Archive of Our Own

It’s Luca who has the poor fortune of stepping into the walk-in fridge for a box of blackberries, only to end up finding Carmy in there, instead.

“Uhhh—guys?” Sydney hears his voice ring into the kitchen, tinny and a little shaky. “Carm’s on the floor?”

Sydney blinks, pauses. Her knife hovers in the air.

For a moment, she thinks she must’ve misheard, because it’s such a strange sentence to hear, coming out of Luca’s mouth, out of the fridge. And—it doesn’t make sense, even, because Carm was gonna take a smoke break, right? He was outside, right? Why the hell would he be in the fridge, on the floor?

But then Luca calls out again. “Syd? Anyone? I think he passed out. He—he doesn’t look good. Hello?”

Sydney jolts. She puts her knife down with a clatter and rushes over to the fridge.

The door is heavy and cold under her palms, moving in its hinges with an unhurried slowness, like it’s hesitant to give up its newly claimed victim. Inside, Luca’s kneeled on the floor, back turned, legs folded neatly. He looks a little green when he turns his head to her.

“What—” Sydney starts, and then her eyes land on Carmy. He’s slumped face-down against the bottom shelf of the fridge rack, head tilted to the left, eyes shut, looking for all the world like he’s just taking a spontaneous nap in the weirdest place ever. Knowing him, it wouldn’t even be that surprising if he really was just sleeping.

But Sydney has a feeling that this might just be serious. She watches as Luca gives Carmy’s shoulder a careful shake, but Carmy doesn’t move, just lies there—draped across the floor, chef whites flashing a cold, pale blue, wrinkled and limp like a dish towel that’s been knocked off the drying rack.

Sydney’s stomach clenches nervously.

“Oookay,” she breathes, and starts to shuffle forward, shoes scuffing the ground. It’s the slightest bit too dark in the fridge for her to see clearly, so she bends over Carmy to get a better look at him. A purple-tinted puddle of blood glints up at her from under his head.

Sydney snaps upright again, feels herself sway a little. “Okay,” she says again, “Okay. Fuck.”

Luca throws her a panicked look. “What do we do?” he says. Sydney has no idea. She takes a shaky step back.

“I—uhhhh, propose we get someone else in here,” she blurts out, and then rushes to open the fridge door again and yells out as loud as she can: “Hey! Help, guys, Carmy’s just, like—keeled over in the fridge!”

On the left—a loud clatter from the dining area, muffled cursing, an angry screech of furniture. On the right—the sound of a door bursting open, hurried footsteps approaching.

Richie comes stalking towards her first, rubbing at the crown of his head. “Fuckin’ hit my head—let me through,” he says, and pushes past Sydney to enter the fridge. Natalie comes rushing over a split second later, mouth tight and eyes big, and she hurries inside as well.

They all gather around Carmy. The door closes behind them with a heavy click, and it feels like they’ve all stepped into another world, for a moment, one where everything is still and quiet, only the muted hum of the cooling system buzzing in their ears. Richie sucks in a sharp breath. On the ground, Carmy still looks positively unconscious.

“Oh my God, Jesus fuck,” Natalie breathes out, hushed like she’s scared to wake him.

She moves to approach Carmy, but Richie’s a step ahead. He lets out a string of curses, shoulders Luca to the side, and bends over Carmy, shaking softly at his shoulders, tapping at his left cheek, murmuring what sounds like “Hey, cousin, fuckin’ jagoff, wake up,” under his breath.

It’s strange, Sydney thinks absently, to see him moving around Carmy so carefully, feather-light fingers ghosting over skin, slow and soft and tender, almost, when usually, Richie’s anything but those things—all knuckled fists and barging shoulders, pushing and shoving at Carmy any chance he gets.

Luca, still looking a bit peaky, gets to his feet and slinks back to stand next to Sydney. His eyes are wide and she thinks she can make out a tremor in his legs. She moves a little closer to nudge his arm with her shoulder, offer up a little comfort, and he shoots her a panicked grimace.

“You think we should call an ambulance?” he whispers in her ear.

“God, no, dude,” Sydney mutters back. “He’ll pass out again as soon as they show him the bill. I’m, like, 99% sure Carm doesn’t have health insurance.”

Luca squeezes his eyes shut, takes a tight breath. “Right,” he says, “forgot you Americans live without basic human rights. Sorry chef, big oversight on my part.”

In front of them, Richie snakes his hands under Carmy’s shoulders and slowly starts to flip him on his back. It’s like he’s moving a dead body, or at least what Sydney imagines it to be like: floppy limbs, uncannily pliable and wholly uncooperative; a dense mass of muscle and bone, heavy and graceless like a bag of sand; a head lolling aimlessly on a lax neck, a pendulum on a string.

“Should you be doing that?” Natalie cuts through the quiet, voice shaky and thin. “What if he has a neck injury, Richie? Or—or, a spine injury? I don’t think we should be moving him—that can paralyse him, right?”

Richie ignores her and starts tapping at Carmy’s face. There’s a gash above his right eyebrow that’s pumping up a sluggish trickle of blood, smeared down his cheek and into his hair. Richie holds out a hand behind him, grunts: “Tissue,” and Sydney wordlessly presses one of the towels hanging at her waist into his palm. She watches with detached shock as Richie wipes some of the blood from Carmy’s face and then presses the towel against the wound firmly.

Carmy twitches at that, eyes fluttering open and eyebrows drawing together into a frown. “Wha—?” he warbles, and his eyes roll around in his head like marbles, float over their faces, glassy and confused. “‘M in the fridge?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, a raw, hard edge to his voice, “Yeah, you are, dipshit.”

Carmy’s frown deepens. “Why?” he breathes, eyes landing on Sydney, and he looks so dazed, so genuinely lost that she feels a swell of anxiety rise up in her chest and crawl up her throat, sticky and rubbery and the slightest bit suffocating.

“Fuck if I know,” Richie sighs, rubbing at his head. He glances at the rest of them over his shoulder. “Syd, you found him? Or—was it you?” he turns to Luca.

