#or mikey and sugar

[roseferncal]

*cardi b's voice* what was the reason!?!

[darlingshane]

THE BEAR (2022-)

[irlplasticlamb]

but business is business and business runs in the family.

prints + merch

[m4ndysk4nkovich]

the saddest thing about natalie berzatto is that she was never welcomed into the kitchen, which is probably why she never became a chef like her brothers.

her brothers were welcomed, and were praised.

for natalie, she had clearly attempted to cook as a child, but made a simple mistake, earning her a lifetime nickname that basically was code for ‘failure’.

it doesn’t take a genius to figure out she is her mother’s least favorite, and was most definitely deprived of love as a child.

however now, she has a sweet, caring, loving husband, who will be a great father to their child. and he doesn’t call her sugar.

[periprose]

Fly Away

Michael Berzatto x Reader

You're a family friend of the Berzattos and you're invited to have fun at their annual Christmas dinner. You think you still harbor feelings for Carmy, but as the evening progresses, you feel something for his brother.

Genre: friends to lovers, former crush on carm, really everything w carm is mostly platonic, unrequited stuff, insecurities, age gaps (reader and carm are 25, Michael is 38), takes place in 2017, takes place in S2E6, lots of angst, anxiety, some fluff, no use of y/n (you have a nickname: Birdie)

Word count: 11k

There’s a bauble and trinket everywhere you look. Festive, Christmas spirit seems to ebb from the very walls of the Berzatto household– and you would be remiss not to compliment it vocally in some way.

Donna is clearly waiting, teetering on a response from you as you take everything in from the front door. And you know how she reacts if you don’t say things in that perfect, supportive tone that she so desperately thrives off of.

“Wow, Mrs. Berzatto!” You clasp your hands, trying not to seem too cloying or ironic. “I love what you’ve done with the house. Such an eye for details.”

“Oh, stop.” She giggles, and lightly taps your shoulder as she takes your coat and hangs it up in the closet. 

“No, really. I wish my house was so… Christmassy this time of year.” You shrug, knowing that your dad isn’t the festive type after divorcing your mother.

“Aw. Well, we have love to spread here.” It’s a strange unseen sympathy coming from Donna, and she pulls you inside, and you take off your shoes, shuffling around in your socks and your comfy, hopefully chic, green loose turtleneck sweater. “Except you might have to wait a bit, because some of these fuckers are late.”

There’s that bitter tone you remember from Donna. You don’t really care for that– you tend to have an avoidant personality especially with how your own mother acts sometimes– and she yells out for Carmy and Mikey to greet you.

“Boys! Birdie’s here!” She calls from the stairs, and you suddenly feel self conscious.

Ever since your dad, a former co-worker and friend of Cicero’s, starting taking you as a teenager to these Berzatto hangouts, you have always had a eye for Carmen. It was hard not to be, seeing this bashful, slightly angry, awkward boy, around the same age as you, with dirty blonde hair and bright blue eyes. You felt like sometimes, he really, really listened to you, and that was all you needed.

You wish you could be there for him too. 

It’s something you’ve never acted on, never bothered to actually approach him about– he always seemed so absorbed by his own thing.

You relished in the fact that he never had a girlfriend. You felt secure in that, because he just seemed safe. And it’s not like he would’ve been mean about rejecting you if he knew– you were always close to the Berzatto siblings. You were Bear and Birdie, ready to head out on a walk together, while the adults gossiped and drank.

Of course, you haven’t seen him in about… two years now. Around after he left to his apartment, and did his chef-education-training (you’re a bit vague on the details, honestly), and ever since then, as far as you know he’s slowly been doing what he loves. He does text you from time to time, but you’d be overstating those texts’ importance if you pretended it really quantified a relationship.

Mikey clambers down the stairs, wearing what looks to be pajamas, or very chill homebody clothes, and he raises his arm in a big, Italian gesture.

“Oh! Is that little Bird I see?” He exclaims, and pulls you into an eager hug. Maybe a little too eager– you think it’s almost as if you’re comforting him as you hug him back, his face coming down onto your shoulder, as he encapsulates you– and he pulls away, grinning.

He actually looks really good. You don’t know when you started thinking that Mikey was good looking, but it’s true– he has a certain, rough around the edges appeal that you find yourself drawn to.

“Merry Christmas. You’ve been keeping away from us.” Mikey points as you, intended as a stern remark, but you snort.

“Yeah, Merry Christmas. I’ve been busy with work and law school, Michael. I’m not a kid anymore.” You resist the urge to comment on his beard, and then do it anyways. “Are you sure I’ve been keeping away? You’re the one with a hermit-ass beard.”

“Oh… they grow up and just start taking shots at you, don’t they, Ma?” Mikey places his hand over his heart, as if he’s wounded, and Donna shakes her head in agreement, before heading back to the kitchen, already seeming annoyed about something. “Beards are fashionable in 2017, Bird. Maybe come back to our current time– no reason for you to start dressing like a grandma already.��

You scoff at that, pointing at your sweater. “It’s semi-formal, c’mon! It looks nice. Respect the gathering’s rules.”

“It’s my house, babe.” Mikey leans in with maybe a little too much comfort, his eyes shining with some warmth, mirth even, and you don’t exactly pull away– the guy is like thirteen years older than you, and even if he does kid around, play up an older brother thing, you’ve started feeling like he’s restraining something more as of late, maybe some primal level of attraction that he knows better than to mess around with. You know that the feeling is kind of mutual– but you really don’t know how to quantify it. “I’m man of the house, and I say you should wear something that maybe, uh, shows off the pretty twenty-five year old that you are.”

The last part of this sentence has you swallowing a little, and you feel your face turning warm, and Mikey himself looks embarrassed that he’s said it, that he’s given a bit of evidence to your theories– he seems to brush something off, inside himself. 

You have never thought you were all that. You’ve always been pretty sure you should be glad that you’ve gotten by without having to worry about your looks. The idea of wearing a nice, somewhat revealing dress to the Berzattos’ house has you cringing, because you know it would just be… bad. 

“I’m not–” Mikey scowls at himself and you can visibly see himself fighting something, looking a little anxious, and you tentatively grasp his forearm.

“I know what you mean. I’m not offended.” You smile slightly, making the effort to calm him down a little, because you would never want Michael to beat himself up over you (he really seems to do that as of late and you know you’re not worth the trouble), and he nods and inhales. “You look good, too.”

“Right. Right on, Birdie. You can do what you want, anyways. Not up to me.” He seems to really dial back some of what he said, and before you can respond, Carmy walks downstairs.

“Hi. Hey, Birdie. Merry Christmas.” He says, kind of quietly, and you find yourself somewhat happy to hear him say your nickname again. Carmy looks especially nice– deep blue has always been his colour, it brightens up his eyes– and he has slightly longer hair than you remember. 

He leans in for a brief but firm hug, and glances at your eyes once, before looking towards the floor again.

Mikey nods and proceeds to exit to the kitchen, and you’re left with Carmy grappling with what to say.

“How have you–”

“How’s law sch–”

Carmy coughs awkwardly, and you find your face turning warm as he looks towards you.

“Sorry, Bear.” You let him speak, hoping not to scare him away. “How’s everything? You okay?”

“Yeah. Uh… well, I’ve been training at Copenhagen?” He furrows his brows, runs his hand through his hair. “Just learning as much as I can.”

“Oh. Uh-huh.” Your curiosity is piqued– you didn’t know he was in Denmark, much to your disappointment– but you want to pry more of an answer out of him. He doesn’t seem interested in talking about it more than that. 

“Sorry. Sorry. Stupid answer, there’s just not much to say.” Carmy shrugs, and then realizes suddenly that you’ve been standing at the foyer of the house for quite some time now, which isn’t very polite or inviting of him. “Wait, hold on. Let’s go sit inside and talk.”

Carmy makes some offhand comment about how you need to speak up sometimes and stop being so nice and accommodating to idiots like him, and you snicker, knowing that this is the Carmy you remember– snarky, ready to fight people on sometimes, even if he is a little weird and bashful. Although he’s short– he makes up for it with his resilience.

Carmy leads you through golden-lit hallways, a certain pepperminty, pine tree scent seeming to overlay the entire house, and there’s bushels and wreathes and mistletoe everywhere, and somehow even more baubles, ornaments, trinkets, knickknacks, all gold and red and warm tones that do make you feel a little fuzzy.

Carmy sits you down in the living room, on the sofa, and you’re next to him, and you place a foot under your knee, trying to feel casual. Not freaking out about him sitting right next to you. Weirdly enough… you don’t think you feel anything anxiety inducing. 

Perhaps you’re just getting more reassured of yourself with age. 

“So? How is Copenhagen, otherwise? I know Denmark is really interesting, but you’re probably busy with chef stuff, huh?” You prod just a little further. Just out of your own personal curiosity to see how far Carmy will go for you, and he nods. “Any friends?”

“Ah…” Carmy winces a little. “Can’t say if he’s a friend yet, but there is this guy that’s out of this world with pastries. I don’t know if I can meet his standard on that.”

“Oh, please.” You roll your eyes. “Bear, you make my dad cookies all the time. Or, well, you used to. You can’t be that bad at it, considering that he always eats all of them.”

“Oh, really? Fuck, man.” Carmy looks at you in disbelief, settling more into his corner of the couch, closer to the tree, but looking more openly at you. You feel yourself cower a little under his watchful gaze. “I didn’t know your dad enjoyed them that much… I would’ve made more. Did you ever try them?”

“Hm?” You were getting lost in the details around Carmy– the dark blue shirt, the little bits of stubble around his jaw, the tattoos peeping out from under his long sleeves– and you nod. “Ah, I tried a batch around the last time you gave him some. I think it was… macadamia, matcha, white chocolate? Really good.”

Carmy is unreadable, his eyes flickering from the ground to your eyes– you think maybe you’ve embarrassed him a little– but he thanks you. “Where is your dad, anyways?”

“Ah. He’s got the flu, and he was kind enough to not want to infect you guys.” You admit. “Even though he was trying his best to walk over here from our house.”

Carmy remembers that you live in the neighbourhood over. You two used to hang out a lot during elementary and high school. He kind of missed you– something he’d never say out loud, but Carmy knows friends are few with him, and you were always a good friend to him growing up. You were always a comforting presence for him– you never asked him for too much, and he could tell you were being careful to do so. No pressure.

You just became really busy with law school, and he became really busy with chef stuff, and now you’re both… you both just lost touch. He feels bad about it– bad like he always does, with former friends and acquaintances from high school that he’s accidentally ghosted and lost– but at least you don’t seem to be annoyed about it. 

He thinks it’s probably because in this case, you pulled away just as much as he had to.

“How’s law school, anyways?” Carmy counts the years in his head. “You’ve either just finished or you’re in your final year?”

“I’m in my final year.” You stretch out your arms, looking eager. “It’s a lot of work– I’m only here because I’m lucky enough to have a bit of a break in the winter months, and I’m ahead on my courses. But, uh… I don’t know. It’s fun.”

“Fun? Wow.” Carmy grins a little. 

“What?”

“I don’t know, Birdie. Fun is more… fucking, I don’t know, fireworks or something? Drugs, maybe, yeah.” Carmy watches as you laugh, and laugh, at what he’s said, and again he’s never really sure what’s so funny about what he’s said, but he likes to hear you laugh.

“Clearly you don’t know either.” You snort, and lightly punch his arm. “When did we become workaholics?”

“Probably when we became, uh, adults and entered the workforce.” Carmy states, and you wrinkle your brows.

“We’re not really in the workforce yet, but–”

“What, really? C’mon. You’re a fucking receptionist or some shit, right?”

“Business administration specialist.”

“Yeah, there you go. That’s work, especially with all the school you have to do.” Carmy shrugs. “But what do you really want to be, then?”

“Oh, we getting into dreams, then?” You cock an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t think you cared that much, Bear.”

Carmy, for some reason he can’t detect, turns a little red. “No, of course I do. We’re still friends, right?”

“Acquaintances.”

“For real?” Carmy looks back at you, affronted, but you have a little smile and he knows you’re teasing. “Oh fuck you. Stop it.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You shake your head, giggling a little, glad to have so easily fallen back into a comfortable, friendly banter. “Of course we’re friends, it’s just that… I always thought very highly of you, Carmen, and I can’t always be sure that feeling was returned. You know? I assumed that you’d be out doing sophisticated cooking in big, upscale restaurants, and the rest of us would just be reading about it. Forgive me for feeling a little behind it all.”

“No, no, no. You got it all wrong, Birdie.” Carmy half-laughs at how you put him on such a pedestal. “You were always the one doing real work, as Mom would call it. You’re the one who’s actually smart and good at arguing, debating– that’s a real skill coming from me, because I just yell fuck at everyone and hope it works. I always thought you were the impressive one out of all of us.”

You snicker, but you’re actually quite pleased with that, and you feel your heart warm at his praise. “Ah, that’s so sweet. Thank you. If it makes you feel better, I’ve been surviving off of ramen and convenience store food for the last month. I can hardly make the time to cook efficiently.”

“...” Carmy shakes his head. “That doesn’t make me feel better. You’re gonna eat good food today then, I hope.”

Almost as if on cue, Donna calls for Carmy to come help her with something– and you’re left sitting as he tells you that he’s going to hear about your dream job when he gets back.

/

Fifteen minutes later– Carmy is still MIA, and you’re starting to get a little hungry. 

You know it’s rude, but luckily Michael comes by and asks if you want a snack.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” You ask, and Michael snickers.

“You’re the same girl that can eat a whole number four combo at the Beef. I’m pretty sure you were hungry before you got here.” Michael jokes, and you blush in embarrassment.

“Oh my god, stop it.” You shake your head. “Anyways, yeah. A snack would be nice.”

Michael gives you a wink that strangely has you a little twitterpated, before you shake that off. He comes back a few minutes later, chewing on something himself– and he hands you a bowl full of Italian sausage stirfry.

“Thanks, Michael.” You smile up at him, and he nods, trying not to smile too much back at your gratitude, but he likes how you take a bite and look super relieved, happy with the food. He’s always loved giving food to people– taking care of them. Especially you, for some reason.

Michael heads back to the kitchen, and Natalie comes by and takes his place.

“Birdie!” She hugs you tightly, and you hug her back, equally happy. “Oh my gosh, if I knew you were down here I would’ve come by ages ago!”

“Aw.” You beam at her. “That’s okay, Nat. I’m happy to see you too.”

She’s off ranting about how Pete, her husband, is late, and how she can barely manage everything going on, and you’re sympathetic. You know Nat gets more of a harsh treatment from Donna, and you tell her that you’re there if she needs a person on her side.

“Oh, Birdie. I couldn’t do that to you. Even if you are amazing at talking, Miss Lawyer-to-be.” She lets you continue to sit down in your corner of the living room, as she heads off to check on her mom– maybe pour out some alcohol.

 Carmy comes back in, slightly powdered with flour on his forehead– and he sits back down, sighing, as he drinks a glass of water.

There’s the slightest air of awkward tension still– even if you and Carmy have fallen back into your old ways, he still keeps a slight distance, one that he’s grown into, and you feel that you have to break the silence. You don’t know if he’s just tired or if there’s some level of irritation of having to deal with all the holiday bullshit, but you take a guess it has to do with Donna.

“That bad?” You grimace, and Carmy matches your expression.

“That bad.” He shakes his head. “She always gets a little woo-woo around these fucking events. Like, I never wanted her to do all of this– but she insists and insists and doesn’t know how to let go of the, uh…”

“Hubris.” 

“Yes. Hubris.” Carmy sighs, glad you still have the perfect word for everything. “Whatever. Anyways, haven’t forgotten. Hit me with your dream.”

“Okay, it’s going to sound a little weird, but, um… I’m really interested in becoming a labour relations lawyer?” You feel almost too much glee at the fact that Carmy remembered, and you see Carmy bite his lip, a little confused, so you continue, hoping you don’t sound like too much of a fucking nerd. “Meaning to help employees get out of their shitty situations with wages, working hours, benefits and fight for their rights. Union stuff. I don’t know, just feels like everyone is struggling with this nowadays… might as well push forward and try to help them out.”

