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Chapter Text

Carmy stares at the edge of the nub of his bitten fingers and murmurs a broken “fuck” from crusted lips. He’s still in the walk-in.

But that doesn’t matter.

What matters is the damage. His insufficiencies. This is what happens, he thinks. It’s not so much a self-fulfilling prophecy but an inheritance of dysfunction. 

Richie even knew it: Oh, I’m sorry, Donna, I’ll get you out. Except there was no out, no sawing away at the seam, no breaking of yolk to do; it’s just there. 

He rubs his clammy cold hands over his face with a spastic ferocity. 

Around the bend, he can hear the ticket machine spewing out paper aggressively. He knows all too well what it reads. 

Fuck you. 

You should be dead. 

Pathetic.

You’re worthless. 

Repeat it. 

The litany continues, loosely connected tickets cascading from the lip of the machine to meet the floor. 

He shuts his eyes, but it makes the sounds louder, the erratic beat thrumming like a fucked heartbeat within him. 

He’s trapped. Just like he always was. This is how it is. This is how it’ll stay. 

.

The opening, on paper, though, was a success.

At least there’s that. Carmy’s proud of that. Despite his lack of involvement. 

Sugar secured a proper plumber as soon as she rose that morning. Carmy gathers this when he breaks away from a dreamless sleep and decides to scroll through unread messages from their group chat, simply titled “The Bear.” 

They made it to relay emergency meetings and needed updates after the tension rising from all the pre-open shit they experienced. 

Plumber’s booked for 8:30. That gives them about one hour to fix the issue, I’m sure. Won’t interfere with us opening today. Come with empty bladders, please.  Sugar’s blue bubble reads.

Carmy’s glazed eyes blink at his screen. 

It’s finally registering that he still has to work today. That, somehow, he'll have to pull himself together, even though it feels like he's been run over by seven CTA buses back to back. Not to mention, he’s still reeling from the previous night.  He barely can recall walking home. He knows he was checked out for most of it. The only thing that sticks is the fact that the tortuously cold Chicago wind caused him to throw up three times. Why? The chill on his skin replicated the exact temperature of the walk-in. It turned his stomach to knots. And with no tums to ease the rolling waves in his body, he succumbed to them, leaving a bright yellow bile trail on his walk back home. 

Even now, he can feel the cold in his fingertips and the heavy feeling of ice blocks in his stomach, threatening to break apart and spill out of him in chunks. 

He finds himself barely having time to lurch forward violently and rack up a rib cracking worthy cough, his body working, trying to churn something upward for him to barf.

“Fuck” he wheezes, sputtering to catch his breath. 

He stumbles into his bathroom and slams his body down on his knees, bracing on the lip of the toilet, and oscillates between dry heaving and weak attempts to stop dry heaving. 

Finally, Carmy thinks his body caught on that it’s empty from spewing the last squidge of bile from his system last night, so it finally eases off, and his coughs taper off to greet an uneasy quiet. 

Like clockwork, his phone dings, and so he huffs up, sludges his way back to his dimly lit room, and grabs his phone.

A personal message from Sugar: I think it’s best to take the day off today, Carmy.  

Then, another message pops in and slots into place as he opens their thread. 

And although this reads as a suggestion, it’s not. Stay home. 

His buggy, rubbed raw, bloodshot eyes stare at the messages until he feels them begin to dry out.

.

Funnily enough, he does stay his ass home.

He chain smokes cigarettes and lets the blue light of his television wash over him the whole day. Sometimes, he turns his head to the window and watches the shadows shift behind his curtains as the sun creeps above his apartment building. He watches the sunlight get caught in the fabric, creating funny shapes with the material. 

He just lets the day bleed out in front of him because he knows that if he moves, he won’t stop, and then he’ll spiral straight into chaos. And he can’t take much more, he still feels so shattered from yesterday. 

He needs the silence, this catatonic state, to envelop him and blanket his psyche for as long as possible until his brain comes back online. 

Surprisingly, it serves its purpose. He folds in on himself, settles into the familiar indent of the couch, and stares at the television screen. 

He wills himself not to absorb the words that float to his ears but instead imagines himself as he lays there, becoming the couch. He imagines his bones swapping out for shitty rigid wiring, his flesh becomes stuffing, and suddenly he’s not a person, but just a thing in front of a television. 

Not observing, not fighting off nausea, not doing, not hearing the growls of a bear that doesn’t exist, just there. 

And it’s good. 

Okay, it’s not good. It’s actually not healthy at all, but for fucksake, it’s either him being a couch or him standing in front of a bunch of pots on fire.

So there’s that.

.

Carmy ended up sleeping the rest of the day and night. He jolts up to the alarm he doesn’t remember setting, throwing himself to his feet with a crackled, scared, pathetic “Yes, chef!” 

Though he can’t remember, he must have been plagued by a cooking nightmare again, or he’s just eternally fucked, and will remain a spineless, slow slug, crawling from his oozing failures after another.

It floods him with so much embarrassment that throughout his routine of getting himself together, he doesn’t dare spare a glance at the mirror.

.

The air is tense when he comes back to the Bear. 

He awkwardly shuffles in, but he presses forward.

Fucking cockroach.

It’s silent as he approaches the lockers.  Folk are already shuffling through their roles. “The fresh meat,” as Richie lovingly calls them, aren’t aware of just how bizarre the restaurant they committed themselves to is, so it’s easier to feel their sideways gazes, curious eyes searching him. They’re probably wondering what the hell was his damage exactly.

When he crosses paths with some of the OG Beef crew, they give him a headier, cautious eye. 

What’s going to hurt most of all is seeing Sydney. He let her go alone right after he said all that shit about giving her deserved focus. Putting in dedication. He failed her the most. 

He lets his body dilapidate momentarily into a familiar rounded cave until he dives into his locker room and allows his body to be cloaked in the familiar white camouflage of his chef uniform. 

You know this is what happens: people always leave. Or they die on you. Can you blame her? You’re broken. 

He turns to face his team just after he fastens his last button and irons away invisible wrinkles in the fabric with the slide of his hand. 

“Chefs.”

The team members sway to a stop and turn in his direction. “Chef.” they echo back to him.

“Uh, wanted to say- good job yesterd- the other day. It was crazy, it was hectic, but you guys handled it.” 

Carmy looks in the corner of everyone's eyes within the room, making his way to each person. 

It was his trick for connecting- just enough that they could barely register he wasn’t really meeting them eye to eye, but subconsciously, they felt the distance and were deterred from getting closer. 

In his mind, the sound of a to-go order receipt being printed and snicked with a sure cut rang out and bounced around the walls in his brain. 

Fucking cop out, the paper read in blood red ink.

Carmy shakes his head and begins again. “Now, listen- I know- I know it could have been smoother, and I” he breathes unevenly and rubs the corners of his mouth with his hand as he looks down at the floor. 

“I was unreliable. Out of my own volition. Kind of.  Fucking refrigerator. And I- fuck, what I’m saying is. I fucked up. And I’m sorry.” 

He looks up and forces himself to look at his team. 

For the most part, the faces that greet him are impartial. They stare and wait. But in the crowd of faces, he faces Tina’s sad eyes and furrowed mouth. The disappointed arched brow of Sugar. The puckered lips of Ebraheim. 

Then sees the flash of a scarf peek through the spaces of the staff. And Sydney weeds through, with a container full of vegetables close to her chest. 

She passes Carmy, eyes fixated in front of her. 

Sydney places her vegetables down on one of the workstation spaces and then joins his side. Arms folded.

“Okay, riveting apology from our EC. Thankfully- I can’t believe I’m saying- anyways, thankfully, Richie got the fridge last night. Who knew that they were going to leave an entire walkthrough sautered open? Anyways… Thanks, Sugar, for lending us your deep freezer, and thanks, team,”

She raises her hand and gestures to folks out in front of her, “for moving shit around and making it work. We promise you that’s usually not this much of a shit show. I mean, not any more of a shit show that you’re used to. It comes with the trade, but this has been…” she sighs deeply, “horrible, to be honest. But! If you stick around, you’ll see it become less horrible, and it will be you guys that we thank for it.” 

She pauses to catch her breath. Carmy could feel the violent boiling of her blood.

He wants to reach out to her. To touch her arm, to convey something beyond his stupid words, he knows Sydney would only be repulsed and draw away. 

So, he just stands there, getting burned by the heat of her rage.

Until she decides to move on. “I’m going to help with vegetable prep, and then our Chef Tina will debrief us on our meetings and do checks. Uh, let’s rock it, guys.”

Sydney glides out just as quickly as she glides in, and everyone moves with her. 

