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Sydney’s been missing from the party for some time now, and Richie’s starting to worry. This is a tiny fucking apartment, and going missing from a place this small takes deliberate effort. The bathroom is unoccupied, the kitchen (if you can call it that) is empty, and everyone else is still in the main room, dancing and drinking and laughing and shooting dice.
He knows she’s probably outside somewhere, taking out the trash or getting fresh air or whatever, but four or five different songs have cycled through on Syd’s shitty Bluetooth speaker, and Richie wants to make sure she’s all right. He checks the front door to no avail, so now he’s shuffling his way through the throng of inebriated friends and coworkers to get to the back door.
“Syd? Syd, you out here?” Richie calls out to the evening air.
He sees her sitting on the ground, curled into herself, shaking and hyperventilating. Her eyes are shiny with unshed tears; she doesn’t seem to have registered his presence.
Fuck. She’s having an anxiety attack. No, scratch that, this is a panic attack. She looks wrecked and her lips are turning a sickly gray color, like she’s gonna fucking pass out.
Richie quickly and quietly shuts the door behind him and walks toward her. “Hey, hey, Syd,” he says, kneeling down in front of her, not caring if his knees scream at him, “look at me, sweetheart. Look at me.”
She finally looks up at him, still panicking, and he puts his finger up in front of her face and says, “Blow out the candle.”
She looks confused.
“Pretend it’s a candle and blow it out, Syd,” he tells her, gesturing to his finger with his other hand.
Sydney puckers her lips and heaves out one breath, then two.
“Keep going, you got it,” Richie murmurs his encouragement. Syd takes a few more purposeful exhales, and her breath markedly slows down.
“See?” he says, reaching out to squeeze her arm. “Stupid as shit, but it works.”
Sydney wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, her breathing still shaky but much improved. “Where’d you learn that?” she croaks out.
“My therapist,” he says.
“You have a therapist?”
“Haven’t needed to see her in a long time now, but yeah. Tiff made me get grief counseling after Mikey died, and, uh, I had a panic attack in the doc’s office straight off the bat. Fucking embarrassing,” he says, “and then she shoves her finger in my face and tells me to blow out the candle, and I thought it was stupid as fuck, but I did it and I could fucking breathe again. Wild, huh?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“Xanax works great, too, by the way. I don’t have it on me right now, but let me know if you want to borrow any for later.”
“Pretty sure that’s illegal, Richie.”
“Don’t be a narc,” Richie teases, hoping to get Syd to smile, and she does, even if it doesn’t reach her eyes.
Richie’s knees are really starting to complain, so he shuffles to sit next to her against the wall outside the back steps of her apartment. He stretches his legs out and groans as his joints pop.
Sydney’s still trembling a little. Wordlessly, she scoots over and leans against Richie’s side; he leans down so she can more comfortably cushion her head against the slope of his neck and shoulder.
“You good?” he murmurs, echoing a phrase he asks her almost every dinner service these days.
“Getting there,” she replies.
“You wanna talk about it?”
“Not really,” she says.
“All right.”
They sit there in the evening chill for a long while. Richie listens as Sydney’s breathing slows further and evens out more.
When the song playing inside ends and fades into a new one, Sydney perks up, lifting her head a little.
“I fucking love this song,” she mumbles.
“Didn’t know you liked oldies,” Richie says.
“Shut up, The Temptations are eternal.”
Syd starts humming along to the opening verse and taps the rhythm out on her knee. Richie chuckles and hums along with her, until the refrain starts, and he bursts out into song:
“I guess you'd say
What can make me feel this way—
My girl, my girl, my girl, talkin’ ’bout myyy girl—”
He’s not, like, a musician, but he can carry a tune. His outburst has the desired effect, however—Sydney smiles. It’s a real, genuine Syd grin, accompanied by one of her adorable snort-laughs. She turns and buries her face into the material of his shirt, whether out of exhaustion or affection, he’s not sure. She’s still giggling, so that’s a good sign.
“C’mon,” Richie says, “let’s dance.” He stands up, cringes a little as his knees creak, and extends a hand to her. “Can’t waste a good song.”
Syd lets him help her to her feet. They easily slip back into their goofy dance rapport, and it warms Richie’s heart to see Syd smiling again.
He takes her hand and spins her in a circle as he hums to the music—and maybe the spin was a little too enthusiastic, or they’re both a little bit too inebriated, because she ends up stumbling and bumping into him squarely in the chest. He holds her steady by the arm so she doesn’t go tumbling.
She looks up at him, her big brown eyes sparkling with amusement, and they both break into a fit of semi-hysterical cackles.
Still laughing, Sydney buries her forehead against his chest and wraps her arms around his middle. Richie returns her embrace, then ducks down and kisses the top of her head. He doesn't even think twice about it—it’s muscle memory. He always hugs Tiff and Eva like that, hell, even used to hug Mikey like that. Sydney doesn’t seem to mind, though; she just hugs Richie tighter.
“Thanks, Richie,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Any time, Syd,” he replies as the final refrain begins to fade, and for a single, fleeting moment, there’s no restaurant, no Tribune review, no stupid Michelin stars; they’re just Sydney and Richie, swaying to the music on a cold Chicago night.