Chapter Text
Richie
Richie has been hesitating on making the call. Him and Sugar aren’t exactly on what you’d call speaking terms. But the fire at The Beef had been weighing on him.
Mikey’s little nest egg in the tomato cans had been more than a distraction. He’d thought it meant Carmy might stop biting his cheeks and looking so goddamned awful all the time. Might take a day off to go see his Ma. But despite having a considerably larger parachute (not to mention having the money to fully transform The Beef into something his Michelan Star ass could be proud of), he looked more rundown. Greasy hair a mess, 1000 yard stare, always fucking fidgeting with something, especially that damn spoon he never seems to put down, ‘specially now that Syd and him are coming up with new dishes for their menu.
The remodel was set to start in a week, but Carmy never seemed to leave the place. He said it was because the kitchen in his apartment sucked. Richie wasn’t really buying that though.
Syd, Marcus and Tina were in most days to test new dishes and help with the planning. Today, Richie swings by The Beef—excuse him—The Bear—to say hi to Tina, go over some specs for the remodel (he knows a few contractors on the cheap), and maybe check up on Carmy. And damn is happy he came by, because something like the fire incident happens again. Carmy has that look, that sorta vacant queasy look. It makes Richie’s skin crawl seeing it. It wasn’t uncommon on Carm, what with all the stress and grief, but Carmy was usually present enough to bark out kitchen orders and chop whatever was in front of him. It was something they could all ignore.. mostly.
Not today though. Carmen’s doing a million things at once (as always), and Richie just wants him to stop a second to go over sandwich counter specs, but it’s like the kid’s allergic to standing still. Richie’s about to call him on it when Carm grabs Tina’s favorite pot again, just like that day they hazed him, back when Syd first came on. Except this time he holds onto it. Doesn’t seem to realize it’s hot, that the burning smell is his palms, until halfway to the other station. Carmy swears loudly and lets it clatter to the floor. But then he just stands there. After all his constant movement, that’s the eeriest part.
“Chef!,” Syd and Tina run to him, pulling his ass to the sink, putting his raw hands under the cool water. Carm’s still so quiet. Dazed.
Marcus peaks out of his station, "What’s the commotion?"
“I’m fine, Chef. I’m fine. It’s better than it looks. Go back to your donuts.”
“Cousin! What the fuck are you saying,” Richie says to him, and Carmy looks up and his expression’s all wrong. He’s biting his cheek like crazy and looks about 10 years old with Tina and Syd crowded around him. They finally pull his hands out of the water, and Richie gets a look at them. The palms are shiny and red. He can already see blisters forming on his fingers and palms.
“Shit,” Richie says, “These are serious burns.”
“Sorry," Carmen says again, "Wasn’t thinking.”
“Never thinking, are you?,” Richie tries for a reaction. There isn’t one, but Carm keeps trying to do things with his burnt hands, like push back his hair or clasp them together, but he stops himself with a wince and the hands land back at his sides, shaking a little.
Syd says, “We should probably get you to urgent care.”
"Yeah," Richie agrees, grabbing his keys from his pocket.
“You can’t drive,” Carmy says it like he’s far away, thinking of something else, “your license is suspended, and all that shit with the bachelor party.”
“I can drive him,” Marcus chimes in.
Syd says, “I’ll come." Carmy goes quiet again, like he’s embarrassed.
“Well I’m going too,” Richie says.
“My car’s got a lot of stuff in it right now,” Marcus says sheepishly, “there’s barely a spot in the back seat.”
“It’s alright,” Carm says, “this doesn’t have to be a whole thing.”
Richie ignores him, “Fine, I’ll catch a ride with Sugar. I need to call her anyway.”
“Cousin, that’s.. don’t bother her with this.”
Tina pipes up, “Y’all stop arguing. Marcus and Syd, take Carm. Richie and I’ll close up.”
No one can argue with that. Syd grabs Carm’s coat and helps him into it. They leave.