Carmy is the only one who remains and feels like a fish washed to shore, opening and closing his mouth, confused and disoriented.

Sugar click clacks away the distance between them, and shakes her head at him. 

“Let’s talk in the office.”

.

When they sit down, Sugar lets him have it. 

“Carmen, what the fuck?”

Carmy sinks into the chair and says nothing.

“Well, I don’t have to tell you that Sydney’s furious, and for good reason. I don’t even know what’s going on between you and Cousin. And this whole Claire thing? Like, what even happen- ugh, I don’t want to know.”

Carmy feels his face twitch; he totally forgot about Claire, fuck. The disgust builds back in his stomach. This was his first relationship, and he’s managed to screw over that royally, too. And somehow, he’s even disappointed people outside the relationship about their relationship? How is that possible? Why is it any of their business?

Should he fix it? Michael would have encouraged him to. Would have gave him some type of shitty, ultra machismo advice about getting back together with Claire. 

He briefly thinks about texting her, but what would he say? 

He can’t apologize; hell, even when she caught him venting on the other side of the walk-in, he never apologized. 

And he knows that makes him an asshole.

But what's the use?

It would feel empty and fake. Because he knows that’s how he genuinely feels inside. He knows he doesn't deserve amusement or enjoyment, and he sure as hell can't dish it out. Not as he is. And what was the purpose at the end of it? He felt weird, fake, and rubbery every time he was with her. 

But somewhere deep, he liked not feeling like himself, like he was reconfiguring himself with foreign parts. Sloughing away himself and creating something else.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he thought that maybe, just maybe, she could make him normal. That she could change the very atom of him. That if she liked him, could accept him, could love him, that meant he wasn't entirely broken.

And he knows that makes him more of an asshole too.

“I know. What’s the purpose of this, Sugar? Trying to make me feel worse? I get it. I’m a fuck up.”

Sugar glowers and points at him. “That! That’s what I’m getting at. You don’t get to wallow in self-pity now. You don’t communicate. You’re fucking insensitive, and then you pass off the emotional load to others. Newsflash, Carmy, you’re not special. Don’t you think I feel twisted? Don’t you think I fuck up? But I’m trying.” 

Sugar raises up from her chair and turns her back to him, “I’m desperately trying to get better. I have a fucking kid growing in me that constantly reminds me to get better.” 

At that, she grasps her stomach, and Carmy hears hints of a sniffle. He tries to look at her face, but the blonde curtain of her hair obscures it. 

“We don’t need a fucking apology, and we don’t need to see you splayed out and empty to get that you’re hurting. We need-" She resurfaces, to cut him a sobering look. "Accountability! How many times did we tell you about the fucking walk-in? Jesus! We need you to try to make this shit right. To follow through, Carmy. Get your fucking shit together. ”

 Sugar braces herself with one hand on the wall and huffs. Her eyes are suspiciously damp when she turns back to him, and her skin is splotchy. She tries to attempt a smile, but her face betrays her and crumples into a grimace.

“Okay, I’m done. let’s get you up to speed.” 

. 

Apparently, Sydney made some changes.

She’s appointed Richie as the expediter, and she’s everything else. She committed herself to help with cooking if hands were short. She still approves the appearance of the food and continuously manages the crew, but she’s stepped down from doing counts.

Carmy finds himself mad. How could she just give up like that? He knows she can do it. He has so much faith in her. And passing the baton to Richie wasn’t how he saw this going. “She didn’t even let me know it was that bad, Sugar.”

Sugar gives him the most ferocious, withering side eye she can muster, “She told me she tried talking with you about it, but you didn’t listen. That tracks to me.”

Carmy bristles but bows his head in defeat. Sugar didn't understand. He believed in her. In what way can he show his trust in her abilities? She didn't get it. Yes, he's an asshole. Yes, he fucks things up, but this was different. This was him providing mentorship. Carny's trying to forge her. Fuck, he’s given her reign on creative power and literally appointed her the team's voice, manning the ship they built together. How else can he encourage her? This was him trying.

What was he missing? 

As if he conjured it, "Switch with me?" rings in his ears, and it’s like he’s just now registering how scared her eyes were at that moment.

And he brushed her off, not knowingly, but wanting to show her that he trusts her. That it wasn’t as scary as it was in her head. That she’s stronger than her fears. That he thinks she’s stronger than him.

But he read it wrong; it was the right sentiment at the wrong time. 

What if I fail? What if I fuck up so bad?

I won't let you.

Fuck. 

Chapter Text

(Before his session)

Carmy was getting ready to see someone. Not like dating, but like a…therapist? counselor? whatever the fuck. He couldn’t remember the specific credentials they had, and he honestly couldn’t be assed to find out now. 

He knew her name was Dr. Kimbalta. He knew her address to meet her at. 112 Rush Street. Office B. 

But everything else on her business card had been blurred out in his mind’s eye. 

Michael would have called her a shrink and been done with it. Well, Michael wouldn’t have ever chosen to go to one in the first place, though. Credentials be damned.

He was totally against therapy.

No surprise there, truly, but Mike really let his disdain be known a handful of years ago at one of their Sunday family-dinner-plus-a-Breakdown combos.

Carmy had just started setting the table while Donna trailed behind him with napkins and these ridiculous doilies for their plates despite the protest of her kids- the hell we need doilies for, ma? It’s just us. She was hot on Carmen’s feet, reeling about Christmas coming up and the pressure of preparing. 

“It’s just a lot. You know it’s going to be a lot. More than one person should be expected to handle. But, then again, everyone always expects me to do it.” She threw down the next doily on the table with extra force, almost as if it was somehow responsible for her plight. “Story of my life. Only God knows how I’m still alive and on my feet right now.”

Carmy whipped his head up from the table’s surface so he could stare across it to look at Natalie, who looked miserable in her seat. He lowered himself to her direct eye level and tried to grab her gaze, shaking his head no, almost imperceptibly.  Please, on everything Holy, don’t . 

But Natalie didn’t see his intentional stare. Or if she had, she ignored him. 

Instead, she stared up at her mother with surprised determination and began to speak. “Mom, I really think it would do us all good to try therapy. It would be helpful! It’s not healthy to have all that pent up-” 

Before Sugar could even finish her sentence, their mother’s hand immediately banged on their heavily scarred wooden dining table, rendering Sugar silent.

“ What ?” She seethed through her teeth, hair fanning around her face in a crazed whirlwind, “I’m saying no one contributes, and your idea is to outsource the load to someone else? Did you ever think maybe you could pull more weight? How exactly do you help, Natalie? What- what do you contribute to the family, huh? Besides your constant whining. Answer me .”

“Ma, I’m sayin-” 

“ And , just what are you implying, Natalie? Oh, do you think I’m crazy or something? Could a crazy person raise three children by herself?” 

Carmy tried talking, despite his words tripping over themselves in ugly staccato, “Ma-ma. I thi- I think wh- wh- what Nat- i- is try- tr- trying to say-” 

But they ignored him, per usual, and their yelling match swallowed up his feeble attempt to quell them down.  

After one scream too loud, Michael came rushing out from the kitchen. He was furious, whipping around his hands in huge circles despite both being occupied; in his right hand, he held a reddened towel, and in his left, he clutched a foaming dark bottle of Coor’s light. 

“Hey! Hey! ” Then gentler, “Ma! Ma . let’s lay off her. And listen, listen . Listen! Calm down, why don’t ya? Let’s all just take a beat.” 

Mikey threw his towel at Carmy, giving him a look, and it was as if he could hear his older brother’s voice Really? C’mon, you’re supposed to help handle this.  

Carmy ducked his head down and looked at the towel. He distantly registered that the towel was stained by blood. 

Mike slid out the closest chair, placed it behind their mother, and gently coaxed her down. 

When she settled, he rubbed her back softly, and for a moment, all when quiet, save for the occasional gentle sloshing of beer meets glass when Michael takes his intermittent sips.

After a while, Donna was seemingly placated. She rose and mumbled her way out of the dining room, “I can't believe it. All I do for this fucking family.”

With Donna gone, Michael wasted no time. He lifted his beer bottle and pointed at his sister with its empty brown stem. “Well, you’re a reaal piece of work.” 

Then, to no one's surprise, an argument picked up.

Sugar threw up her hands, “Oh, fuck you! What am I supposed to do? It actually makes sense to go-”

“And accomplish what?! Getting ma upset? Mission a-fucking-ccomplished. I keep telling you not to do that “feeling” shit with her. And shrinks are quack jobs, anyway. Nothing but nosey assholes. Hiding behind their eyes behind their wire spectacles while they jot down the most intimate parts of your life like you're a fucking zoo animal. You want me to sign up for that?-” 

“Mike, their job is to-” 

Mikey continued as if Natalie wasn’t talking, “Helllllll no. Plus, most of them tell you shit you already know with fancy words from the books they tote around. Waste of a fucking dollar.” 

