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How can he be so calm? Syd thinks, as she stares at Richie. He’s kneeling on the kitchen floor, and he stays very still while Carmy is convulsing. He has his hands under the cook's head, making sure it's not hitting the sticky floor anymore.
The tremors that wracked his body a minute ago are subsiding now, but Syd can still picture the grotesque contortions in her mind.
"Shouldn't we, you know, make sure he doesn't bite his tongue?" Marcus suggests from where he stands, frozen in place like everyone else.
"That's a myth," Richie scoffs, not looking up.
"Do they teach you that at DeVry?" Syd asks, a pitiful attempt at humor that she immediately regrets.
She is not expecting Richie to answer but he still does.
"No, growing up with the little fucker was enough."
So that's not something new, Syd thinks — and yet Carmy failed to ever mention it. But when would he have? Hey, how are you, by the way I might drop suddenly and start convulsing on the floor one day, just so you know.
*
Carmy is already in the kitchen when Syd arrives that morning. She greets him, asks about the new dishes they were considering for the menu but he doesn't answer. He's standing in front of a bubbling pot of stock and when she comes near, he startles, looking flushed and confused.
She wonders about a fever but doesn't go as far as putting a maternal hand on his greasy brow. He shakes himself like a wet dog and his eyes sparkle when he finally notices her.
"I couldn't sleep," he says. "Marcus is there too." He waves towards Marcus's station, realizes he's nowhere to be seen and adds, "He was there... I think."
He frowns, like he's doubting his own mind. It should be worrying, but it’s not the first time he said some weird things. Marcus may even be living in the back office, for all she knows, as he always seems to appear out of nowhere. She has preps to do and pantries to inspect, so she lets it go.
*
Syd is saying something about the new menu and Carmy just can't focus. Did they already go over it? He can't recall. She sounds like she's far away, even though she's standing right there.
He wants to lie down somewhere and just let go, take a nap or something. He's not sleeping well these days, too much stress, too much to think about.
He shakes his head then grabs his silver spoon. The motion is grounding, the metal reassuringly cold as it hits the palm of his hand. He waits for his tongue to stop feeling like lead in his mouth, for his jaw to unclench enough for him to answer.
Part of him hopes Syd will say something, comment on his mumbling, on his glassy look, or just ask how he's doing — she doesn't and it's a relief somehow.
*
Marcus likes working at the Beef, but he can't say he likes Richie very much. For now the kitchen is quiet, all his preps for the day are done, labeled meticulously. He is actually planning stuff ahead now, focusing on what's on the menu, in order to keep time to experiment. He's getting good, he thinks. Less bad, at least.
Sydney and Carmy are there somewhere in the back, talking in hushed tones. Marcus can't tell if they're arguing or not, and he tries not to strain his ear too much. It reminds him of his childhood, eavesdropping on his parents as they were arguing in the living room, certain little Marcus was asleep in his room.
Doors bang open, and people start coming in, Tina, Ebra, Sweeps. The kitchen comes alive with sound and chatter. It's still tame, by Beef standards, and like a well oiled machine, everyone takes their station and starts working.
Real chaos starts when Richie kicks the back door open and greets everyone with a booming voice and quotes from Mad Max. Date night went badly, then, Marcus sighs. Which means Richie will be even more annoying than usual.
He's still trying to micromanage everything — and he’s terrible at it — so they have to listen to his headache-inducing nonsense. Sydney doesn't take the bite for once, but the general volume and stress levels still rise.
*
Ebra drops a pot lid on the kitchen stove and Carmen startles, then lets out a long sigh.
"Are you okay, chef?" Ebra asks, putting the lid back on after he gives the meat a shake.
Carmen doesn't answer but it's not unusual for him and Ebra thinks nothing of it. Carmen's mind works in mysterious ways sometimes — a bit like Michael's used to, only quieter.
He's working on the new menu, moving around little cardboards with notes scribbled in Sharpie. He's been staring at it for a while now, not moving anything anymore, and the older cook wonders if he can help. But what does he know about fancy food?
Still he comes closer, and Carmen jumps again like he forgot Ebra was even there.
"I'm fine," he repeats, "I'm fine."
He shuffles the cards and puts them away, ending the conversation.
*
"Cuz?" Richie tries again.
He elbows Carmy in the arm when he doesn't react. He's been staring at sizzling peppers for a while now, and something feels off.
"Yeah, what?" comes the annoyed reply. But it's delayed, muffled. Worrying.
Richie thinks he should ask him if he's sleeping enough, if he's eating more than a few bites of Sydney's new frilly shit.
He should, but he doesn't — what's the point, they'll just end up arguing and Carmy will yell and push him away, like always. He's moving again anyway, no longer frozen in thought, so Richie decides to let it go.
