Work Text:
It’s 1am when he gets called.
His eyes are blurry when he answers after the second ring. He hates the way his mind goes first, always so fucking negative: what’s going on now? A fire, like he’s still dreaming? Sydney storming out? Ritchie getting too coked up on whatever’s he got now? Someone crashing into the front of the building with their shit car?
Carmy mumbles out a what against the cool surface of his phone. Half registers it’s Ritchie.
“There’s a fire, cousin,” Ritchie says. Carmy blinks. A pause settles in for a bit too long. Carmy should only hear the muffled, panicked breaths of Ritchie, the wind blowing harshly enough for him to hear. What he hears instead is the familiar sound of drywall burning, enough to leave a dark mark above the stove like a ghost.
“ARE YOU FUCKING THERE, ASSHOLE,” Ritchie shouts. It’s mostly panicked. Angry, too, because Ritchie’s always pissed about something, only this time it’s warranted and far, far too close. What the fuck even caused this? Everything’s always turned off. Carmy always double checks, after one too many dreams of something bad happening. Don’t need to invite the devil in with open hands, he always comes in anyway. Especially with this place.
Carmy should be moving. Get up on your feet, put on the stupid jacket that’s never warm enough, see the damage, come on, you stupid little fuck—
A muffled noise comes through the speaker. Ritchie is trying to see if he called the right number, or maybe he’s just cussing Carmy out and the reception’s too bad.
“Yeah,” Carmy says, finally. It’s so quiet that he thinks he’ll have to repeat himself, but Ritchie hears him anyway.
“Yeah, it’s bad,” Ritchie says, voice cracking. Carmy thinks he might be crying. “You coming?”
“I’ll be there in 5,” Carmy hears himself say. He watches himself get up, get his jacket, and get to the door. His hands are shaking. He blinks, and suddenly he’s inside his car. A half finished 5-Hour Energy sits beside him; he finishes it. He blinks, and he can smell the smoke filtering in from outside, and then he can see it, the apartments next to The Bear lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, flames spewing out of it like a fucking monster. People are streaming out to watch or flee. Firefighters are already on the scene. Even from here, Carmy can see Ritchie, his figure dark and tense against the fire. He looks like a soldier watching the world burn.
Carmy’s been paused at the intersection too long. It doesn’t matter, because no one’s behind him. When he drifts closer to the restaurant, Ritchie turns slightly, non-expectant, as if he’s been turning back to see if it’s Carmy awhile now. Carmy checks the clock. It’s only been 5 minutes, but it already feels like an eternity. He stumbles out to stand beside Ritchie.
“Cousin,” Ritchie says. Now he’s the one who’s quiet. Carmy nods, assesses the damage. It’s not too bad in comparison to the apartment, he supposes. Carmy can already tell the back of the restaurant looks bad, even from here.
Micha— his office would have been burnt. All the fuel in the paper that didn’t say much but meant everything at the same time. All the little things that suddenly turned significant are in that room, because everything Michael touched was suddenly a lifeline to him, even though nothing could ever actually be a fucking lifeline, because Michael isn’t there. He’s not here anymore. He’s not here, and never will be again.
“…Firefighters said we should be fine, now,” Ritchie says, bringing him back to attention. Carmy laughs. Fine. Fine?
“Fuck,” Carmy says. Ritchie nods. The two of them look at the wreck of The Beef like it’s the one that’s actually on fire. Carmy spares a glance at Ritchie, realizes he’s crying. Ritchie notices him looking and wipes his tears away, and Carmy hates it. Carmy should be crying too.
“He’s actually gone, now,” Ritchie rasps. Sincere and low, machismo gone.
“Yeah,” Carmy whispers. “I- I wanted to keep the neon sign, at—“ He cuts himself off. He sounds stupid, feels stupid, even with the three hundred grand at his apartment. They could still sell this place, take the money and make something new. That’s what Mike wanted, after all. Everything’s fine, still. Nothing’s wrong.
Ritchie grips Carmy’s shoulder tight, stilling him. “We’ve got it, alright,” he says, though it sounds more like a plea. “We’ll get through it.”