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Richie doesn’t know how it’s lost on everyone that Chef Carmy is a fucking baby. Their entire team is relying on a thirty years old–which is equivalent to being twelve in Richie’s world– world-renowned asshole and they were royally fucked. They were getting their asses handed to them on the daily, because even though Sydney is a heaven sent, and like, super talented, Carmy’s still the one in charge, and the primary responsible for the horse shit they found themselves in.
He’s gone ahead and got himself locked in a fucking fridge on opening night, he’s changing menus to challenge himself or self-flagellate–Richie can never be sure– and he’s done it and got himself sick on Christmas week. And apparently it’s not just some flu, it’s objectively bad. So bad, Carmy was knocked out cold on his couch for several days.
So, it was up to Sydney and Richie to run the restaurant and thank fuck for that. Blessings come in all sorts of disguise and Richie is fucking glad their executive chef has the immune system of a pussy (it’s the anxiety, the no-eating anything till it’s fucking midnight and the chain-smoking) ‘cause they were able to save face for a few days. They had a consistent menu at last, everyone’s at the top of their game, the new hires from Ever are fucking experts and Richie feels like he’s conquered the world. It felt good to be on even ground for the first time in months. Everyone was in top shape, they were feeling confident and they were fast, and in control, and Sydney is–well, Syd is still stressed out but she looks like she’s having fun at last, so Richie won’t complain.
This is a good thing, even if it came at the expense of Carmy being out of the picture for a few days ‘cause that is god’s will and justice prevails, right?
Except it’s not, really, ‘cause Richie’s a dickhead but he’s not that much of a dickhead and he feels guilty when he checks on Carmy on the second evening he’s been out cold.
(Again, Richie is not that big of an ass, unlike Carmy, who’s yet to properly apologize for the shit he’s spewed at him that night he got locked inside a fridge)
Carm looks like shit, objectively, sprawled on his couch and out like a light. His apartment smells like disease and rot, and Richie doesn’t think twice before opening a window despite the late night December chill.
Carmen jolts awake as soon as he does, ‘cause he also has the nervous system of a pussy, all jumpy and shit.
He looks perplexed about Richie’s presence, though he says nothing, tactful for once. Richie’s not sure he can take it if he was a dick to him again, worst of all, over checking on him when he damn well deserves to die in this pit of death.
“How did it go at the restaurant,” he rasps instead, before getting cut-off with a hacking cough. It makes Richie wince despite his best efforts.
“Well enough,” Richie says, walking to the kitchen’s counter to drop a bag of groceries he’d picked on the way home. He opens the fridge to set some of the stuff inside, unsurprised to find it empty of anything substantial. “Better than last week.” He adds, a bit mean, as he looks for a can opener for the tomato soup.
Carmy wheezes another cough, wet and ugly, and Richie makes a mental note to get him cough syrup on his next errand.
“Good.” Carm says after a bit. For a while, the humming of the microwave fills the silence that settles in the apartment. Richie busies himself with washing several days old dirty dishes and throws up chinese takeout cups (it’s not lost on him that someone’s been to Carm’s place, possibly Sydney. Hopefully Sydney.
Whoever it was though, they made Carmy eat something, and that counts as a win.)
Carms nodded off again when Richie brought him heated soup and a glass of Gatorade, reminiscent of what he’d feed Eva whenever she was sick. Besides, tomato soup was Carmy’s favourite despite all odds.
Richie rolls his eyes when Carmy scrunches his nose in disgust, “I’m not hungry.”
“I wasn’t asking if you were,” Richie says as he debates feeding himself for being the child he is. He decides against it; Carmy doesn’t deserve it, and besides, he doesn’t feel like having spit scalding hot soup on his face.
He sits somewhere near the couch, making a point of not leaving yet. He’s not gonna budge until Carmen’s drunk the gatorade at least.
