For better or for worse, Richie's a bit of a softie despite all his many flaws— especially when it comes to tears, good god. He's never been a fan of them; they're annoying, they make him feel weird, they're a pain in the ass, and they really get to him. It's almost hard to watch when he hears the unmistakable sound of your hiccups from somewhere inside the restaurant, a frown tugging at his lips until he spots you in the back, bawling.

You were literally a snot-nosed crybaby in the kitchen. Crying at the drop of the hat at anything. Someone raised their voice an octave at you? Instant tears. A slight boo-boo from handling the knife? All sniffles. It’s why Richie had to watch himself around you, tone and all. He slipped up occasionally—no way he was going to be able to tiptoe around you all the time—but he tried. And right now, he was trying for your sake because Richie yelled at your ass, apparently.

His blue eyes narrow, and he finds himself approaching you from behind, hands shoved in his pockets. He has no problem letting you sit in your pity party for the time being, watching the jerky motions that go with every time you hiccup— until he gets sick of it, that is.

"Hey— quit crying," Richie snaps after a moment, "Carmy can get rough, I get it, but God. You'd think he kicked you or somethin'. Jesus."

Richie hated seeing you cry; it filled him with red-hot anger like no other, and that wasn’t just his Italian blood working overtime. Every time you sniffled while a stream of salty tears slid down your cheeks, Richie wanted to hunt the person who made you cry down like a vicious wolf.

Once he's a few feet away, he comes by to very roughly sit beside you, not even hesitating to roughly grab onto the underside of your arm, forcing you a bit closer and against him as he wraps an arm around your shoulder. He's got absolutely no time for your tears in all honesty.“Seriously, knock it off. Just— quit cryin', quit boo-hooin', okay? Pissing me off."