As Richie gathers his shit to follow them—because damn straight he’s gonna meet them there—Tina hisses at him, “He’s fucking out of it again. It’s like Michael a little bit. Richie, I can’t watch another one go out like that.”
“What are you taking about Tina? Carmy’s not on drugs.”
“Maybe not drugs,” She looks him hard in the eye, “But he’s not ok.”
Richie sighs, slows down a little bit, “Yeah. I know. I’ll talk to Sugar.”
“If you don’t, I will. He’s one of the assholes I’m grateful for.”
Richie calls Sugar from the parking lot. She answers after the second ring.
“What’s wrong?” her voice is tight, no sign of annoyance. He flashes to the call about Michael’s suicide. That’s the last time they spoke on the phone. He has to clear his throat.
“Nobody’s dead,” and he can hear her let out a breath on the other line, “Carmy did burn himself though.”
“What? How? How bad is it?”
“Kitchen accident.” Richie sighs, starts pacing the parking lot. “He grabbed a hot pot. Burned his hands pretty bad.”
“How bad? Where are you?”
“He'll live, but he definitely ain't cooking for a minute. They took him to the Urgent Care on 5th.. I hate to ask you, but Carmy doesn't want me driving since my license is suspended, and all that shit with the bachelor party. If you're coming down this way anyway..." Richie trails off. He hates this. Wishes he just drove and called her from the road.
“Yeah. It's fine, I'll pick you up,” but it sure doesn't sound fine.
Richie almost let's her go, but he flashes on the fire, on Carm's expression. He flashes on Michael growing distant and desperate, “Listen, Nat, Carm's been off. Two weeks ago we found him staring at a grease fire in the kitchen—wasn’t doing nothing about it. Tina and Sweeps had to put it out. He just stood there. Took him a minute to come back to himself.”
“Fuck,” Sugar says. The line’s quiet a beat, “Richie?”
“Yeah?”
“He told me that he woke up cooking frozen food in his apartment. Almost burned it to the ground.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
They start talking over each other, rising in volume until Sugar hangs up on him. She does text him that she'll be there to pick him up in 20.
Carmy
Marcus wasn’t kidding about his car. He’s got trash bags of clothes and so many books on baking.
“I was planning on dropping a bunch of stuff at Good Will,” he says waist deep in the back seat, clearing a small space for Carm.
“Don’t stress it,” Carm says.
Syd’s making a face at Marcus though, “This is worse than Richie’s,” and he has to laugh because that’s cruel.
“Unfair. Mine’s not dirty, just cluttered.”
They hit the road, and Marcus puts on something jazzy and chill on the radio. They’re quiet, but Syd keeps looking back at him from the passenger seat, and he can’t tell if it’s a good distraction from the thing that keeps pulling him away from the present, or if it makes it worse.
“Little too personal, Chef?” he manages to say pretty normally.
She cracks a smile at him, “Too late for that.” But she keeps looking back at him, working herself up to something if he knows her.
She finally says, “Tina said something kinda like this happened before.. A fire?”
Carmy can tell Marcus is focused on the conversation now too. He feels himself sinking away. His leg is jiggering and it feels like he’s looking at Syd through a tunnel. He flexes his hands, and the pain is a relief because it pulls him back.
Syd looks worried again, and he says, “It got put out,” which is not the answer she wanted, but he can’t do anything about that right now.
“It got put out,” he repeats to himself and looks out the window.
Syd
They drop Carmy off at the front to check in.
"I can come with you," Syd offers.
"It's alright. They probably won't let you in anyway—COVID restrictions. I'll let you know what the wait is," he says before pushing into the building with his shoulder, holding his hands in front of him like he's begging for something.
Marcus and Syd stand in the parking lot, leaning against Marcus’s car. The lot’s pretty packed.
"I'm worried about him," Marcus says into the silence.
"Yeah," Syd agrees.
“Did you see what happened?”
Syd’s face twists, “He grabbed a pot from the stove without a towel. It was unreal. He held onto it for so long I thought it was a bit maybe, like he was finally getting me back for fucking with him so much. But, shit, his skin was sizzling. It was like his brain was on a delay or something.”