It’s a shit show watching Carmy scramble into a sitting position (Richie doesn’t miss the way Carmy’s already out of breath, fighting off nausea) and reach for the spoon with a shaking hand. He takes his sweet time blowing on the soup in an obvious but failing endeavour to stall. Richie tries not to think about what that means, tries not to read into how practiced and effortless it was for Carmy to do this.
“You need to take your meds.” Richie says, watching as Carmy dropped his bowl after two toddler-sized bites. He sighs in relief when Carmy reaches for the gatorade and takes a tentative sip.
“I’m not taking pills.” Carmy replies in a monotone voice. There’s so much to unpack in those words. So much Mikey related, it makes Richie’s heart clench painfully.
“Don’t you want to get back on your feet and go back to the restaurant?” He asks for a lack of a better thing to say.
“I don’t take pills.” And it’s not lost on Richie that he hasn’t answered his question. He shakes his head imperceptively because he’s definitely not unpacking that.
“Suit yourself,” he ultimately says before making his way to the door. Carmy doesn’t stop him, already setting his glass on the coffee table and laying back.
Richie doesn’t look back when he leaves. It’s not really his problem.
Except it is, because Carmy’s his cousin and he’s family, and you’re stuck with family, right? You don’t choose them in most cases, and even though the Berzattos have chosen Richie and welcomed him into their lives with open arms, he doesn’t feel like he had a choice.
Mikey was dead, the fucker, and Sugar has Pete and to some extent, Uncle J, so Carmen’s all he’s got, even though he’s a piece of shit who doesn’t think twice before opening his mouth. (Neither does Richie ‘cause he regrets telling him he loved him.)
So, Richies goes to see him the next night, still riding the high from having yet another successful evening.
Carmy’s however faring worse than the previous day; he’s paler than usual, and he’s shivering and if Richie can’t strain his ears he can hear his teeth clatter even though the heater has been turned to high.
“Yo, Carmen, you gotta take your meds,” Richie says, trying to ignore the pit in his stomach as Carmy jerks his head in a stubborn no.
“You eaten anything yet?” Richie eyes the soup bowl from yesterday. He already knows his answer. Although, Carmy is adamant on making his life difficult.
“I had a PB&J for lunch.” Richie doesn’t remember there being any bread that wasn’t growing mold when he restocked his pantry yesterday, but he decides to humour.
“I’ll heat up some soup then.”
Carmy says nothing to that, still laying under a bundle of covers.
Richie busies himself in the kitchen, heating up extra soup for himself. He’d been so anxious earlier, he’d missed Family. He also figures there’s no point in begging Carmy to eat, so he does what he usually does when Eva is too stubborn to eat her vegetables.
He settles comfortably on a chair next to Carmy and eats his own soup, Carmy’s own cooling on the coffee table.
He’s acutely aware of Carmy watching him out of the corner of his eye, and Richie ignores him. Soon enough, Carmy’s reaching for his own bowl, and Richie fights off a victorious smile.
Carmy doesn’t make it past four spoons and even though he doesn’t drink his gatorade, he drinks some water, and Richie will take his win however he can.
Silence settles between them, uncomfortable still since their fight, but not unwelcome. Better than them yelling at each other and shoving each other like fucking children.
Carmy decides to ruin it, however, like he always does.
“I’m sorry.”
Richie keeps on eating his soup, not sparing him a glance.
“I didn’t mean what I said, I–I– I was just angry.”
Carmen could benefit a lot from learning to shut the fuck up.
“I heard your voicemail, cousin.”
“And I meant everything I said there, Richie.”
“All I heard was words.” Richie finally turns to look at him. Carmy looks like shit, his hair greasier than usual, his eyes sunken and his skin gray. It’s a miracle he hasn’t dropped dead yet.
Carmy stares at him with his big blue eyes (just like Donna, and Sugar, and fucking Richie himself).
Richie cleans up before leaving this time, because he’s not coming back again.
He sends Sydney the next evening after work to check up on Carmen.
“Why?” She asks him, “he’s just down with the flu, he’ll be up and running about soon enough.”