“Wow, now that you’ve said that, it makes a lot of sense.” Carmy blinks. “I mean, uh, it’s not just that you’re good at arguing– you always go for the justice part of things. Remember when Michael and Sugar were arguing about cleaning the basement?”

You do remember that. You suggested dividing up either equally or by who owned what, and they eventually came to an agreement based on that. Michael wanted to dip because he was older, and Sugar thought it was demeaning to ask a girl to clean.

“Or when Lee said that women can’t think analytically, or what was it… mathematically?” Carmy laughs as he watches your face turn angry again.

“Yeah. I especially remember that. I told him to think about Ada Lovelace and to shut up.” You wince. “Maybe not the most mature thing I’ve ever said. I don’t think that’s such a great thing… sometimes I don’t know when to let go of arguments.”

“It’s alright, it was funny.” Carmy plays with his fingers. “That being said, I think you’ll be good if you choose to be that. A labour relations lawyer. You’re smart, and god fucking knows we all need the help. You should check out how many chefs get fucked over because they work at places for the prestige of doing so.”

“Damn.” You make a mental note of that, feeling embarrassed over how much praise Carmy has freely given you. “Is that going to be you?”

“Doesn’t matter if it is. Sometimes you gotta do what you can.” Carmy doesn’t really give you a clear answer, and you feel bad for him. Bad that he’s still stuck in that mindset.

/

You can hear people hooting and jeering near the stairs, as you walk around the house, exploring a little. Tiff was grateful that you visited her for a brief moment– she told you being pregnant was not all it was cracked up to be– and now you’re just on the upper floor, near the stair railing, on your phone.

You’re not really one to eavesdrop, but you hear– you believe it’s Mikey and Richie– they’re chanting “Claire! Claire Bear!”

Your stomach drops, as you hear them hoot about how hot she is, whoever this Claire girl is– how stacked she is, apparently, the banging body she has, the glasses no longer ruining her appearance– and although you know it’s gross men talk, there’s a small, sad part of you that wants to be perceived as attractive, too. 

Still, even as you find yourself frowning and turning away in disgust, you can’t stop yourself from listening.

You remember her. Claire, one of the neighbours down the street. Went to the same high school as you and Carmy. She was really something, someone of note if you remember the popular kid cliques correctly, but she had largely gone unnoticed by you, and it wasn’t for any reason in particular. You can’t be close with every person in high school.

But still– you feel jealous. Just a teeny bit. What was so different about her?

Sure, she was a nice girl. But weren’t you? You arguably had more history with the Berzattos, and yet… it’s as if you’ve simply blended into the wallpaper, their assortment of home decor and furniture. You’ve always been here, and so you don’t stand out.

You might never stand out.

You can hear Carmy trying his best to argue against them, asking them what they did, telling them to fuck off with their teasing– but he sounds sheepish, embarrassed, righteously mortified in the telltale way one would be when they have a crush, and you feel sick. 

They’re heaping compliments on her. You know what they mean when they talk about her like this– she’s the clear, obvious choice, probably closer to the family, more interesting, more affectionate, a genius. You don’t really know Claire that well, but apparently, she’s perfect. And you know you, in your silly frumpy sweater, in your attempts to dress up– you are not. You feel humiliated that you even believed Mikey when he said you were pretty– he was clearly complimenting you just to be nice. 

You weren’t even an idea in their minds, not for Carmy, anyways. You don’t even think Carmy is capable of seeing you like that now, and it’s with a crushing blow that you realize you were holding out hope. Mistaking familiarity for affection.

It’s a rookie mistake. One that you thought you were self aware enough not to make, because you’ve always known Carmen Berzatto was just out of reach for you.

You wait for them to leave, and come down the stairs, running into Carmy as he groans in annoyance.

/

Carmy says he needs to wipe some of the flour out of his hair, and you let him go upstairs, not really wanting to look at him, doing everything you can to make your way back to the living room unnoticed. In the meanwhile, Michael comes back and flops into Carmy’s seat on the sofa, next to where you sit, sullen.

“Hey, Birdie.” Michael starts, and you can’t read his tone, and you’re a little annoyed with his fake-nice attention. “Why not sit with me, the Faks, Michelle and Stevie? They’re really good people, I promise.”

“How do you know I’m avoiding people?” You snap back, maybe a little too aggrieved.

“It’s written all over your face, little Birdie.” He touches his knee to yours, and you bite your lip, swallowing your confusion, and Mikey enjoys the fact that you’ve chosen to wear a deep, brick-red Christmas lip colour. It’s hot– he doesn’t get how you don’t seem to be aware that you’re attractive.

He wants to kiss you. Maybe mess up that fancy lipstick and that sweet, annoyingly justice oriented, always-right character of yours. But he keeps it to himself.

“Don’t be antisocial. You of all people shouldn’t be alone during the holidays.”

“I’m not trying to be antisocial. I promise.” You shrug, trying to keep your emotions, that sinking feeling in your gut at bay– the last thing you want is for Michael to see you upset. “I was keeping Bear company, but I can come sit with you guys.” 

“That’s my girl.” Michael pulls you up by the arm, and you can feel your face warming at his choice of words– you like being in Michael’s good graces, even if you feel less than great right now.

Michelle, cousin of the Berzattos, has always been sweet to you. She’s impressive in her own right, and as you sit down in front of her and Stevie– she gushes about New York.

“Ah, that’s not to say Chicago isn’t impressive. Right, Birdie?” She smiles at you, not unkindly, and you feel happy to be included. 

“Right.” You shrug, knowing that the law firm you work at isn’t all that crazy. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re nothing special, not after what transpired just a few minutes ago, and you voice it. “It’s just okay.”

“No, c’mon. You work at one of the top fucking law firms in the city– you’re gonna make it.” Michael admonishes you. “Out of us Chicagoans, I mean, Michelle, before you take offense.”

“Yeah, Mish.” Richie echoes, popping up out of nowhere.

“None taken.” Michelle fixes her eyes between you and Michael– perhaps reading on something that you’re not even really sure how to understand, let alone explain– and she laughs. “Anyways, what was I saying? Right.”

She launches into a story about hating a woman who didn’t understand the Berzatto name. It’s quite funny– you find yourself laughing every now and then, the dull ache in your heart less noticeable, especially with how good Michelle is at telling stories, and somewhere along the story, Michael’s hand has stayed intertwined with yours, without you really noticing. You only notice when he lets go, and again– a pitfall in your stomach, wondering if Michael just feels familiar around you because there’s nothing to be attracted to and thus respectful of– and it’s such a stupid thought, but you still just know you want to feel wanted. You want to get a hold on yourself– remind yourself you’re not owed attraction and there’s nothing wrong with Mikey or Carmy seeing you as just a friend.

You realize with a start that you’re feeling confused about Michael, too. Was it just a weird quirk of his, calling every single girl pretty just for laughs? Could you even trust what he said? Why does Michael’s opinion of you feel way more pertinent and important than Carmy’s does?

You find yourself mulling over these thoughts, not sure of what’s going on around you, and you hear Michael tell the Fak bros, Ned and Ted, to shut up about California, which they do.

Donna starts screaming in the background, which causes you to turn abruptly. “Oh, fuck me!”

Michael turns and looks at you with some caution– he’s used to his mother’s outbursts, but he never ever wants you to face them. You don’t deserve that, you’ve probably never done anything to deserve it. Not like him.

Stevie gets up, much to the surprise of everyone around him. “Looks like Auntie D needs help, huh?”

“No, no, no.” Everyone tries to stop him, including you.

“What?”

Michelle pushes him back down, but he gets back up, resilient. 

Lee decides to comment in. “Let him, why not?”

“I’m sure she could use a few extra hands. I’m going.” He goes, and you stand up to follow, not willing to let an innocent person get dragged into Donna’s insanity.

“Wait, Birdie. Where are you going?” Michael holds your hand again, and you turn red at his action– a little angry, a little glum that he seems to care for you, and you can’t even be grateful for it. “Don’t throw yourself to the wolves. It’s not fucking worth it.”

“Not throwing myself– just want to make sure Stevie is protected.” You move forward, your face stony, and Michael lets go of you, sighing as he wraps his blanket around himself, wondering when you got all pissed off, but glad that you’re not so upset that you wouldn’t act all lawyer-y for Stevie.

Lee is glancing at him, while Michelle looks pleased as punch.

“What? What the fuck are these expressions?” Michael looks around questioningly, and Richie gives him a side glance.

“When’d you get all sweet on her, bro?” Richie gags a little. “Not that she’s not your type, but, uh–”

“I’m just being friendly.” Michael dismisses him, leaning back in his seat. “It’s the holidays, she shouldn’t be lonely.”

“Bullshit you are.” Richie sniggers, and Michael lightly shoves him.

“Yeah, I call bullshit too.” Michelle grins. “I can see it– you’re blushing.”

Michael groans, hating to be so obviously vulnerable in front of everyone. 

“Well I, for one, think it’s a huge, fucking catastrophic mistake.” Lee starts, and Michael feels himself blanch under the judgement of this guy. “You’re going to ruin that young woman’s potential if you go around messing with her.”

“Lee, she’s not that young–” Neil starts. “I think she can decide that herself?”

“Whatever. This one knows he isn’t right for her– always wants what he can’t have.” Lee mutters, and Michael feels that white-hot rage– the anger he feels bubbling inside of him as of late. 

He does his best to swallow it down, but a part of him knows that it’s true. As much as Michael enjoys your random visits over the past two years, he knows– you’re too good for someone like him. Too young, too selfless, too honest and good and pretty, and he feels an overwhelming wave of shame that he came so close. It’s like he just… doesn’t know how to be a good, responsible person, and it kills him on the inside that he could be so shameful, be so abhorrent and take advantage of you like that, and even if there is a tiny part of him screaming that it’s not so black and white– that you could be just as interested, of your own volition, in him as he is in you– he feels guilt. 

Michael is ashamed of who he is. Over, and over, there’s that feeling again– kill yourself– that he doesn’t know how to suppress, and he ignores it as he starts up a new story.

/

Natalie is tearing up as Stevie hugs her.

You came towards them in the midst of Donna yelling for Stevie to get the fuck out of the kitchen, and Sugar shushing him and shoving him away, and you now place a hand on her shoulder– clearly Stevie has it handled, somewhat.

When he lets go, she sniffles and you smile encouragingly, albeit a little sadly, and Natalie wipes away a tear. 

“It’s okay. It’s fine, it’s nothing. You don’t need to talk to her.” She starts, and you shake your head.

“I’m not going to. I can see that would make things worse.” You squeeze her shoulders, and Stevie nods.

“Yeah, Natalie. But we’re here. We’ll always be here if you want to talk.” He tries, and you smile at her– but something about Nat’s slightly upset, off putting expression, and Donna’s grumbling in the background– you feel your heart seizing a little at the tense emotions, so similar to your own, and you excuse yourself.

You walk until you reach the pantry, hot tears already working their way down your face. Every single negative emotion have come to a head, and you’re in terrible danger of having to explain things if you don’t get it together in under ten minutes or so.

You sit on the high table in the pantry, trying not to cry anymore than you already have, your head between your knees– but something about today has all your nerves on edge, and you know it’s because you put in some effort to come here, to see your dear friends, to look appealing enough, to be someone worth talking to, and now you feel as if they never really cared about you at all. 

You know these are lousy, immature feelings. You know you can be above them if you really, truly tried, but you let yourself sink into them further, because something about this environment is terrible and you just can’t let it go.

Even worse, no one has really done anything wrong. If this was a court case, you wouldn’t even have any evidence to make a claim. You’re simply confused, perhaps looking at things from the wrong angles– but the fact that you can’t look at this rationally makes you feel worse. As if you’re not as smart as you believed.

You don’t know how long you’ve been in here, when you hear someone shuffle into the pantry, next to you– it’s Michael.

He’s quick on his feet– you try to move away, let him grab whatever household ingredient he needed– but his full attention is on you as his eyes narrow, scanning your tear stained face and your hunched over body.

“Birdie?”

You can’t quite look at him, and you desperately try to wipe your tears, burying your face more between your knees. 

“Hey, no. Birdie.” He shakes his head, grabs your arms. He thinks it’s a little strange he’s had to cheer up two different people in the pantry, but he chalks it up to how his house always is. “What happened? Was it Ma?”

“No.” You sight and swallow down the sobs in your throat.

“Then what was it?” Michael’s eyes turn steely. “Fucking ‘Uncle’ Lee? Asshole. Told me I can’t finish any fucking businesses.”

“But… you run the Beef, don’t you?” You say, amid sniffles, entirely honest about it, and Michael’s eyes soften. “That has to count for something.”

“Yeah, little Bird.” He’s glad to have you here– he doesn’t care if it’s fucked up, not when you’re the only person on his side at this moment. “But why don’t you tell me what’s up?”

“I–” You shake your head, and feel your head hang heavy as you slouch over the table, and Michael leans over you, pressing your head to his chest, and you feel yourself crying silently into his shirt, as he shushes you and combs back your hair, his other arm caressing your back.

Michael’s not the best person– not the most comforting to be around– but he knows, by being an older brother, by being someone people want to be around, he knows how to make it count when he does give in to comfort. 

He just wishes he didn’t feel so goddamned depressed himself, so he would know the right things to say. He doesn’t want to be so useless all the time.

“Mikey?” You voice is timid. Small. 

He feels both elated that you would trust him with this, and devastated that he’ll never be good enough to deserve your trust. 

“Yeah, Birdie?”

“It’s so juvenile, but I…" You shake your head and decide to commit to it. "I wish I was pretty."

“Is that it?” Michael’s arm wraps around your shoulder as he squishes onto the seat of the table, next to you. “You think you’re ugly, huh?”

“I don’t think I’m–” You inhale deeply, and wipe away your tears again. “It’s not about being ugly. It’s more like an objective reality that I have to accept. I’m just not… I’m not anything special to look at.”

“Wow, kid.” Michael tuts and shakes his head. “Ever heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder? That stupid fucking mantra, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s true.” Michael almost starts laughing, but you look so solemn and serious, he resists the urge. “You’re not ugly. You might not think you’re all that, but you don’t see what I see.”

Michael tenses, and you watch as he falters over how to explain.

Michael thinks you're so damn annoying with that ardent, sweet expression– even if your tears are staining your face, you still look so grateful to hear him say those words– and it just crushes him. It crushes him to know that you look for his approval so much, when he knows you're worth so much more than that.

He doesn't want to let you down. You and Carmen– he will never be enough for the two of you. 

"I don't– I'm fucking stupid, Birdie, don't listen to me." He swallows, but you're hanging onto his words and your face falls again. 

"But I can listen to you get all poetic about Claire, right?" You mutter, angry, and you get up to leave– but Michael grabs your forearm, and he's quite a bit stronger than you are. 

“Hey. That’s different.” Michael tries, but you shake your head, and you’re left sitting on the table again. “I was only teasing Bear. It has nothing to do with you.”

“I know.” You turn even more glum, and Michael is left feeling terrible, wondering what was so wrong with what he said. 

You’re silent for a moment– you know that you like Carmy, but something about telling Michael about it feels weird, like you’re pre-emptively rejecting him rather than Carmy by confessing feelings that are slowly disappearing– and you just don’t want to.

But you know you need to. You need to accept that Carmy would never see you that way.

“I just… for a really long time, I thought that I…” You fall to silence, again, and Michael is staring at you, hanging onto every word, watching your side profile shake as you try to gather your thoughts. “I really liked him, you know? I don’t even know why– maybe he was just the clearly available, safe option, and now that’s not even true and I feel like I’m mourning something that was never even real. How stupid and childish can I get?”