“Yeah, yeah, I—uh, I found him,” Luca stutters. “But—I don’t know what happened. He can’t have been in here long, I was just in here, like, ten minutes ago to get some cherry compote for this tart me and Marcus are working on, it’s got this really cool puff pastry base that’s—”

Richie waves a hand at him. “—Yeah, yeah, whatever, man, thanks, but I don’t care about your tarts” he says, doing a poor impression of Luca’s accent on the last word. “Just trying to get an idea of how this idiot here ended up face-down in the fridge.”

Luca nods joltily, mutters “Right, right, right,” under his breath. Sydney feels a little bad for him. She reaches out and grabs at his hand. His fingers twitch against hers, close tightly like a vice, warm and sweaty. It stings, and it’s nice. It grounds her.

“So—we need to get him to a hospital, no?” she says. It wasn’t meant to be a question—really shouldn’t have been a question, actually, because Carmy could be getting all different kinds of brain damage right now, triple or quadruple fuckin’ haemorrhage, and they’re just standing around here, talking, doing nothing.

“Well, yeah, we should,” Natalie says, clipped, like it’s a really dumb question to be asking. Sydney knows, so she tries not to take it personally. “But how do we move him?” Natalie continues, “Like, isn’t it really really dangerous to move somebody who’s just had a fall—like, we could misalign his spine? Make him paralysed for life?”

No one replies. Sydney feels insanely out of her depth. Luca twitches next to her like he wants to say something, but he seems to change his mind and just swallows thickly. At their feet, Richie shivers, rubs at his arms, and mutters under his breath: “Why’s it always gotta be the fuckin’ fridge?”

“No?” Natalie says, loud and shrill, voice tight like a bowstring. “Am I wrong?” Her eyes drag over them before boring into Richie’s intently.

“Well—I don’t fuckin’ know Sug,” Richie bites out, “I’m not a doctor, and neither are you, or Syd, or this fucko.” He points at Luca, who reels back a little and blinks owlishly.

“And that fucko,” Richie continues, gesturing at Carmy, “is not exactly what I would call helpful either! He’s just sitting there with—with that fuckin’ face on his face instead of tellin’ us what’s wrong with him!”

They all look at Carmy, who blinks up at them emptily for a second, and only then seems to realise that he’s the fucko being talked about. He breathes out a “Huh?” with a furrow of his brows, and Richie sighs exasperatedly.

Sydney feels a headache starting to build between her eyes. She pinches at the spot. This whole situation feels like a scene straight out of a sitcom. Or a dramedy, depending on how the rest of the episode unfolds.

“Dude,” she says to Richie, “did you seriously just quote Hereditary right now?”

Richie scoffs, levels her with what’s probably meant to be a confused squint. It’s entirely unconvincing.

“What’s that?” he says. “Never heard of it. Anyway—if there’s anything hereditary here, it’s the Berzatto talent to be absolute fuckin’ dumbasses. No offence, Sug,” he turns to Natalie.

She smiles icily. “None taken. Now, who’s driving Carm to the hospital? I’d volunteer, but I have Sophie with me and I’d prefer not to leave her alone here with the Faks roaming around,” she says with a shudder.

Sydney sighs. “I don’t have a car,” she mutters.

“Me neither,” says Luca.

A second ticks by, unbelievably slow, and then Richie rolls his eyes.

“Fine. I’ll take him—but he better not bleed or throw up on my seats, I just got my whole car cleaned.” He crosses his arms tightly, looks Carmy up and down with a tense set to his jaw. “And I’m gonna need someone to help carry him—unless he can walk.”

“Okay,” Natalie says, “Bear, can you walk? Can you—move your feet, your hands?”

Carmy gives her a confused look. “Well, yeah,” he says, and then starts to sit up, swaying into the rack dangerously. Sydney hears a container shift somewhere on the top shelf. She tries not to think of what food might come crashing down over their heads at any moment.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Richie says, gripping Carmy’s shoulders and pushing him down again. “Easy, dude, don’t want you smackin’ your head into the floor twice today.”

Natalie shoots him a glare so murderous that Sydney takes a step back, just to be sure. Luca shuffles a little closer to her side.

“Alright,” Richie grunts from the floor, slinging one of Carmy’s arms over his shoulder. “Who’s gonna give me a hand? Chef whatever-your-name-was?”

Luca almost jumps at the opportunity, clearly eager to feel useful, and together with Richie he starts to lug Carmy to the car. Sydney trails along, opening doors for them and keeping a careful eye on Carmy.

He walks like he’s forgotten how to, legs swinging all over the place, knees buckling and toes scraping the ground. Richie’s face twists into a worried frown when Carmy falls into his side for the third time in as many steps.

Sydney feels her own forehead wrinkle as well. Her throat is tight and her hands are shaky and cold. She tells herself it’s from standing around in the fridge, and moves to open the last door to the car park.

—

When Carmy’s finally slumped in the back seat of Richie’s car, squinting up at the ceiling with a pale, clammy face and a swelling right eye, Sydney finds herself lingering at his side.

She knows he’ll be fine. Richie will take good care of him, even if he’ll talk shit while doing so. But—still, deep down, there’s a pulling tightness in her chest at the thought of letting them go off to the hospital by themselves and just heading back to work like nothing happened.

It’s not even something she can rationalise. That’s the worst part about it—she doesn’t get why she’s feeling like this. All she knows is that she can’t stand the idea of it happening again—being at The Bear, getting a phone call, walking out back, the ground twisting in front of her eyes, the walls going blurry and fuzzy and both close and far at the same time, her stomach clenching in on itself, her head screaming no no no no—

It’s stupid. It makes no sense. But still, she stays rooted to the asphalt, watching as Luca and Natalie head back inside, telling herself to just follow them, go! while knowing full well she can’t do it. It’s absolutely ridiculous.

Richie, however, doesn’t seem to notice her turmoil in the slightest. He just sniffs and gives her a sideways glance when he notices her still standing at the car.

“What?” he says. “You wanna come with?”

“Uh—yeah,” Sydney stammers, “I mean—can I?”

Richie blinks at her flatly. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” he huffs. “Get in the back and make sure he doesn’t spew all over the upholstery, will you?”

And with that, he ducks into the driver’s seat and slams the door.