Marcus is quiet a beat, “Y’know, that kitchen is magical to me. It’s like this space I can be my most creative self.”
“And obsessive,” Syd adds with a grin.
Marcus smiles back, “Yes, obsessive. But that’s the point. It was like that for me before the money. And that’s all Carmy. He makes you feel good about the passion. And yes, even the obsession.”
“When he says your dish is good…” Syd tries to find the words, “I’ve never had someone who believes in my food like that.”
“Yeah!” Marcus agrees, “Even with Michael, it was never about the food like this. About making something together.”
Syd never knew Michael, but his absence is something she feels all the time. She can’t imagine what it’s like for people who actually knew him.
Marcus starts talking again, “I think what I’m trying to say is that Carm’s opened this creative world for me, and he’s bringing us with him to this next level, but he’s still so stressed all the time.”
“He never leaves,” she agrees, “I don’t know what he’s going to do when they start busting down drywall—sleep in the alley?”
Marcus chuffs at that, “Exactly. Exactly,” Marcus’s expression goes serious, and a little sad, “I’m worried that something’s gonna happen to him, and all this is gonna go away.”
Syd doesn’t know what to say to that. Everything Marcus is saying is true. Syd had never felt like this in a kitchen before. Especially now in the in-between time when they're not serving people: there was no rush, no ego, just experimentation. Carm and her are doing something magical with the menu. They can’t stop obsessing over it. She would dream about a dish and text him at 2am and he’d respond right away. Then she'd come into the kitchen early, but he'd already be there, a little manic, and he'd ask her to try something before even greeting her.
Carm was pushing her to up her game, to create something incredible with him. And while that was exhilarating, she couldn't help notice that Carm was, well, Carm was doing worse. But she’s saved from saying any of this by the man in question, who pops out the door.
He’s still holding his hands out like a beggar.
Carm looks a little surprised they’re still here, “You both should go. Sounds like the wait’s awhile and I was right about the COVID shit—they won’t let you in.”
Marcus says, “Richie texted me that Sugar and him are on the way. They’ll pick you up.”
“You have your phone?” Syd asks. She’s not thrilled about leaving him, but it doesn’t make sense to sit in the parking lot when his family’s on the way. She can tell he’s uncomfortable.
“Yeah. Yeah,” Carm goes to pat his pocket, but stops with a wince.
“Please let us know when you’re out,” Syd says.
Carm’s biting his cheek again, but he says, “Ok. I’ll let you know.”
Carmy
Now that he’s alone back in the urgent care, tears keep welling in Carmy’s eyes, and he bites his inner lip, hard, trying to get ahold of himself. It’s not cuz his hands hurt—they do, but it’s sort of far away from him—no, it’s probably because he keeps letting his crew see him like this. A fucked up little shell. A little windup toy on its side, wheels still spinning. It’s getting harder to get lost in the work, to appreciate the camaraderie. It’s getting harder to hide whatever it is that’s going on with him.
But there shouldn’t be anything going on now, right? The money means Michael loved him after all. Means he believed in him. Couldn’t stick around to see things through. Couldn’t fucking talk with him—but that’s ungrateful. He flexes his hands again to stop thinking about this shit, and some of the big blisters on his left hand crack. The liquid drips onto the apron he's still wearing.
His leg is going again, rattling the cheap plastic of the waiting room chair and clearly annoying his neighbor who’s coming down from some drug. Carm looks around the waiting area. There’s a woman with scissors sticking out of her shoulder, and a man standing gingerly, a towel wrapped around his waste.
He’s dreading the talk with the doctor. He’s dreading talking to Sugar. What if she calls Mom ? He thinks suddenly, and his stomach drops. He can’t. He can’t do that right now. Can’t face her disappointment. Her anger, because that’s the only safe emotion she feels: her sadness, loneliness, worry, stress—all of it coming out as irritation at best and that blinding fury she’d fall into when things were really bad.