“Wait, Birdie–”

“And I just… I know I’m not like Claire. I don’t know what I got myself into. I don’t even really like him anymore– it’s just that the situation makes it so damn apparent that I am just average.” You huff out your words with an air of finality that even has Michael flinching a little, and he runs his hands through his hair, unbelieving of what you’ve said. “You can’t even say I’m not, Mikey, because I know how you talked about her and it was just so different to how anyone here has ever thought about me.”

“Birdie, shut the fuck up.” Michael breathes out really heavily, pinching his brows, thinking that he regrets everything he said and he wishes he could take it back. “I didn’t really– I was trying to tease Carmy, you know? It didn’t mean the shit you think it does. Hell, I would be way more serious if I was talking about you.”

He takes a beat of silence– should he read your reaction to that, or keep going? And he decides to keep going.

“You can’t just act like you can read everyone’s minds because you’re a lawyer, Birdie.” Michael says it with a slightly lighter tone, and his hand traces the small of your back as you lean against your knees, staring up at him. “Didn’t you learn about intent or whatever the fuck it was? In school?”

“Yeah, I guess.” You admit despite yourself, and Michael smiles but continues seriously.

“I don’t think that about Claire, okay? If anything, I’m fucking embarrassed you heard me talk all of that shit– that was just meant to be, uh, guy talk. I swear.” Michael swallows, feeling guilty that he still had to be so low about it. “I don’t– I care so much about him, I just went too far in working him up. I think it would be a good thing for him, right?”

Hurt flashes across your face– you still don’t think you like Carmy anymore, you just don’t know how to feel about someone else being portrayed as a “good thing.” But you inhale– you know part of getting over it is having to accept this, and you let yourself think and then nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, I could see that.” You agree, and it doesn’t hurt as much since Michael is looking at you sympathetically. “I just… I want to be a good thing, too. Not for Carmy, just…”

“For someone?” Michael answers as you trail off. 

“Yeah.”

“Listen, Birdie. I’m gonna tell you something you gotta hear.” Michael has that determined look where you know he’s going to say something smart– he has his fleeting moments of wisdom even if he doesn’t believe in himself– and he goes for it. “I can’t believe no one has ever told you just to, I don’t know, fucking love yourself a little? Like, c’mon, you should be able to like yourself! You’re an incredible person and you deserve– you have the right to be insanely fucking confident and it’s so fucking annoying that you don’t see it.”

In the heat of his argument, Michael’s come too close again, and he can feel your breath on somewhere near his jaw or neck, and he has to remind himself to pull away again.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, and Michael combs back a strand of your hair.

“Don’t be sorry. Just listen to what I’m saying.” Michael inhales, thinks over why he can’t do this himself– Tina always tells him to be a little easier on himself, but he just struggles– and he thinks that you look terribly cute so it’s just a lot easier to root for you. “Don’t do it for some idiot guy who will never really appreciate you, little Birdie.”

You can feel the conclusion of that sentence, even if Michael doesn’t quite say it: do it for yourself. Be there for yourself. Listen to the good part of yourself, rather than him.

“Oh. I guess that’s…” You swallow, taking it in, knowing the value of his words. “It’s true.”

“See? You know it.” Michael leans in a little too close again, his face a mere breadth away from your own.

“I think you’d actually make a fantastic lawyer.” You slyly comment amid wiping your face, and Michael blinks and then laughs.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Then you’d get to see me and hear my advice all the time.” Michael mumbles a little over his words but to his surprise, you nod. 

“Yeah, then I’d get to see some idiot who really does appreciate me.” You murmur even more quietly, and Michael, feeling stupid, has a wistful smile on his face that he maybe has not felt in a decade. It’s so sweet– he thinks his heart is bursting with something. 

Maybe love. Maybe that jovial, Christmas spirit that seems to emanate as the food smells closer to ready, maybe what Carmen gave him as a kind gift, most likely the closeness he feels with you– not just being close in familiarity, more like– he can make out the little spots and freckles adorning your face, every single eyelash your still watery eyes have, the faint lines in your still-red lips, and it occurs to him that he’s too close. Somewhere during this talk, his hand has stayed around your back, and you have been tentatively tracing his right hand’s knuckles with your own thumb. 

Michael knows how it looks. If anyone was to walk in right now (and he’s sure Michelle or Richie have already put it together that the two of you have been gone for a while) they would assume you two are a couple.

He has a sudden air of regret– it’s not because he wants to reject you, he just… he struggles a lot with feeling wanted. He struggles with the standards that people seem to put on him. Michael has always known he’s not a good guy– he doesn’t know how to be the person that everyone seems to think he is. Carmen, Natalie, Richie, you– you all seem to think the best of him, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. He nearly had a breakdown watching Carmen look up to him so lovingly.

Before he can pull away– with another responsible refusal, telling you that he’s too old and washed up, and that you deserve the whole world and he is not enough to offer that to you– you gently but firmly grab his face, tracing his cheek, and he thinks it could be wrong– what if you’re just feeling all confused and willy-nilly about feelings because you’re displacing what you felt about Carmen, what if you don’t actually like him and you’re assuming that you do because of his clear attraction to you, what if you’re just feeling the moment and the sweet guidance he’s given you?

Tons of questions seem to flow from his mind, things that he wants to ask you, but Michael thinks fuck it, because you’re leaning in first and pulling him in and it’s something he would’ve never expected in a million years, that you could be just as attracted to him.

He kisses you maybe a little too hard– maybe it should’ve been softer, more gentle since you’ve opened up to him so much, but you kiss him just as eagerly back, and he doesn’t fucking care to be gentle anymore. He’s leaning over you and Michael knows he’s quite a bit taller, so he has to pull you upwards to really reach your lips, and the table the two of you are sitting on is quite small– it shakes a little and there’s not much room for Michael to really feel you.

Until you climb into his lap, because of course you do, and now you’re just tangling your fingers in his hair, and he thinks he can feel whatever migraine that the day’s events have spurred on him slipping away, and his hands wrap around the smallest part of your waist as he pulls you in, pressing his chest against yours. 

You feel like Michael’s beard tickles a little– but you don’t mind that. You weren’t sure until you did it that you’ve wanted to kiss him for a while. You feel like maybe you’ve actually been more attracted to him than you ever were with Carmy, maybe even just going for Carmy due to his aforementioned security. 

Michael groans, and he slips his tongue into your mouth, and you sharply inhale as his tongue roams around your own, and he knows he likes hearing you gasp when his hands come up under your sweater, just to feel your bare skin, and you pull away.

Michael comes in too close again, placing a soft yet firm kiss on the corner of your mouth, and you laugh at him, and it’s one of the best sounds he could hear. No longer are you all gloomy and sullen in the corner of the room– but there’s still an air of heat around you two, and he knows he should let you go before things go too far. 

“Consider that a Christmas present.” You murmur softly, tapping his face, genuinely smiling despite the smeared lipstick, and you clamber off his lap, and peek out the pantry. “I think you’re good to go eat dinner– let me just…”

You wipe the red lipstick from his mouth using the corner of your sweater sleeve, so not to leave evidence, and it’s an intimate moment that has Michael staring at your hand, to your eyes, and there’s something in his eyes– maybe sorrow, maybe appreciation, but most of all, tenderness, and he takes a silly, soft moment to just kiss your hand. You beam at him.

“How long have you wanted to do that?” You tease him, because you know that Michael has always had that look, and he stiffens for a moment.

“Ah… maybe around when you came back from graduating college.” Michael admits, feeling weirdly high and low all at the same time, but he questions you too. “What about you? Don’t tell me you just decided to kiss me right now. That would fucking… that would be too much.”

His heart falls for a split second– thinking about how again you could’ve just been having a little fling– why would you ever like him? He struggles to think how you could, even after having kissed you.

“No, no. I swear it’s not like that.” You turn a little red and play with your hands. “Um. You’re not like a rebound, Mikey, I just… I think I liked you ever since I started coming around more, maybe around last year? I probably just didn’t notice because I thought I was into Carmy. You know? Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Michael tries not to let the relief show through his face too much. “I thought maybe I was… reading too much into it. Putting pressure on you.”

“No, you’re good.” You shake off his concerns. “I don’t think that at all. I really do like you… might’ve just been obsessed with the idea of a childhood friend turning into a lover.”

Michael grins. “Well, who’s to say that didn’t fucking happen, Birdie? Are we not childhood friends?”

“Eh… kind of. You’re a bit old.” You give him a so-so motion, and Michael jokingly pushes you a little. “I’m kidding! This is more like– your friend’s hot older brother gives you a chance and it’s crazy and exciting and you just want to know more.”

You were half kidding, but you’re so honest about it, and Michael loves it, but there’s still that undercurrent of agony– he wants to just openly like you, too, but he doesn’t want to be such a fucking failure about it.

“I’m gonna just head to the dining table, I think.” You check your watch. “Gotta go think about this a little more– is that okay? Not in a bad way, I’m just overwhelmed with everything that’s happened today…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s okay, Birdie.” Michael presses a kiss into your hairline. He knows it is a lot for anyone to handle– getting over a crush you thought you had, realizing that you like someone else– he gets it. “Take all the time you need.”

“Okay.” You smile eagerly at him and then walk outside through the hallway, wiping your mouth so it looks less kiss-stained, and peek around so no one is looking at you. 

Michael feels a million emotions hit him at once, and he knows he has to cool himself down before explaining to everyone where you’ve gone, what’s happened– or he’s certain to implicate himself, and he can’t have that. 

/ 

It all goes to shit not even twenty minutes later.

You’re sitting pretty between Richie and Tiff, who seem to be a little bit… awkward, maybe arguing mentally about something you don’t completely understand. No one has really commented on your disappearance, but you’re sure it’s obvious based on how Michelle and Stevie are whispering and smiling at you.

Michael gets a massive, depressive episode right after you’ve left him. He can’t exactly pinpoint why– he feels like a creep even if he isn’t one. Hell, he only actually met you when you were nineteen– he was in a different state when you started visiting the Berzattos. But even if Michael ignores his potential, old-man creepiness… he also feels like you’re headed for so much more than he ever was, and he knows he’s holding you back if he does this. 

For once in his life, he just wanted to be happy. He just wanted to be wanted without the stigma of not being good enough. 

You, Carmy, and Nat. He knows you guys are on your way. Michael feels a pit in his stomach as he imagines why you guys all have to look up to him so much– he just happened to be in the right place, at the right time.

He can’t ignore the feeling that he is just a major fucking loser.

That’s why Michael goes and gets high. He knows he’s making a mistake, and he doesn’t want to do something so disappointing– but he figures he’s already a disappointment anyways. He’s grateful you’re not here outside to see how pathetic he really is– how much he craves a hit just to feel a little less shitty. And yes, it calms him down as he feels the high of the painkillers exacerbate positive memories, like with you, Carmy, Natalie– but it still makes his anger, his depressive tendencies strong, too. 

When he sits down at the dining table– he’s not that intoxicated, but he knows it’s a little apparent on his face, based on the mild alarm on your own. You’re sitting just far enough from him for there to be plausible deniability, but still– you are worried about him.

“You good?” You mouth, and he waves away your question with an air of fake nonchalance. 

You don’t look convinced. You can see the red in Michael’s eyes, the general tension in his shoulders, the unnerving sense of resentment in his expression. You wonder what could have happened in the last ten minutes that you’ve been sitting at the table, why Michael decided to go and get intoxicated just minutes after kissing you.

Were you too much for him? Maybe.

You know Michael gets high. In fact, last Easter, you’re pretty sure he spent the entire time high on something– but you only vaguely know about his anger flare ups. About his negative emotions, the supposed depressive periods he goes through. You’ve seen him argue a bit with Richie, you know he’s gotten a bit harsh with Carmy, but you know he’s a bit more troubled than that. The whole family seems a bit troubled. Natalie has told you that much, and you have your experience with that– your mother and father’s fights are ones that still make you quiver to think about. But with Michael?

You don’t know how much you believed it, until now, because Michael always seemed kind of… like he always had the right thing to say. You almost feel like he’s in the right to get upset, because he’s had a hard time, with his family, some of his luck surrounding his career– especially with how Lee continually riles him up.

The table is formal and nice for a bit. Michael and Tiff converse about something, Carmy asks if you’re okay and you mostly are. Michelle asks Mikey to say grace, and he sounds resentful, again, of Lee cutting him off so often. 

Cicero, being the responsible uncle that he is, tries to push off grace to Stevie, who promptly rejects it, and Michelle decides to ease the tension by asking what the hell the seven fishes are all about. Lee, of course, gleefully answers, about the dutch potatoes and the bible.

Michael glares at him and throws a fork. A real, honest-to-god, heavy piece of silverware. It clatters on the carpeted floor– you feel yourself flinch, and you watch Natalie and Pete’s expressions crumble into the realization that Michael is not okay, and everyone seems to look towards him in fear.

“You see what you did, right? You already did that. You already bitched about the dutch oven.” Michael retorts at him, not completely coherent, and you can feel the lights glazing over– the Christmas tree, the wreaths and baubles, everything seems to lose focus in comparison to the red-hot anger that Michael is bubbling over with.

Cicero and Carmy try to call him off, but Michael isn’t listening, and you can tell– he’s in a place to be upset. It’s like a slowly proceeding car crash– as much as you don’t want him to do it, you understand why he’s going to. You feel like there is a bit of a double standard in place here– Cicero seems to want him to respect his elders, and Michael is being kind of childish, but you can’t say you don’t understand why.

Michael asks for Fak’s fork, in direct opposition to Lee’s attempts to play the father in this house. Despite Fak’s insistent refusals, Michael successfully takes it. Everyone speaks with the intent to stop him, and he’s too focused on Lee to stop.

You know you hate Lee too. But such a severe reaction, coming from Michael? It has you wincing a little. You want to pull him away– tell him to be the nice older brother you’ve always known him to be– but you know it takes time. You know it’s probably going to get worse. You try to catch his eye– and he can't quite look at you.

You have faith in him. You know Michael can do better than this– you just hope he can see it, too. 

Michael throws the second fork, and you feel regret in trusting him, again, because he’s making things bad but it’s almost as if he can’t help it. You catch Natalie’s eyes– she’s clearly disappointed, too.

Michael feels a sick sense of pleasure, as he often does when it comes to acting out his worst desires. But he feels a flash of anger with himself– is that what he did with you? Is he really this guy? He thinks that he is, he is a bad dude and he can commit to that role if that’s what’s needed.  

“Cousin, you’re scaring the normals.” Richie tries, looking at Tiff and you, but you’re still yearning to catch his glance– and Michael can only respond that it’s nothing, everything is fine, and you’re suddenly reminded of when your parents used to fight and how you used to have to be the middle man and convince them that things were alright.

Michael looks towards you this time– but you’re not looking at him. You have your hands neatly clasped in your lap, your eyes are focused on the set of candles in the middle of the table, and you look horribly upset, with your neck all tense as you wait for things to blow over, and he can tell– he’s fucking up big time. Stevie, Carmy, everyone is looking pained, and Michael can only think that he doesn’t give a shit. He wants to make Lee feel just as terrible as he does.

"You see– I can throw forks because this is our father’s house." Michael scoffs back, and there's real agony in his tone. “My father’s house.”

Michelle inhales. “We have lift-off.”

“Okay, you got everyone's attention, so go ahead, tell us a story we've all heard a million times already.” Lee spits out, barely holding back his own contempt for Michael, and Michael starts laughing as if everything’s alright. “Tell a story about how you're living with your mom and you're borrowing money off of her and any other sucker who'll listen to your bullshit.”

Everyone looks towards the table, feeling terribly awkward about Lee’s accusations– it’s not that it’s necessarily untrue, but there’s a hefty amount of his own assumptions, his own bias thrown in there, and you want to speak up.

“Lee, shut the fuck up.” Cicero looks absolutely pissed off at him, and you’re grateful someone has taken some of the heat off of Michael. It’s Lee’s fault, too.

“I’m sorry. I told you not to be a sucker, Jimmy.” Lee comments, and Cicero exhales, exasperated.

“Lee. That’s not really fair– you’re being too hard on him.” You utter through gritted teeth, and Lee’s eyes narrow on you. It's the first time you've spoken, and Michael glances at you– his eyes are bright and he genuinely looks sorry. Sorry he had to go this far.

