Chapter Text
There was an expectation that Carmy was going to stop himself from snapping at everyone. That expectation probably should have been there from the start, but The Bear was built atop shoulders that had been stretched so thin that it was a medical miracle the tendons hadn’t just snapped.
The expectation had been set after Friends and Family where he locked eyes with the man from EMP, saw the cluster of fishes that would need refiring (would set them back, would not be good enough for him for 1001st time), and felt a yell explode up his throat. That didn’t even begin to cover his time spent in the walk-in, growling and bashing against the heavy door like a caged animal.
The morning after, his voice was still shredded raw, and his stomach was still twisting with guilt. Syd and Carmy sat in Sugar’s office, and they talked.
Carmy said, “I don’t want to treat you or anyone that way. Ever.”
He seemed so intense and so genuine that her thoughts flickered for just a moment. After that, though, she remembered almost completely just melting and fucking up while Carmy was doing nothing but yelling in her ear and banging against the walk-in. The thudding was so loud and harsh that she almost worried he’d smash a knuckle in. (Fortunately, they were as thick as his stupid skull.)
“Then stop treating us like that.”
His bruised knuckles brushed against his jaw.
“I’m sorry, Syd. I’ll do better. I-I know you don’t trust that. I get it, but… I mean it. Not losing you or-or Tina or Richie or anyone . It’s worth figuring out how to fix this.”
“Then what’s your plan?”
“What do you mean?”
“How-how do you plan on fixing that?”
“I’m uh… I’m at least solid at-at knowing when I’m starting to get like that. It might mean me disappearing again sometimes, but it should-should mean me blowing up at you guys less.”
She sighed and considered it, “That’s like… not the best option, but if it’s all you know for sure you can do, then it’s worth trying.”
That was… a couple weeks? Maybe a couple months ago. He’s been losing track a lot lately.
He has been trying to be better. He knows he won’t survive if he doesn’t adapt soon, but it feels less like some genius evolution and more like his bones shifting and fracturing to shape him into something he doesn’t recognize. Fuck, he is trying to be better, but he has never known recovery to be worse than the illness.
It’s difficult for him to eat more consistently than half a meal past midnight, to acknowledge that feeling Chef’s presence over his shoulder isn’t worth the stress it causes, to fall back asleep after another nightmare about bears eating him alive. It’s difficult like swallowing barbed wire, and it’s been years since he’s felt such a sharp weight in the pit of his stomach.
-
He had woken up out of breath twice times the night before and Tina was out and it was a Saturday night, but he knows he’s just making excuses.
The sauce for the bucatini wasn’t quite right. When his head was a little clearer, he knew how to communicate what he wanted from his chefs. He knew when he was pushing them to get something precisely perfect, and he knew that he should tell them that, but no matter how hard he’d been trying to shackle down his temper, his inhibitions had been slowly falling apart.
Syd knew exactly what that sauce should be like because she’d done it before. When he checked through everyone’s stations, the consistency was just barely off enough to catch his eye.
“Sauce is too runny, another half minute, Chef.”
She looked at him, more confused than anything, “This is the consistency we’ve been doing for the past month.”
“It’s close, but it isn’t there. You’ve done it perfectly dozens of times over. You can do it again.”
“We’re already running late, and it’s barely-”
“Doesn’t matter if we’re running late. Just let me try it, and I’ll fuck off if it’s fine.”
“I couldn’t even notice until you said something.”
“Syd, just let me try it,” he hissed, the wall between him and fight or flight growing thinner.
“Okay, yeah,” she begrudgingly held up the spoon and carefully separated a noodle off, “There you go.”
He bit into it, and just as he thought, it was barely thin enough that it didn’t cling to the bucatini like normal.
“Just another half a minute.”
“Let me try.”
She bit into it as well before tossing it out and following him to go wash her hands.
“Chef, it’s good. We can serve that.”
“It’s 30 fucking seconds, Syd. The bar should not be at ‘we can serve that,’” he said pointedly, blood rushing in his ears.
“Hey okay, 30 seconds, I’ll do it, but outside, seriously.”
He blinked at her for a second before quickly nodding, “Okay.”
“Yeah?” She said, already starting again on the pasta.
“Okay, matae,” he breathed, signing ‘sorry.’
He made a beeline for the door, calling ‘behind’ across the kitchen. For about 8 months of the year, it was always colder outside the kitchen than in. The temperature sat around 60, but it almost felt like he had stepped into the walk-in.
He could now feel how electricity was crackling across his skin and through his stomach. Carmy cleared his throat and squatted down with his back to the building. Sometimes, there was so much energy shocking through him that he couldn’t stop himself from pacing, but more often than not, the adrenaline left him a little lightheaded.
That wasn’t the main reason though. It just felt better sometimes to curl in on himself, to topple, to shrink, to feel his whole person be contained in one little ball on the ground. This way, he could better feel his fingertips. His lungs felt close enough to receive signals from his brain. He was stretched thin and wound tight, but all of him was still there.
After a couple minutes, the tension stretching from his shoulder blades all the way up through his neck started to loosen, and his breathing started to deepen. He stood up and leaned his head back with hands on his hips.
