Chapter Text
Michael was staring at the stupid fucking cans of tomato sauce again. Richie had no doubt in his mind that the motherfucker was as high as a kite, and he was absolutely pissed the fuck off. They had a health inspection tomorrow, and Michael had been no fucking help in cleaning up his own dirty-ass restaurant. It shouldn't surprise Richie anymore how much of a fucking burden Michael had become, but somehow, Michael was always finding new lows to drop to.
Richie was watching his friend through his peripheral vision as he scrubbed a stubborn stain off the counter. Michael was leaning against the wall next to the fryers, lost in his own world.
Richie was bone-fucking tired, but he didn't stop; he couldn't stop. His hands were burning with the chemicals in the cleaning supplies, and he kept having to slap himself in the face to keep his fucking eyes open. Wearily, he glanced up at their clock and groaned loudly when it read '1:49'.
“Thanks again for staying late, T.” Richie shouted. He glared at Michael as he did, hoping to catch his attention. It didn’t work. Nothing seemed to work anymore. Michael was slipping away, and no amount of arguing, bargaining, or threatening was bringing him back.
Tina, the fucking Godsend, was working at her ‘station’ next to him. She looked as tired as Richie felt, but she was working faster and harder than Michael had in months. And, honestly, more efficiently than Richie because he was more focused on being pissed off at Michael than cleaning at the moment.
Tina sighed and glanced up from her station, her eyes droopy and bloodshot. “It’s no problem, Richie.” She said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Then she glanced at Michael, allowing her smile to drop completely. She was just as worried about Michael as he was. Or maybe a close second (third. Natalie took first prize above them both. Meanwhile, Carmen was in dead last. The little fucker didn't even know Michael was on drugs).
“No, really. Thank you for this. I know you’ve got a million better things to do with your fucking time.” Richie said, rubbing his hand down his face.
Every night he had to force his friends (his family) to stay behind and help him close. Depending on the night, sometimes they’d only leave half an hour later than usual, but most nights it was an hour or more. Tonight, they were pushing three hours since closing, and Richie knew there was a lot more work to do. Tina, the trooper, stuck it out with Richie the longest. The guilt of burdening her was eating him up from the inside out, tearing his stomach to shreds like the little monster from that movie, Alien.
His head pounded in rhythm with his heart as his stomach tightened with hunger, which was only outweighed by his nausea. In the last year he hadn’t had more than five hours of sleep per night and no more than a sandwich to eat a day. When he was a kid with no safe place to sleep and no money for food, this wasn’t a problem. He got used to running on empty. Then he met the Berzatto's, and his life got a million times better because they took him in, and all of a sudden, he had a safer couch to crash on, a more reliable source of food, and best of all, he had a friend. A brother. Someone he could depend on.
But he was older now; he was fucking hungry and fucking exhausted because. Now, scrubbing the floor was harder on his back and his knees, and everything fucking ached after work. He had a daughter now, a daughter he had very limited time with due to the stupid fucking court order. A daughter who he might have to cancel on picking up from school tomorrow if the health inspection goes to shit. Things were different now. He was different now. And, worst of all, Mikey, his best friend, who he once loved more than anyone in the world, was different now.
“Richie, seriously, it’s no big deal.” Tina said, as if she could sense his inner turmoil. He took a break from scrubbing to look at her as she threw her rag into the sink. She approached Richie slowly, her eyes locked onto Michael's still form. “But that is a big deal, and we need to do something about it.” She muttered as she pulled out her phone and texted the ‘Intervention’ group chat they had made.
She sent a single message: “Tomorrow.”
Richie glanced up at her, silently begging her for more time to think of what the fuck he was supposed to say to his best friend, but he knew it was a losing battle. He'd been pushing and pushing for more time for months, and now his time was up. He'd already left Natalie out to dry a few weeks ago, after promising to help her with the intervention she'd planned only to bail on her. Now he was fresh out of excuses.
Tina’s eyes bore into him, and he knew he didn't really have a choice anymore; Michael needed help, and they were the only ones who could save him. Or, what was left of him, at least. Richie was pretty sure the real Michael had died years ago.
"Go home, Richie. You look tired." Tina said affectionately, as if she were talking to her child. Richie scoffed a bit, but he couldn't suppress the warmth that filled his chest.
"Yeah, okay. I will soon. Promise." He lied. He'd likely be there all night again because he did not have the energy to drag Michael back to his apartment, and there was no way in hell he was going to be leaving him alone (he'd probably burn the place to the fucking ground). Tina could probably tell that he was lying, but she didn't make any comments. She just sighed again and turned away.
“Night, Mikey.” Tina called as she grabbed her coat and walked into the dirty, frigid world outside of The Beef. Michael didn’t respond. He was still staring at the cans, but at some point he’d slid down the wall and sat on the cold, dirty floor, still completely unresponsive. Not even fucking blinking.
If Richie didn’t know him better, he’d go check for a pulse, but he knew from past experiences that if he tried to touch him, he’d just end up with a bruised jaw.
“You good, Mike?” Richie called. Still nothing. But he blinked, and he could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, so he wasn’t too concerned about him—not yet, at least.
Michael had been acting weird—or, weirder than usual—since Sugar had rushed into the kitchen earlier that afternoon. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and a vein was popping out of her bright red forehead. She'd dragged Michael outside, and the entire team listened as she screamed at him. Unfortunately, none of them could make out the words, despite their less-than-subtle attempts at eavesdropping. If Richie was a gambling man, he would have to guess that Donna had done something. Again.
He knew how much Sugar hated the restaurant. He knew she hadn’t spoken to Michael in three weeks since her attempt at an intervention, and he knew she didn't even want to be looking at Richie at the moment, much less be near him. And only Donna could drive that hard-headed woman to go back on something she’d set her mind on.