Beside her, Carmy jumps a little and grasps at his forehead at the loud sound. Sydney closes his door carefully and then slips in on his other side.

—

Richie’s car is not clean in the slightest. A Chick-fil-A cup stands abandoned in the cup holder, a lumpy, brown liquid swirling around inside, and there’s a whole pile of empty wrappers and containers tossed behind the driver’s seat. Plastic and paper bags crunch under her feet. Sydney carefully pushes a mouldy-looking burger wrapper under the driver’s seat with the toe of her shoe.

Richie throws her a sharp look in the rear view mirror. “That shit’s Fak’s, alright, not mine. Had to give the jagoff a ride yesterday and he just—dumped all this shit in here.”

Sydney thinks back to the first time she sat in Richie’s car. How much has changed since then, and how much has—clearly—stayed the same. There’s a dark, black-red stain on Richie’s suit sleeve. The car smells like cigarettes with a vague hint of grease. “Yeah, sure, man,” she mumbles, “I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

Richie nods, curtly, then starts the engine and pulls out of the car park. He’s driving like an absolute asshole—going way too fast, cutting people off left and right, honking at anyone that doesn’t get out of his way fast enough. He probably still doesn’t have a valid license, and that should worry her, used to worry her, some long time ago, but Sydney doesn’t have it in her to care, right now.

Because she sees the way Richie’s eyes flicker to Carmy in the rear view mirror, the way his fingers twitch nervously on the wheel, the way his left hand keeps floating up to rub at his neck or scratch at his nose, all restless energy and silent worry. And she gets it—so she doesn’t say anything.

Carmy’s been unnervingly still since they got into the car. His head rolls around on the seat with every turn, and his face has gone pale and drawn with a waxy sheen to it. The gash on his forehead hasn’t started bleeding again, luckily, but its edges look angry and raw, pink, puckered skin running down his forehead and disappearing into his eyebrow. His right eye’s gone puffy and swollen, a faint blue-purpleish hue spreading across the eyelid. He doesn’t look good.

“Carm, you alright?” Sydney murmurs to him.

He tilts his head forward to stare at his hands. “Yeah, sure,” he says, voice coming out a little wobbly. “Just—killer headache.”

Richie speaks up from the front, eyes flashing. “You’re not sick, are you? Like, you’re not gonna throw up in my car, right?”

“Nah,” Carmy says vacantly, gaze still fixed on his lap. “Just—tired. I dunno.”

“Well, don’t fuckin’ fall asleep,” Richie orders. “That’s, like, top three things not to do when you get a concussion—which, I’m pretty sure you have one.”

“Oh yeah?” Carmy breathes. “Alright.”

He’s unnaturally compliant, and Sydney shoots Richie a quick, worried look through the rear view mirror. Richie frowns back.

“I’m not kidding, dude,” he says. “You’ve already got a fucked up brain, don’t wanna add to the damage.”

“Myeah, sure,” Carmy mumbles. He tips his head back, lets out a breath, and then his eyes droop shut.

Sydney pokes him in the side. “Carm, don’t do that,” she hisses, and his head finally rolls so he’s facing her. He blinks at her slowly, and Sydney’s heart drops.

“Dude—Richie,” she stammers, “His pupils are like, two different sizes, what the fuck, oh my—“

Richie’s head swivels to them, and the car swerves dangerously. “What?” he bites out, “Carm! Cousin! Hey! Look at me!”

A car honks at them, and Richie’s head snaps forward again. He honks back, lets out a string of curses. “Fuckin’ idiot! We’ve got a medical fuckin’ emergency here, gimme some fuckin’ room! Jagoff!”

Next to her, Carmy flinches at the noise, doubles over, grabs at his head, screws his eyes shut. Sydney sees it happen like a stop-motion movie, one frame clicking after the other.

“Richie,” she snaps, “stop shouting, dude,” and Richie’s eyes flit to Carmy in the rear view mirror, startled and wide. His mouth closes with a click.

“Fuck me,” Carmy groans out next to her, elbows on his knees, hands fisted in his hair. “Feels like my head’s gonna fuckin’… split in half.”

A guilty look flits across Richie’s face, and then it’s gone, and he sniffs, goes back to eyeing the traffic around them like the other cars are a bunch of wild animals he has to tame.

Sydney lets out a shaky breath. She doesn’t know what to do, or say. It’s probably better if she doesn’t say anything, she thinks, so she just shuffles a little closer to Carmy, knee pressing against his. He peers up at her between his fingers before closing his eyes again with a wince.

“You—uh, you’re not falling asleep, right, Carm?” Richie says from the front, eyeing him carefully and clearly working to keep his voice down.

“No,” Carmy sighs. “No, ‘m not fucking sleeping, cousin.”

He lowers his left hand and drags the other down his cheek, picking at the dried blood crusting the side of his head. His fingers come away pink, with a half-moon of brownish red under the nails. He peers down at them for a second and then slowly sits up a little straighter again.

“Alright, alright, just checking,” Richie says, a little sheepish. His hands clench around the steering wheel, knuckles white and taut, and he presses the gas pedal down a little further.

The car growls, jolts, and Carmy shifts, leaning into Sydney’s side slightly. He’s warm and solid against her. And awake, that too.

—

The rest of the car ride passes in a heavy silence. Carmy keeps sighing and grabbing at his head, and every time he does so, Richie’s eyes snap to him in the rear view mirror, sharp and filled with thinly-veiled worry.

When they finally make their way into the hospital, it doesn’t seem too busy, luckily, but Sydney’s nervous nonetheless. She watches Richie fill out an intake form for Carmy with a concentrated frown on his face, and her leg bounces absently, shoe clicking against the floor.

Richie looks up from the papers with a sigh. “Can you stop doing that?” he says. “Makin’ me fuckin’ nervous.”

His own foot’s tapping away on the floor as well, but Sydney doesn’t point it out, just nods and forces her leg to stay still.

Her eyes drift to Carmy. He’s slumped in the seat next to Richie, squinting against the lights and looking absolutely miserable. Her stomach clenches, feels like it’s twisting into a tight knot, pulling harder and harder with every second she looks at him. She tries to take a deep breath, looks down at her feet, instead. It doesn’t help.