“Oh, am I? Really, Birdie? I would suggest I’m not being hard enough.” Lee raises his hands, invites you to speak more, and you know that it’s not really your place to do so, especially because Lee and Michael seem to have a lot of history.

But you have your almost-lawyer tendencies, and of course you’re not exactly unbiased either, because you want to see the best in Michael– you want to like him. 

"Please, Lee… Michael's working on himself. You don't need to lie to him." You stare at him, and Lee’s face seems to turn darker with that. “I’m sure we all have our issues… it feels like a lot.”

"Is that what he's told you, Birdie?" Lee sneers at you, and you suddenly feel small. "He's a sick, fucking twisted man, and you would trust him, wouldn't you?"

He doesn’t go further than that– but it’s enough that you feel humiliated for being read so thoroughly. It’s obvious what he’s implying– you’re a silly little girl who doesn’t know any better. 

“It's fine. It's fine. Because this guy's nothing and he's nobody.” Lee points at Michael again, and his expression sours so much. You watch as Michael seems to zero in on what Lee’s rambling on about. 

Natalie shakes her head in little no-no motions.

“Hey… Petey… I just need to, uh… I need to borrow this for one second.” Michael’s got that nonchalant expression again, but there’s pain in his eyes, and there’s a clamour of everyone again telling Michael to stop, calling his name, trying to distract him.

"Michael. Michael. Please don’t do this. Hey. Hey. Hey!" Natalie calls at him, and you know she's just begging for him to leave it alone. “I love you. Okay?” 

You watch as Michael, holding the fork, just holding it, clear malicious intent in his eyes, tension building in the air and you feel a little sick, but his eyes are watering and he clearly doesn’t want to do what he thinks he has to.

“I love you too, Sug.” Michael says honestly.

Stevie giggles, Cicero de-escalates things further, and you think you see the light at the end of the tunnel, if not for the fact that Michael is still holding the fork. Still standing up, taunting him, acting like a big old child as Carmy rebukes him– and it’s really just two grown men beginning to get all macho and toxic about who’s tougher, who’s really the man of the house, and they start screeching at each other and you watch as Michael’s eyes glaze over with something, with Lee’s final insult that “he’s nothing.”

You watch as Michael takes his seat. He seems ambivalent, hard to read– he’s not meeting anyone’s eyes and you feel terrible about it.

Donna comes in and takes her seat– she seems rather drunk, too, and the last thing you need is more evidence that substance abuse is a bad thing– and Stevie starts the most wonderful prayer that still isn’t enough to dissuade Michael. You catch his gaze– he’s mulling over something, his eyes are watery, and you want to go over there and talk him down, even if that idea is unwise.

Donna cries over the prayer, and Natalie commits the most cardinal sin that she could at this moment: she asks if she’s okay.

You flinch with recognition as Donna starts screaming at her, about how she is okay and could a person who isn’t okay make such a gorgeous meal, and she exits the room in visible anger, and Natalie begins to hyperventilate, while Michelle tries to calm everyone down.

Donna throws a plate down on the floor, and exits the room continuing to scream– and there’s a beat of tense silence, full of angst and what-nows, and Lee decides to take initiative breaking that silence with a silly joke– almost in a paternal role, again, a hot topic between him and Mikey– and you watch Michael’s eyes start narrowing as he leans against his hand.

Michael throws the third fork.

It’s like every single nerve you felt, every bit of tension that was already in place, comes to a head as Michael starts going batshit, trying his best to attack Lee, while the Fak brothers and Richie are between them, and you can barely think straight as everyone starts screaming at each other. 

Tiff almost gets dragged into the chaos, and you're left shielding and comforting her from the fight. Pete and Richie hold Michael off and you're thankful– the last thing you want is to go up in there and get caught in the crossfire yourself. It’s genuinely a blur– you have no idea how bad things are getting until Cicero starts telling them to get the fuck out.

Suddenly, the wall of the living room bursts inwards, the Christmas tree getting dragged in the crossfire, and you realize with shock that someone’s driven a car inside.

Not just any car– that’s Donna in there, driving, and you think for a moment she’s dead. You can’t believe what’s happening– you can feel your heart hammering through your chest.

Michael runs towards the car, tries to open the front door, yelling and asking her what she did, asking her to open the door. She stirs a little.

Everyone else is standing there, in shock, not focusing properly on what to do, and you pull yourself away from the crowd of people, as they stare on in horror. You don’t want to be a part of this, but you are, and you know what a responsible adult would do. 

You go outside, into the December night’s cold air, and call 911. Specify for the firefighters and ambulances, because Cicero has a big thing against narcs and cops and you’re not getting into that right now.

Even though you’re freezing, and that’s what you should be focusing on? You’re in an incredible amount of despair because of what’s taken place. You hang up the call and feel exhausted by everything that’s happened, and you wonder if Michael really knows better. If he can be more than this. It’s not something you’re judging him for– but you feel terrible about his circumstances and you want him to get out of there.

Worse, you can’t help but feel a little upset with him. Because you know that Michael didn’t have to stoop that low– he chose to, and that’s what bothers you the most. He let his emotional responses dictate how he was going to act, and you know it’s hard to not be so provoked in this environment, but still: you are concerned and upset with him, and you know you need to take a step back. As much as it hurts you to stay away, you feel like it’s going to hurt even more if you intentionally stay around.

You wait for the ambulance and fire trucks to show up– you take a minute to direct them through the house, and then you trust that someone else has got it from there. Carmy, Natalie, Michelle, Stevie– they’ve got each other, they’re whispering about something, and you know where you’re not needed.

You grab your coat and leave, leave as silently as you can without interrupting everything that’s going on. It’s an strange walk home– ten minutes of you thinking about everything.

You hope next Christmas will be better.

/

Michael comes down from his high hard. Someone’s wrapped a blanket around him, and he’s sitting on the front porch’s staircase, wondering what the hell is going on. Donna’s apparently been taken to the hospital– and there’s a makeshift tarp where the wall has been crashed in. Everyone has gone home.

Where did you go? He has a moment of panic. Are you okay? Did he fuck it up that badly? That you would leave without saying goodbye? Michael can picture the disappointment on your face, and he wishes– he really wishes he was someone else.

He’s stressing really hard, his eyes are beginning to tear up. God, he knew he wasn’t really worthy of your attention– you’re young still, you have the whole world ahead of you– and he wonders if he can apologize. He wonders what he could possibly say to make it right. After such an insane situation, he can’t even blame you for taking off.

Natalie tells him, kind sister that she is, that you were the one to call emergency services. Of course you were– you have a strong head on your shoulders and Michael feels strongly that his family is in debt to you. And then you headed home, but Natalie doesn’t know why.

He does have your number. But he’s not going to call you, not right now– he’s not going to make a bigger mistake and fuck things up further. 

Michael sighs, and leans back. He doesn’t deserve to be happy.

[asexual-cupid]

[hyacinthstears]

Both Donnie and Mikey are disabled in this AU. Mikey has rather Severe Hypoglycemia, and Donnie's wings have permanent muscle atrophy.

Donnie's battle shell acts as a brace to support his wings (they didn't develop right due to the lack of support his soft shell gives) with out his brace he can't lift his wings properly, which prevents him from walking correctly, leaving him stumbling on his feet.

Mikey's Hypoglycemia affects him heavily. Leo and Donnie always have Orange juice, gummy's, glucose tablets, honey sticks, and rock candy on them for Mikey cause he forgets to grab snacks a lot. when his Blood sugar drops to much he will get dizzy, slurs his speech, get uneven breathing, sensory overload, and blurry vison.

Raph and Leo don't think of them as "weaker" or "less capable". in fact they are so proud of their little bros for being so awesome all the time and not letting their disability's hold them back... but their still super worried for them, all the time... protective big bros activate!!!

[southsideserendipity]

I saw your post about Mikey so I hope this is okay & what you were looking for. Mikey meets a girl that is like sunshine whenever she walks in the room & makes him finally feel worthy/valued so he’ll do anything to make her feel special in return

Sunshine (Mikey Berzatto x Reader)

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of weed and alcohol.

Word Count: 4.2k

I found a good boy and he's on my side You're just my eternal sunshine, sunshine

“John, John- you listenin’ to me?!” Mikey was pacing his office, trampling over receipts and month-old sticky notes while aggressively combing his hands through his tussled black hair. “I’ll have your money. When have I not paid you, goombah? I didn’t see the invoice, you should see this fuckin’ office, not enough time to organize this damn shit show” he responded, kicking a stack of papers in the process. 

Bending down, he began rummaging through the various papers littering the office floor, attempting to compile them into categories. “John! You there?! Fuck.” Mikey frantically pat himself down, a sudden yearn for nicotine overcoming him. Finding his carton of Marlboros, he slipped the end of a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

Letting out a sigh, John grunted, “Yeah, I’m here, Mikey. I’ll give you a couple more d-” before being interrupted by the vibrations of Mikey’s phone. 

“Fuck me, that jagoff is calling” Mikey thought out loud. “Listen, John, I hear you, you’ll have your money, mmkay? On my ma, I swear to ya, I gotta go though there’s another ball-buster on the other line. K? Ciao.” Before John could respond, Mikey stood up to accept the other call.

“Mark, brother, hey, before you start… I know, I know.” He picked up his phone, taking it off speaker to slip it under his ear. “I— Listen, I know. I hear you. I- Hey, you gon’ let me speak, or wha’?!” Speaking with his hands he continued to pace around the room, his booming voice stifled by the cigarette. 

The lunch rush at The Beef was dying down, exposing you to increasingly longer bits of the chaotic conversation occurring in the office. This was Mikey’s typical presentation; disheveled, malnourished, and overexaggerately buzzed off of caffeine, nicotine, and italian-ness. Although he was impossible to reason with in this state, you took it upon yourself to fix him up his favourite; a mortadella sandwich with sundried tomatoes, pesto, and mozzarella.

“You think I don’t know that? Pft, c’mon! Mark, man, you’re killin’ me!” You stood in the doorway, observing Mikey as he stood with one hand on his hip, the other flailing around to exemplify his frustrations. In one of your hands was the plate holding the lunch you made; in the other was a Chicago Bears BIC lighter.

Subtly knocking on the already open office door, Mikey whipped around to face you, his inconvenienced facial expression seamlessly evaporating into his wide-tooth grin. Mouthing ‘meet me outside’ was all it took for him to fake an excuse off of the phone and trail in your footsteps.

Albeit cheesy, you had that captivating effect on him, your hidden-well insecurities and past failed relationships blinding you to the fact that Mikey was infatuated with you. That, in combination with the 15-year age gap between you two. For Mikey, none of those factors changed the fact that you were his daylight, sunshine in human form.

Outside in the back you sat on a milk crate, the pre-Spring Chicagoan air fluttering over your skin. Moments after, Mikey joined you by sitting on an adjacent crate close to you after propping open the door. “Thanks, Bella” he said as he leaned over, his palm squeezing your thigh in an attempt to physically communicate the appreciation he held for your act of service. 

You offered out the plate to him, prompting him to begin devouring. He gruffly moaned after taking his first bite. “Mhhhh, shit, this is like Marry Me chicken but in sandwich form.” You giggled in response with your hands resting in your lap, watching as he attacked it hungrily. Mid-bite, he motioned with his head towards the other sandwich on the plate, “Ain’t gonna eat itself, Italiana.”

“I’m not hungry right now, Mike,” you responded, suddenly losing your appetite as you thought of the most effective way to check in on him without him brushing it off. Mikey had a fortified ‘I’ll deal with it maself’ attitude; his hard-headed, traditional Italian, ‘Godfather’ persona caused him to keep you far away from the messes he had gotten himself into. In his eyes, you are more than capable of dealing with life’s bullshit, but his innate urge to protect you from harm’s way and unnecessary stress made it difficult to involve you.

“What was going on in there?” you motioned towards inside with your head. “Ah, nothin’ doll.” He shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to brush off the topic, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Just some bills that need payin’, I got it covered. Business good today? Any jagoffs give you trouble?” He frantically read your face, urgently hoping you’d buy his not-so-discreet attempt at changing the topic.

“C’mon, Mike. Cut the shit. You’re suffocating in that office.” The only person whose bluntness Mikey could listen to happened to also be the only person he’d accept ‘Mike’ from. He took the cigarette that had been hanging from his lips in his office out of his shirt pocket and proceeded to light it. Taking the first drag of it, he flicked it, holding it out to you.

Pursing his lips to blow out his puff, he responded confidently. “I got it all figured out, sunshine. Plus, I got cousin helpin’ me with the books and shit. Just gotta pay back those muthafuckas who keep callin’ me. They’re all, ‘where’s my money!?’” he playfully rolled his eyes, making hand gestures and displaying a funny face as he imitated the callers. You both knew damn well they had every right to be calling him. 

“You telling me that Richie is on the books is supposed to bring me a sense of comfort?” Asking him that question with pure seriousness and handing him back the cigarette, Mikey stifled a laugh. “Hey, him and the IRS are like this” he crossed his middle finger over his index while winking and making a clicking noise with his tongue.

“Cousin, where the fuck are the receipt rolls, the office looks like an abandoned and pissed-in office depot” Richie’s exclaiming became increasingly louder the closer he got. “Feels like we change the damn paper in that thing ever- oh shit, pardon my interruption to your rendezvous. Were you guys about to fuck? I can leave” Richie pointed with his thumb towards the kitchen as he sported a fake-worried and devious expression, slowly inching backwards.

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. “No one’s fucking anyone, Rich.” Mikey looked to the ground as he faked a chuckle, ignoring the slight pang of hurt in his chest.

“You want a mortadella sandwhich?” You held out the plate to Richie, knowing he couldn’t resist. “Uh, DUH,” Richie grabbed an additional crate to join the two of you, immediately beginning to eat.

“Oh fuck, are you fucking serious right now?! Mikey, if you don’t marry this girl I’ll do it for you. ‘S like a mouf orgathm” Richie had just begun eating yet he already had food on the corners of his mouth. You chuckled, choosing to ignore the marriage comment. “Here, you child. You’re such a slob” you threw him a napkin you had stored in your apron. 

“Hey, the real slob is right over there” he pointed directly at Mikey, not even bothering to wipe his mouth but proceeding to take a another massive bite. “Something’s gotta be done about that cesspool of an office,” Richie shook his head disapprovingly, despite also functioning well in chaotic enrivonments. Mikey took yet another drag, the stress of you and Richie’s indirect demand to get his shit together getting to him. “It’s organized chaos, I know where everything is, s’all that matters.” 

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This was the third night in a row that you had difficulty falling asleep. You had tried everything in your arsenal of melatonin-producing activities, and yet, your brain was spiraling, most of your thoughts pertaining to Mikey.

You weren’t going to kid yourself. You needed something and you knew exactly who to get it from. Picking up your phone, you made the call.

“Rich?? You awake?” You rolled over to your side, holding yourself up by your elbow and propping your head up with the palm of your hand. “Yeah I’m awake, but why the fuck are you awake, missus?” “I need a favour…” 

Richie’s dirty mind figured any call from a woman at this hour was for sex, but he also knew about Mikey’s schoolboy yearn for you and wouldn’t dare make any advancements. The silence on his end was telling. “Not that type of favour, God, Rich! Stop being a man for a second. I need weed.” You huffed out, a whiny tone of desperation heavy in your voice. 

“Now that I can help you with” he chuckled.

“YES thank you, Rich, oh my god” You sprung up out of bad as if there were hot rocks in it. “I will meet you at The Beef, okay?!” And that was where he met you.

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You and Richie sat at the back of The Beef, exactly where you had had lunch earlier that day. “You want to do the honours, stoner?” Richie held out the joint and lighter for you. You faked an annoying look and exaggerately took them from him. “I’m not a stoner, Rich. I just have an undiagnosed sleeping problem.” You put the joint between your lips and lit it, taking an ungodly large pull from it. 

