"Babe, I dunno..." Carmy sighs as he lets you pull him down to the mattress beside you, rigid shoulders tense while he takes in the familiarity of your bedroom with weary eyes.

He's tired. Graduation has come and gone, summer's dragging way more than he'd anticipated, and every day that passes leaves Carmy feeling more and more like he's wasting time. He's never been good at school— not like you who probably knew every little thing about the world if he asked you— and with Mikey refusing to let him work at The Beef, Carmy's turbulent world has spun on its head.

But you've been doing everything in your power to comfort him; going out for ice cream, taking trips to the local museums and art galleries, and little movie dates here in your room while your parents are out (they still haven't come around about him after four years— what is he doing wrong?) The latter's what the two of you are doing now, Carmy's chin resting atop your shoulder as you pull up a movie on your laptop.

Calloused fingers run over your open palm, Carmy staring down at the lines and creases before squeezing your hand gently in his. "Jus' feels like I've got no direction, no purpose," he laments quietly, and Carmy can't help his shirking away when you look at him like that.

Like he's fucked-up n' broken, or a kicked puppy that you can't help but pity. He doesn't need it; he could handle Sugar's motherly concern or Mikey's standoffish support, but not your well-placed sympathy.

Sighing, Carmy reaches into his jacket and slips a piece of paper into your palm, watching you tentatively when you look at it. It's a sketch of you; one similar to the many others tucked beneath your mattress. Your Carmy, ever the artist even if he insists otherwise.

"... Thanks for stickin' with me," he murmurs. With all of the chaos in his life, you're a much-needed, highly-valued constant. Carmy moves to speak again, but your lips meet his own gently.

Despite everything suggesting the opposite, he's not alone. Not with you.