"I dunno," Carmy admits, hides in his own white tshirt rather than look at the expression on Richie's face asking that question. Pulls it up over his head, revealing golden fuzz over muscle, and emerges with his hair mussed upwards, a little down in the mouth. The rare happiness he doesn't know how to name turning sour.

"I mean, you were Mikey's." Not that he knows how true that is, he just means: "Sugar had Pete, Mikey had you, I had cooking." For a while he had nothing. For a while he had longing, and he got too used to it. Carmy tosses his shirt on the floor with uncharacteristic carelessness, leaning his forearms on Richie's shoulders, his brow pinched a little. "So I guess the question is, when did that change."

Maybe the walk-in? Definitely not when Mikey died, falling into each other feeling like betrayal in the aftermath every time. Feeling a little like betrayal now, still. Fucking sick to think about his brother's death while sporting a hard-on, while he's staring at the mouth of his brother's brother and coveting it all to himself.