“Woahhhhh cheech and chong, relax” Richie practically yanked the joint from you. You immediately began coughing as you hadn’t smoked in a while. “What or who the fuck are you trying to forget, Italiana?” Richie’s joking tone didn’t conceal his concern as he took a puff himself. You looked at him, tilting your head to the side to signify confusion.

Richie took another pull before returning the joint to you. “If you’re calling me at 12am to smoke because you couldn’t sleep, it tells me your big brain was overthinking.” You took a moderate inhale this time, the buzz beginning to radiate out to your extremities. “What were you thinking about, Richie? Something tells me you were awake for similar reasons.”

“I’m not sayin’ anything ‘til you do” he responded whilst shrugging. 

Making a sour face, you attempted to restore the saliva in your mouth. “I have cotton mouth like a bitch, I’m going to get something to drink. You want anything?” you asked, heading inside before he could interrogate you further. “Get me a brio!” You chuckled to yourself, shouting back “You know you’re not Italian, right?!”

You walked over to the walk-in fridge, grabbing Richie’s Brio and a Fresca for yourself. On the way back out, Mikey’s office door caught your attention, and you suddenly had an idea. “Rich. Oh my god. I know exactly what we can do.” 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I… I think we just made things worse.” Looking up at Richie in horror, he mirrored your reaction. “Yeah, we fucked up cousin. We’re in some deep shit.” 

You and Richie were both sat on the office floor, waist deep in the paper equivalent of a small forest. You took a swig from your Fresca, attempting to decipher where to start. “We can do this. For Mikey. He deserves this, and fuck, let’s face it, he was never gonna do it himself!” You attempted to motivate Richie, knowing his child-like attention span and patience were on their last legs. 

Picking up various pieces of paper, you attempted to make sense of them. “Okay… I’ll make one pile for receipts, and I’ll sort them by date, and then-” You felt Richie’s eyes burning a hole into you, causing you to look at him and flail your hands around. “What?!” Impatiently waiting for his response, you began gnawing on the inside of your cheek, nervous that he was onto you. 

“You like him.” Richie slowly grinned from ear to ear as he stated it matter o’factly. “You like like him.” You flung your head back and groaned. “‘Like like?’ C’mon, Rich, what are you, 12? Shut the fuck up and help me.” The blood rushed into your cheeks almost immediately at his accusation, the THC physiologically betraying you and making it impossible to put on a front. “You like him. Oh my god. I fuckin’ knew it,” he giggled. 

“I don’t know whether it’s the weed or the fact that it’s 3am and I’m reaching the point of delirium, but since I’m not a pre-teen, I’ll admit that you’re not wrong. But it’s never going to happen. He’s mentally ill with a fucked up family and so am I- that doesn’t tend to be the ideal romantic combination. Now, lets finish this so we can still go home and get some rest before shift starts.” You looked at Richie with a stern look; he was shocked at your mini rampage, and internally, you were petrified about the fact that you had just spilt your guts to Mikey’s bestfriend.

“And don’t get any ideas, because this conversation does NOT repeat itself, you hear me, Jerimovich!” When you addressed someone in the kitchen by their last name, they knew you meant business. “Uh-huh, yup, yes ma’am.” Richie gulped, considering you just displayed more emotions in the last 5-minutes than you had for the entire length of time he has known you. It didn’t help that he was beyond stoned and couldn’t quite comprehend the nature of what you had told him. 

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“Cousin! What the fuck is this? Why can I see the floor?” Mikey was standing at the doorway of his office in utter disbelief that morning. Richie jogged over peaking his head into the office. “It was Italiana’s doing, she just told me what to do. We were preeeetty fried” he chuckled to himself, recalling last night’s events. “Surprisingly, we didn’t throw anything out. She’s got a real knack for organizing, should’ve let her do this months ago. The IRS and I aren’t going to have anymore beef, see what I did.” 

Richie couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. His nervous rambling was an attempt to not tell Mikey about your confession. Knowing how much Mikey admired you, it was killing him to not be able to tell his own bestfriend that the girl of his dreams reciprocated his feelings. Mikey slowly turned to look at Richie, hands still on his hips. “What the fuck did you smoke, crack? Why are you acting all fucked?”

You had walked into the kitchen at perfect timing before Richie blabbed your secret. Going to hang your purse up, Mikey called you over; he didn’t even need to see you to feel your presence. “Italiana, come ‘ere!” You sped walk over and stood in the entrance, your hands folded in front of you with a nervousness. A part of you was worried that messing with Mikey’s ‘organized chaos’ was going to disorient him, but you wanted to lessen the stress he was experiencing. That was what you did for the people you loved; especially the man you loved. 

“You did this?” He looked directly at you; despite being an expert in Mikey’s nuances, you couldn’t tell whether he was pissed or overjoyed. “Uh, yeah! It’s all pretty self-explanatory but I can go through it with you if you want? I just thought it’d make your life a lil easier. And Richie’s! Of course.” You rubbed your arm with your hand as a means of self-soothing.

“This is great, Bella. Truly. I can’t believe you went through all this trouble, I mean, I don’t think I’ve seen it look like this ever” he motioned towards the filing cabinet and the paper baskets you had labelled appropriately, using his other hand to comb through his hair in shock. “I couldnt of done it without Richie. And Richie’s weed! It was nothing, Mike” you smiled at him and showed yourself out as nonchalantly as possible. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were waiting the last tables of the day - mainly consisting of left behind beer bottles and plastic sandwich baskets - when Mikey came up behind you putting one hand on your waist. “Meet me in the office when you’re done here, yeah?” As he whispered into your ear, you had to keep your knees from buckling. “Yeah, Mike! Okay!” Fucking Richie.

You attempted to stall for the inevitably painful conversation that awaited you, slowly walking towards the kitchen. While washing your hands, your brain began to spiral. Wiping your hands on your apron, you attempted to bravely walk towards the office, standing in the doorway. 

“What’s up?” You halted in your tracks almost immediately as you noticed the charcuterie board Mikey was standing in front of and the bottle of red wine in his hands. “Fuck me. Okay, listen.” You walked closer to him. “Before you say anything, I don’t know what Richie said to you, but as someone who doesn’t know the difference between your and you’re, he has no idea what he’s talking about. You didn’t have to do any of this.” 

Mikey looked at you like a deer in headlights. “What the fuck are you talking about,” he chuckled. There was that dimpled smile. And now you were confused (and distracted) before you realized Richie didn’t say anything.

“I wanted to thank you for organizing the office…” Mikey explained, twisting the bottle of wine open and pouring you a glass. “I know how much you like your charcuterie. If Starbucks ever stops selling those little boards I’ll wonder what you’re gonna eat.” He earned a laugh from you for joking about your mild salami addiction.

You sported the fakest wide tooth grin you could muster. “Hey, I’m Italian. I can’t help it. I think I’m keeping them in business though” you joked in response. He held out the glass for you and winked. “Thanks, Mike” you smiled, hoping he couldn’t pick up on your nervousness. 

“Okay, let me show you what we’ve got here.” He clapped his hands together, excited to introduce you to his concoction of Italian meets and cheeses. Hunched over his desk with both of his hands planted on the surface to support him, he pointed at each meat and cheese as he went through the board’s contents. 

“We’ve got cacciatore, prosciutto, mortadella, then I added parmesan - I know how much you like it - along with romano and gorgonzola. I was thinking we can add it to the menu. We’re no hipster yuppies but throw some olives and overpriced crackers on here and I mean, we’re talkin’ business, baby.” Looking up at you, he attempted to read your face for your thoughts.

Mikey was passionate. That was his entire nature. And when he presented you with ideas, he seemed to put your approval and opinion on a pedestal. You had helped significantly with business at The Beef, assisting in bringing Mikey’s visions to fruition while also providing your input where necessary; he valued your insight more than you realized. 

Taking a baguette slice, you added cacciatore and parmesan onto it and bit in. “Fuck, Mike.” Your eyes rolled into the back of your head and you let out a near moan. “We gotta add this. It could even be part of a date night special. The charcuterie as an antipasto, a soup or salad, a main, and then dessert” you presented.

Mike glanced up at you with a smirk, content with your proposal. “Have I ever told you that I love your brain, Italiana?” You giggled as you continued to devour the board, attempting to ignore his blatantly obvious attempt at flirting as you couldn’t believe he could possibly be interested in you. 

The rest of the evening was spent brainstorming business ideas, reminiscing on memories shared between you, Mikey, and Richie, and consuming copious amounts of wine. 

“Oh my god, Mike. You remember when Richie tried picking up that blonde girl at the bar with a magic trick, and you- y- oh my god.” You flung your head back as you cackled; you were wine drunk and snortling to the point of incoherence. You were sat across from Mikey who was planted behind his desk, his ankle resting on top of his other knee. His forearms rested on the arms of his chair, and he loosely held a glass of whiskey as he watched you with amusement and a sly grin of admiration. 

“You had to go over there and save him from the embarrassment. Poor thing.” You chuckled. “I’m pretty sure the chick he was tryna bag had started flirting with me,” Mikey said, taking a sip of his whiskey and raising his eyebrows as he attempted to recall the events of that evening. 

You looked intently at him, not breaking eye contact. “Can you blame her?” The wine encouraged a new-found confidence to emerge from within you. There was no way you would’ve been this direct with Mikey while sober. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mikey leaned forward to put his glass on his desk then returned to his laid back position. With a dumbfounded look on your faced, you laughed then displayed a look of annoyance. “Don’t play stupid. Look at yourself, Mike.” You stood up, put the wine glass down, and rested both of your hands on his desk, leaning forward until you were mere inches away from his face.

Looking into his right eye, glancing down at his lips, and looking back up to his left eye, he began to shift in his seat. It was evident that you were both under a hazy and horny alcohol-induced influence, the sexual tension very obviously suffocating the room. “Now take me home before I say or do something I’ll regret.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Mikey walked you back to your apartment, you held onto the side of his frame with all your might. He guided you through the streets of Chicago with ease; he was nowhere near the level of drunk that you had achieved. “You okay, darlin’?” He looked down, a slight smile on his face as he recognized your drunken effort to walk in a straight line. “Yeah, Mike. Thanks for tonight. No one’s ever gone through such an effort to appreciate me.”

You peered up at him with a smile; you wanted to put into perspective how much his actions meant to you, however, Mikey felt an even stronger urge to spoil you moving forward. Quite frankly, he was bewildered that his small gesture that evening exceeded all that you’ve known. 

Arriving to the door of your apartment, you began rummaging through your purse for your keys. Finding them, you held your arm out straight and dangled them in front of Mikey. “You’re gonna need to unlock the door, mister. I do not currently possess the fine motor skills” you joked, earning a laugh from him.

You caught the glimmer in his eyes. Mikey felt like your fierce protector. You both knew you didn’t need protecting- while this was a part of you he admired, his masculinity often fought for dominance; for the chance to show you how well he could look after you and how much you deserved it. 

He opened the door, propping it open for you as you stumbled through, immediately attempting to take off your shoes. You hadn’t thought this out thoroughly as you ended up toppling over, Mikey catching you in the process. “Easy, doll. Here, sit down,” he motioned toward the ottoman in the foyer of your apartment, guiding you as you lowered yourself. 

He crouched down at your feet and placed the heel of your foot on his thigh, proceeding to untie your shoes. Grasping your ankle one at a time, he wiggled your feet out. You looked down at him, admiring his gentle touch, the concentration present in his furrowed brow; you loved to watch him, whatever he was doing, and you’ve known for a long time that you’ve loved him.

“Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” Holding out both of his hands for you, you stood up, letting him walk you through to your bedroom. You had a case of the over-tired drunken giggles, prompting you to laugh as you slurred your intentions to take off your make-up.

Mikey picked out some pjs for you, then proceeded to pour you a cold glass of water while you got changed. Opening the door to your bedroom, you motioned for him to come inside. “Sleep next to me?” You proposed with a curious tone despite knowing he’d decline as he (annoyingly) insisted on being a respectful gentleman at all times. “S’all good doll, I’ll be good on the couch” he motioned to the living room with his head. “Lemme tuck you in.” 

As you got under the covers, Mikey offered you the glass of water to which you happily obliged. Handing it back to him, he placed it on your bedside table as you snuggled yourself into the sheets. He turned off the lamp, the room engulfing with darkness save for the midnight blue hue that the window cast in. 

Mikey began to walk out of your room when you called out to him. “Hey Mike, c’mere” you turned over, watching him as he slowly approached. Motioning for him to come closer, you whispered into his ear. “I like like you.” 

Knocking out after the words escaped your lips, as if they were made of melatonin, Mikey smiled to himself as he looked down at you. “And I love you, sunshine.”

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EEEEEEEEK my very first Mikey imagine! Which means I am still learning to integrate his personality into my writing- it’s hard when he has extremely minimal screentime. ALSO I am writing this in whatever year Mikey was operating The Beef, so Carmy, Syd, and the others aren’t there, and Richie and Tiff are still together. I am completely open to feedback and would also love to get more requests for Mikey. Let me know what y’all think!!! :)

[angelcakestarlet]

white mustang

dbf! richie jerimovich x reader

after your estranged father, mikey berzatto, passes away, who else is there to lean one but his best friend richie?

mike never had to say it out loud, but it was pretty evident that you weren't meant to 'happen'. you were just a reminder that his lifestyle would catch up to him eventually, as it had already done once with you. he tried to be there, bringing you down to the beef on days he could convince your mom to let him see you. he'd keep you in the office with some sandwich wraps to color on and crayons, showing you off to tina and everyone else in the kitchen who had convinced themselves that maybe, just maybe, you would be bear's saving grace. when richie found out mikey had knocked some broad up, he was conflicted. upset because he believed a kid would put a stop to the fun waiting for them in the rest of their twenties and yet to come thirties, slightly relieved because he finally had something worth pushing for. and for a while, you were just that. the staff saw it, richie saw it, you were keeping him just that more sane, just enough. yeah he was a father now but that didn't stop him from joining richie on deal runs, you in the car seat he bought from baby's r us last minute. and until the age of 15, he was (mostly) there, as much as his mind allowed him to be. he had outbursts, your mom didn't want you near him or "that piece of shit restaurant", you and everyone else could tell it was going from okay to bad. and bad quickly became scary, when you wouldn't see him for months. you'd be forced to text richie asking where the fuck your dad was, if he was okay. but richie never had an answer and mike didn't either. but you could see it in his eyes when you would finally stumble upon him after every other month, he had been somewhere inside him that was dark. the longest you went without hearing from him was six months, half a year. your 17th birthday had passed and tina, sugar, pete, ebraheim, cicero, and the rest of the family celebrated with you in the restaurant trying to distract you and themselves from the fact no one, not even richie, could seem to find mike. you saw him one last time, right before he died, after not hearing from him for months he invited you over. it was your second year of college and you were just trying to make it by when you got a call from a number you didn't recognize. you immediately recognized his voice, he was asking you to come over. you reluctantly agreed, being greeted to a messy house with papers everywhere and pill bottles littering little crevices in failed attempts to hide them from himself. that night, he cooked for you one last time. a part of you convinced yourself there was hope left behind his eyes, watching his back profile moving around the kitchen and whipping up a dish like he used to. how he used to sit you on the counter top, made you taste everything with your small hands while richie laughed his ass off at how huge his chain was on you calling you "a fucking g". two months later he shot himself. at the bottom of your stomach behind the sadness and guilt, you almost felt, cathartic? not because he was dead, no. but because you'd never have to wait months to hear from him again, or look down alleyways in hopes of seeing him, or have to look in his eyes and see the glimpse of someone he could have been. you start hanging around the restaurant more despite sugars protests. you never did well coping with your addict father when he was alive, when he'd leave you'd seek that nausea and sinking feeling he brought you elsewhere. it was easy to stumble upon all kinds of trouble, you were young, you were beautiful, and worst of all you were chasing the feeling you knew mike would and could never bring you.