*
They open and Richie yells. He knows how to use everything, how to take orders and communicate quietly, they went over it many times, and Carmy knows for a fact that despite his rough exterior, Richie isn't stupid. And yet he keeps yelling orders, a constant grating noise that drills a hole between Carmy's ears and burrows into his brain.
He should retreat back to the office. Let them handle things, take a nap. He rubs his left eye and smears grease on his cheek. It does nothing to assuage his headache.
Everybody's talking all at once, and the sun coming through the window is blinding. He blinks.
Grips the counter.
Staggers to the kitchen.
Syd is talking to him. She sounds worried. He opens his mouth to reassure her but he can't.
He falls backwards.
*
"Oh my god, Carmy?" Sydney yells.
Marcus hopes people would stop yelling in that kitchen for one minute. He puts down the spatula, careful not to disturb the icy glazing on his latest cake — orange glaze this time, with lemon meringue inside.
There is a whining noise and a banging sound, and if another appliance broke, he's not at fault this time.
He wipes his hands on a clean towel before getting out of his corner to check what's going on.
His heart stops when he takes in the scene. Carmy is shaking on the floor, his legs flopping and hitting the stove. He's pale and sweaty and man, that looks bad.
Sydney stands next to the stove, a horrified expression on her face. If Sydney is unsure what to do, then they have a serious problem. Tina is out for a smoke, and Manny is washing dishes and singing off key very loudly, unaware of the commotion back there.
"Richie!" Ebraheim yells suddenly, bellows even.
Like a record skipping everything comes to a stop and Richie barrels into the kitchen, looking pissed. His expression shifts the minute he spots Carmy on the floor though, and he falls to his knees in a second.
*
"Did anyone call 911?" Richie asks.
Carmy starts seizing again before Richie can even roll him into a recovery position. This time, he puts a jacket under his head and times the episode, looking at his watch and feeling all eyes on him.
"Two in a row is bad news," he explains. "More than 2 minutes isn't good either." He winces. "911! Call, now!" he stammers.
He's out of his depth and he doesn't want to be in charge. He wants to bark orders and tell jokes, not... this.
Carmy bit his tongue and he’s spitting flecks of blood. It looks more impressive than it really is, Richie reminds himself. The others don't know that, and in his back, Tina sounds like she's having a panic attack of her own.
*
"It's burning!" Tina yells when she comes back from her break and sees the smoke. "Puta!"
She drops the pan when the handle singes her hand and turns the fire down under the unattended pots and pans. She's ready to tear everyone a new one but she stops dead in her tracks when she sees Carmy on the floor.
The poor kid is flopping like a fish and she thinks, "not again!" — she can't lose another one, not so soon, not Jeff. She hated the stupid boy when he came back to Chicago with all these sophisticated ideas and demands. She loves him now, and she can't even pinpoint the moment the shift happened, not really.
Richie is asking about 911, and she pats her pockets but can't find her phone. Everyone seems rooted on the spot and she can hear Sweeps talking to patrons in the front. She can't tell if he's telling them they're close or still selling sandwiches. She doesn't know what Jeff would prefer — probably the latter, he is dumb like that.
Then Carmy stops moving and twitching, and she mutters a prayer in Spanish because the kid looks like he needs it. He looks dead. Not dead, he's breathing, she thinks, gripping her blue apron and wringing it with shaky hands.
Syd rushes to the lockers and retrieves an old promotional sweater. Richie drapes it over Carmy, rolling him to his side. He looks young like that, Tina thinks suddenly, younger than Michael, younger than the bossy, entitled New York chef who came back to bother them some weeks ago.
As for Richie, he looks older now, like he actually knows what he's doing — he's probably the only one right now, thank God for small miracles.
"They're back there," Sweeps says from the front of the restaurant.
Next thing they know, he’s showing two EMTs the way, and Tina could have kissed him.
*
Everything hurts and all he can see is the off-white wall and Richie's face, too close for comfort. Carmy licks his lips and tries to speak but all that comes out is a pathetic croak.
"You're a stupid fuck, you know that?" Richie says.
That sounds uncalled for. He frowns at him, then at the needle in the back of his hand and at the tubing running to an IV bag. Oh great, hospital.
"Sugar will pay the bill," Richie says.
The non sequitur tells him that he saw his frown. Money is tight and he's not sure he can afford a trip to the ER or wherever they are right now. Sugar will be so pissed — not about the money, or maybe just a little.
"You haven't been taking your meds," Richie accuses.
"I have," Carmy mumbles. He thinks he has. Most of the time. Probably.
"All the Tums you've been popping like candy surely didn't help."
"Dying?" he asks.
Words are still hard, he finds. They still lock up somewhere in his mind and won't reach his mouth. His tongue feels swollen and he winces.
