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. ]
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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. ]