a few months after his death, carmy's recent resurgence, and multiple trips to the bar downtown you decided the comfort of vodka seltzers and the pervy bartender was no longer enough. you were leaving the beef one night, passing by carmy's office to steal his carton of sapphires when you met richie outside for a smoke. "you finally ditch the marbolo red's, kid?" it was a cool spring evening in chicago, you wore your white sundress over warm socks. "you wish, richard" you let out a small laugh, "i'm just saying those are for pansies or hookers no in between, sweetheart." you looked at him baffled by whatever led him to that conclusion. "so what you're saying is the last hooker you had to hire to suck you off smoked malboro's?" you looked at him, reaching into him jean pocket and stealing his lighter. he scoffed, "you know i miss when you didn't have that fucking mouth on ya." he jabbed his cigarette in your direction, clenching his teeth. you chuckled at how easily he got riled up, he just loved arguing. "okay, old man. i'm going down to the bar, you coming or not?" you took a short drag of the cigarette, not used to the taste of carmy's choice in smokes. "why so i can watch you flirt with some jagoff for drinks all night?" he grimaced, "key word is, free, drinks, richie." he stepped on what was left of his cigarette at the word 'free', nodded, and began walking to his car.

richie shamelessly watched your dress hike up the back of your soft thighs as you leaned over the bar to get closer to the bartender. you had that berzatto gift (curse?) of being so fucked up it was hot. richie always felt a tinge of guilt when he perked up at the sight of your legs beneath a skirt, or your cleavage being hugged by your low shirts and dresses. but he told himself it was always okay to look if he wasn't going to do anything about it. and even if he wanted to, he knew mike would've killed him, or carmen, or tina. you sauntered your way back to the table with a round of shots and two beers. "do you have no shame, sweetheart?" he jokingly asked taking his beer into his own hand. "you tell me" you let out before throwing back a shot. he let out a chuckle, you were really something. as you threw your head back with the shot glass he made out the skin and freckles adorning on your neck beneath the dim light. he noticed how quickly you went back for seconds, and a third, until you were leaning over the table speaking to him in a hushed voice. he had downed the same amount as you had, but he was a 45 year old man who towered over you. "richie?" you spoke in a combination of a whisper and giggle, "how much do you wanna bet i can get that guy over there to get us another free round?". richie wouldn't bet a dollar that the guy wouldn't, seeing as he had his eyes glued to your ass the entire night. maybe it was the alcohol, but the guy's looming gaze felt like a god damn bee buzzing in richie's ear. and you entertaining dick's like him made it ten times worse. "god, i never took you as such a slut." he looked at you, eyebrows raised almost mockingly. your tipsy smile fell, "what the fuck, richie". you got up out of the bar stool, making a squeak against the floor and sped your way out the bar. richie took one last swing off his beer before making his way after you. he found you in back of the bar, only illuminated by the yellowish street lamp a few feet away. you were sniffling, crying in between small hiccups. richie kneeled down in front of you and brought his hand to cup your cheek, "you're lost, sweetie, look at you. getting drunk on weekdays and doing god knows what for a free round of drinks. it's not your fault," your tears stopped falling, entranced with how bright his eyes contrasted against the darkness surrounding you as he grabs the hem of your dress toying with it, "you've got no one to guide you, take care of you. you just need someone to take care you, huh?" his voice dripped with a condescension that made something bubble in the depths of your stomach. you nodded your head against his hand, looking at him through wet lashes, "let me help you, doll" he wiped past your tears with his rough thumb. he knew it was wrong, dirty, but he'd rather it be him than some 20 year old schmuck who would pretend to know you. richie knew you, the darkest parts of you. "can you help me, richie? please" you let out quietly. richie smiled, sickeningly sweet, as he brought his thumb down to swipe past your shiny bottom lip that was sticky with lip gloss. you felt your mouth drop open as if his finger took control of you, "poor thing, you've got no clue what to do with yourself. acting like a slut for anybody when you know who you'll come running to." his thumb entered your parted lips, you closed around him swirling your tongue around and humming against him. he let out a groan, "i'm the only one who can take care of you, okay?". you felt like you were floating, between the alcohol and richie's presence consuming you. you stared at his lips with hazy eyes and let go of his thumb with a 'pop', "kiss me" you barely whispered, "don't be rude, doll." he brought his hand down, holding you by the crevice of your neck, "richie, i need you". he roughly brought his mouth down to yours, letting it devour you. you whined into his mouth as he bit down on your lip. he detached himself, a string of saliva connecting you. he brought his hand down his face, staring at your puffy lips. he knew he was fucked.

pt 2?

[diningwiththeasquiths]

The Bear + text posts (The Onion headlines)

[cokoweee]

Wow, thumbs

Slay

[asexual-juliet]

new season 2 bingo card just dropped

[cheesus-doodles]

Hello! :) I was just reading your sugar daddy bff baji, and I thought it was so cute! ♡

I wanted to request: what would happen if bajis birthday comes up or a special day for reader and baji, and you know she's kinda broke.. would she use the black card that baji gave her to buy baji a nice gift?? or would she somehow work around using the card?

Love your work! It's nice to read :D

ahhh thank you! it's been a while since i wrote about baji, have some yan sugar bff baji!

Recommended Reading: Yan Sugar BFF Baji

Masterlist

‎

I think you wouldn't be the sort to use the black card Baji gives you to buy him a gift, ya know? Even if he has given you free reign to do whatever you want - money barely makes any sense to him now that he was a Bonten executive, after all, and not like he checks what the card is being used on - but its just not in you to spend what isn't your money, especially not as a gift for your bestfriend.

A special day for the two of you, birthday or not, is a special day regardless that is worth celebrating in your eyes. Whether Baji agrees or not does not concern you because one puppy eye look will have your bestfriend cave - he for one, can't say no to you of all people, and for two, Baji absolutely can't risk you even thinking about hanging out with someone other than him.

So yes, you do find a way to work around the card, even if you are broke af. You could save up your own money to buy him a gift of course, though that definitely will come with a tinge of "what if he thinks its bought with his card" guilt to it. You know Baji wouldn't care, but you do.

So the other alternative would be to pull together a birthday plan that does not involve spending a ton of money. Asking Mikey to give Baji the day off is simple enough, though said black-haired boy doesn't quite approve of you talking to Mikey after he finds out.

But a homecooked breakfast quickly soothes over any unhappy nerves from you interacting with Baji's less savoury colleagues, followed by a leisurely day of cafe hopping, picnicking by the river with all of his favourite snacks, and window shopping - just like the two of you used to do as school kids.

And then the highlight of the day would be you surprising him with a handmade gift; it could be a plush keychain of a cat with both of your names stitched on it that Baji would be happy to parade around with hanging from his phone, or a scunchie you made for him to keep his hair up during his fights, or even a cat food bowl that you doodled all over for his office cats.

This boy will be happy with the sole fact that you want to celebrate a special day with him, given he does spend a lot of time working in Bonten, dealing with the darkest and most horrid of crimes for Mikey. He doesn't know what he'll do without you by his side, so your plan regardless of what you choose to do as a gift, ultimately always goes off without a hitch. Makes sure to take some time out of the day to bring you out to play with the community stray cats that he still cares for because he loves to see you get excited about the friendly cats.

Mikey and the rest of the Bonten executives never fail to make fun of Baji after he returns from these sort of vacations, though at least they know better than to touch your gifts to him.

[justaturtleindisguise]

SUGAR RUSH TWINS !!!

[garbinge]

Shoulder to cry on

Richie Jerimovich x Reader

Day 23 from these April Prompts: “Somethings aren’t replaceable”

Summary: Mikey’s funeral brings an unexpected person into your life more.  Continuation of these fics: Pillow Forts and Soft Spot. 

Word Count: 8.7k (i got carried away, okaaaaaay)

A/N: okay, this is probably one of my FAVORITE fics, this universe as a whole is my favorite but this specific fic just... has a special place in my heart.  Warnings: All my fics are 18+ regardless of content. Heavy angst, shit talking, cursing (lots), mentions of death, drugs, drinking, abuse, alludes to sexual situations.  The Bear Taglist: @drabbles-mc​ @justreblogginfics 

Other fics from this universe

Everything was moving so slow. The people, the time, the words coming out of people’s mouths. A lot of sorrys, a lot of introductions, a lot of really old people with that old people scent to them. You felt alone. In a room full of people you considered family, you felt alone. Carmy was nowhere to be found. You booked the flight for him, a cheap spirit flight, you could care less about the money wasted, you just needed to know he was alive. Not okay. Because who the fuck was going to be okay. Just alive. 

You shook the 18th person’s hand, you kept count because it was the only thing keeping you awake and grounded within the moment. There was an empty seat next to Pete in the front row, but something felt off about sitting there. Sure, the Berzatto’s were family to you since you were 7, you spent more time there than your own house, the siblings were your best friends, your bullies, and your protectors. All signs pointed to your right to sit in that receiving line reserved for immediate family, but when it came down to it you weren’t a Bear. Mikey Bear. Sugar Bear. Carmy Bear. You never got that nickname, because you weren’t a Berzatto. It never mattered to you, it never even crossed your mind, that was until this moment. You felt someone’s hand on your back, shaking you lightly out of your thoughts. 

The blond that the world knew as Natalie, but you knew as Sugar, was offering you a soft smile and bending down to be eye level with you as you sat at the end of the aisle in the back. 

“Hey.” Your body turned to look at her, grabbing the hand that was on your shoulder into your own. Your voice was soft, like her smile. 

“You know you can sit in the front row, there’s a seat next to Pete but I’ll kick him down one and you can sit right next to me.” Her hand squeezed yours. You appreciated the offer, but you weren’t sure if you could handle the extended family asking who you were. By the looks of it, that's all that was left. You had said hello to Uncle Jimmy, cousin Nicky, and Carol, and just about everyone who knew you or at least your face. The rest of everyone who showed up were people who only knew the siblings from the one baby picture they had seen from 25 years ago and you weren’t about to deal with that. 

“Thanks, that means more than you know.” You rested your forehead against hers and you both closed your eyes. There was a part of you that wished you could stay in this moment forever, not think about Carmy, not think about Mikey, just be with the one sibling who showed up. 

You pulled your head away when there was some commotion by the front door, some woman had burst into tears and made a scene. Sugar made a face that she quickly disguised immediately, but you had caught it. Probably someone just looking for attention, funerals tended to bring them out. 

“I hate that bitch.” Sugar seethed. “I don’t even know that bitch.” She shook her head like she was shaking the thought to fall out of her mind. 

You let out a little laugh at her statement, unable to hold it in and directly brought your hand to your mouth to cover it. Sugar looked at you shocked, her eyes wide and a small smile creeping onto her face as she let out a snort and followed suit by bringing her hand to her mouth. 

“Fuck that bitch.” You whispered in between chuckles. That statement made her lose it but she was able to hold it in well, only a few people were looking at you two laughing in the middle of Mikey Berzatto’s funeral. He would have loved it. 

The two of you took a deep breath, letting the moment naturally pass. You grabbed her hands again and squeezed. “I think I’m going to stay back here.” 

There was no more explanation needed, she understood and wasn’t going to push or argue with you. Hell, you weren’t going up against the craziest competition, but you had shown up and apparently that was all it took to be on Sugar’s good side. 

“Sug.” Richie’s voice alerted the both of you. She stood up and you thought this was going to go one of two ways. She was either going to slug him or ignore him. To your surprise, she did neither. In a turn of events that left you shocked, you couldn’t pry your eyes away from her embrace with Richie. I guess you were right when you thought that showing up really was the only criteria needed to be on Sugar’s good side right now. 

Before you knew it, the hug was over and Sugar was back in the front of the funeral home. Richie was standing completely still, his eyes were looking at the casket, getting lost in what you were sure were memories and regret. You saw something shift in him as he looked at the casket which is when you extended your hand out to place it on his arm. 

“Rich.” You whispered hoping it would get his attention. He didn’t look at you until your hand touched his arm, and that was out of instinct. “He’s not in there.” Your voice was softer than before. It was a secret that only you and maybe 3 others were in on. He had gotten cremated, but Sugar knew the family was going to have a lot to say, so they rented the casket for the viewing. It was twisted, but it was the Berzatto way. 

“What?” Richie questioned in the same tone as you. 

You moved over a seat and patted where you just were for Richie to sit. Without hesitation he sat down which is when you leaned your right shoulder against him and whispered again. 

“Natalie got him cremated, he’s not in the casket.” For some reason, you knew it’d give him some type of relief, some type of breathing room. Once you said it, he let out a sigh, and you could tell he loosened up a bit. 

“I just felt like–” He started to try and explain himself but couldn’t get the sentence out. He stuttered a couple more times when you brought your hand to rest on his leg that was shaking. Richie stopped moving the second your hand landed on his leg. 

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Richie. Not to me at least.” You shrugged and stared straight ahead, your hand still on his knee. “And you don’t need to stop shaking your leg either. This is all fucked up. You can be fucked up.” 

You removed your hand from his leg, he frowned at the loss of heat and also as he tried to take in every word that you said.

The two of you sat there, next to each other, backs straight, hands picking at skin or nails. 45 minutes must have passed, no one else came up to either of you. Richie didn’t move, he didn’t make an attempt to go up and kneel at the casket, look at the pictures, or try and talk to anyone else. As the time passed, you thought the place would empty out, but it just got busier. I guess what Carmy had said to you was right. Everyone felt like Mikey was their best friend. While it made Carmy jealous, it made you happy. To know Mikey the way you did felt like an honor, it was also nice knowing he knew you too. 

“You want a cigarette?” 

Staring at Richie, you nodded your head and stood up without hesitation, he was up and out of the funeral home within seconds, you were actually trying to figure out if you ever saw Richie move so quickly before. Maybe once before, when he was scaring off your ex at the restaurant with a fuckin 22. 

The two of you moved to the side of the building that had the wheelchair access ramp. It was away from most people who had congregated in the front and were arriving and leaving. There were a few scattered people here, but it was less likely someone was going to bother you. He lifted the parliament box and brought it to his mouth, taking a cigarette out with his mouth before offering the open box to you. It had been a while since you had one, so you stared at the box for half a second before grabbing the white stick in between your fingers. Richie searched his pockets for a lighter, patting down his suit jacket pocket, inside and out. 

“This is why I fuckin’ hate these things, too many pockets.” He mumbled with the cig between his lips. 

“Said no girl ever.” The joke mumbled back at him as he found the lighter and brought it to your cigarette first before his own. 

Leaning against the wall of the parlor you both looked out into the section of woods that was just past the building. It was probably one of the few areas around you that had a large section of trees in Chicago, and large was probably an overstatement. 

You felt yourself getting lightheaded as the smoke burned. You were just about halfway done when you felt yourself wobble a little, the nicotine high hitting you stronger than you expected. 

“You alright?” Richie was leaning forward trying to get a look at your face. 

“Yea, it’s just been like a year or something since I’ve had a smoke. The nicotine high was just getting me a little dizzy.” 

He let out a laugh. “Fuckin’ amateur.” 

You let out a scoff to match his laugh, “Alright, Richie. You got me beat at smoking cigarettes. You win.” Your voice had a mocking tone to it. 

He enjoyed the back and forth, you could tell by the smile on his face. It was probably the only genuine smile on his face today, which you wouldn’t blame him for. 

“Have you talked to Carmy?” All your thoughts came barreling down as you saw someone walk by with a blue denim hat that looked just like Carmy’s. Your heart rate was raised, and that mixed with the lightheadedness was starting to make you breathe a bit heavier. 

“No, I haven’t.” Richie’s answer didn’t make you feel better. He must’ve noticed because he followed it up with a question. “I’m guessing you haven’t either?” 

“No. He isn’t answering my calls or texts.” Your phone was being pulled out of your pocket so you could show him the constant texts. 

You: 2:28PM yesterday Hey, I’m tracking your flight, says it’s landing in 40 minutes, I’ll be at the airport waiting for you. 

You: 3:06PM yesterday Hey, I’m here, text me when you land. 

You: 3:34PM yesterday It says you landed, Carm. Where are you? 