Richie knows that’s true, he just can’t shake off the feeling of dread that looms over him whenever he leaves Carmen out of his sight.
He’s angry, alright. He’s fucking seething, but he doesn’t wanna make the same mistake twice, even if a small part of him knows Carmen’s gonna be fine ‘cause he won’t take the pills.
(Carmen’s not fine. He barely sleeps and eats and he’s a dick to everyone as much as he’s to Richie.)
“He’s a big guy, and he’s not your responsibility.”
Richie knows Syd’s seething too, for good reasons, perhaps for more valid reasons, but he can’t help but laugh at that.
If only it were so simple; if only he could cut off the damn cord and be done with it.
Sydney texts him later that night that ‘Carmy hasn’t dropped dead yet, you can rest old man.’
Richie’s furious with him, and disappointed, and so fucking relieved.
Carmy’s asleep when Richie goes to see him the next night. Not his usual fitful sleep where he bolts upright at the smallest sounds of clutter, looking like a deer in the headlight. No, Carm’s out of it, for real, and it’s a good thing. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him sleep before in all the years he’s known him, always up and about and pacing like the nervous wreck he’s always been. If he had, then Richie’s certain he never looked this peaceful. It puzzles him, and then he sees the bottle of cough syrup with its top untwisted.
Richie holds in a laugh, not wanting him to wake up yet now that he’s finally sleeping.
So, he brings one of the kitchen chairs scattered all over the apartment and settles himself comfortably, watching fucking Carmy sleep.
He can’t help but feel weird about this, their cruel words spat at each other a month ago echoing inside his head. Anger, and sorrow simmer inside him but in this moment he can’t help but remember how much he loves Carmy. How much he fucking adores this kid even though he’s a little shit, and he’s Mikey’s brother, and it feels so utterly wrong to not do right by Mikey’s little brother but also, it’s Carmen.
It’s Carmen, it’s always been about Carmen, and taking care of Carmen, and knocking assholes down for laying a hand on little Carmy because, because–
Richie lets out a shuddering breath. This whole thing is fucked, and he blames the entire Berzatto lineage for it. And the Jeromovich, for good measure. Maybe Cicero for a bit, and that feels like progress.
Fucking hell, fucking mess he’s dug himself into. He could’ve done with punching Carmy that day and knocking his teeth out for being an ungrateful, insolent brat.
Carmy stirs in his sleep, blissfully unaware of Richie’s torment, but other than, he doesn’t wake up. A godly miracle, and Richie is overwhelmed with a rush of gratitude, and it’s embarrassing and he barely thinks about it as he brushes his knuckles against Carmy’s temple. It’s sweaty and damp, and now that properly looks at him, he can tell he’s still running a fever, if the way he’s slightly shivering is any giveaway.
He’s tucked in tightly under a bundle of soft blankets, and Richie knows from experience that it would be better if he slept in lighter clothes to bring his temperature down but, he can’t find it in him to wake him up.
His hand moves of its own volition to cup his cheek in a gentler way than he’s used to touch Carmy, and Richie is mesmerised by how soft his skin is. It hits him then how young Carmy is; how despite being thirty he looks no different than he did ten years ago, back when everything was less complicated.
Richie’s stomach ties into knots thinking about those simple times (but it never was that simple was it? Michael has been using, and he’s been everyone’s ray of fucking sunshine, but no one could that for him. Not even his best fucking friend.)
Richie is lost in thought, stroking his Carmy’s cheek absently when he stirs awake.
“What time is it?” He asks, his voice rough from sleep. Richie’s heart was racing as he croaked, “it’s half past one in the morning.”
He doesn’t pull his hand away, his heart thundering inside his chest as Carmy’s eyes flutter closed and he sighs in contentment. There’s no repugnance, or shock on his face, there’s only acceptance, and it makes Richie’s thoughts race because–
What is it that Carmy is supposed to resent him for? What is it that he thinks he should be disgusted with him for? What is it that fucking Richie thinks Carmy is accepting?
