Chapter Text
two in the morning. he's on his stomach with moonlight falling through the window on his bare shoulders, the arch of his thick dark hair hiding his eyes in shadow. not even a gleam.
why do you keep calling me that? he says. used to be every now and then, like a joke, but now it’s just all the time.
it’s your name.
mikey’s my name.
michael’s on your birth certificate. that makes it your name.
everyone calls me mikey.
you lift an empty palm. and?
oh my god, don’t be so fucking mysterious, come here. c’mere. his hand's on your hip, clumsy. hey. talk to me.
let it go, michael.
when sweetness doesn’t get him what he wants, he reaches inside and produces more energy from god knows where.
don’t you ever get tired of being so goddamn mysterious? don’t you get fucking exhausted? from wheedling to kindling, you never tell me anything, just tell me one thing, okay? just one thing, what’s the big deal, straight shooter? huh? c’mere, hey. oh, now you’re not looking at me? like what am i, a cop? i’m just fuckin curious, man, it’s my name, and if you’re—
okay! fuck! just. fucking calm down, i’ll tell you. i’ll tell you.
i am calm. he is. ruffled, but calm. he’s clean tonight, you can always tell the difference.
everyone calls you mikey.
he turns over onto his back and lets the light reach everywhere. doesn't have to say a thing. his face is deceptively open, waiting, the full weight of his attention on you, and that's more than enough.
you say, maybe i don’t want to be everyone.
his face melts into that expression you love and hate in nearly equal measure, a little pitying, a little tender, completely fucking magnetic. he stretches out one arm across the tops of both pillows in mute invitation, and you know that you’ll crawl into his arms in a second, give in the way you always do.
oh, baby, he says. you’re not everyone.
yeah?
you've never been closer to him than you are right now, with all the red lights sped through a long ways back, and yet. and yet. you still can't read him. maybe you never will.
you say, then who am i?
when you go to the beef for the first time, you set yourself some rules. first off, don't talk to the staff. don't talk to the staff. don't talk to the fucking staff.
don’t stare.
don’t say his name.
and as soon as you get your sandwich, you gotta go.
there’s rules. that’s your excuse for breaking your promise: if you act like any other customer, what harm can it do?
well, this.
you’ve done a decent job of pretending you don't know enough english to converse, but you’re still trying so hard not to look at carmy standing behind the counter that you let your gaze drift, go unfocused, as you anchor yourself by two fingertips barely grazing the counter. waiting for your mortadella like all the other schmucks. suddenly, your drift snags on a sound, a certain note in the voice of the guy behind you, and you turn before you have any idea what it is. your heart jumps. of course he’s got a gun, of course he fucking does, and carmy’s trying to calm him with shouting and everything else just happens.
you wedge yourself between the guy and the counter don’t you fucking touch him back the fuck up at least the crowd’s smart enough to scatter or hit the floor and you smack the inside of his wrist knock the gun to the side where at least the only ones who could suffer would be the wall or you. bang, stupid loud. flinch. the picture frame on the wall right behind you shatters and falls, sting in your arm don’t touch him but one more twist and the gun is yours now and the guy is running, running, gone. which makes you just a person getting gawked at by strangers while your mouth is running behind. don’t you fucking —
you thought you forgot how to get scared a long time ago, but that’s obviously not true. you notice it as you pop the magazine and shake the bullets out with a metallic tinkle in your hand, then pull the slide to clear the chamber too. yeah, you're scared.
the bullets are slippery in your sweating palm, and it's early chicago fall and no enemies left, nothing to sweat about. you slip bullets in your pocket, don’t want to give anyone a loaded gun, especially not a fucking berzatto. the shop hasn't cleared, it's louder than ever, and you're not looking at anybody, just the gun, mind on autopilot. somebody's asking you if you're okay and you're pointedly ignoring them. you say, gimme the trash can, carmy.
he does.
do i know you? he says.
the gun lands in the trash with a thud, and only then do you realize your mistake. you can’t even look at him as your stomach drops. you just fucked it for yourself. this is gonna be the last time. you turn and try to leave quick as the line re-forms beside you. chicago, god bless, still wants their fucking lunch. what happened to the rules protecting you? what happened to—
she’s bleeding, don’t let her—
it’s richie who gets to you first, which is somehow worst of all. you don’t know how he does it, you were nearly home free, but now he's right here and you’re still not looking at him as his hand closes around your good arm. you’re not looking at him but you recognize the voice, matched it to his face on your first visit to the beef. the face you matched to many photos you've seen, most of them blurry.
hey, sweetheart, let’s just—
and that’s what breaks it for you. you lift your eyes and look at him dead on and bullshit with the ferocity you only get when you’re in the middle of losing something. you don’t want any of this asshole did you think i learned to disarm a guy in kindergarten what the fuck do you think is going on here unless you want this place to be fucking mob associated then get your hands off me wasn’t the c enough or do you really need cops up your ass too—
richie’s not as stupid as he needs to be, or he’s not as smart.
sure, yeah, he says. that’s very impressive and shit but we’re already kind of a mob joint, we owe a guy three hundred grand off book and that’s not even a joke, this is chicago, baby, and you’re bleeding. just come over here and don’t be a pain about it—i got it carm—don’t be such a fucking pain, come on.
it’s the voice that does it, and not the way he’s manhandling you back into the kitchen, it’s not the same but it’s a cousin and you just really fucking missed this shit. even though your heartbeat has slowed, you’re still dangerously stuck in that place where it might rain any moment.
you’re still fighting him but it isn’t much, kind of autopilot, run on. it’s fucking nothing don’t be a baby what do you think this is i’m not gonna die i’m not even gonna go to the hospital richie it’s like a couple pieces of glass who cares plus the cops are gonna show up and then what.
in the kitchen you look around hungrily. this is the place. those are the stoves, the knives, that’s the fucking mop and all. feels wobbly. you’re not used to being sentimental.
i mean jesus i just wanted a fucking sandwich, you say.
we can make you a fucking sandwich.
well i don’t want it any more!
what is your fucking problem, richie says, but he doesn’t say it right.
here’s the office door, here’s the office, here are the piles of paperwork that used to be the bane of his existence. god but you’re weak. and as richie reaches for a first aid kit hanging from a nail above the filing cabinet, you give in one last time and steal a photo that was taped just above the desk. swift swipe. first crime you’ve felt bad about in a long time, and also the first crime that’s felt necessary.
i don’t want a fucking sandwich, you say, without skipping a beat.
fine, richie says with the air of a martyr. sit down.
he all but shoves you onto a chair. you let him, but you’re not gracious about it either. you have to resist touching your back jeans pocket where you slid the photo in, to check that it’s still there.
ebrahim’s at the door now, bearing the first aid kit.
give me that and get me a trash can and both of you fuck off, you say, and you only get three out of the four things you asked for, go figure. richie stays.
you shouldn’t even be here, so you rush it, snap open the kit, go for the tweezers, pinch the first shard and yank it out with a wince.
richie, gore might be your top pornhub category but i don't see you tipping my onlyfans, so fuck the fuck off.
words having failed, you try ignoring him, but even once all the glass is out, he hasn’t fucked off. seriously, stop hovering, you say.
do i know you? he says, but not like a proper question. like he’s on the verge of making it a statement.
no you don’t, i’m just one very observant motherfucker. now fuck off, don’t you have salami to slice or some shit?
you’d straight up flee, leave it all behind, except now there’s carmy in the doorway running his hand through his mess of hair with those wide eyes, richie standing behind him, and god yeah you do see it. how could carmy ever be anything other than a kid brother?
you okay? carmy says.
it’s not like a scratch, it’s literally a scratch. it’s literally a scratch.
no, i mean. you know. he’s struggling for it, and bless him but you’re not helping him, not one bit. that is not your job.
richie says, if you’re fine, then why are you such a fucking creep, man. why do you know our names.
carmy smacks him without looking, back of his hand to richie’s chest. what we mean to say is thank you. thank you, and do you want peppers on y—
and that’s when he sees it, over your shoulder, the empty spot over the desk.
the regret crashes into you so hard and immediate you think you might be sick. you never should have come.
carmy says, slowly, did you take mikey? and there it is. you think with a slice of biting clarity that this is probably why he never wanted you to come here, he probably saw this one coming from miles and years away. you had one job. you fucked it.
sorry, you mutter, and you take the photo out and put it on the desk, one last look, and then you’re dodging them on the way out. you’d have shoved, but carmy just stepped aside as you charged forward, too taken aback to fight, just as innocent as ever.
but then there’s richie right behind you and he was never innocent.
you’re charlie, aren’t you, says richie.
as you try to navigate through the kitchen whirlwind, you can feel it behind your breastbone, like a detonation. that old game, that old thing. charlie and tommy, secret agents.
no, you say, too quick.
no but you fucking are, and there’s a note of triumph in it, he’s sure of it now, you can’t convince him otherwise. still keep trying, though.
that’s not my name, is just, how do i—how do you work here the place is a fucking maze i just want the door for crying out loud thank you marcus jesus christ.
behind you: who’s charlie?
that’s mikey’s girl.
fresh chicago air which means grimy smoke and wind and you’re in it and you’re gone, hands shoved deep in your pockets, bullets cool against your fingers. thank fucking god. just soon enough to not hear what carmy has to say about it. escape means you’ll never know.
it’s a real short story: you were two fucked up people with two fucked up lives and even worse sleep schedules. you liked smoking at the same spot, sheltered from the wind by a crevice of the apartment building where you both lived. talking shit. one thing led to another. he was good with your rules and you were good with his lack of anything to bring you except, occasionally, himself. and that was it. you liked that story. it was a good one. simple. very nearly clean.
unfortunately, it’s made you incredibly easy to track down.
when you come down for your nighttime smoke, half-hoping you won’t get called that night, half-hoping you will, there he is, waiting for you outside the double doors: richie.
at the sight of him, you try to retreat, but he's still got a key card, must've been a spare that michael gave him. he yells at you, stupid loud for the time of night, HEY, and holds up the picture. he really can’t be the stupidest man in the world, not quite, because that bait you'd always fall for no matter the gleam of the hook.
wordlessly, you come back and take the picture from him. you look at it for only a second before you realize you can't look at it anymore, not in front of him, so you just hold it in your hand, careful. the only photo of michael that you have, and a good one. he’s got a big grin in it, the classic, perfect, flop-haired and glowing.
my name's not charlie, you say.
yeah. you're a big top secret whatever whatever booty call, i get it, he says.
you can’t even muster the words to respond to that because everything feels too embarrassingly much, or too inadequately little. you just burn.
look, richie says, with what you might think is a pang of actual conscience if you hadn’t heard so much about him already. carmy just thought you would want the thing.
i do. there's a pause. neither of you quite expected you to say that, and neither of you quite expect you to say what comes next, either. or at least, not this simple. thank you.
i could text you some more if you want, he says after a second. not cool with silence, this one.
you shake your head. i cycle through old ass flip phones. because. you shrug and you make no effort at your lies. i'm just very clumsy and i tend to drop them and break them like once every two weeks, so there's no point in buying anything expensive.
uh-huh, he says dryly. makes sense.
the corner of your mouth lifts, and then you look away, willing him to fuck off, your mind to fade out, or both. it doesn’t happen. he almost says something more than once, you can feel it, but whatever inside him hates silence, that thing isn’t as strong as his fear of saying whatever he’s got to say.
and your fear, it turns out, is not enough.
it's not my fault, you know? and now you're zero to a hundred, outright. why he...i mean, we broke up two months beforehand. so, like. i know you're all. i know everyone thinks.
and now richie’s still looking at you while you're talking, same as before, but there's a weight to his eyes on you that you don't quite want to squirm out from under. he's actually listening. that's the thing.
just, whatever it was, it wasn't me, you say.
there's a silence long enough that it starts to get bad, and then richie says, we never thought it was you.
what can you say to that? it's not believable but he's trying to be kind, so okay, you'll believe his blatant lies like he tacitly agreed to believe yours. it’s the type of kindness you give to a child and it sticks in your throat, but you force yourself to swallow. good manners.
you want to say thank you again, but you can't. you're not gonna thank him twice like some kind of asshole.
so you just look at him for a second, really and properly. he is michael, he's a piece of michael, he's a thousand stupid stories you both laughed over under streetlights for a couple years, annoyed and hated and felt for from afar. his hair is lighter than you expected and his eyes are bluer, he's a little shorter and there's a tiny mustard stain on the neckline of his navy shirt. this is it. another piece of the endless ending.
see you around, you say, when what you mean is the opposite.
but then he says, yeah, and you thought that was just a word, but you were wrong.
you were wrong and it’s actually really funny.
cause of course you go upstairs and you have your little whatever-you-call-it, up there with that picture, and then some leftover mac n cheese and the picture and the knowledge you can’t fall asleep, and the picture and going back downstairs because after all that a cigarette just makes sense.
motherfucker is chain-smoking in your spot. at least he has the grace to look vaguely embarrassed to still be there when you arrive.
jesus, you say, looking at the little heap on the flat-headed metal post that serves as the unofficial building ashtray. you’ve done worse than that, but that’s not gonna stop you from saying it.
ah, fuck off, he says in welcome, and then you pull out a pack and he pulls out his lighter. you, uh. you see the bulls the other night?
can we not talk? you say as the lighter goes click, withholding your cigarette like he'd give a damn.
he blinks, pauses.
yeah, he says. you hate the sound of his voice. it’s too raw weary, like he just came out the funeral wearing a borrowed suit. yeah, we can not talk.
only then do you let him light the cigarette.
no words after that, as promised. you’re very tired. he might be even more tired than you. you lean against the building, but he won’t do even that. every now and then, you look at him, and rarely—just a few times—you see that he’s glancing at you. but you always look away. at some point you become convinced that he’s gonna say something, or you are—something about the eyes—but weirdly that fear drains away after a bit and you’re back to comfortable silence, which feels different even if it sounds the same.
he runs out of cigarettes pretty early on, but you’re so self-absorbed that it takes you a while to figure out that he’s not gonna leave. he’s just not. so you’re gonna have to be the one to do it.
you push off the wall. night, fuck-o.
he laughs, and that’s it, that’s all, just a laugh, ragged at the edges. but you won’t forget it.
come to find out, neither will he.