Of course this would happen. Of course he’d be breaking down at this moment.

Carmen Berzatto was getting married, he never thought he would— Who would want him? He was the most fucked up person he knew, and that was saying a lot.

But apparently you did, so much so that you were more than happy with a life with him, a future. So much so that you were in a wedding dress, waiting to walk down the altar while he was freaking the fuck out.

This was the most important thing to him ever. You were the most important thing, and today was so, so significant.

It started small. He could feel his breathing get harder the longer he stared at himself in the mirror. He “cleaned up well” as Richie repeatedly said, and he believed it. He looked nice and put together in his suit, the boutonnière that had a hint of blue (that you insisted he had because you had said, “i can’t survive without it complimenting your eyes”) sat nicely. He looked like a groom.

He felt like a groom.

But who is Carmen Berzatto if not self-sabotaging?

Without realizing when or how, he had started hyperventilating, pacing around the room, and frantically picking at his nails. Richie had tried everything short of beating the shit out of him (“I’ll do it, cousin, but I know you wouldn’t get any fucking better.”).

So, despite Carmen protesting a million times, Richie did the only thing that he hadn’t tried yet.

He brought you in.

Carmen was sitting on the couch, bouncing his leg violently when you knocked on the door and came in, wedding dress and all— And he broke.

“No, no,” he covered his eyes, hands still shaking, “Can’t see you—”

He kept protesting, despite knowing that time and time again, when everything else failed, you always calmed him down. And just as he knew you would, you walked up to him. He could hear your footsteps as your heels clicked against the floor.

He took a breath and started again, “Baby, seriously, it’s bad luck to see the bride in her wedding dress—”