“Wow, Michael. How reductive. For God's sake, they are trained individuals, dumb ass.” 

Mikey guffawed, “Listen to Princess Peach name-calling her brother. I’m trying to tell ya, it’s bad news, they log that shit-”

“I’m going, Michael! And I’m standing by that.” Sugar yelled over him.

“Hey, Nat. Just do me a favor; don’t talk about me at all in these sessions because-” 

“I absolutely will talk about you, Mikey!” 

“-I don’t want your decisions to bite me in the ass one day! If someday, there are legal reasons requesting documents, and it- wow! - how conveniently turns out , I’m in a fucking file -” 

“Okay, first off, how about, I don’t know, be sure not to do anything illegal, dumbass? Like, have an unregistered fucking gun in your possession. Plus, that’s not how it works-.”

And yadda yadda yadda. Classic Berzatto shit.

No one had asked Carmy his opinion on therapy that night, and Carmy surely didn’t offer it. But if forced to disclose his position, he would have told them he was against therapy, too. 

His embarrassment was too great to even imagine stuttering about what constantly plagued him.

Plus, he had figured that equilibrium would find him eventually. 

After all, this fucked state had always been his normal. Everyone had their issues. And yeah, his family came with a lot more than the standard bunch, but fuck it. It was just up to him to find his stride. He just had to manage the stress.

It’s like a bouillon cube. If you pop it in your mouth, you’ll find it so salty and concentrated you can’t even swallow it. You need to add water to break up all its components- alter it, to find the “sweet spot”- that perfect balance of flavors. So, that’s what he figured he’d do. He’d dilute all those experiences down into something palatable.   

So, he tried diluting with self-deprivation. He worked out. Tried piling more work on; kept his eye on the motherfucking prize. Tried self-isolation. Tried distance. Most recently, he went the opposite direction: dating Claire. And throughout it all, he’s continuously tried to ignore it. Everyone has screws missing somehow, and he’s no different, right? I know tons of people that cry out of nowhere.

Tried to convince himself that time is the ultimate diluter. 

But he wasn’t getting better. 

And, actually, he’s realizing way too late that he’s a stock in a scalding hot pot. Heat was the culprit, messing up the flavors, concentrating and condensing them into something vile and inedible. Now the heat’s threatening to scald it to nothingness.

He’s tried a lot to control the stock from within, but that won’t move him from off the hot eye.

So one day, he asked someone at Al-Anon, “ do have, like, a connection to uh a therapist?” and they immediately gave Carmy a referral. He called the number and set up the appointment, et voila. 

Funny what desperation does to a person.

In the First Session ,  Carmy found out that Dr. Kimbalta was a short, serious-faced woman. She greeted him in her office, staring warmly at him with kind green eyes, and dipped her head toward the couch he was to sit on. She spoke with such a groundbreaking kindness that would have almost angered him if he didn’t feel like he was going to shit himself. 

And, he really couldn’t have been that angry; her voice had such a melodic lilt- not sing-songy- but a smooth, comforting flow.

Carmy immediately got hypnotized by it. The cadence of it, the way it crested and fell as introduced herself, explained who she was, what she does, the anticipated structure of their meetings, and even told him the meaning behind each lettered combination that adorned her last name.

But the rhythm was the only thing that completely registered; the actual words bounced and slid down his ears and joined the mixture of sweat and nervous must that leached from his pores. The whole session, he’d just hoped this… psychologist ? couldn’t smell his funky ass. 

But then, she stopped talking and waited, and he realized that it was his turn to share.

Carmy had nothing to go off of, no true template of what therapy was, only his scarce experiences with sharing from Al-Anon, so Carmy blocked out Michael’s voice buzzing lowly in the back of his brain and shared the fragmented soliloquy that he first shared.

Uh, yeah. So, my name is Carmen Berzatto, uh, no shit, you knew that, right? And uh, I lost my brother recently. I think that’s been the source of my stress these days. But, uh. I’ve always been stressed, I guess.  My sister, Natalie, she’s always referred to me as “high strung”. Anyways, uh, yeah, my brother, uh, he killed himself. Shot himself in the head. And, uh, it’s been hard to wrap my head around it. We had this weird relationship. I looked up to him, I loved him. But, it was hard, you know… being his younger brother because he was just this ball of sun, this big, fucking individual, and uh, I’m… not any of that. What we both loved was cooking, that’s what really tied us together. Uh, the whole family, really. And, yeah, I’m- uh- a chef. I took over his restaurant when he died and then opened the one we were supposed to start together. But I don’t think he had any intentions of really starting it with me in the first place. I think our differences really strained our relationship. I don’t think we really truly saw each other, you know.  Like, I didn’t know he was an addict until after he died. Oh, sorry- he was an addict. Uh, most of our family is addicted to something. Like my mother, she’s an alcoholic, for sure. And, uh, I’m told that my jagoff father was too. Yeah, my siblings and I used to joke about it when I was a kid. They called it the Berzatto Curse. They made me swear that I wouldn’t touch alcohol when I was older. Told me it was an ‘actual poison’, which is kinda fucking stupid of them because alcohol IS a poison. I think they meant that, like, in a ‘one sip you’ll die' type of situation. At least, that’s what I imagined when I was a kid. Guess that makes me stupid, too. Because here I was, always surrounded by these fucking idiots who drank it. Huh- maybe I thought they were already kinda dead in a way… or maybe I’m giving myself too much credit- I’m uh, not particularly known for my intellect. But yeah, whatever, it added to my reasons to be a straight edge. But I still smoke cigarettes like everyone else in my family, though-

And he carried on like that, talking about different family afflictions and his family members, how he measured up, either in spite or because of them. 

Dr. Kimbalta had rarely interjected. He almost felt himself anticipate it, he would stop and look up at her, halting awkwardly between sentences, but she only nodded for him to continue. 

He was sure that he would run out of things to talk about, and he feared that; the heavy silence that threatened to dangle and blanket them indefinitely. But, it never came. During each lull, he felt a weird sensation in his mouth, like it was overly full… as if still jam-packed with unspoken words. So he continued.  

When she did interject, he noticed she’d always slide in by saying, “So, what I’m hearing…” then, she’d echo back what he said. She’d wait until Carmy gave a nod or gave her a furrowed gaze and would gently say, “Okay, it seems I have that wrong. Can you talk more about that?” 

So, he would. While he talked, he felt something like a string unfurl from his chest, surfacing from the deepest part of his chest, and a tingling. 

It was oddly freeing, talking so freely. 

No one to tell him he was wrong or that ‘it didn’t happen like that’.

Next thing he knew, Dr. Kimbalta was holding her hand up, gently signaling him to stop. 

“Okay, this feels like a good stopping point. Would you like to schedule a time for next week?”

The weird thing was he did. 

It was different, somehow. He felt more freer to talk here than in a room full of people in various of grief. 

Before he left, she asked if he wanted to try a technique to close the session. It’s a special breathing exercise , she said. I’ll demonstrate first, and then on the next count, you can follow me if you’d like.

She cupped her hands loosely around her mouth and breathed in; then, she closed the gaps between her fingers and hummed, letting the exhale reverberate loudly, emitting a sound eerily like a bee. 

He looked on warily but followed along on the next count, feeling a bit weird and silly. 

She laughed after they completed a circuit, probably zeroing in on his flushed face and beet-tinged ears. I know it looks silly, but it’s deceptively helpful, she promised. Especially if you feel you need to be brought down. Repetition always helps.  

That first night, he found himself in his bed gasping out of bed. Every part of him was tightened, it was like he was batter over kneaded and expanding internally- building gluten matrixes within itself until it hardened to unmoveable stone. 

In fright, he cupped his hands and hummed out his breath- letting the familiar flashes of food, soft voices, and brown eyes bring him back down. 

And fuck, if it wasn’t the fastest time he’s ever been brought back from a nightmare.

In a deep fold in his brain, he heard Richie’s voice. It was from a different memory, definitely out of context to the current situation, but it still applied. Dude, fucking wizardry.  

(Month and some change after)

So, in short, yeah. He’s in therapy.

Instead of spending Saturday afternoons on the edge of his shitty sofa, fighting ebay wars for denim jeans he can’t afford until he slips off into inky nightmares, he’s on a different, way better sofa, talking.

He talks to her about his nightmares, the gunshots that he never heard but that still haunt him. Talks about the blind panic that sometimes wraps him up, like cling wrap too tight all over his skin. Recounts some of the Berzattos’ greatest hits. Mentions his susceptibility to anger.