You: 3:56PM yesterday Carmy. If you missed your flight it’s okay, we can get a new one, no worries. 

You: 4:25PM yesterday Forget the fucking flight can you just let me know you’re alive? 

You: 5:05PM yesterday Carmy. 

You: 6:32PM yesterday Pulse check. 

You: 7:13PM yesterday Pulse Check. 

You: 8:55PM yesterday For fucks sake Carmy. PULSE CHECK. 

You: 6:55AM today I’m going to assume you’re okay. But please, when you can just answer my pulse checks please. 

You: 4:25PM today Thinking of you. Love you. 

You were expecting Richie to give you shit for the amount of texts you sent and you were surprised when he didn’t. 

“I guess that means he’s not answering calls either.” He took a big drag of his cigarette and shook his head. “What’s pulse check?” 

“It’s just something we came up with when we moved out of Chicago, things got busy but it was our way of checking in making sure the other person’s okay.” You explained the reasoning behind the words. “He’s never not answered one.” The last fact was added so Richie could understand where your worry came from. 

 “Kid’s a mess.” 

For a second, you went to defend him. Old habits die hard, you know. But then you really took in what he said it was true. Carmy was a mess. Even before this. You were still mad at him, though. 

“I texted. I called. Hell, I thought to send a fucking carrier pigeon but he’d probably just kill it and call it squab de papier.” An awful french accent came out of your mouth and Richie looked at you impressed, his nostrils flaring as he blew air out of them in a half laugh before letting a real laugh out. 

“That was good.” He nodded and tossed the bud to the ground and stepped on it. 

“I know, I’m funny.” A frown wrinkled on your forehead and you squinted your eyes before smiling. 

You both laughed again as you started leaning into one another, shoulders grazing against the other. It was what you both needed, something light to get you through the heaviness of the night and the week to come. In the middle of your laughing fit, there was a loud backfire of a car in the funeral parlor lot. It sounded like a gunshot, which wasn’t unheard of in Chicago, but considering the circumstances, it caused you to freak out for a moment. 

Your fingers straight away went to grab Richie’s arm pretty tightly. Out of impulse, he stepped in front of you. Scanning the parking lot and the others around it was pretty quickly that he realized the noise was a car backfiring and not shots. 

“Fuckin’ afterburn.” He looked over his shoulders to see your terrified face. It was still something new to him, you were never scared. The only other time he remembered seeing you remotely like this was that day at The Beef, with that douchebag. “C’mon, let’s go sit down before you fall over nicotine newbie.” He grabbed your arm and guided you over to the bench that was tucked away in the corner. 

You never were able to shake the feeling, you two just sat there, in silence as you tried to get back to whatever you considered normal at a time like this. 

“You got a ride home?” 

Looking around you saw that it had gotten pretty empty, you looked at your phone for the time or maybe a text from Carmy. 

“Yea I drove myself.”

Richie’s face looked like he was about to question or protest your means of transportation. 

“I’ll be alright, Richie.” 

“Alright well pulse check me when you’re home or whatever.” 

You went to argue on the usage of the term when you looked at Richie, like really looked at him. It was genuine. He actually cared that you made it home. You simply nodded and offered him a quick wave before walking away. 

_________

Time was passing slowly, and when you’re looking towards time to heal all wounds, you had to take the whole passing by leisurely thing as disrespectful as possible. The days felt long and the weeks felt even longer. It was 2 weeks to the day since Mikey’s funeral, and 3 weeks to the day since it happened. Your apartment was lonely, it always was but when your best friend was ignoring you and the guy you looked at like a big brother just killed himself, the loneliness followed you differently. You did whatever you could to pass the time. Visited Sugar and Pete, went down to the beef occasionally to see everyone, called Carmy, had 30 second conversations with him, which to be honest you cherished over the silent treatment. In addition to that, you also took on extra shifts at work, the barista position wasn’t exactly bringing in the cash but it paid the bills and the overtime put money into a rainy day fund. Plus, it was what you loved. Coffee. 

It was another Tuesday night where you fell asleep on the couch. Your mattress was more of a decoration these days than an actual useful piece of furniture. The ringing of your phone turned you over, the sound was different than the normal alarm chime you were used to waking up to. As you came more to it, you realized that your alarm wasn’t going off and it was actually someone calling you.

1:14AM. 

The time flashed above the unknown caller number.

“Hello?” The raspiness of your voice was hard to mask, your hand scratched at your eyes trying hard to wake yourself up. It was then that you realized you answered an unknown number at 1AM without any hesitancy. 

He said your name in a way that you could hear the embarrassment in his voice. You knew who it was right away. Who would have thought that hearing Richie’s voice at 1AM would have been what woke you up entirely. 

“I–uh,” You could imagine his head hanging low as he spoke to you. It was obvious why he was calling. Late night, unknown number. It didn’t take a genius to put the pieces together. “I need your help.” 

He sounded like a little kid, even with his age difference, he felt below you. It wasn’t really a feeling you wanted to dwell in, you didn’t like it one bit.

“I’m locked up and need you to bail me out.” The words flew together so quickly that even though, you knew what he was going to ask, it still took you a minute to process. 

“CPD or Northwestern?” The keys were already being scooped up from your coffee table. 

“CPD.” 

“Fuck.” You mumbled as you held the phone to your ear, slipping one arm into your jacket. Chicago Police Department meant a more serious charge, it wasn’t loitering or vandalism. It was a step up from that, but you weren’t going to ask him on the police line. “I’ll be there in 20.” 

With that, you hung up and quickly slid your other arm through your jacket as you ran out of your apartment. 

The ATM wasn’t exactly your favorite place to be at 1:43 AM  in downtown chicago, but you also didn’t want to be at CPD either. You stuffed the cash in your pocket quickly and walked into the station. 

After you posted bail, Richie was out within minutes. Good thing about Tuesdays were they were generally slow nights. 

The black eye he was sporting was red in irritation and starting to discolor. You assumed it had to do with his little stint in the slammer but you weren’t going to ask questions, yet. 

“Thanks.” He mumbled the appreciation, still clearly embarrassed. 

You nodded and got into the car, immediately turning over the ignition to get the car warm. 

He stood outside the car, like he was waiting for an invite in or debating walking home. 

“You thinking of freezing to death or do you want me to send you a formal invitation to get in the fuckin’ car?” You had leaned over to open the passenger door from the inside.

“I didn’t really wanna ask for a car ride home, too.” 

He was like a dog with his tail between his legs and you truly hated it.

“Alright, 1. It’s not a big deal, Richie. Relax. 2. I’m not taking you home, you woke me up, you owe me a cup of coffee or a drink.”

Richie awkwardly got into the car.

“Liquor store is closed now” Richie pointed to the car clock, his voice starting to level and sound normal. “And all your stupid fuckin’ coffee places cost probably the same amount as my bail. Which– how did you pay for that?” 

“Rainy day fund. I’ve been picking up extra shifts lately.” 

“Thanks, I’ll pay you back.” He answered automatically how one does when they’ve borrowed money. 

“Just show up to court.” You offered a different answer in response. 

He nodded and brought his hands to his head, like wiping them across his face was going to wipe the shame of the night away. 

“I have good coffee at my place. And I have alcohol. You down? There’s no way I’m going back to sleep tonight.” 

“Yea I’m down.” 

———-

You walked back into your apartment, keys hitting the table with a light throw, your jacket being flung on the couch. As you circled back around your kitchen table from the couch you approached the freezer. Grabbing a pack of something vegetable like and frozen to give to Richie. 

“Here,” You tossed him the frozen mixed veggies. “For that gnarly eye.” 

His face twisted in sarcasm as he nodded at you, which instead of being bitchy back you just smiled. You’d take this over embarrassed Richie anyday. 

“I feel like I don’t need to ask but, alcohol or coffee?” 

“Alcohol.” He responded too quickly. “Please.” The added pleasantry was appreciated. 

Grabbing two glasses and filling them with ice, you brought them over to the small dingey bar cart that sat next to your open window on your 5th floor apartment. 

“I’ve got rum, gin, vodka, tequila. All bottom shelf and probably expired. Pick your poison.” 

“Gin.” 

His answer shocked you, you expected vodka or him to ask for something dark. You had already scripted some beggars can’t be choosers response back in your head that you were forced to table. 

Placing the glasses and two bottles on the table, you passed him the gin and pushed his glass towards him. 

“Tequila, huh?” The question came as he poured the ginninto his glass. 

“Always my drink of choice.” You nodded and sat at the head of the table with him to your right. “You wanna tell me what happened?” 

He had already downed what would be his first shot of many, and started to repour his glass a little higher now. After another sip, he replaced the veggies against his eye with the glass of gin.

“Wanna? no.” He retorted. 

“Assault and disturbing the peace?” You read off both charges that were sitting in your head.

The look he gave you was annoying to describe in the least. “How—?”

“To pay bail they tell you the charges. To make sure you want to go through with vouching for someone.” 

It was your turn to refill your glass now. 

“I don’t know I was down at Cerces, bunch of fuckin’ shmucks in suits and shit, I just wanted to drink and hang out.” He shrugged his shoulders as he explained the situation. “Who the fuck am I kidding, I fucking slugged this motherfucker for being a smart ass. He got me back.” He pointed to his eye with his free hand. “Got kicked out and then decided to make some noise on the street.” 

You looked over at Richie, eyebrows raised waiting for him to tell you what he said. 

“Guy had a British accent, must’ve been traveling for work or something so I called him a wanker. The last word he spoke came out in an accent that made you almost spit out your drink from choking on it. 

Richie choked down a laugh at your reaction. 

“Why?” You leaned back in your seat. 

“Why?” His voice raised in question as his brows furrowed. 

“Yea, why’d you do it?”

“I don’t know just somethin’ to fuckin’ do.” He spat out quickly. 

“It’s a tuesday fuckin’ night. Sleeping is what you should be doing, you gotta be at The Beef in what? 4 hours? To pick up the meat shipment tomorrow morning.” 

Richie looked a little in awe as he stared at you. 

“I spent half my time at the restaurant, Richie. I know the schedules, I know the people, I know.” The last two words were deeper. They meant more. You were trying to tell him that you knew what he was going through, not like the people who shook his hand and offered their condolences, but like a person who spent a lot of time with Mikey and was now feeling that loss every day. 

“You uh,” Riche leaned forward on the table like he was gearing himself up to ask you something. There was silence in the kitchen for a beat, you didn’t say anything, he’d say what he wanted in time. 

“I just can’t shake the damn guilt.” His head was practically touching the table as he leaned forward trying to get out his thoughts. “I should’ve fuckin’ chained him to the desk or something, or intervention his ass with rehab.” 

He wasn’t really looking for an answer or response, he was just talking, so you sat there listening. 

“I don’t know what the fuck to do. Every day I’m just like waiting for something and I don’t know what.” He slammed his hand on the table in frustration and leaned back. 

The loud noise caused you to jump. His eyes darted to yours. “Sorry babe.” He apologized quickly and brought his drink to his lips again, taking a big gulp. “It’s like fucking groundhogs day.” 

“Not today, though.” A smile filled your face. “Unless you get arrested frequently and you’re working your way through your contacts.” 

“First time in 4 years.” He corrected you like it was something to be proud of. “Drunk indecency, with Mikey.” The charge was explained to you. 

“Oh. I remember. Mikey called Sugar and she called me on the way to pick you both up.” You looked smug as you drank your tequila. 

“I don’t even know why I went out tonight.” Richie started up again. You were following him, he was spiraling but it seemed to be somewhat helpful to him. “I just want to feel fucking normal again.” 

You took a breath, preparing yourself to respond back to him but he cut you off. 

“And I don’t want to hear that stupid bullshit, ‘some things aren’t replaceable Richie, you gotta move on.’ Fuck off.” He was speaking to you but he wasn’t really speaking to you. 

“I was just gonna say me too.” Your voice was soft which wasn’t really like you.

“Fuuuuuccckkkk.” Richie groaned at the overwhelm of emotions and went to grab the bottle of gin to pour more into his glass, you both had lost count of how many glasses this was but neither of you cared. 

“Anyways, enough about my shitshow of a life, how are you doin’?” He wasn’t even looking at you but when he asked the words hit you in your core. Why did you feel like you were going to cry? Maybe because over the last 3 weeks no one really cared how you were. Sure, people asked but they didn’t care. And even though Richie wasn’t even paying full attention to you, you knew he was genuinely asking. Maybe it was also because your best friend hadn’t asked you that in over a couple years. So Richie asking you this brought out a lot of emotion. 

“Yo. You fuckin’ good?” 

“Sorry. Zoned out.” 

“So, how the fuck are you?” He repeated the question. 

You let out a laugh that was followed by a few stray tears. “I don’t even know.” You laughed again as more tears fell. “Carmy won’t talk to me, he hasn’t talked to me truly in god damn years it feels like, my dad is who the fuck knows where, and I just lost the only Berzatto who gave me the time of day.” You let out a deep exhale. “And that’s not to shit on Sugar, she’s just been doing her own shit. It’s more shitting on Carmy.” You clarified yourself as you stabilized your voice more. 

“If you want to turn this into a shit on Carmy fest, we can. I’ve got ammo for days.” 

“That’s the best part, I don’t even want to shit on him. I just want him here. I want him to be present. Carmy is my best. fucking. friend. I don’t have anyone else.” Richie could get that. That’s what Mikey was to him, and even though Carmy was still alive, he understood what it was like to watch as you lost a friend. He watched it with Mikey. 

“He doesn’t even know that I was getting the shit beat out of me in Minneapolis all those years ago. He does know that my dad’s been in and out because that’s been just a normality in my life, but he hasn’t asked. I tried to tell him about Mikey, but he didn’t even let me get a word out. And you know what, I don’t even give a shit. I fucking get it. Mikey pushed him away and welcomed me in with open arms and that hurt him. I’d be furious. But he doesn’t know that I was struggling. I left practically all my shit in Indianna and flew to fucking New York with my last $300 dollars. I had to open up a $500 limit credit card just to book my flight back home. Which is when I came to the beef and while Carmy was blowing me off, Mikey was literally the complete opposite. He called me. He checked in on me. He sent me home with leftovers. And I couldn’t even just tell him to lay off the fuckin’ drugs!” You were worked up, your voice carried through the apartment. The echo of your hand slammed on the table caused Richie to jump, very similar to what he did moments ago. 

“Sorry.” You said in a much lighter voice. 

“Hey don’t apologize, babe. We’re fuckin’ goin’ through it.” He laughed as he finished off the bottle of gin. “Clearly.” His hand raised the bottle in reference to his sentence and also to say thanks for the drink. 

“Do you have a cigarette?” You were now calm, it was crazy how quick you processed things and just stored them away. It was something you had to do the entire time you grew up while your dad came and went. 

“Yea, wanna head downstairs?” His finger pointed over his shoulder to the door. 

“Fire escape.” You pointed in the opposite direction. 

You made your way out to the black metal escape. There was enough room for both of you to stand comfortably as you smoked your cigarettes, the view was clear to the riverwalk as you stared out. 

“Can I ask you something awkward?” You looked up to him as you leaned forward with your one arm hanging over the railing with the other on the cigarette in your mouth. 

“I’m drunk so it’s probably the best time as any.” He agreed. 

“Why wasn’t Tiff at the funeral?” 

It was a substantial question. Even though you didn’t know why, you felt the weight behind it. 

“Uh she had to– uh, well she had to, you know.” He started to trip over his words. “We’re getting a divorce.” The sentence just fell out of his mouth like water. It made your stomach drop, you weren’t exactly sure why. Probably because you knew that this was the worst time to be going through a divorce, not that there was exactly a good time for one either. “We uh, just were fightin’ all the time, arguing about stupid shit, I guess, you know, I’m a little immature, always at the restaurant, always with Mikey, well used to be, I’m a little hard to depend on.” 

