiring Friday, and Carmen is finally providing you with a proper date tonight, just you and him without distractions or work obligations. Through brief hangouts during his break and late-night phone calls on the brink of sleep, he decided he really liked you and wanted to dip his feet into the dating pool. He's never had any girlfriends before, a personal choice since he prefers isolation and not giving vulnerable pieces of himself to a stranger, but because of the ease and warmth you so easily bring him, he's willing to give it a whirl. A cautious one. And with that being said, the best course of action for this date is to put his skills to the test and cook you an impressive dinner at your condominium.
Unfortunately, the world is working against him today.
It's already going on nine p.m., and Carmen is still at The Beef. He's sitting in his dark, cramped office, the pathetic lamp shining a dim light on papers strewn about on the desk. He was supposed to be at your place at approximately seven, but he's been falling behind on inventory. The numbers in front of him blur and duplicate from his exhaustion as he hunches over the desk, his hand restlessly swiping through his disheveled hair.
Carmen takes his cell phone out of his pocket, typing his extremely protective passcode of 1-1-1-1-1-1, and then opens his contacts. He calls your number, a migraine slowly pulsing in his temples, ready to break the bad news that he got caught up at work and ruined the chance of a nice night. The line rings monotonously, and he bites his nails as he waits for your soft, sweet voice to greet him. He's afraid of the disappointment he's going to hear.
"Hello?"
Anxiously rubbing his clavicle, Carmen clears his throat and says, "Hey. Look, I'm so sorry. I know you've been waiting for me."
"Still at work?" you wonder, sweet and understanding.
"Yeah," he replies dejectedly. "Shit's been hitting the fan recently."
"I figured you'd be staying late. It's totally fine. We can take a rain check."
Carmen leans back in his office chair, the rusty springs squeaking in protest as he scratches behind his ear. "Fuck, I feel like an asshole."
Work consumes him like the blackest smoke, and it's easy to forget how to be a functioning human outside of the kitchen. He doesn't even realize all the things he repels until it's too late. Suffocation has become almost addictive.
Your voice is hesitant when you ask, "Do you still wanna come over? Just to chill?"
He contemplates by closing his eyes and picturing the two forks of the road. Going home to his solitary apartment and wallowing in his numbness, or cooking dinner for a girl who makes him feel alive. "I'd have to catch the 'L' Train," he eventually decides. "Don't know if there's a route to Glencoe running this late."
"You don't have a car?"
Carmen scrunches his face in embarrassment. "I, uh, walk to work. I live close by, and it saves me some money."
You hum. "Oh, cool. I love that. Well, hey, I could maybe come and pick you up. Unless you just want to go home. The ball's in your court."
"I... you know what? I'd dig that. Yeah, as long as you don't mind.
"No problem. I'll be there in thirty minutes, okay?"
Carmen nods, internally convincing himself that he made the right choice. That he's not going to screw this up. "Okay," he says quietly, spinning in a semicircle with his chair. "Can't wait to see you. I'm sorry I've been so occupied.
"Don't sweat it, Carm," you reply breezily. "I admire what you're doing with the place. I can't imagine the pressure you face every day. I mean, really, you and your crew deserve a lot of credit."
Carmen runs a hand down his face, a strange rush of warmth spreading through his chest at your words. When's the last time someone said that they admired him? So convincingly and generously? And when she calls him Carm, his heart beats faster. What are you doing to him?
The only thing he can say is, "Drive safely, okay?"
You laugh a bit. "Always do. Want me to get some food on the way? You must be starving.
"Nah, I'll make us something. I promised."
"You're very sweet. All right, see ya, Carm.
He whispers a gentle goodbye before hanging up and softly smiling at the ceiling.
——
As you shove open the glass door of The Beef, you're greeted by the empty aftermath of a busy restaurant. Downtown Chicago streetlights and outdoor neon signs cast just enough light to be able to notice your environment. Inside, it's eerily still and quiet, a completely different atmosphere as opposed to when it's lively throughout the day. Everything has been cleaned, perfectly polished stainless-steel sparkling at you. It smells of disinfectant. You don't know how a place like this could ever feel like home. There is also a bullet hole in one of the front windows, but you choose to actively disregard it. If you don't look at it or think about it, it simply doesn't exist.
"Carmen?" you call, hesitantly making your way to the kitchen.
Your echoing footsteps lead you to his office, and when you pop your head through the doorway, you find him sitting and twirling a ballpoint pen between his fingers. He still has his blue apron tied around his trusty white T-shirt. You'd be lying if you said your eyes don't immediately gravitate towards how his biceps fill the material alarmingly well. And his tattoos, scattered sporadically on his arms and hands, beg for a glimpse. His sandy brown hair rises in all directions, flat and curly all the same, as if he's been combing through the strands nonstop. His posture is that of an old man, and it's clear that he is completely and utterly spent. You feel sympathy for the turmoil his mind and body go through.
And then there are his eyes. When they find yours, you're mesmerized. They are an iridescent shade similar to the pale blue of a misty morning sky, and they seem to always appear fatigued. Dead also comes to mind, but that's a little harsh. They are, say, a haunting beauty. And they sadden you. But also intimidate you, with the manner in which they bore into the windows of your soul.