Sometimes, it felt like he had her in some hostage situation, forcing her to listen to his bullshit, and he would get clammed up. Found his voice tight and pitchy- threatening to regress back to a stutter.

Sometimes, the sessions were smooth as butter, his words so right and exact, and it was he felt the fog around his mind get a little lighter.

All in all, It was an experience. Cathartic, for sure.

He appreciates Dr. Kimbalta because she takes what he discloses in stride. She’s been more and more vocal as the sessions progress, ensuring to give him solid resources, and then there’s that gentleness that he never quite received before. 

No offense to Sugar, but she’s not known for her softness. 

He can’t call it motherly love, but he imagines it must be a shade of this… if you discount the hefty copay he pays her before each session. 

But, regardless, he knows it’s a quality you can’t fake, or at the very least, it would be really fucking hard to.

But, yeah, he’s made some revelations and gained some tools. 

It’s been a few months since the Friends and Family Day and a solid month and a half of therapy, and he’s really to make the leap to disclose some of his findings with her.

He’s stuffing his Birkenstocks in a tote and shoving his hair in a baseball cap, getting ready to run to the Bear as he reflects on these past weeks.

He had promised Sugar that he would dedicate time to getting his act together and get on ”the right track” for everyone’s sake.

He’s on track to something for sure. 

For one, they are smashing it at the Bear. The fact that he’s been receiving enough money to go to therapy this early in the game speaks volumes about the Bear’s success. 

For two, he’s slowly building trust back with this staff at the Bear. 

The newbies didn’t really care about his immense meltdown, there’s a sort of desensitization that all chefs usually carry within themselves at a new job. Besides, a quarter of them are entirely new hires from the first day. That’s the restaurant business. 

Cousin had long since forgiven him. It almost comes with the territory of their relationship. They’re used to the teeter-tot, love-hate relationship they have. 

All it took was a bumbling, halfhearted brawl, exchanged choked up “really fucking sorry”’s, awkward hugs, and some heartfelt thumps on the back.

Boom, it was like nothing really happened. All was washed under the rippling tide… if he discounted the occasional comments he dropped about Claire. It’s fucking annoying, but he brushes them off when it happens. It’s a part of the dynamic, he supposes. 

Sugar had noticed, for sure. She nodded approvingly the first time he asked for a “time out” and excused himself if he felt the anger boil too hot. She’d pat his back when he readily pivoted from discourse. 

But interestingly, she didn’t prod him with demands on what he was doing or how he was feeling .

He was thankful for the space but also a bit wary of it. 

Outside of Richie and Sugar, the other OG Beef crew have been slower to warm. He suspects it’s because Sydney has been slow to warm to him. 

He gets it, but the only thing is that he really doesn’t know how to get her back. 

The sweet spot they had, the rare ( and surprisingly intimate, he reflects) conversations they had that drifted outside the scope of cooking, their light banter. The ease of their friendship. He really fucking misses it. 

He grabs his keys, bounds down the stairs with a hurried spring, and quickly exits his apartment building.

He’s at a loss because not only has he been on top of making the calls, staying on top of administrative shit (he knows she hates the administrative shit), but he’s also been more- well- more like Sugar. Dependable, reliable. 

He fucking follows through, better than he has since the start of thing whole thing, and he knows because he’s sure to write his expected tasks in a small black moleskin that he keeps on him instead of squirreling it away in his head. 

If he caught a glimpse of Syd’s furrowed eyebrows during dinner rush, he made sure he was quick to check in, “We good, chef?” and in return is a distracted “Uhhh, yeah, all good, chef.” or at worse a withdrawn hum of acknowledgment.

Through it all, he promises himself he won’t react in anger. Dr. Kimbalta’s voice floats up to him when he feels flashes of irritation at her distance. Take a breath and provide space for others . 

He still has his moments. He still has flare-ups. But he stamps them down; refuses to lob plates on the walls. 

Fuck, therapy had been kind of working. 

Now, it’s time to share the news with Sugar, he thinks, as he hops over a mountain of slowly melting ice and swings the door open. 

He’s immediately hit with fragrant smells billowing out of the kitchen. 

“ Damn ,” he mutters softly. He rounds the corner of the bar and enters the kitchen. 

“Good morning, chefs,” he drawls out, walking toward the lockers. 

Sugar greets him in return, “Hey Carm! Come taste this.” 

“Uh, I have to actually plate it first, Nat. It’s” 

“Respectfully, Syd, shush. Carmy! Bring your ass, dude.” 

He exchanges his shoes and makes his way to the ovens. 

Sydney is on the oven, sweat beading on her forehead, lips mushed together comically in concentration. Sugar is next to her, eyes practically shining at Syd’s creation. 

“Woah, smells amazing, chef. Walk me through?” 

“Uh, thanks, chef. Pan-seared Chilean bass, with uh, lemon butter. It’s their primary season now, so I figured we could possibly have this on the menu?” 

Carmy grabs a spoon and walks up to flank her other side, but Sydney flinches away from his proximity and crowds in closer to Sugar, damn near bumping into her. 

“Woooah,” Sugar says, holding out her arms to steady her. “You good, Syd?” 

“Yeah, sorry, I just- uh, never mind. Yeah, sorry. You can taste it, chef. I’ve just been. Jumpy today, I guess.”

She steps backward to give Carmy more room to scoop the bass and gives Sugar an awkward pat on her arm to signal her thanks. 

Okay, that’s fucking weird. 

And it kind of stings something awful in his chest. The fuck was he, contagious? 

But Carmy wills himself not to respond. He clears his throat and regards the dish again. 

He gently tears a piece of the sizzling bass and places it in his mouth. He chews and considers the flavor, the mouthfeel, the texture, and damn . 

Then he turns his head slowly and considers her, “Woah. Syd , that’s fire.” 

For the first time, he sees a glitter of a smile, “Thanks… Carmy.” 

.

Since he can’t talk as openly as he would like to Sugar, he decides to have it out with Syd first.

And really, that’s the conversation he’s been putting off more than anything if he’s honest.

“Hey… Sydney, do you think we can talk?” 

She nods and follows him into the office. 

Once they settle in their chairs, he decides to start off strong. “So, I just want you to know that I plan on being accountable for my actions.”

“Oh, okay. This- this is new.” Sydney squints at him,  “uh, can I ask, like- what’s your angle?” She promptly hits her side in the forehead with an open palm. “Fuck, I really need to stop hanging around Richie, he’s like- rubbing off on me.”

Carmy’s eyes wrinkle, and he huffs out a laugh, “Yeah, cousin has that effect on people.” 

Then, after their chuckles dry up, he starts again up, “But yeah, uh- here to report, there is no angle. I just, uh, miss you? I know I fucked up, and I’m realizing that it’s not just the Bear responsibilities that I shirked on. I had my head in my ass and was sloppy. I mean, not just as a chef but as a friend. I’m not going to apologize, I’m going to do better.”

Sydney clears her throat and blinks at him for a while. “Wow, Carmy. Well, A plus for the call out.” She drawls her voice out just a tad. A splash dry, and sardonic.

He decides to answer genuinely. “Well, yeah, I’m, uh, actually in therapy. Just trying to own my shit, I guess." 

She nods, “Oh. Okay, yeah.” A beat passes, and she blinks at him, “Fuck, I’m being kind of an asshole, right?” 

Fuck, he’s missed this. It stings, but he's missed this so much. “Kind of, but no, I deserve it. Get your shots in now.” 

They laugh softly together, and he just savors the rekindling connection that was sautered off between them until Syd prompts him to continue,  “Uh, fuck, sorry for interrupting, say more?” 

“No, yeah, I uh. That’s pretty much it. I wanted to unfuck myself for a long time, but I just kind of accepted where things were. But things aren’t static, right? They change form, and they move, so I don’t want to, uh, stay the same. It’s not fair what I did. I want to elevate, and I don’t want to let you down. So I’ve been trying to show you that.”

“Wow. Um Carmy. Thank you.” 

“Is that okay?”

“I really think it’s a start…”

A beat.

“But I’ll see how you really feel when I tell you I what I want to do to the menu.”

He rolls his eyes, “okay, okay, fuck off.” 

Therapy’s going kinda well…

But there’s always another shoe, right?

Chapter Text

Carmy’s awake at 4 a.m. 

He’s in bed, but his body is twitching like it’s still in motion doing the Bear Waltz, stirring pots and pans, plating dishes, whizzing back and forth from one workstation to the next, and feeling the heat of the clock. 

His fingers flex and scrunch and Carmy is fucking awake at 4 a.m.