After what feels like an eternity, Carmy’s name is called, and they make their way to a triage room, Carmy shuffling in between them with small, careful steps.

The doctor’s a tall man with dark hair and friendly eyes, and he smiles warmly as they walk in. “So,” he says, “I see we have a head injury here?”

“Yeah,” Carmy mumbles. “Fell over in the—uh, the fridge.”

The doctor nods. “You fell into the fridge?”

“No, no,” Sydney jumps in, suddenly feeling like she needs to get the whole story out there, now, or else everything’s gonna go wrong. “We, uh, we work at a restaurant. It’s a walk-in fridge, he must’ve—I don’t know, passed out in there and hit his head on one of the racks.”

Her lungs feel tight in her chest when she finishes speaking, and she takes a deep breath to loosen them up again. Richie looks at her with a faint frown between his eyes.

The doctor smiles at her, nods again. “Okay, I see,” he says. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Richie and Sydney watch quietly as he shines a light in Carmy’s eyes, tilts his head this way and that, makes him look to the left and the right and the left again, cleans the wound, and asks a whole bunch of stupid questions, like: “What’s today’s date?”, “When’s your birthday?”, “Who’s the current President of the United States?”, and “What’s 110 divided by 5?”

Carmy has to think over that last question a little longer than the others, and Richie rushes to reassure the doctor. “That’s normal, doc, he’s never been good with numbers, think he’s got—dyslexia or whatever.”

The doctor smiles down at his notepad. “Dyscalculia,” he says, and Richie nods eagerly.

“Yeah, yeah, that one.”

It feels like it takes an eternity, but after a good thirty minutes, Sydney’s back out in the waiting room with Richie. Carmy has a pretty severe concussion, the doctor said, and he wants to run some scans just to check for any additional damage. But the bottom line is: he should be fine.

It does nothing to ease Sydney’s nerves, somehow. The waiting room has filled up more in the time they were gone, and it’s all too loud, too many people, too little air. Her eyes flit around, and suddenly she catches sight of it: that bench tucked away in the corner, where she sat not too long ago, when she was waiting here, when her dad—

Richie elbows her in the side. “Hey,” he grunts, “I’m gonna go out and have a smoke. You wanna join? Maybe get something to drink, eat?” he nods at a nearby vending machine.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll just—uh,” Sydney stammers, “have a look. Get a drink. You go on ahead—I’ll see you outside.”

“Alright,” Richie mumbles, and he walks off, but not before shooting her a sharp, calculating look. “Hey—don’t go doing a Carmy now, alright? Get somethin’ with some sugar in it, it’ll do you good,” he tosses over his shoulder, and then steps outside.

Sydney blinks after him. This is all so fucked, she thinks, and then walks over to the vending machine.

—

It’s cold and windy outside, typical weather for this time of year, and Sydney feels a shiver run down her spine when she walks up to Richie, sat on a bench to the side of the hospital entrance.

The can she pulled from the vending machine is wet and icy cold, biting into her fingers where they touch the metal. It’s Red Bull—not a drink she’s particularly fond of, but she feels like she could use some energy. And it has sugar. She thinks. Should do the job.

She drops down next to Richie and cracks the can open.

“Should you be drinking that?” Richie peers at her Red Bull with a wrinkled nose. “You know that shit’s, like, insanely bad for you, right, all those chemicals ‘n preservatives?”

Sydney scoffs. “You’re literally smoking a cigarette right now, dude. I don’t think you should be giving out any health advice right now—or, like, ever.”

“Yeah, but that’s different, though,” Richie says with a smirk. “Cigs are like, my vice, you know. You, on the other hand—I’ve never even seen you look at one of those weird energy drinks. What’s next, Monster? Or—or, you heard of that one named ‘Cocaine’? I don’t think it gives you the same rush as the real deal, probably, but I heard one can’s got almost 300 fuckin’ milligrams of caffeine, can you believe that? That’ll knock you clean off your feet.”

He grins at her sharply, and Sydney laughs in spite of herself, dragging a hand down her face. The Red Bull is sour in the back of her throat. “Fuck off, man,” she huffs, “I’m not drinking fucking ‘Cocaine’ or whatever.”

Richie chuckles, flicks away some ash. “Yeah, probably not,” he mutters, sticking the cigarette between his lips again and taking a drag.

They fall silent for a second, peering up at the sky. It’s a grey, overcast day, and the clouds stack together menacingly over their heads.

“Hey, you ever wonder—” Richie starts, but he’s cut off by an obnoxiously loud rap song blaring from his pocket. “Oh, shit, lemme get that,” he mutters.

“Yeah?” he says into the phone, chewing at a fingernail. Muffled, Sydney can hear Natalie’s voice on the other side of the line, frantic and high, a torrent of words.

“Sug—Sug,” Richie cuts in after a few seconds, “He’s fine, alright?”

A pause, then Natalie’s voice starts again, shooting off what sounds like question after question. Richie stares down at his cigarette, twists it around in his fingers. “Concussion,” he says when Natalie’s quieted down again. “Just a concussion. Kid’s got a thick skull, Nat, he’s fine.”

Some more muffled remarks on the other side of the line. “Alright,” Richie huffs, “Alright, alright, I’ll get him his fuckin’ walnuts, Sug. You want me to get him some diapers, too?” He rolls his eyes, winks at Sydney like she’s somehow in on the joke. Sydney just blinks at him.

“Yeah, alright,” Richie says, “Love you too, Sug. Yeah. Walnuts. Alright. Byebye.” He stuffs his phone into his pocket again and kneads at his eyes. “She wants me to get him fuckin’ walnuts,” he says to Sydney, as if she wasn’t sitting right next to him for the entirety of their conversation.

“Why?” she asks, because she genuinely does not get the link between Carmy being concussed and walnuts, of all things.

“I dunno, man, she read somewhere that they’re good for the brain, or whatever,” Richie mumbles. “Not that it’ll be of much use to him anyway, that jagoff’s brain is a lost cause, if you ask me.” He chuckles to himself quietly.