(You’re a loser–
You fucking loser–)
Richie pulls his hand away as if scalded. He clears his throat, “have you eaten anything?”
Carmy takes some time to answer, Richie thinks he’s fallen asleep again. “I had some pasta for lunch.”
Richie takes his word for it, “you made pasta?”
“No, Nat’s been here.”
Richie grows quiet, trying to find his composure again. This is so hard; being so angry at him, being so hurt and needing to take care of him.
“I can make you something.”
“You don’t have to.” Carmy’s quick to say. His stomach growls in protest, and Carmy flushes.
It’s an endearing sight, but Richie is quick to crush the fond feeling.
“I’ll make you toast.” Richie says with finality, and thank fuck Carmy made it earsier for them. If he said anything in protest, like how Richie shouldn’t bother, or how he doesn’t know how to cook (he does,; he has a kid for fuck’s sake) Richie might’ve up and left, swearing off this place.
Making Carmy toast was as much for him as it was for Richie’s own good, and he can’t begin to understand why but, he needs it.
(You fucking need me)
He watches Carmy eat his toast, noting how he seems to have regained some of his energy back. He grabs him a glass of water before picking up the dirty dish.
Carmy looks haunted, as he contemplates what to say to him. He ends up mumbling a quiet thank you and it’s more than enough for Richie.
Richie makes him shower the next day. It’s a Monday, and the restaurant is closed for maintenance and cleaning. Richie ends up spending most of his day at Carmy’s.
He’s better, less feverish, and has left the couch at some point to change into fresh clothes, except he still stunk.
“There’s no point in wearing new clothes if you don’t wash you fucking monkey.”
Richie is delighted when Carmy doesn’t fight him on this, having the decency to look ashamed for once.
He waits for him till he finishes, as he cleans up the clutter in the living room. For how much everyone gives Richie a hard time for being a sleazy bastard, they should take a look at how Carmy lives. He’d call it a bachelor pad but it hardly looks lived in, and it’s so fucking sad.
Half an hour later, Carmy trudges back to the living room, towel over his head and dripping wet on his sweater.
He fidgets for a moment before he seemingly works up the nerve to ask, “can–can you, um, dry my hair for me?”
A year ago, Richie would have given him hell for this, calling him a variation of nasty shit he used to say to him on the fucking daily. None of that shit is funny to him now, and he hates himself for saying it then, hates himself for not being able to be mean to him either.
(You fucking need me, you motherfucker. You don’t have shit, you piece of shit.)
“Come here.”
Sometimes, Richie thinks this week has been like living inside a bubble. Everything is so strange, yet painfully familiar. As Carmen sits obediently in front him, his head bowed down, Richie works the towel through his wet curls, taking his time rolling the towel through each section. He reaches for another one, muttering about how Carmy’s hair retains so much moisture, just like Eva.
Carmy says nothing. He’s been so subdued this week, it felt both like a breath of fresh air and like something was lacking.
Must be the fever still.
Richie lets him go when he’s finally satisfied with his handiwork, Carmy’s hair no longer dripping on his shoulders.
Carmy doesn’t make an effort to get up or turn around, and Richie watches as his shoulders hunch like they always do when he’s anxious.
Richie sighs, but doesn’t budge either.
“I’m so angry with you, Carm.” He says after a while, feeling like something heavy lifted off his chest. It’s been a whole month of yelling, and saying it like this makes him feel better than all those screaming matches.
“I know.” Carmy whispers. Richie fights the urge to rub his back, ease up some of the tension off his muscles.
“But I’ll be damned if I was done with you.” He mulls over his next work, feeling his throat close up, “I could never do that to Mikey.”
Carmy turns his head, but still avoids his gaze, staring at nothing in particular. “I’m not dropping your ass either, Mikey would never forgive me for it.”
And for some reason, Richie can’t shake off the feeling that despite their willingness to be honest, either of them was lying to the other. But he cannot dwell on that, he cannot, ‘cause Mikey would really fucking kill him, and he’d never do that to him.
So this will have to do.