He’s been up for a while now; he doesn’t know what his body wants from him. 

He knows that he can’t blame tonight on unremembered nightmares. 

He’s familiar with that feeling all too well. He would awake with his head empty, but his pounding heart pumping a million minutes per beat, his breathing, choppy and uneven, and every slope and fold of his body, a ravine of sweat.

He still has nightmares frequently, but he’s happy to report he’s been getting better at managing them.

He’s been coming off what he calls his “therapy high.”

Dr. Kimbalta says the sensation was a release of some sort, a tangible result of finally not pushing down his stress. 

It’s like you’ve had them contained in a pressure cooker, he remembers her saying. And you’ve just pressed the button to begin to release it. What you’ve been feeling is the beginning state of affirmation of self. 

You’re allowing yourself to tap into your emotions, Carmy. When you validate your emotions, you signal to your inner self you have a safe place to feel. Now, we’re just at the surface. Don’t be alarmed if you feel dips after this feeling you’re describing. 

That’s one drawback of therapy, he’d say. He’s getting used to talking. 

It’s weird to want to talk now. 

But, he’s really craving someone to help talk him through this emotion. 

He’s been getting a lot of practice between his weekly sessions with his therapist. Plus, he’s still been attending Al-Anon three times a week and is continuing to actively share. And on occasion, he talks with Sugar. 

Before, when it was really bad, he’d talk to Sugar as a last ditch effort, more so as a warning, if anything. A “ Hey , if I die from setting my apartment building on fire, just know it was my dumb-ass sleep cooking again, not actually intentional. Sorry.” situation.  

But now, he actually shares with her for the purpose of healing; stitching up their relationship. 

It’s getting somewhere. 

She’s ecstatic that he comes to her, just for times to bond, or to do that annoying brother and sister bicker slash bond fest they do. 

She’s even more ecstatic that he’s in therapy. Fucking finally, you little shit.

He’s grateful to have her as a constant in his life. 

Carmy jostles in his bed and makes a grab for his phone.

He jabs his password, 111111, on the screen, presses the green phone button, and hovers over Sugar’s name.

Then, a nagging voice (suspiciously sounding like Pete) reminds him boundaries , she’s pregnant and would be enormously pissed if her circadian rhythms get fucked up because he can’t sleep. 

He huffs and rakes through his bed head roughly.

So he tries to breathe through it. Tries to scan his body. Asks himself the color of the restlessness. Tries to taste the feeling and name it. What was it asking of him that he wsn’t seeing

But, nope, nothing sticks. He’s just restless .

Fuck.

Okay, Bear Waltz it is.

.

He finds his way inside The Bear’s kitchen, his old blue apron fastened over him. 

This is already way better than back in his apartment because instead of floundering around in a low-grade worry, he’s flipping through recipes he could make inside his head. 

He’s immediately interrupted, though. 

Because, in the distance, he hears the faint sound of someone clearing their throat, joined by a scurried rustling of paper. 

“Yo!” He calls out, “Anyone in here?”

He’s realizing how cliche that sounds now, Yes Carmen, obviously someone’s in here , the fuck is he? One of those final girls in a B-rated horror flick?

And damn it all to hell because his fleeting, humorous thought quickly turns for the worse.

Hold up. Is there a fucking burglar on the other side of that wall?

Now, he’s scanning around the room and trying to quickly calculate the estimated time it would take to get the biggest knife and wield it if need be.

But he doesn’t even get to make it over to where the knives are housed because Sydney appears. 

She stumbles around the corner, fiddling with a damp brown paper towel in her fist, looking sheepish and dog-tired. 

“Hey, yeah- I- sorry, it’s me. Sydney. I am… in here.”

Carmy’s eyebrows raise at her greeting, but he’s pleased to see her face, “Jesus, took you long enough to answer. Was getting ready to throw hands.”

When she doesn’t crack a smile or at least roll her eyes at him, he frowns. 

Then, he pays closer attention.

He notices her big brown eyes and how they’re rimmed in a scarlet red. Notices the ashen trails that steak from her lash lines, her high cheekbones, then down to her jaw. Takes note of the paper towel she grips too tightly in her hand, which is way too dry to be damp from wet hands. 

Sydney’s been crying. 

He immediately steps into her space, “Sydney, hey, what happened?” 

But she steps back from him and swats her hand away in dismissal, anticipating the extended hand he would have placed on her arm. 

“Nonono, I’m fineeeee .”

“Uh-huh. That’s why you’re crying at our restaurant at 4 something in the morning.”

She opens her mouth, sputters, then closes it again until she talks out her words.

“Noooo, well, yes. But, n- okay! I was just, well. It’s stupid, actually.” 

Carmy shakes his head to stop her, “Hey, no, not stupid. Listen, let’s talk it out. Please. What’s going on?”

Sydney raises her head and meets his stare with glossy eyes. 

“Okay. Um, I had a dream about my mom tonight.”

Oh shit.

“Oh shit… Do you want to talk about it?”

Sydney rolls her head around, and some of the braids catch loose from the confines of her scarf to tumble out, framing her face. 

“ Yes , yes, stupid. There’s nothing really to say. I- I just kind of feel like I don’t deserve to mourn, honestly. Like, I don’t know. It was such a long time ago, and plus, I didn’t know her that well. She died when I was like… 8 years old?”

She pauses to sniffle and turns away, trying to adjust her breathing. 

Carmy waits for a bit, letting her right herself while he tries not to act like his heart is crackling like an egg in his chest. 

He fumbles around in his brain, thinking about what he could say to make it better, but all he comes up with is “Syd…”

She turns back around to face him, her eyes beginning to pool with fresh tears, and her lips tucked into themselves like she’s holding back a scream.

“Hey,” he says, “none of that shit in your head, fucking with you, matters. She’s your mom. It’s… fucking shitty.”

At that, her tears begin to fall.

He steps up in her space again and slowly places his hand on her back. 

They stay like that for a while, and he’s grateful.

He can feel her warmth bleed through her shirt right to the palm of his hand. He wants to pull her in closer, but he settles for this, and the quiet blankets them comfortably until she looks up at him again. 

 “It’s just,” she pauses to roughly wipe her tears away, “even though it was a dream, it was more like a memory?”

Carmy nods, half in understanding and half in encouragement for her to continue. 

“When she was alive, she made these delicious banana nut pancakes.” 

Sydney takes a ragged breath and exhales out through her next words, “And like, in the dream, we were eating them. And she got to see me, like where I am now . I got to tell her everything that’s been happening in my life so far and all the fears that still eat me up inside. And she listened.”

Carmy nods again, “Sounds like a really good dream.” 

Syd smiles faintly, “It was. My mom was my best friend. I could tell her anything, and she took me seriously, you know? Even though, looking back, my problems were baby shit, she never played it down- or made me feel small or stupid. Anytime I cried, she’d listen, wrap me up in her arms, and just breathe with me. Then, when I was done. She would make me my favorite-“

“Banana nut pancakes.” he joins in with her, heart glowing when the smile she gives him reaches her eyes.

“Yup. Exactly. The one and only.”

Then she jostles herself out from his touch, “It’s funny.”

She haphazardly gestures around the room with limp arms, “I was trying to replicate them, but I couldn’t even cook. I just… holed myself up in the office. Just bawling my eyes out like a loser.”

She turns a half step away from him and places semi-laced hands behind her head.

He can see the tension in the movement of her hands. He can feel the frustration and the pain inside them. Like if not for her scarf, she would be *this* close to grabbing a hold of her braids and yanking them with a punishing pull.

“Oh my god,” she says with a wet laugh, “this is so embarrassing.”

Carmy cracks a lopsided self-deprecating smirk while he shadows her movement, tugging his hands through his curls, “Yeah, like you haven’t seen me completely lose my shit.”

Sydney shakes her head and drags her hands down to cover her face, “Okay, but I’m supposed to be better than youuuu.” 

Carmy snorts and forces himself not to tell her that she already is. Swallowing down his voiceto remind her that she made him better at this.  It ran the risk of being too cliche, plus, she’d think he was pandering- both definitely not his goals or the case.

Instead, he decides to match her quip with one of his own. “ Asshole . I’m trying to console you here.” 

And, yeah, that was the right move because Sydney’s laugh lurches out of her, surprised and amused. She uncovers her hands from her eyes, “Carm, me ragging on you is part of the consoling.”

He narrows his eyes at her with no real heat, and she laughs even more, shrugging and feigning nonchalance. “hey! I don’t make the rules!”

“Okay, whatever,” Cay says, reaching over and grabbing her old blue apron off of a stainless steel hook wall fixture. 