Sydney finds that her appetite for brain damage jokes is not very high, at the moment, after everything that’s just gone down. “Richie—can you not say those things right now,” she grinds out, “please?”

Richie blinks at her, sobers up. “Yeah, yeah, sure, my bad,” he mutters. “Guess you’re not… used to this kinda shit, huh.”

“No,” she sighs, “No, I’m not, so—I don’t think this is… funny, or whatever.” She stares into her can of Red Bull and takes another sip. It’s disgusting.

Richie brings his cigarette to his lips again and inhales deeply. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says around a mouthful of smoke. “Not funny, at all. It’s just—classic Berzatto shit, y’know? Always somethin’ with that fuckin’ kid.” He sighs. “And Nat—she worries about him, way too much. But you can’t even blame her, can you? If I didn’t know him any better I’d think he was doin’ it on purpose.”

He shakes his head, glimpses at Sydney from the corner of his eye. Sydney doesn’t know what to say, so she just takes another sip of Red Bull.

“You know, I feel like Carm’s one of those people,” Richie continues, “that’s never ever gonna be happy with his life. He just always has to ruin it for himself somehow, turn something good into something godawful. I don’t get it.” He sighs again, rubs at his forehead with the back of his hand. The cigarette flickers dangerously close to his hair.

“I don’t know if there’s anything to get, really,” Sydney says quietly. “I think he’s just—never known any different. I don’t know.”

Richie brings down his hand, looks at her. There’s a tired set to his eyes, something that wasn’t there yet this morning. “Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, I think so, too.”

They both stare at their feet for a moment. Behind them, the hospital doors slide open with a quiet hiss, and the sound of someone sobbing with long, desperate, heaving wails bounces out into the parking lot. Then the doors close again, and it’s quiet. Too quiet. Sydney pulls her sweatshirt a little tighter around herself. The crying echoes in her head, or maybe she’s just hearing it through the doors.

“What were you gonna say, earlier?” she says just to fill the silence.

Richie squints at her. “What? When?” he says around his cigarette.

“Before Nat called? You were saying something like ‘Do you ever wonder…’ ?”

“Oh!” Richie takes the cigarette from between his lips. “Yeah, I—it’s stupid.” He chuckles, a little flatly. “I was gonna ask: You ever wonder what your life would be like if we’d just sold the place to Jimmy?”

Sydney blinks, rubs at her eyes. “I mean—no? Not really. I used to, for a while, but I—I’m… I’m all in now, you know?” she searches Richie’s face for a moment. He stares back, eyes sharp and attentive.

“I… made up my mind, a while back, to stick with the place, even if it feels like a fuckin’ sinking ship, sometimes,” she continues. “At least it’s a ship I know, you know? I—I couldn’t bring myself to leave, not even for something all… shiny and new and… fusion kitchen or whatever.”

Richie frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“You know Shapiro?” Sydney says. Richie nods. “Well, he offered me a job. CDC at his new restaurant. Said it was gonna be awesome, I’d have all this creative freedom, get health insurance and everything… And, y’know, it looked awesome, too, but it just—I don’t know. I couldn’t do it.”

“Hm,” Richie grunts. He takes a drag, lets the smoke curl up out of his mouth slowly. “You might’ve been happier there, though. Sounds like a more… stable, normal working environment. Healthier, probably.”

Sydney rubs at her nose. It’s cold, and the Red Bull is doing nothing to warm her up. She puts the can down between her feet and rubs her hands against each other.

“Yeah. I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe. But it wouldn’t be the same, you know? This place—The Bear, it might be fucked, but it’s fun, too, and warm, and alive, and, and—crazy. Feels like… home, in a way, I don’t know. I don’t think I would’ve had that at Shapiro’s.”

Richie nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, I get that,” he says. “You know, it’s not the same for me, obviously—like, I’m not some talented, young chef with people just bendin’ over backwards to hire me, but… I don’t think I could do it either, just up and leave. There’s so many memories in that building, you know? Not just old ones—new ones, too, with chef Jess, with Garrett, with—what’s his name, Lucas—“

“Luca,” Sydney murmurs, feeling her lips twitch into a smile.

“Luca, yeah, that’s what I said,” Richie barges on, undeterred, “And with you, too, chef Sydney.” He falls silent for a moment, looks her deep in the eyes. It feels like the conversation’s taken a strangely vulnerable turn, all of a sudden.

“And we gutted it,” Richie continues, “turned it into something new, but—I don’t know, it still feels the same. I’m never gonna let that place go, I think, ‘cause it’s such a big part of my life, of me, you know? And, God, it’s stupid, but to me—it’s still Mikey’s place.”

He raises his cigarette to his lips again, taking a deep drag and letting the smoke sit in his lungs for a moment. His fingers look a little unsteady where they’re curled around the cigarette. Sydney pretends she doesn’t see. She looks down at her own hands, instead, and mulls over Richie’s words.

Mikey. Somehow, it always boils down to him—Mikey, Mikey, Mikey. She lets the name roll around her mouth a few times, feeling out its weight, its shape, its sounds, trying to conjure up something that might help her understand who Mikey was.

First, the hum of the “M”, soothing and warm. Next, the light darting of the “i”, playful and a little teasing. Then, hidden between softer sounds like a knife under a pillow—the sharp, short-tempered snap of the “k”, explosive, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. And, finally, the wide smile of the “ey”—bright, careless, fleeting.

It doesn’t do anything.

He’s still just a blurry figure cast in shade, an outline of a person filled with nothing but smoke—always out of reach, ready to float away and dissipate in the whisper of a breeze.

It’s so strange, she thinks, how much of their lives—and her life too, by extension—revolves around a person who’s not here anymore, an empty space they’re always drawn back to, but that stays vacant and haunted no matter how many of them gather around it. A hole no caulk can fill.

And she shouldn’t pry—she shouldn’t, but somehow, it feels like this might be the right moment to ask, to get a glimpse of that person that’s altered the whole trajectory of her life without even knowing it. She steels herself and looks up at Richie again.

“Mikey,” she says, and Richie’s eyebrows rise, arch, furrow. “What was he like?”