Even if the other ones didn’t have him nearly as close to ripping Syd apart, this was the third time this week that he’d had to tap out. Not to mention that it’s been years since he’s smoked this much or that several times since Friends and Family, tums and pepto haven’t stood a chance against how fucked his stomach has gotten.
But he breathed deeply, and he went back in.
-
Syd knows there’s something up with Carmy. At first, she thought he was just on some self-improvement kick. More often than not, he’d started leaving around the same time she did, stepping out when emotions were running too high, sitting down to eat family with everyone. It seemed like he was taking a full stroll in the right direction, and softly surprised approval started popping up from everyone around him, including herself.
She’s been cautiously optimistic. While she’s rooting for him with every improvement he made, she’s also been bracing for him to crash. He’d been keeping too many plates in the air for well over a month, and she’s been starting to notice the plates that have fallen at their expense.
She doesn’t quite know how to place it, or if this even is the case, but he looks like he feels awful. He’s always had that sort of air to him, but his voice has gotten a little less sure and his hands have gotten a little less steady.
If it weren’t for this hunch, she wouldn’t have figured out the smell of vomit emanating from the alley was from him stress-puking out there. She wouldn’t have questioned it when he walked in from a ‘smoke break’ with the feverish color drained from his face and his voice rougher than usual.
All that to say she might be a little worried. She feels like he’s building to something, not like his sudden explosive meltdown during Friends and Family, but more like in the weeks leading up to her quitting. If you look close enough, he seems like he’s perpetually on the edge of either snapping and tearing everyone to shreds or dropping to the floor and never getting back up.
Tonight was far from a full-blown breakdown, but she’s going to hold him to that ‘let’s talk about this later.’ For now, she’d just finish locking up with Richie while Carm took his billionth smoke break of the night.
“So it had been like 30 minutes right? We were terrified that Carmy got fuckin abducted or someshit, but as we’re walking and calling for him, like full-on shouting his name and shit, Sugar spots him, and he’s just chilling at this fuckin wooodcarving tent, not a care in the world, still chewing on kettle corn.”
“He didn’t hear you?” She laughs.
“I’m sure he would have if he wasn’t watching that woodcarver like it was a fuckin gift from God. Mikey only managed to drag him away when Sugar and I were done looking at shit almost an hour later. The patience he had for that kid was bonkers.”
“And Carmy was… what 4,5?”
“Oh, he was fuckin older than 4,5. It was like 7,8. He was a weirdass kid. Best way to make a weirdass adult I guess.”
She hums, “Do you think he’s like… good? Like should we check in with him or something?”
“It’s harder to tell nowadays. Either that’s just what he looks like when he’s feeling good about shit or he’s just as fucked as ever. If that’s the case, he’d probably just throw his little temper tantrum and pick himself back up.”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I personally don’t really like being on the receiving end of all that. There just has to be other ways to go there.”
“Sure, it’s just getting him to agree to that shit is a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“One where he says he’ll check it out, and then, he never does. The whole Al-Anon thing’s a huge outlier.”
That’s when Carmy bursts in from outside, looking like he’s watching the end of the world.
“What’s burning?”
Richie starts first, “What do you mean, Cousin? Nothing’s burning.”
He grips the counter with all his strength to stop the dizziness from bringing him down.
“I smell burning,” he breathes, hysterical energy coming off him in waves.
“Shit, are you having a stroke or something?” Syd wonders, voice rising to meet his.
“No no no, it’s-it’s not.”
There’s recognition in his eyes as something dawns on him. He turns and grasps for the counter once more before trying to stumble back the way he came.
“Cousin ay! Where do you-”
And then, he drops.
He falls forward, stopping either of them from getting a good hold on him before he hits the ground with a sickening thud .
Richie and Syd each hover over him, hissing, “oh fuck ,” like if they said it enough times with enough panic and desperation, he would just get up like nothing happened. No such luck.
Because then, the convulsions start.
Neither of them had ever seen a seizure outside of the wriggling and flopping of a dramatic TV scene. It feels violent, starting with softer tremors before avalanching into his limbs contorting and doing everything in their power to shred his every muscle.
“Shit shit , okay uh I’ll call 911,” Richie decides, throat going dry.
“Uh good, yeah I’ll um I’ll-I’ll look up what I’m supposed to do,” Syd decides, without an inch of confidence in her.
Carmy lets out a sound somewhere between a hum and a whine. It makes both of them wince in sympathy.
“Shit, this is fucking wild…” she says, scrolling through to find something she could possibly do to help, “okay, uh I’m going to cushion his head with my coat.”
While she does just that, hands gentle but shaking, Richie speaks into his phone, “Uh my cousin’s having a seizure. We’re at The Bear. I don’t-” he lowers the phone, “Sydney, could you start timing him?”
“Timing what?”
“With your phone, we’ll be late, but just time him,” he says like he knows what he’s talking about.
“Okay uh yeah, I can. I can time that.”
Richie answers the operator’s questions, each answer haphazardly toppling out of his mouth. With nothing more she could do until the spasms stopped, Syd watches him. The stopwatch clicks up and up. One repeating thought occupies all the space in her head.
Dropping to the floor and never getting back up.