“Carmen Burzatto?” the nurse calls, and he jumps, but uses the energy to come to his feet.
“Yeah?”
“The doctor can see you now.”
Talking to the doctor feels like a dream. Feels fluid. He can’t hold onto what he’s saying. The man is clearly overworked (he can relate). So Carm focuses on what the doctor is doing instead.
He’s cutting away the burst blisters on his left hand revealing fresh pink skin. Makes him feel flayed, like a rabbit.
The doctor’s hands on his are gentle and skilled—just as efficient as a chef’s. It’s fucking him up for some reason. He feels tears welling in his eyes again.
The doctor notices, says, “I’ll prescribe a painkiller.” Carm tries to object, tries to tell him that the pain’s not so bad, but the embarrassment about not knowing why the tears are happening shuts him up.
The doctor finishes by wrapping Carm’s worse left hand with gauze. He does it so efficient: Secure, but not too much or tight that his hand feels bulky: Like a mitten, his thumb can move independently and he can still grasp things, albeit painfully.
“When you leave here, make an appointment with your general practitioner for next week. Try not to use your hands in the meantime, and don't pop any more of these blisters—Let them be. If anymore pop, let them drain and let the skin do its thing. Don't cut them away. Leave that to your GP.” the doctor pats his shoulder, “You’ll have to change the dressing on your left though. Do you have anyone to help?”
Carm flashes on Syd first, her skilled hands would make quick work of the dressings. But that’s probably crossing a line. He can ask Sugar, but he doesn’t want to keep being a fucking burden. Richie would be easiest… Now that he’s thinking about it, Ebra would probably have the most experience.
“Yeah,” he finds himself saying distantly, “I’ll have someone to help.”
The doctor nods, then puts the script for his meds in a little plastic bag, and puts Carm’s lesser burned right hand through the handle.
Carm walks out into the parking lot feeling queasy. He doesn’t see anyone waiting for him. He’ll have to text them. He gingerly pulls out the script instead.
Fuck. It’s the same type of painkillers he found in Mikey’s desk. His stomach lurches and his heartburn’s suddenly intense. He manages not to throw up, but he’s fucking crying again. He sinks onto his haunches, loses balance and falls hard on his ass because he can't catch himself with his hands like this.
If he doesn't have his hands, what good is he?
Sugar
Richie and Sugar are waiting in her car because it’s getting cold now that the sun’s gone down. Carm’s been in there awhile, and Richie and her have been making the most painful small talk. Still, she’s glad she made Pete stay home because Richie would be insufferable instead of awkward, and the wait would've felt even worse.
Sugar spots Carmy first, still in his blue apron, his one remaining coat (after selling his entire denim collection for that damn restaurant) thrown over it, standing there like he’s lost. He hasn’t seen them.
“What the fuck’s he doin?” Richie asks. Before Sugar can answer Carm’s on the ground. They’re both out of the car so quick it’s a wonder she doesn’t leave the keys in the ignition.
“Bear!” Sugar squats and reaches for him. She sees he’s crying helplessly, holding a script, one hand bandaged, the other red with nasty blisters, one of which takes up almost the entire heel of his palm.
Richie’s there a second later, “C’mon, Cuz,” he says more patient than she’s ever heard him, “let’s get you in the car." Carmy nods at them, biting his lips, trying to stop crying.
If Sugar was worried before, she is off the fucking deep end now. Richie and her grab Carm under his arms, haul him up. He’s so tense he feels like he's gonna snap.
She takes the script from him as they bundle him in the back seat of her SUV. He still hasn’t said a word, but he's not crying anymore. He's looking out the window with that distant glassy look, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. She looks at the script. It's for painkillers. The grief that's always in the background fills her for a second, and she has to catch her breath. Carm is not Michael, she reminds herself.
"We're gonna fill this, then I'm taking you to our house." She can see Carm shake his head in the rear view.
"Great idea," Richie says, "I'll order pizza. We'll have Pete feed it to you." That gets a huff out of Carmy, and Sugar gives Richie a reluctant smile.