Richie blows out a thick cloud of smoke. It drifts away in the wind, but the smell lingers between them. “God,” he chuckles, a smile playing around his lips, eyes turning wistful and soft. It almost feels like something Sydney shouldn’t be seeing—this open expression on his face, this nostalgic light in his eyes, this fond curl to his lips.

But Richie doesn’t seem to notice. “Mikey,” he breathes, shaking his head. “Mikey was—crazy. Absolutely batshit crazy. Never met anyone like him before. He was the fuckin’ worst, but also the fuckin’ best, you get me?” His eyes flick to Sydney for a moment, and she nods, even though she feels like she doesn’t get it, not really.

Richie seems satisfied, though, and he continues. “Like, he could be so fuckin’ annoying, and difficult, and mean, but he could also be so nice, if he wanted to, so warm and effortless, and so funny—God, Syd, you should’ve met him, he could tell stories like it was his job, like—he was always telling us some crazy shit that he’d heard, or that had happened to him, or that he—I don’t know, just made up off the top of his head.”

He heaves a sigh, drags a hand down his face. For a moment, it looks like he’s lost in his memories—eyes far away, lips curled in a vacant smile—and Sydney watches him carefully. He seems happy to talk about Mikey. Maybe this is good for him, for the both of them, to remember him together. To get to know him together. Maybe she should’ve asked sooner.

Richie fiddles with his cigarette. He looks like there’s something else he wants to say, but doesn’t quite know how to make the words come out of his mouth. Sydney shoots him another careful look, and then decides she might as well give him a little push, a hook to latch onto.

“He sounds like… a vibrant person,” she says, and immediately regrets it when Richie barks out a laugh next to her.

“Vibrant?” he says incredulously. “Who the fuck says that? What does that even—wait, wait, you totally got that from Carm, didn’t you? With his vibrant fuckin’ collaboration? Oh my God, Syd, vibrant?” He shakes his head, rubs at his eyes.

Sydney feels her face heat up. “Dude—it’s just—a word, okay?” she sputters. “Like—vibrant, colourful, fuckin’—dynamic, I don’t know,” she throws her hands in the air and then, she can’t help it, laughs along with Richie.

“Yeah, okay, fine, maybe it was a bit of a stupid word to use,” she says when their laughter starts to die down. Next to her, Richie still chuckles a little, mutters to himself: “Vibrant, fuckin’ vibrant, oh my God.”

Sydney shoves him, then bends down to grab her can and take another sip. It somehow tastes even worse, now that the can’s been open for a minute, and she feels her face screw up in a grimace.

“Bad, huh?” Richie grunts next to her. “Told you you shouldn’t be drinking that shit.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Sydney says, “Maybe I wanna have some vices too.”

Richie smirks. "Yeah, alright. Red Bull as a vice. See how that goes for you,” he drawls, and Sydney laughs again. They both fall silent for a second.

“But—you get what I mean, though, right?” Sydney says after a while.

“Yeah,” Richie smiles, “I get it. Vibrant.” He lets out a little chuckle again, shakes his head. “No—he really was vibrant, if that’s how you wanna put it. Like, the kind of person everyone liked. Always centre of attention, always everyone’s buddy. And—it was like he could read people, you know? Total fuckin’ polar opposite of Carm.”

Sydney hums. “You guys ever fight?”

“Oh, dude,” Richie laughs, “all the time. Like, you would not believe. You know, this one time, when we were still in high school, we both got, like, crazy drunk, got into a fight over somethin’ stupid—I don’t even remember what—and then, I don’t know why, ‘cause he had nothing to do with it, but I said something ‘bout Carmy, something petty and childish, and Mikey got so mad, dude, it was insane. Thought he was gonna beat the shit outta me.” He smiles to himself.

Sydney doesn’t know if that’s something she should laugh at. It sounds—crazy. Volatile. Scary. But she tacks a smile on her face anyway.

Richie quiets down. “Yeah,” he sighs. “That was Mikey Bear for you, alright. Always wanted to act all though, be a big man, but if you knew him, really knew him, you could see right through it. I don’t know anyone that loves his family like he did. And—I dunno. Maybe that’s what drove him nuts, in the end.”

Richie’s smile turns cold and brittle at the corners. He looks down at his cigarette, burnt down to a stump, and puts it out on the bench next to him. Then—looks at the blood stain on his suit sleeve, rubs his fingers over it absently, like he’s trying to remember where it came from.

“Sorry,” he sighs, dropping his hands into his lap again. “Dunno why I’m telling you all this.”

“No, no, don’t be,” Sydney says. “It’s nice—to hear about him, from you. I—I’ve always wondered, you know. So, I’m glad you told me some stuff.”

Richie shoots her a look from the corner of his eye. “Well, if you ever wanna hear some stories—just ask. I got loads of ‘em. Not all funny, but, y’know, it wasn’t always—fuckin’, rainbows and puppies, I guess.”

Sydney hums. Her mind drifts from Mikey to Carmy, so often named in one breath, and yet Richie says they’re different, polar opposites. Somehow, she can’t help but wonder if there used to be similarities, too. If Mikey ever got that passionate, focused gleam in his eyes that Carmy gets when he’s trying out a new dish. If he could be stubborn, like Carmy, to the point of it hurting not only himself but those around him. And if he got scared, too—lost in his own mind, anxious about everything and anything, so broken down and terrified that all he could do was hide, or throw himself into something just to escape.

Maybe The Beef was that something, for him. Or maybe it wasn’t—maybe it was something to escape from, too. She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t ask.

“You think Carm’s done with his tests yet?” she says instead.

Richie sighs. “Probably.” He drags his hands down his face, sniffs. “You gonna be pissed at me if I said I don’t wanna go in ‘n see him?”

Sydney feels her brows draw together in a frown. “No? But—why?”

“I dunno, man.” Richie sighs again. “He—uh. They probably got him all loopy, you know. Painkillers ‘n shit. Fuckin’—opioids. Morphine. I don’t know. I don’t—I don’t wanna see it.”

He throws her a tired glance. “Oh,” Sydney says, and then doesn’t really know how to continue. “That’s—I’m… sorry? Or—I guess that’s fair?”