As she left, Richie tried to talk to her and figure out what had happened, because she looked like a complete wreck, her face red and blotchy, cheeks streaked with tears, and she was wearing a thin shirt that he knew would leave her freezing her ass off within an hour. He was fucking concerned about her, but she didn’t even look at Richie as she stormed out. He couldn't blame her. He wouldn't have wanted to speak to him either. But, fuck, did it hurt to be treated like that by someone he considered family.
Richie hadn’t had the opportunity to ask Michael what had happened because they were fucking booked all day, and Sugar’s interruption only set them back further. Plus, Richie knew that Michael would never spill his guts in front of everyone. But even now that they were alone, Richie doubted he’d get a real answer out of him. He still wanted to try, though. He had to try.
Richie sauntered over to Michael, keeping his arms crossed against his chest, almost to protect himself. “So, Mikey.” Richie said as casually as he could muster as he leaned against the counter to look down at Michael. “What’d Sugar Bear have to say?”
He didn’t expect a response, and he didn’t get one, but Michael did look up at him, and his eyes bore into his fucking soul. If looks could kill, Richie would be reduced to a fucking skeleton because holy shit was Michael mad.
Richie raised his hands in defense. “I’m not trying to pry, man. If it’s personal, you don’t have to say anything.” He said quickly, hoping to defuse the situation before Michael lost his temper, even though, deep down, he felt he had every right to know. He'd earned the title of 'cousin’. He was family.
Michael kept staring, but the anger was slowly draining out of him, morphing into something closer to sadness. At least, the closest thing to sadness Michael could feel. Then, to Richie’s surprise, Michael muttered. “You hear from Carmy lately?”
Richie let out a long, slow sigh. Of course Michael was going to fucking deflect. ‘Whatever,’ Richie thought to himself. ‘At least he’s fucking talking.’
“Not recently, no.” Richie said honestly. Carmen and Richie had never been that close; Carmen was too much of a soft little bitch for his own good, and Richie’d just tried to toughen him up a bit. Thicken his skin. Carmen resented him for it but praised Michael for it. (And if that wasn’t a double standard, Richie didn’t know what was). Now the little shit was off being a big shot in New York, abandoning his family for the high life. Richie hadn’t even seen him in person since the complete and utter shit show that was Christmas dinner a few years ago.
Michael nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. “Neither have I.” His voice was rough and thick, like he was on the verge of tears. Richie’s eyebrows furrowed at that.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Mikey? I see him calling you almost once a week.” And that was the fucking truth. 'Bear’ popped up on Michael’s phone all the fucking time. Just a year ago, when the real Mikey was still with them, Michael would show off Carmen’s dishes to the whole staff every other day.
Richie knew he was being snarky at a very dangerous time; he had to remind himself that Michael wasn't in the right headspace. He probably doesn't even know what the fuck he's talking about, given the fact that he’s lying about not talking to Carmen. Richie was reminded by Michael's glare burning into him that he was not, in fact, talking to his best friend, but rather the shell of him. He expected one of two responses from ‘Michael’: an angry ‘fuck you’ or silence.
He was not expecting him to burst into tears.
Of all the years Richie has known Michael, he has never seen him break down like this. He remembers exactly two times in his fucking life when he’s seen him cry: when he realized his dad had left for good and that one time in '98 when they thought Donna had run off with Carmy, and that was fucking it. But here was Michael "emotions are for pussies" Berzatto sobbing his fucking eyes out on the cold, hard floor.
Richie quickly dropped to his side and held his hand close to his shoulder, scared to touch him because holy shit, this was uncharted territory. For several long seconds, Richie could only stare as the closest thing he had to a brother fell apart. He covered his face with his huge hands as sobs racked his body, pulling at his hair and gasping like a dying man. “Michael, what—“
“I never fucking answered.” He choked out with a strangled sob. “I never fucking responded or even fucking looked at his messages. And now he’s fucking—he fucking—fuck!” He slammed his closed fist into the wall, and Richie jumped backwards.
“Michael, holy fuck.” Richie snapped breathlessly. He had to admit that in this moment, he was fucking scared of Michael. Terrified. But another feeling was starting to outweigh that fear. Frustration. Fucking anger towards Carmen.
Carmen. Of course it was fucking Carmen throwing a little bitch fit and whining to Natalie like a fucking child. If there was one thing Michael, Sugar, and Carmen, and Donna had in common, it was their tempers and the utterly fucked-up things they said whenever they felt cornered.
“Mike. Whatever Carm or Sugar fucking said—"
“He tried to kill himself, Rich.”
Richie felt his mouth go dry. His blood turned to ice, and all the frustration drained out of him just as quickly as it had come, forming a deep pit in his stomach that bubbled and groaned painfully. All he could do was stare at Michael's red, tear-streaked face and process the words.
Carmen. The little, baby, whiny-ass, Michelin star dickhead… his cousin. Carmy tried to…
fuck.
Richie choked on the air, which was suddenly too thick, as he tried to speak.
“He—Carm… what?” Was all he managed to choke out. He couldn't wrap his head around it. Sure, Carm was a bit weird, very antisocial, and definitely not the happiest person in the world, but he would never kill himself, right? This had to be a mistake or some fucked-up prank Michael was pulling on him. Right?
Michael nodded slowly, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. “He didn’t show up to work; a coworker was worried, so he went to check on him. Found him seizing on the floor.” A laugh tore out of Michael’s throat; the sound made Richie feel sick. “Fucking ironic, right? You would’ve thought I would be the one to overdose.”