"Let's get out of here," you say, smiling and nodding towards the exit.
Carmen stands, stretching, then swipes his wool jacket from the back of his chair. He loosens his apron and stuffs it in a plastic box with a handful more, then shrugs his shoulders in his jacket. You notice he almost drowns in it, making him look boyish. Fragile. Someone you want to protect.
He shuffles next to you, placing a protective hand on the small of your back and guiding you through the twists and turns of the restaurant. You've realized he's not a super touchy type of person. He takes his time warming up to people he's not familiar with, and you sincerely hope that one day he'll get to a place where he feels comfortable enough to let loose around you — flaws and all.
You both jump into your car, immediately cranking the heat because of the autumn chill that currently covers Chicago. You pull out of the vacant parking lot and drive towards Glencoe, the downtown streets lit by stop-and-go lights and neon signs. From the corner of your eye, you find Carmen resting his head on the defrosting passenger window, his eyes fluttering shut with every second, and building, that passes by. You let him sleep peacefully, braking with the slightest pressure and making the safest turns.
When you finally arrive at your condo, a brick structure surrounded by towering elm trees, it's nearing ten p.m., and fatigue is also washing over you in tiny waves. You kill the engine, distant sounds of squawking crows and rustling leaves filling the atmosphere. Glancing at Carmen, you find that he's slowly waking up, the look on his face telling you he feels guilty for crashing so fast. And in your car, on a date, no less.
You had a nagging feeling this would happen, but you're honestly not disheartened by it in the slightest. If anything, he deserves some rest after everything he has to deal with. Apparently earlier today, Richie was stabbed in the ass by Sydney, as Carmen so bluntly passed on in his text message to you.
Pray tell, you had responded.
He probably deserved it, was his explanation. That's all you need to know.
You unlock your dead-bolted door and step inside your temporary home, flicking the lights on as you drop your tote bag to the floor. Thunk. Carmen has only been over two times before, and yet he makes a beeline straight to your one-wall kitchen.
"What're you in the mood to eat?" he asks, already pushing the sleeves of his jacket up to his elbows.
"You really don't have to. I know you're tired."
"No, no. Lemme whip somethin' up for you. I insist."
You cross your arms and toss ideas in your head. "Well, I've been craving grilled cheese, actually. Think you can handle that, chef?"
A small smirk plays upon his lips. "Bread, butter, and cheese; what could go wrong?"
As Carmen searches your pantry and refrigerator for the ingredients, you sit on the kitchen counter and swing your feet while watching him effortlessly prepare your comfort meal. He's so meticulous with the way he smears butter on two slices of honey wheat bread. Fastidiously flicking on the stove's gas like he's cooking for a food critic. You grab a pan for him from the cupboard directly underneath you and set it over the flickering blue flame. His side nudges your knee, teasingly scooting you out of his way so he can work his culinary magic.
While the bread toasts, he asks, "Where do you keep your cheese?"
"In the crisper drawer."
He nods and opens it, then tuts in disapproval. "Really? Kraft singles? You need the real shit, baby. Real, authentic American cheese. None of this processed garbage."
You hop off the counter and tug on the gold chain loose around his neck, pulling him closer. Your boldness might have something to do with the fact that he just casually called you baby. "My apologies, chef," you whisper.
His lips part, a thick silence hanging in the air. Your fingers hook around his belt loop, patiently waiting for him to initiate something. You watch his throat bob with a swallow. His eyes don't waver from your face. They hold so much hidden emotion, and you'd do anything to open the capsule to all of them.
"I'm not good at this kind of thing," Carmen murmurs, a tinge of regret swimming in his tone.
"What do you mean?"
He sighs. "I don't know... intimacy, I guess. Kissing on a first date. Dating in general."
Your heart soaks up his insecurities. "You just have to let your body feel it," you say, your other hand sliding up his chest and into the hair that curls around his ears. "Let it come to you naturally. What is your body telling you right now?"
"It's telling me that if I kiss you right now, there's no going back." Carmen's gaze flashes to your mouth. "That I'll look back on this moment and remember that despite all the other parts of my life that I messed up, at least I did one thing right."
"Then I think you should listen."
Carmen inhales sharply and ducks his head, his lips clashing with yours, deep and hungry. His hands grip your waist, drawing you against his firm body. His nose slides next to yours as his mouth coaxes pleased noises from your throat. His own moans mingle with yours as the perfect concoction. It's messy, it's uncoordinated, but it's human. Teaching him the ropes of how to let his good emotions rise up against the bad ones and bubble towards the surface.
The strong smell of burnt toast wafts your way, causing you to reluctantly pull apart from Carmen's needy mouth and blindly click on the stove's overhead fan so the smoke detectors don't wake the entire neighborhood.
"Didn't mean to be a distraction," you say, backing away slowly and then spinning on your heel.
Carmen, flushed with swollen lips, says, "No worries."
Little by little, he's blooming like the petals of a cherry-red rose, unfurling just for you. And he's a beautiful garden that's worth helping flourish.
——