You knew he was just repeating the things that Tiff had said to him. Her reasoning, probably thrown at him like daggers in the middle of the fight. She probably wasn’t wrong, they probably did argue all the time, he was immature, you knew that, he was always right by Mikey’s side which generally meant he was at the restaurant. But all those things were obvious to you. That was who Richie was. And you weren’t going to shit on Tiff for not wanting to deal with it, but it didn’t mean you didn’t question why she got into it to begin with. I guess the answer was love, but you didn’t really know much about that. One thing that stuck out to you was the last part of the sentence. Hard to depend on. It was crazy how everyone had different views of people, Tiff had known Richie as hard to depend on. But you knew him as the opposite over the last few years. 

“If it’s any consolation, you’re the most reliable person in my life.” 

“I don’t know what that says about you or the company you keep.” He snorted. 

You laughed at him, pushing into him with your shoulder as you took in another drag of the cigarette. There was another moment where all that could be heard was the sounds around Chicago. It was late so while the sounds weren’t comparable to a rush hour smoke break, it was Chicago so there was some city noise. Your eyes fell onto Richie’s hand as he gripped the railing. The gold ring was still on his finger, which was curious to you. 

“Still got the bling.” Your head nodded to his left hand. “Why are you still wearing it?”

For a second, he frowned, confused by what you were talking about and then his eyes followed your nod. 

“Oh, you know.” He shrugged and immediately took a big inhale of cigarette smoke. 

“No, I don’t.” You raised your eyebrows and turned to have your back against the railing as you waited for his answer. 

“I don’t fuckin’ know. Habit I guess.” He flicked the cigarette into the air and watched it fall 5 stories until it hit the ground causing the last sparks of it to jump. He moved, closer to your window and sat against the concrete wall, folding his knees up to have his arms rest on them as he was now in front of you and extending his legs out would give you no room. 

“Habit.” You nodded, taking your last inhale and doing the same thing as him to get rid of it, still leaning with your back on the railing.

“Yea, you know I’ve had it on forever. Plus like I don’t know, the papers aren’t signed yet, I’m not saying things could be different, but they could, you know. They could go back to how they were. I don’t know. It’s just there’s been a lot happening, I haven’t thought to take it off.” 

He was rambling. Understandably so. You pushed yourself off the ledge and went to sit next to him, copying his positioning with your own legs. 

“Who the fuck am I kidding?” He looked down at his hands. “It’s over.” 

The words were finite, the way he said them felt like it wasn’t his first time coming to that realization, but you figured it was probably the first time he said them outloud. 

“But are you over it?” It was a genuine question from you, a little curious too, if Richie was letting you in, you were going to take it, it was the first time you felt like you had a real conversation with someone in a while. 

“I mean, I don’t think we’re like us anymore, I don’t know if we ever fuckin’ were, like I think we had this idea about who the fuck we were together, right? I mean, I love her, she’s the mother of my kid y’know. But that shit was over a long time ago.” 

“What’s the point of holding on then? Seems like it’d be best for everyone to just move on. I’d say let go but I think you both have.” 

Richie looked at you, taking in what you said. Everything you said was true, it was a perspective he felt like he knew deep down but there was just something about hearing it outloud and from someone else that made it feel a little more realistic and grounding. 

He nodded slowly as he brought his hand up to his mouth, covering it as he digested the information. 

“So this is why Carmy kept you around all these years, you’re fucking smart. You should be like a shrink or some shit.” 

You let out a laugh at his words, the irony that this was all you wanted from Carmy, a moment to chat, it didn’t have to be about Mikey, it didn’t have to be about New York, or anything, you just missed these deep conversations with him. 

“Somethin’ like that.” You let out a deep sigh and looked over at Richie as he began to speak. 

“So can I ask you an awkward question?” His head turned to stare back at you. 

“I’m drunk so it’s probably the best time as any.” You repeated the answer he gave you which made him smile before gazing back out at the riverwalk through the bars of the railing. 

“That guy, that came into the restaurant a couple years ago, he was the one beating on you?” 

Richie knew the answer to the question, he felt like he just needed to hear you say it to get the clarity he needed, and maybe a few more details if you were open to talking about it. 

You paused for a minute, not sure how or if you wanted to answer, but you thought back to that day. You thought back to how Richie didn’t ask any more questions when you told him not to. He never brought it up again, he probably had a million questions, but yet he just asked this one. 

“Yea.” You held your breath for a minute thinking back. “My ex.” You pointed across the street to the little corner store. “I met him there, he was in Chicago for work, from Minneanapolis.” You felt Richie’s eyes jump to stare at you as he started to comprehend everything. “We dated for a few months, I saw him whenever he came into town, which was often. He was charming. We didn’t really do much, I guess I’m an easy date.” You let out a laugh at how unchallenging you made it for the guy. “I didn’t introduce him to anyone, one of many red flags. I knew that no one would like him, especially Carmy, he has that like shithead detector, you know? Anyways, he was wrapping up his last work trip to Chicago at the end of that August and invited me to come back with him. Carmy was leaving, all of my other friends were already back at school or moved out of town, I had nothing going on here, so I did went.” Your head shook as you recollected all of it, especially how naive and stupid it was. 

“It took two days for his true colors to show.” You honestly forgot Richie was next you as you thought about the first time he hit you. “I, uh, was unpacking my stuff. Spilled my soda on the dresser, he wasn’t too happy about it.” Your hand moved to your face out of habit, like you could still feel the sting of his hand across your face. “It stopped for a while, which is why I stayed plus you know, abusers abuse hard but apologize harder so I believed him. I honestly don’t remember when it got worse but it did, and I couldn’t leave. He broke my phone, I had like no money left, no friends, a shitty job.” A stay tear fell and landed on your cheek and you quickly wiped it away. “On paydays, I’d go to a check cashing place on my break, take $20 from my paycheck and put it in my locker, because the rest of it was going to my ex for rent or whatever the fuck he used it on and anything more than $20 was cause for alarm, I had tried and failed. After a few weeks, I saved up enough for a plane ticket and flew to New York. I left in the middle of the night. It was terrifying. I left half of my shit there, not to mention my fuckin’ dignity.” 

“Yea, but, uh.” The tears were now falling more frequently, you weren’t blubbering, your voice was still pretty steady, but the drops weren’t stopping. “Carmy had his own shit going on. I lied to him. I don’t even remember what I said to him about the bruises, but he believed it. He was so fucking out of it and so, I sucked it up. Found a credit card that I could open immediately with my god-awful credit score and booked my flight home.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Richie’s voice was soft, something you didn’t hear from him too often. “That’s– that’s some seriously screwed up shit.” His head was shaking as he processed it all. “I wanted to kill that motherfucker. Like I knew, right? You had that mark on your arm, I’m pretty sure I fuckin’ asked you, but you looked so damn scared and small and not like a kid, I just mean like stepped on. And out of all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never looked scared let alone small. I just felt this anger in me, like I wished I pulled that fuckin’ trigger.” 

A laugh escaped from your mouth thinking about that day, you didn’t find any of this funny per say, but laughing was just what your body could come up with to respond. It was muffled from the congestion of your tears, your nose was slightly red. Your hands moved up to your eyes and rubbed them before you told Richie your final thought. 

“You know, that day, that was my first day home. I was so nervous walking into the restaurant, I didn’t know how everyone was gonna be, if they were mad I left or what. But you looked up and me and smiled and I thought ‘Hell must be freezing over if Richie fuckin’ Jeremovich is the one saving me from my sorrows.’”

He smirked at that, there was some peace served to him knowing that.

“Can I say something else awkward?” His voice was still steady. 

You nodded. 

“Thanks.” 

That was it. That was all Richie said. 

You licked your lips and brought them inside your mouth, trying so hard to hold in what you knew would be exploded laughter. After one successful second, you failed. You let out the craziest noise as you laughed out loud. Your head fell onto Richie’s shoulder as you laughed and caught your breath, Richie joined in the laughing, the two of you louder than you should have been at 3 in the morning. 

“Shut the fuck up!!!” A random voice called out from below you, which caused the both of you to try and shush yourselves while uncontrollably laughing even more. 

As you both calmed from the laughter, there was a brief second where the two of you were looking at each other. It was short, but it was electrifying, maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the emotions, but something was gravitating you two towards eachother. 

There was no shot you could explain when or how it happened. But when your mind came to it, you realized you were horizontal on top of Richie on your fire escape with your tongue practically down his throat. His lips were soft, surprisingly, which was what this entire situation was, surprising to say the least. You thought your reaction to kissing Richie wasn’t going to be to lean into it more, but when you both took a minute to catch your breath, there was nothing else in your head but the thought of wanting to kiss him again. 

“I’m so–” He started to come to it and get flustered but you didn’t let him, you were back to kissing him before he could even finish apologizing. The shock didn’t last long on him, he was melting back into it pretty quickly, his hands moving to your face, the heat of his breath exhilarating you more. Your body grinded on his out of habit, feeling his excitement that you were moving into him. A groan or two or five left your mouth, you lost count and honestly any consciousness in your mind was also out of the window. You were a one track mind, and that was to get Richie into bed. 

________

The cold air mixed with the rising sun glares woke you up. The pounding of your head being the first thing you felt and heard thumping in your head. A groan came from your throat as you rolled over to hide from the sun, letting the thin sheet get tangled up more across your body. That’s when you realized how cold you were, the thin sheet wasn’t much but it really wasn’t helping since you had no clothes on underneath. Memories from the night before crashed onto you which didn’t help the headache that was getting progressively worse. 

Expecting to bump into the man you shared the bed with last night your hand was met with an empty bed. A deep sigh came out from your mouth as you collapsed deeper into the bed. You weren’t disappointed or hurt, it was just a lot to take in, thinking about what exactly happened, what you talked about, how good the sex was. Which you had to admit was really good. Not to say you thought sex would Richie would be good or bad, it was that you never thought of it before, so the thought in itself was shocking. Then there was the thought about what this meant moving forward. That was a notion you spent little time on, you weren’t going to make anything awkward. It was a one night stand and it was Richie, it wasn’t going to be weird. 

There was no point in trying to go back to bed, you rolled over, grabbed what you hoped was a tylenol and not a breath mint that was loose on your nightstand and reached for your sunglasses. 

You sat at the edge of your bed for a minute, trying to work up the courage to get your legs to work. “Alright, clothes. Then water. Then food.” You mapped out your next few moves. To get food, you had to go downstairs, you had nothing in your apartment except for stale leftovers. 

The elevator dings were aggravating, you wished the sunglasses on your face did more than block your eyes from the bright lights but being hungover you just had to face the consequences. 

As the sign flashed first floor over the buttons, the doors whooshed open. As you pushed off the back wall of the elevator you stopped in your steps when you saw Richie standing in front of you with a bag of what you assumed was food from the smell. 

“Hey, I went to grab breakfast.” His voice was courtly, not his normal Richie self, more polite. 

You said nothing, just ushered him into the elevator with your arms as you fell back against the wall leaning your head back to rest there as well. Both of you stood there in silence, you weren’t trying to make it awkward, in fact that thought didn’t even cross your mind. All you could think about was how hard your head was pounding and how much agony work was going to be later. Richie on the other hand, didn’t exactly thrive in silence, he was fidgety, switching which hand he held the bag of food in, leaning back, standing straight, making noises with his mouth, casually trying to look over at you. 

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” His voice switched from polite back to his normal abrasive Richie voice. 

“Because I have a headache.” Your voice monotone. 

“Oh, well I have food.” He held the bag out a little to show you. You would have picked up on what he was insinuating, you have a headache food could fix it, but you just felt like he was repeating himself when all you wanted was silence. 

“Yea you fuckin’ said that, Richie.” Your eyes closed now, not that he could tell under your shades. 

He got quiet again as the elevator beeped and flashed the number 3 as you passed the third floor, but that didn’t last long. 

“I didn’t get coffee because ya know I figured you had stuff here and it’d be better than shit out there.” His voice raised an octave which triggered you. 

“You’re right.” Again, answering in a monotone voice. 

“Are you like mad at me or something?” Richie frowned and stepped somewhat in front of you. 

Normally you would have bugged out on Richie, any other day, any other circumstance, but it clicked. Things weren’t normal, you slept with him, this was weird new territory so you offered him some peace. 

“No, sorry, I’m just really hungover, I appreciate this.” You pointed to the bag of food as the elevator opened on your floor, you squeezed past him to your apartment, opening it and welcoming him in and immediately moving to the coffee machine. Not bothering asking Richie what he wanted, you started to concoct two warm drinks, turning back around with the mugs in your hand to see him laying out the spread he bought. 

“I don’t know what you like so I tried to cover my bases.” He started to point at the styrofoam take out containers. “Sausage and Eggs, Bacon and Eggs, Bagel with Cream Cheese, Bagel with Butter, and pancakes or waffles.” 

You were impressed. Richie just kept surprising you. 

“Wow, uh, I’ll take the bacon and the waffles.” 

“Alright, cool. Waffles.” He mumbled as he searched for the container before handing it to you, sort of like he was taking a mental note as he was searching. 

He took a sip of the coffee, shaking his head in approval, “Yea that’s good fuckin’ shit.” 

You hummed a light laugh as you thanked him, opting to shorten his nickname even more and call him Rich. 

The silence crept up again, the sounds of eating and the wind from the open window the only thing filling the void. You felt the awkwardness and the tension, which was not what you expected, it was Richie fuckin’ Jerimovich, he never made anything awkward, although he was trying to fill a lot of the silence, typical of him and you were offering short responses if any. 

“We’re good, Richie.” You decided to speak up. 

His head turned, mouth full of eggs, bagel in his left hand, it was a sight that put a smile on your face. “Huh?”

“I just, I want you to know like we’re good, this doesn’t have to be awkward.” 

“Alright, yea, not awkward.” He nodded in agreement and went back to his food. 

The two of them awkwardly said goodbye, their short understanding not being enough for them to be on the same page but at least they both knew they were still cool, it was just managing the tension of ‘I saw you naked last night and now know a lot of your deepest darkest secrets so do I hug you goodbye or wave or what.’ But you both managed to get out of it unscathed and with a kiss on the cheek and a ‘call me if you need anything’ which was successful enough in your book. 

Work that day had dragged on, your mind and body were not equipped to deal with people all day but yet you were stuck pushing through. By the time your shift ended, you walked outside, taking in the cold Chicago air as you walked home. The heaviness of life started to weigh on you, the thought of how even though your daily routines hadn’t changed everything was different, how you couldn’t stop by The Beef while they were closing up and meet up with Mikey and Richie to hang out and bullshit around. But then something dawned on you, you still had Richie, and what better way to make things not awkward then by breaking the tension between you. 

You: 10:37 You wanna go to Cerces?

Richie: 10:37 I got banned

You: 10:38 When has that ever stopped you before? Richie: 10:40 Yea, I’m on my way I’ll be at yours in 10 minutes.

[freshbakedbreadstick]

No. 1 Party Anthem - Mikey Berzatto x F!Reader - MASTERLIST

⭐ FINISHED AS OF 7/1/2024 ⭐

Summary: The Berzattos were your family; Natalie was one of your closest friends, Carmy was the person you could rely on, and Mikey was... the love of your life. But after Mikey's death, running away seemed to be the only thing that calmed that feeling of fear and depression from consuming you whole. After running for so long, a sign in the form of a text brought you back home and back to The Beef. Whether or not this was a good idea, you didn't know, but you did know that one day, you would have to stop running. And it seemed like returning would try and make you.

Relationships Involved:

Past!Mikey Berzatto x F!Reader

Carmy Berzatto x F!Platonic!Reader

Richie Herimovich x F!Platonic!Reader

Natalie "Sugar" Berzatto x F!Platonic!Reader

WARNING, the following slow burn story tends to be on the darker and heavier side, dealing with and containing mentions of death, mental illnesses, grief, toxic relationships, unhealthy coping mechanisms, anxiety and panic attacks, and more. Please check the warnings mentioned in the beginning of each chapter for a detailed list of what each chapter contains. Like all my work regardless of the content, this story is for 18+ readers only, minors do not view or interact. You have been warned.

Chapters:

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN