Fics like twisting up smokes

“You were told to take the day off,” Chef points out, “And then you show up at the backdoor with no fucking shoes on. You’ve been fucking shit lately. Multiple people tell me that you don’t make any sense half the time. Why else would that be?” Carmy swallows. He wants to explain it: that he knows. That he’s good at this. That it’s not his brain that’s falling apart, just his body, just his hands, just his family, just his life. He can’t get the words out. They sit at the back of his throat and Carmy swallows them because he already knows that they’re shattered, and he refuses to sound like a fucking second grader in front of Chef. “Berzatto, either everyone’s hallucinating or my sous is fucking up his recreational drug usage,” he says. “The first would be a medical miracle. The second would be a Tuesday.” OR: In the weeks following Mikey's death, Carmy's sleepwalking gets worse. When he ends up outside of the restaurant on his day off, things get unbearable.

Fics like twisting up smokes

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