After she sighs out her last laugh, she considers him again and furrows her eyebrows. “Heyyyy. What are you doing here at 4 something in the morning in our restaurant?” 

Carmy throws her apron lightly over her head, allowing it to cover her face comically. 

“Helping you prep these pancakes, chef.”

Minutes later, they plated the pancakes and sunk their forks in to have their taste.

Carmy thinks they’re good. 

Sydney has an interesting edge to the way she cooks. He can hear her soul speaking through food- sees her quirkiness and playfulness in the ingredients. Clocks the edge of refinement by her skills and techniques. 

But, the execution of this pancake is different. He can tell she’s tapped into something different. She’s dropped her style and has tried to assimilate into another one, he knows. It throws him off but despite the difference, the pancake is still good. 

Regardless, it doesn’t matter what he thinks right now, it matters what Sydney thinks.

He’s chewing, wondering where her mind is at, when Sydney practically lobs her fork back down to her plate with unabashed aggression.

He turns to her and waits.

Sydney groans and presses the heels of her palms into her eyes, “This isn’t it at all.” 

“Can you place it?”

“The texture is… wrong? The banana is way too mushy. It’s just off…” A dejected sigh squeezes out from her, so heavy he can feel it. 

“We can work it out...” 

She’s already shaking her head in disagreement, hunching over. 

“No. No… it’s not like hers.” 

And he thinks back to Michael. Thinks back to when he first heard the news of his passing. Thinks of the lobbed plates of beef braciole speckling the walls of his New York apartment. Thinks back to the sobering realization that: this is one of the last pieces of him I have.

So, he tells her the truth.

“It’s not going to be like hers, Syd. We all have our own voice when we cook. Your ma had all the love that was inside her for you. And you can’t replicate that.” 

He’s moved to grab her hand, so he does.

“But what you can do is call back to her. And make something that speaks to all the love you have for her .” 

A beat passes until Syd squeezes his hand and says softly, “Thank you.” 

Then, “I miss her so much, Carmy. I miss her so much .” 

“I know.” 

He releases her hand to wrap his arm over her shoulder, and like a miracle, she leans in and burrows her cold, wet nose into his neck. He doesn’t mind, just squeezes her tighter until she wraps her arms around him too. 

They breathe together. 

.

They don’t mention what happened that morning during service. It’s just like them, that’s all they ever done is to set, forget, and continue. They move through dinner surprisingly without a hitch. Clean diligently with the rest of the crew and go home. 

But, when he’s in bed, Carmy decides to work up the nerve to text Sydney.

Yo, you made it home? 

Yeah, just got in. 

Stalker. 

Good. 

How are you feeling?

Better, I guess.

You guess? 

I don’t know

I know that I’m tired

Fuck, sorry. Yeah, you probably want to wipe out. You were up most of the day. 

Please don’t apologize, Carm. You were too

Thanks for everything.

Even though you did absolutely nothing to help recreate my dead mother’s recipe

Jesus H. Christ, you’re brutal. 

Yes. 

Go to sleep, Sydney.

Then, he does something different. He sends her a voice memo. So she can feel his sincerity. Also, so he can’t chicken out and delete the words before he can press send. 

“Hey. Can you promise me that you will let me know when you feel… like making pancakes again?” 

She immediately texts back with a voice memo of her own. He presses play and lets her voice fill the quiet of his darkened room, with a whispered “Okay, Carmy... thank you.” 

He smiles at his phone and closes his eyes. 

After the pancake night, Carmy texts Sydney… a lot. 

Not a weird amount. At least, he doesn’t think. But noticeably more. 

It really bothers him that she didn’t text him when she had that nightmare. It always feels like he should be closer to her somehow. 

Maybe, it’s the part of him that’s very embarrassed about how unequal the emotional load is on their relationship. He feels like he leaves her to do a lot of emotional lifting, and Jesus,  he has a lot to make up for. But, there’s another, bigger part of him that just really wants to be there for her. 

So he texts her about different restaurants opening around the city. He texts her recipes he’d like to try. Once in a blue moon, he texts her funny videos Sugar sent him. Sends her pictures of different drawings of food he has in his head.

 And she texts him. She texts him pictures of her cooking. Sends him random TikTok videos. On rare occasions, she sends him songs she thought he’d like. 

He acts like it’s nothing that those songs float up to his “On Repeat” Spotify playlist. 

.

Yo

Salutations. Greetings.

You’re so weird ha

Pot, meet kettle

Fair point

Thoughts on soup dumplings? 

Love ‘em

Wait. Please don’t tell me you have plans to add them to the spring menu

Because one: bad idea 

Fuck no, they’re definitely a winter item. I know that

Two: I’ve already had the best dumplings in my life, and I don’t think you could even make me change my mind

What where? 

Efficient as always, Sydney sends the link with lightning speed quickness. He clicks it.

It’s fucking Wow Bao. 

You’re fucking with me

Obviously. I mean, for a fast-food chain, they’re still surprisingly very good. But yeah… I guess you could make better ones than these

Why do you keep lumping me into this? 

Because I have to keep reminding you that even though you think you’re big shit, you’re not untouchable

You’re a white boy from Chicago. No white boy from Chicago can make the best dumplings.

Never said I could

And I’ll be here to make sure you never do.

Forreal, Sydney. What is this?

I’m just saying. It’s not allowed. Culturally.

Ah now I know what this is. You still salty that I had a suggestion on your greens recipe?

White men and their cultural appropriation, I swear

What gives you the right to even try me and my collards like that? You never even had them

I told you the color indicated that they could have been cooked longer

Where did you have these dumplings?

How does it feel to perform a hate crime on your CDC?

Sydney

Carmen 

Where did you have these dumplings?

Why are you asking me about dumplings? 

Because I want dumplings

Don’t think I don’t know when you try to dodge my questions. Stop holding out on me 

I mean, you could have had them with me if you went on our palette reset

Fuck me. Part two?

Do you mean part one? 

If I go, that is.

I fold. Let me make it up to you

Let me think about it

I’ll pay

Why are you stating the obvious?

Dig deep, Carmen. 

Name the price and it’s yours, Sydney. I’m begging

Wow, you must really want dumplings

Very much so. Plus gotta see the hype

Okay, but I’m not cashing in immediately 

Ah so you gonna grace me with your presence after all?

You’re in no position to talk to me like that right now

Heard, chef 

As promised, they do a tour around.

She shows him around all the places she went.

And the food is fantastic.  But surprisingly, that’s not the focal point in his head. It’s Syd.

Even though she’s been, she doesn’t show it. Her eyes gleam and take in all the elements like she’s experiencing all of it for the first time. 

Sydney’s so observant and expressive in her face. It’s kind of magical to watch. He’s so drawn to her reactions to things. 

That’s not even his favorite part. He loves watching her eat. He sees the raw hunger in her. Not like a physical hunger but a hunger to know. 

She whips out this notebook and black pen to scribble down her thoughts.

It reminds him of the tiny notebook of hers that he still has on his dresser. 

He’s been meaning to give it back, but he doesn’t have the heart, always going back to flip through the pages of her hurried scribbles, underlining and circling different ideas. 

As they restaurant hop, Carmy sees her vision and inspiration when they first were drafting the chaos menu. Remembers her suggestions through the different stages of their drafts. 

He’s vocal about this. He’ll point at the food on his plate and nod, thoughtfully chewing. “Okay, okay, I remember this.” 

Sydney smiles, “Right, because we were talking about toying with a cherry vinegar and-” 

“Yeah, yeah!” 

.

.

He likes how her mind works. Wants to get to know it more. 

While they walk around the city, he asks Sydney to describe her process.

That gets her going, “Ooo. Yeah, I love that question. I usually visualize it.” She closes her eyes for a quick minute, smiling gently, mouth open, and shivers, “I kinda feel it. You know? I feel the sensations of it. Experience the notes. See the colors. Hear the pops or crackles. Those textural, tactile things just worm in my brain.” 

And it’s so fitting because it’s her, so intense but in such a different way from him, She’s so bright and saturated with color.  

She turns to him and asks, “What about you, Carm?” 

His mind didn’t really have the free form process like hers, it was always tethered to a finished image. It’s methodical for him. Structural and controlled. His focus bolds, italicizes, and underlines the completion. Obsessive and unrelenting. 

He waters it down to not fuck the vibes. 

“Yeah, I’m lame.” He turns to face out in front of them, scratching the side of his face. “I just craft what the end goal is in my head, then reverse engineer it.”

She squints at him, and peering at her through his peripheral, he sees she’s fighting a smile, “Control freak.”

He shrugs dramatically and pulls a face, not above clowning himself to pull a quick laugh from Sydney, “Semantics.” 

They have the dumplings. 