Richie’s mouth twitches into a wry smile. “Nah, it’s not fair, it’s fuckin’ lame.” He smacks at his cheeks like he’s trying to wake himself up. “C’mon, gimme a pep talk,” he says, turning to Sydney, “Tell me to stop bein’ a pussy and get in there.”

“Uhhh—” Sydney hesitates, because what the fuck is she supposed to say to that? “Maybe he’ll have, uh—told them? Like, not to give him heavy stuff? I don’t even know if they give that shit out for concussions, Richie—maybe they’ll just have him on like… tylenol?

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Richie mutters, eyes flashing with something between desperation and hope. “No, you’re right, he’ll have told them, they’ll just have him on something safe. Something good. Tylenol. You’re right."

He brings his hands up to knead at his eyes. Somehow, Sydney feels like he’s not entirely reassured yet, and they’ll be out here talking for a while longer.

“This is so fuckin’ stupid,” Richie says from behind his palms. “We should be in the restaurant kicking ass right now, and instead we’re here. Carm’s gonna have a meltdown like a three-year-old when he realises how much time his little stunt has cost us all.”

“Yeah,” Sydney sighs. “He’s gonna freak.”

“Probably turn it into a whole thing to fuel his guilt complex,” Richie grumbles. “I better not see any fuckin’ non-negotiables on that kitchen counter tomorrow, or I’m gonna be the one havin’ a fridge meltdown this time.”

And it’s so dumb, but Sydney can’t help but chuckle at the mental image that flashes through her head—Richie, stepping into the fridge, closing the door, screaming his head off, and then walking back out like nothing happened.

“Dude—no more fridge meltdowns,” she says, a smile curling at her lips “If anything, I’d say I’m owed one. Or we can share. Two-for-one kinda deal.”

Richie barks out a laugh. “Hell yeah. That’d have him shitting bricks, I bet—if we both got in there and just went ballistic. Might knock some sense into him, with this whole ‘I’m-leaving-the-restaurant-forever-oh-woe-is-me’ bullshit.”

He chuckles to himself, but Sydney feels her smile freeze on her face. “Yeah, that thing,” she says, forcing levity into her tone, but feeling it fall flat as soon as the words leave her mouth. “That’s—that’s some bullshit, for sure.”

“Right,” Richie grunts. “You know, I really didn’t think he meant it, at first. Thought he was gonna give up on the idea after a while.”

“Yeah,” Sydney says again. Her voice feels flat and weak, all of a sudden, as if just the thought of it, the reminder that Carm is leaving and there’s nothing she can do about it, nothing at all, has drained all of her energy in one big greedy gulp.

“It’s bullshit,” Richie repeats. It sounds strained, and Sydney knows he’s trying to convince himself, lull himself into believing that Carmy’s not actually gonna leave. She wishes he were a little better at it, so she could let herself be convinced, too.

But then Richie’s mouth twitches, and his jaw clenches, and he says: “You know, Nat thinks it’ll be good for him. Discover himself or whatever, find out who he is and what it is that he wants in this life, all that kumbaya shit. You believe in any of that?” He shoots her a sharp glance.

“I don’t know,” Sydney says quietly.

It’s not a lie—she truly doesn’t know. Maybe it’ll be good. Maybe it will help. Maybe it can make him see that the restaurant doesn’t have to be bad and that he can do this, with her, with all of them. Or maybe it’ll be bad, just another desperate escape, a fridge door pulled shut tightly behind his back. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

She doesn’t know.

“You know what I think?” Richie says. “I think Carm’s just someone that always has to run, a little. He can’t face his shit. And when you’re in there, in The Bear, it’s always on. And he can’t take that, so he does stupid shit, throws his tantrums, writes out these fuckin’—non-negotiables. But that can’t last forever, you know? And—and now that it’s getting good, and we’re fixin’ our shit, it’s too calm for him. No chaos, no yellin’, no tantrums. Nowhere to run except out.” He looks down at his hands, plucks at his nails. There’s some blood on them, too, Sydney notices. “That’s what I think.”

Sydney takes in a deep breath. It shakes and rattles in her chest. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard Richie talk about Carmy like this, and it feels like something she should be careful with. A topic to approach with caution and gloves pulled tightly over your fingers.

“You know him really well,” she says.

And it wasn’t a question, but Richie shrugs anyway, and answers like it was. “I don’t know. I thought I did. I used to, maybe. Before all this—before Mikey…” He shakes his head, looks away, then back at her. “But it’s all different now, you know? I’m different, he’s different. Maybe I never knew him.”

It sounds so definitive, so harsh, that Sydney feels a frown tug at her brows. “Like—you don’t recognise him? He changed, or something?”

Richie looks away again, lips twitching, pursing, hungry—like he’s aching for another cigarette, a drink, a pill, something. A vice.

“I don’t know.” he finally says. “It’s like… He used to be so—timid, as a kid. Would let everyone waltz all over him, always thought of other people first. To a fault, really. Hell, I remember, one time—must’ve been his ninth birthday, Deedee was wasted, like absolutely gone, and she wouldn’t stop crying ‘cause she didn’t get him a present. Forgot to, or didn’t have any money for it—doesn’t matter. And the kid just—kept quiet, didn’t even cry or get pissed, just comforted her, going ‘It’s alright Ma, it’s fine.’ That’s how he was, you know. Weird fuckin’ kid, but a good kid.”

Sydney feels queasy, all of a sudden. Like, actually nauseous. “That’s fucked,” she breathes.

“Yeah, it was, but that’s not the point,” Richie continues, tense and impatient, as if Sydney’s somehow twisting his words just by listening to him. “The point is that he didn’t grow from that shit. He’s just—regurgitatin’ it. Spittin’ it back at us, at you. He’s treated you like absolute shit, Syd.”

He pauses, stares into her eyes as if looking for confirmation. She gives him a shaky nod, and he continues. “He made this whole thing miserable, and now that we’re balls fuckin’ deep in debt and there’s a guillotine hoverin’ over our heads, he quits, ‘cause he doesn’t love it anymore. ‘Cause he needs some time for himself, and he thinks—just ‘cause we grew, just ‘cause we moved and hauled ass and worked on ourselves, that he doesn’t need to stick around anymore. Mister fuckin’ Michelin star. It’s always, always about him.”

