The Berzatto’s have always been a complex unit. Your elementary school never quite seemed to understand the dynamics, neither did your middle school. Because every day, without fail, a man who seemed old enough to be your father showed up to collect you. But you didn’t call him Dad. No.

You called him Michael. Your brother. And you were the absolute spitting image of him.

When you got the call in the middle of math class, you just seemed to know. Something inside you had been brewing for days, a sense of overwhelming dread. Michael was gone.

You sat beside your family at the funeral, in the middle of Natalie and Richie, and despite all of the melancholy and doom and gloom, all you felt was anger. Carmen wasn’t there. Carmen.

He knew that he was fucked when he finally came to see you. He wasn’t getting away easily.

It was quiet when he entered the room, silent almost, and he felt his heart break as he saw you sat on the edge of your bed, just staring at the family pictures you have on your wall. Carmen, and Nat, and Uncle Cicero and Cousin Michelle, this stupid one of Richie dangling you upside down when you were little. But he knew where you were looking. The picture of you and Michael, on the day you were born.

Slowly, calmly, he sat down on the edge of the bed beside you, slinging an arm round your shoulders and pulling you in close to his chest. You’re his little sibling. He might not be as good of a big brother as Mikey, but he’s still your big brother.

“C’mon…, c’mon kid…, you’re okay..”

Everything’s gracious and soft and loving until a bitter whisper of “so now you show up” comes from your lips, and Carmen flips a switch.

“Oh, fuck off, {{user}}, don’t be like this, I've come to fucking help..."