Of course, Sydney makes it the last stop.

Carmy’s mind is blown. He feels like he might throw up, due to the sheer amount of food that's in his stomach, but he powers through and finishes the last dumpling in his bowl. Syd’s right, these are fantastic. 

“You legit were trying to deprive me of these?”

“You deprived yourself!”

He retaliates by snapping up one of her dumplings with his chopsticks.

Instead of getting angry, she giggles and kicks his shin under the table with no force at all.

He laughs through globs of halfchewed pork, chive, and chili paste.

As they leave and walk toward the L’s platform, Sydney punches his shoulder lightly.

“So. How are things with you?”

He blinks at her, “Yeah, good. Good, I think.”

“Yeah, you’ve been, like, better. Less grumpy, way less batshit, for sure… still constantly keyed up during service, still smoking cigarettes, but that’s life..”

He chuckles, “yeah, I guess. And how are you?”

Sydney contorts her face, pursing her lips left and right like she might be swishing sour Listerine. Ever expressive. “Yeah, it’s been okay. Days like today make me realize how much of a shut-in I am. Thanks for suggesting this.”

He nods in agreement. He really doesn’t have friends, the fixation on the goals he’s set for himself has been unforgiving to his social life. And this comradery built between them is nice. He’s never experienced it with any other of the chefs he’s worked with before. And he’s grateful to Syd. 

But that feels weird to say, so he settles with, “Definitely. Thanks for coming with me. Sorry again for bailing that time.”

It might have been the wrong thing to say because he feels the air between them change. He kicks himself in his mind’s eye and wonders what other things he could have said.

Sydney shifts back and forth from one leg to another, “It’s cool. I mean, it wasn’t, but like, yeah.” 

She scrunches up her nose and opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, then snaps her mouth shut. 

Carmy raises his brows, “What’s up?” 

Syd fidgets with her jacket zipper, “You can tell me to fuck off,” she starts. 

He chuckles under his breath and waits for her to finish her thought. 

“But, like, what did happen with Claire? Like, did you guys talk after the soft open?” 

He blinks, totally not expecting that. For reasons he does not understand, his whole being starts running hot. He taps his teeth together silently to calm himself, then brings himself to answer. 

“Oh, shit. Uh. No not really. I- uh. No, we haven’t really talked since.” 

Sydney’s expression becomes unreadable. “Oh.” 

“Why?” 

“That’s just surprising is all. I’m kinda asking why?” 

Carmy’s furrowing his eyebrows now, “Why?” He parrots back to her. “Well, things were kind of complicated between us. Things were going way too fast too. I liked her, but I didn’t?”

Sydney eyes him, “You seemed to like her enough.” Even though her tone is neutral, it borders on accusatory. 

He stays silent, and this eggs her on to continue, “like she damn near crafted out the menu with you.” 

“We’re on this again?” 

“Technically, we never really even talked about it.” 

He presses his thumb and forefingers to the corner of his eyes, wishing they could move on from this topic. “Lessons were learned. Measurable changes have been made. We literally just said that.” 

“We were talking about something else completely, Carmy. We haven’t talked about it.” 

“What would you like to talk about?” 

“I don’t know, first off, why did you ditch her like that?” 

“Your problem is… that I’m not with Claire?” 

“ No .” A segmented part of him clocks how adamant she is in her delivery.  “ Shit. I mean- I’m just- you’re confusing, Carmy. I can’t really read you… Like, see it from my side. You spent all this time with her. To the point that you shirked all your responsibilities just to see her. She took up all your time. You opened up to her.  And now, you’re telling me, it was complicated? That, you didn’t even like her?” 

“That’s because it was complicated, Sydney. I-” So much he wanted to say. It was my first relationship. I was half pressured to date her. He lands on, “I don’t really know how to describe it. Turns out I couldn’t explain it properly to her either. I’m decidedly still a goddamn mess.”

He threads his hand in his hair and closes his eyes. “I don’t really see how any of this is relevant.” 

“It should be relevant to you; you’re someone who has no emotional bandwidth for dating, and that’s disturbing.” 

“Yeah, if it helps, I sort of knew that then, and I really  know that now.” He sighs, “Plus, I doubt that me dating is going to happen any time soon.”

She scoffs, “That’s not even the point.”

He stares at her blankly, “So what’s the point?” Acid building in the back of his throat.

“You tell me. Since you share so much with me, why can't you share now?”

“ Fine, I dated Claire for all the wrong reasons. I liked her at one point, like back in high school. But, no, I can’t say that I aligned with her as an adult. It was harder to realize that then, but I definitely see that now.”

The thread is unraveling. And Carmy wills himself to push past the guilt to finish his sentence. Trying not to put a value judgment on what he’s feeling now, but just exorcising this acid and purging that shit.

“I think it was more so I can say we knew each other . She was a family friend. I didn’t do this whole fucking Dr. Phil opening up thing, she knew all about my bat-shit crazy family dynamics and surprisingly didn’t run away. And she wanted me. I know it’s selfish, but I just needed someone to want me, especially while I was so fucked up.” 

Sydney’s digesting things. Blinking her eyelashes slowly, her mouth parted open, occasionally biting her lip with her teeth.

“Okay, I… can get that.”

Carmy quirks his head, and his eyes open and close to the speed of Morse code. She must understand his lack of content in her answer because she continues.

“I… I’m sorry to pry. I felt pretty bummed out of that whole scenario. And it got me to thinking about how Claire might have been feeling too? As a feminist, and as a girl who… really hasn’t had a relationship. And as your friend, I have an obligation to tell you when you’re a mess.”

Carmy snorts unamusedly, “Totally agreed on the mess. I pledge to work on being better.”

Then dishes out a jab, “Almost as good as you are at being a considerate feminist.”

Then, Sydney rolls her eyes, “Fuck off. It’s not like I hated the girl. I guess I was jealous.”

Butterflies erupt in Carmy’s stomach, so violently he feels like they might erupt out of his body.

Whatthefuck?

Sydney flounders over herself by the admission though, waving her arms around, like she’s fanning away her words in a giant X shape. “No no, not like jealous jealous as in romantic sense jealous. But you know what I mean?”

He clears his throat and hums out a broken “Yeah. Absolutely. Full focus.”

She gives a sobering nod, “Exactly. But, there’s balance, right? I don’t know. This is fucked, but we’re picking up the pieces one step at a time right? Together.”

She nudges his arm with hers, and he tries to give a convincing smile because he doesn’t fully realize it, but somehow all of this is going to bite him in the ass.

Chapter Text

When he first noticed Claire, she was falling over herself trying to retrieve a volleyball pass at gym class. 

Her friends laughed good-naturedly as she righted herself, fixing her crooked glasses from her face. He took note of her easy smile, stormy blue eyes, and the silent confidence she possessed. 

He thought she was pretty, but he paid no mind to it. 

Pretty people exist, and it’s no big deal. Nothing to fuss over. 

He didn’t get the whole “crush” experience; the alleged euphoria that his peers had, frothing at the mouth of strangers in glossy magazines. Stammering over sentences caused by snooty cheerleaders. 

It seemed a bit contrived. 

Ever since that day, he kept seeing her. 

He noticed her in his peripheral in his shop class. 

They bumped into each other during lunch period. 

Apparently, they lived on the same block because, on his trek to and from school, he’d see her walk past him, jiggling her keys noisily with eminent purpose. 

And it didn’t stop there. 

On weekends, Carmy would spend days visiting his Nonna, Bunny, in the nursing home.

He was dedicated to his time with Bunny. 

Hell, Nona was the only one who provided space for him to exist. That is, she didn’t bitch at him for not speaking or call him weird when he’d blink and stare off at nothing in particular. She happily welcomed the comfortable silence shared between them, interrupted only by sounds of her intermittent smacks and slurps of food that he prepared for her.       
And that’s how he spent his Saturdays usually. 

He’d wait for the nurses to prep her for their visit in the rec room. He’d putter around the huge room, letting the echo of his footfalls bounce around the room, and just pass the time. He’d people watch out the wide windows, microwave the soup he made for her, or watch Judge Judy. 

One random Saturday, waiting for the nurses to finish sponging her down, Carmy made his way into the rec room, getting ready to nuke the minestrone he had made for her that morning. 

And to his surprise, from a sizable distance away, sat Claire, with her smile and blue eyes.

She was sitting in one of the pleather chairs, rubbing the back of a tenant, fixated on them with an unyielding focus. 

It warmed him in a way he couldn’t explain. 

And so people-watching Claire became part of his Saturdays too. 

He watched how she was so dialed into their needs, How she moved as if she morphed into an extension of their body. Grabbed items they longingly looked at, adjusted them in their wheelchair just so. Provided a listening ear for them to tell their stories. 