“Maybe,” Sydney says. She looks down into the can of Red Bull again, lets the dark abyss inside swallow her whole for just a split second, and then resurfaces again. “I just—I get that it was hard, you know. For him, for you. And I get that that leaves scars. I never expected him to just—forget about all of that, you know, I knew he was going through shit, is going through shit.”

Richie opens his mouth, frowning like he wants to offer a rebuke, somehow, but Sydney doesn’t let him. “It just—sucks, I guess, that this is how he wants to do things. ‘Cause I wanted to love this too, y’know? And I wanted to do it together—even when he was acting like—like an asshole, I still wanted to make it work, so badly. But now it just—it feels like that never even mattered, to him.”

Richie hums. A memory suddenly flits through Sydney’s head, its edges roughened with time, scratching, sparking up a trail of anger in its wake. She huffs, glances up at Richie. “You know, I was so scared before we opened. Thought I was gonna mess it all up, ruin his… his dead brother’s legacy. And you know what he said?”

Richie’s lips twitch into a sharp smile, and he quirks a brow at her. “What?”

“He said: ‘I wouldn’t wanna do this without you.’” Sydney shakes her head. “And then he just—doesn’t even think to consider that maybe I felt that way, too.” The anger snuffs out as soon as she admits it—not just to Richie, but to herself, too. She didn’t want to do it without him. Back then, at least.

Now, she doesn’t know anymore. She just feels raw and tired, like a sunburnt child that can’t understand why it’s hurting. She swallows, blinks a few times. She’s not gonna cry over this, not now—but her eyes sting and her throat feels stuffy and tight and she has to focus really, really hard to keep her vision from going all watery and blurry.

It’s stupid, though. She’s not gonna cry.

Next to her, Richie heaves a deep sigh, brings his hands up to rub at his brow, and then, unexpectedly, huffs out a laugh. Sydney is so startled that, for a moment, she forgets she was about to not-cry and just stares at him, jaw slack.

“That’s so fuckin’ unreal,” Richie says, “‘cause I had almost the exact same conversation with him.”

“Huh?” Sydney breathes.

“Yeah. I was—lost, didn’t feel useful in the restaurant. Thought he was gonna cut my ass out, drop me for someone younger, newer, better. And he said he wouldn’t. And—he didn’t, but now fuckin’ look at us—he’s the one leaving.”

Sydney huffs a disbelieving laugh and turns to face Richie. “Dude,” she says, “he fuckin’—played us both.”

Richie laughs along. “Right? You think he had this shit planned all along? Make us stick around so he could load the place off on us?”

“Oh, for sure,” Sydney says, and Richie laughs again, and her heart feels a little lighter, all of a sudden. It’s almost nice—if she doesn’t think of where they are and why they’re here.

When their laughter has died down, Richie slaps at his thighs, heaves a sigh, and stands up. It’s the whitest thing she’s ever seen him do, and she almost starts laughing again when the thought pops into her head.

But Richie’s serious. “Right,” he says, “can’t stay out here forever. Carm’s gonna be set up in a room by now, and Sug’s gonna be here any moment. You with me?”

He quirks an eyebrow and extends a hand. The blood stain is still on his sleeve, and her eyes linger on it for a second. But it’s dried up, now, sunk into the fabric like it’s made itself at home. It’s not as noticeable, anymore.

She grabs his hand and lets him hoist her up. His palms are rough and warm and he smells like cigarettes spiced with a little whiff of cologne. It all feels comforting, in a way she can’t quite place.

Before they enter, Sydney drops the half-full can of Red Bull in the bin next to the sliding doors. Richie eyes her with a satisfied look on his face when he notices.

She rolls her eyes at him. “Fine. You were right. Energy drinks aren’t for me. Happy now?”

Richie grins toothily. “Very,” he says, and then they step into the entrance hall.

It’s quiet, again. No more crying. And it’s selfish, but deep down she’s happy about that.

“You think Sug’ll be pissed I didn’t get him any walnuts?” Richie asks when they’re walking past the waiting area.

“Oh, dude, totally,” Sydney says. And again, it’s not a lie. Nat just might do it.

“Yeah, thought so,” Richie frowns. “Maybe they’ll have them in the vending machine—c’mon, let’s go look.”

He loops his arm through hers and drags her over to the machine. It’s a strangely childish thing for him to do, and it feels wholly inappropriate considering their circumstances, but Sydney finds she doesn’t mind.

And they’re stretching time, just a little, but she doesn’t mind that, either. Surely, Carmy owes them that much.

The vending machine doesn’t have any walnuts—obviously. But it does have five other flavours of Red Bull.

Richie huffs. The LED lights behind the rows of snacks and drinks smooth out his face and light up his eyes, making him look like a kid in front of a shop window.

“Damn. She’s gonna kill me.” He sneaks a glance at her. “But, y’know, good thing we’re in a hospital already—at least I won’t have to pay for an ambulance.”

Sydney sighs, suppresses a smile, and opens her mouth to tell him off for his awful jokes.

But before she can say anything, Richie’s turning to her again, leaning in conspirationally, smirking, and he adds, like it’s an afterthought:

“Oh—and you totally shoulda got the pink Red Bull, by the way. Tastes way better.”

And it’s so, so fucking stupid, and it’s really not the time or place to be cracking jokes, but Sydney feels the corners of her lips curl up anyway.

She tries to elbow him in the side. It doesn’t really work, with their arms looped together, but it still feels satisfying enough.

“You’re such a fuckin’ hypocrite, dude,” she hisses at him.

Richie just smiles back. “Vices, sweetheart,” he says, and Sydney truly can’t help it, now.

She laughs. Entirely too loud.

It’s embarrassing, and she probably seems insane, but she doesn’t really care, ‘cause Richie’s laughing, too, and he’s by her side, in step, walking up to the reception with his arm still linked into hers, like they’re some weirdly cheerful couple with a slightly questionable age gap.

And, suddenly, she knows it, feels it in her heart, a truth so plain and simple that it’s like it’s always been there: they’ll make it through this, all of this.

Today, and tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after, and so on.

They’ll make it. Together.