"No," Richie answers.
He flops back in the creaking plastic chair and doesn't elaborate. Great. Silence is what he needs anyway.
He closes his eyes and drifts to sleep.
*
There is sunlight on his face when he wakes up again, but he knows better than to open his eyes right away. It'll be loud and bright. It can wait, he thinks.
And anyway, he can tell Mikey's here, so he's safe. He can hear the chair creak softly as his brother rattles off facts about "status epilepticus" and scoffs at the "dumb Latin name." He must be reading a hospital leaflet or Wikipedia on his phone.
"It says here it's a life-threatening condition. You really overdid yourself on that one."
A pat on his leg, over the bed covers. The hand is light and way too cautious.
Can't be Mikey.
Sadness washes over him as the present rights itself and Mikey is gone again.
"You're still here," he mumbles to Richie.
He looks tired, his clothes even more wrinkled than usual.
"Not like they need me at the restaurant."
Richie shrugs. Carmy knows he should contradict him but he doesn't.
"Sugar?" Carmy asks.
"Pissed," Richie confirms.
Understandable, he thinks. He hadn't had an episode that bad since...
New York.
Shards of a plate all over the floor and him convulsing in the middle of it all. The horrendous grimace on the chef's face as he towered over him.
Yeah, it's been a while.
*
Carmy still looks out of it, even by his own low standards but he can actually form intelligible words and his eyes can track, so that's progress.
Richie groans and stretches. His neck is killing him, stupid hospital chair not designed for people to sleep in.
"That wasn't status," Carmy says out of the blue, because he likes to be contrary like that.
"Yeah, it was." Richie waves his phone and reads, "Two or more seizures without a refractory period in between."
"I didn't have two," Carmy points out.
"Sure you did."
Then Carmy frowns and flings the covers off his legs, ready to get out of bed. He's free of tubing now, and they did the EEG earlier when he was still barely coherent, but it’s still making Richie uneasy.
"Stay put, or Sugar will have my neck."
"Since when do you fear her?" Carmy remarks, bending to retrieve the plastic bag with his clothes in the nightstand.
He must get dizzy because he pauses mid gesture and grips the bed rail.
"Don't barf," Richie warms. "I'm getting someone." He stands to press the call button."I'm calling Sugar," he adds and Carmy makes a face.
What was he expecting, to go back on foot to the dump he calls home?
Carmy mutters something as he slowly gets dressed. He manages pants and shoes well, but he gives up on the T-shirt and keeps the hospital one.
"’M not staying at Sugar's," is what Richie can hear before he steps out to fetch a nurse and some release papers.
*
Pete is waiting for them in Sugar's car when they finally exit the hospital with a bottle of diazepam and strict orders to avoid stress and rest — as if that’s possible in his line of work. Pete looks way to cheerful for someone giving a ride to his brain-fucked brother-in-law.
Everything is too loud, too bright. The air hurts his face and he shivers in Richie’s flimsy jacket. Once he’s settled in the backseat, he closes his eyes and puts his cheek against the cold window, drowning everything out the best he can.
"Will you shut up already?" Richie finally says.
It's rude but it does the trick and Pete stops talking the rest of the way.
Carmy thinks he'll apologize later, but he knows he’ll probably forget, and Pete won't mind because he's nice like that.
*
Sugar is not home. It's quiet and it smells like someone did some baking earlier.
The couch swallows him whole and Carmy is ready to fall asleep when Pete comes back with a glass of water and the hospital drugs. He reads the doctor's note out loud — too loud, shut up Pete.
Carmy screws his eyes shut. He knows the drill, it's not his first rodeo, sadly, but Pete seems determined to do things by the book. Sugar wouldn't forgive him if he died on her couch so he listens to Pete and takes the pills.
*
The TV is on, volume low, when he wakes up again, feeling a little bit more human.
There is a PB&J sandwich on a plate on the coffee table and another glass of water with pills next to it. He smiles and wolfs it down.
"You should have told your coworkers about your..." Sugar trails off, not bringing herself to say the word out loud, she never could.
"I'll talk to them," he says with crumbs still on his chin.
Syd will probably know more about epilepsy than he does by the time he comes back.
"We'll do some first aid drills, with Richie as the victim. Where is he anyway?"
"He went home."
"You mean you kicked him out."
"Maybe."
She smiles tiredly.
"I'm sorry," he says.
For not eating enough, for being a burden.
"You better be," she says, but there is no real heat in her voice.
There are 12 unread messages on his phone. He sends, "Im ok, dont burn anything," to Syd and hopes she'll pass it on. It must be Saturday evening by now — maybe Sunday — so they must be swamped.
She answers a while later, "Richie is back and annoying. Burning minimal. Glad you're not dead."