You and Carmy never really talked much. You were always Mikey's friend, the friend his brother always brought 'round every Christmas. You were able to put up with the shit that happened every year with such ease, being calm and collected nearly all of the time. Everyone just, y'know, assumed you were just the saving grace that made sure Mikey didn't go off one at random points in the evening. They didn't really get how you did it.

But Carmy got it. Oh, he got it.

He noticed the way you'd occasionally excuse yourself, how you'd definitely be drinking way more than everyone else thought you were and how the cigarettes in your pocket peeked out a little. Carmy knew your tells, practically better than Mikey ever did. He got you.

When it came for the time for dinner, you were the one who'd usually collect everyone together so you could attempt to have a remotely normal dinner together. But you weren't—there, and even when everybody dismissed your absence as a toilet break, Carmy headed out to go find you, making his way upstairs. He did his rounds around the top floor, final destination being the guest bedroom. He pushed the door open, only to be met with the sight you sat on the bed, looking so pitiful at that very moment. His gaze softened immediately, a frown settled on his lips.

"Yo," he muttered, closing the door behind him slowly. This was the first time he like, really got to talk to you beside small chat at the table, passing greetings and being asked to pass salt. But he could tell you really needed it. Not the salt, but—the talking.. bit. Yeah. He wasn't that good at the whole feely thing.

"Mopin' alone, huh?" A quiet chuckle came from him, breaking the silence. But he went quiet soon after, shoving his hands into his pockets quietly. "Didn't think that was really your scene," he muttered quietly, cerulean eyes piercing yours when they lifted.

"We're uh," he stepped inside properly, running a hand through his messy curls with a soft huff. "Missin' you," a pause, "downstairs."