She was fascinating to observe. How she was so reactive to her environment. How receptive she was. How she could mold and manipulate the environment, and know just what to say and when to say it. 

He wanted to map out her careful movements and find the mechanisms responsible for generating her level of care and connection so that he could pour the same dedication into his cooking.

So he watched her until his Nona was wheeled into the room and he forced himself to face away from Claire.

He got away with it undetected until the fifth Saturday in. She was in the middle of opening a jello pack, when all of a sudden Claire halted, lifted her head from her ministrations, and easily found Carmy’s gaze from the stretches away.

She smiled and waved with a familiarity that made Carmy’s skin crawl. 

She’d seen him watching her before.

He felt crushed by the weight of her eyes on him, flushed, and gave a half wave back before bolting out of the squeaky plastic bound chair to the refuge of a nearby restroom.

She cornered him in the hallway after school the next day.

“Hey, I’m Claire.”

“Yeah, I know.”

She grinned at his admission and hesitated, probably waiting for him to say more but it was no use, his voice box was frozen and that’s all he had.

A beat later, she blinked.

“You don’t talk a lot, huh?”

He shrugged and willed his face in neutrality, but his muscles were twitching and trembling with furious anxiety, so it probably looked like he was constipated at best.

Nevertheless, she smirked, “Well, if you're going to stare at me, you owe to me to at least talk to me.”

And she made him. 

She’d seek him out in the school library. She would slide her chair next to him and watch him sketch on the back of unfinished homework assignment packets. “Do you think you could draw me?” She asked. 

She’d slide next to him on the bus. Her body curved in, forcing him to crawl closecloseclose into the window almost smashing into a one-sided embrace with the cool frame of steel and glass. But Claire still crammed close to him despite his efforts to find separation. So he surrendered and became familiar with their knees knocking against one another and her elbow pressed inside his side as the bus swayed them turn by turn towards their way to Roosevelt High. 

He no longer ate in silence, she’d ditch her friends to join him for lunch. Claire would announce her presence by stealing his Doritos bag. Then she’d force him to play tic-tac-toe with her on a stray grease-stained napkin he’d be doodling on. 

After he visited his Nonna, she'd pop up from a random hallway and they'd walk home together.

And this was foreign to him. He was especially surprised she wasn't deterred about the shit the kids smear about him and his family.

Some people in the school would talk shit. Shared stories told about how their own no-good shit parents saw Donna stumbling around the neighborhood Dominic’s liquor aisle in the early afternoon, wine sweat oozing from her pores and smudged rings of dark kohl coating her lids.  

How his dad wasn’t around.

How no wonder he fucking has a stammer, his family’s fucked. 

How he’s fucking weird and not adjusted. 

Despite hearing the rumors float around them, 

Claire didn’t care. 

“I don’t think you’re lame, you just need to live more.”
“How do you want to spend your life?”
“What makes you happy? I can help you find out.”

She paid attention to him.

It was a change of pace for him for sure. Usually being seen was met with complaints or directions to change. 

So, yeah, Carmy caved and drew her.

He drew her as he saw her. A person ensconced in a firm knowing of self.

And yes, she was beautiful. 

But, it wasn’t love. He didn’t have much to go on. But he knew that, right?
It wasn’t vulgar. It wasn’t amorous. It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t carnal. It wasn’t wanting. 

To be honest, at times, he felt almost jealous of her. 

He was enamored with her ease of being. Her comfortability to claim experiences, to know her place in the world and demand it without shrinking. To know her own mind and feelings. 

He wanted that for himself. He wanted to accomplish that with cooking. He knew he couldn’t accomplish that with people. 

Then she went to college and he left for New York.

Until, there they were again, eyes locked in mutual knowing in the freezer section of a shitty convenience store. 

“We have to make up for lost time.” 

She wasn’t taking no for an answer. 

And there he was again. He owed her. 

Al-Anon was talking about chances, relationships, and purpose. 
 
Life’s short. 

She remembered The Bear.
And he owed her. 

Mikey liked her. 

She liked him. He owed her.

Stop ruining it. Stop running.

What’s the meaning of fun? 

A voice urging, she can help you.
She let him back into her world, after all. Her unspoken You owe me.

It could be easy with Claire. 
He could surrender.

No heated exchanges over the plating’s precision and symmetry.

He couldn’t scare her off with screaming matches about acidity. 

They wouldn’t fuck in a shitty ran down New York apartment, ruck dirty whites back on encrusted in bile sick yellow lights, all for him to be ignored the next day like he was a scummy mistake.  

She wouldn’t ask him to explain the difference between xanthan and guar gum. 

One less thing to spiral about.

And she wanted him. You owe me.

Fuck was he going to do? Be a loser all his life?

So that was that. 

-

“Thank you very much for sharing, Carmen.”

“Uh, yeah, no problem, Dr. Kimbalta.” A beat passes, and he’s staring at the swaying blinds, shuttering out the noisy Chicago cityscape scene happening below them.

“I kinda can’t help no matter what I did- it was going to go to shit, right? No matter what I did, I wasn’t happy.”

 
“Let’s explore this more. Do you know what makes you happy?”

Carmy rubs his brow in frustration and lets the silence speak for him. 

She hums in admission and steeples her hands in concentration.

“Can I tell you what I'm feeling here?” 

Carmy reaches out his hand into the space between them, as if to say, by all means.

“I don’t think you readily know or accept happiness in your life, because for a long time, your environment wasn’t conducive for you to receive it… or be comfortable with it. You don’t owe people parts of yourself you aren’t willing to give. You shouldn’t force yourself to feel things that you can’t. It’s equally wrong to use people as it is to allow yourself to be used. It’s okay to undo those behaviors.” 

Carmy huffs and crosses his arms. He feels like he wants to cave into himself or scream into one of her decorative pillows. When will it ever stop being about the fucking past for him? 

She presses forward, “I can tell you have a tender side you can tap into once you feel safe and unblocked. But, it becomes tricky when you allow self-sabotage, self-loathing, and second-guessing to manipulate your impulses and decisions.”

She pauses, and he lets what she says settle in his brain. Evidently, she’s not done.

“Yes, there were times that you could have chosen differently. But when we’re in this delicate state, choosing what's best for us or operating from choices of self-love can be more painful for ourselves. Because it proves to us that there was an alternative, we realize that we didn’t deserve to be treated so horribly in the past. That realization can hurt us deeply because now we’re forced to mourn for a person we could have been.”

Dr. Kimbalta quirks her head down to meet his lowered gaze, “It’s also not easy to trust our instincts with feelings when we’ve been so used to shutting them down or altering them for survival, Carmen. What will change is you holding space for yourself. Nothing inside of you is broken.”

His vision blurs, so he shuts his eyes to clear it, but he surprises himself with the tears that roll down his cheeks.

He gasps softly and blots them down with the corner of his sweater. 

“You’re making strides in advocating for self, Carmen. You have to continue to give yourself grace. I ask that you keep emphasizing seeking mutual emotionally validating connections in your life. I’ll send you some techniques to help you continue your work with your alexithymia.”

He clears his throat and nods. 

“In the meantime, try to define happiness for yourself. And remind yourself you deserve that. You deserve to be happy.”

Chapter Text

Happiness didn’t come easy to Carmy. 

Obviously.

If he had to identify it, cooking was responsible for bringing the most happiness throughout his life, but it was just as equally as complicated as any other relationship he ever had. 

If he tracks the feeling, there’s a focus that falls over him when he cooks. 

There’s a sense of pride, wonder, and self-gratification when he executes. He almost feels like an alchemist, the fire, metal, and water yielding to his will. 

But in the background, an acrid taste always builds deep from his belly and then rises to the back of his throat.

And more times than not, there’s a strange shadow floating just in the recesses of his peripheral when he’s plating. Come on, motherfucker.

All at once, he’s reminded of who is yielding to who, of who’s actually on the chopping block, of whose innards are displayed for consumption.

Cooking is fascinating, grueling, and painful, an art and war balanced into one.

Cooking is also like a reflex, a quick automatic response. 

He needs it like he needs to breathe, which is funny because the act of breathing kills you. 

Claire had told him that. 

“Fun fact! Yeah, the oxidization happening when you inhale kills you slowly, like fries your cells. Breath: the bringer of life serves as the harbinger of death too. Really funny huh?” 

Ha fucking ha.

Cooking is a hard master to serve. And every meaningful relationship has twisted and folded cooking into the makeup.

Can he really be happy like that? Could he be happy with cooking? With people? Could he relax it in?

He sure doesn’t have experience with that. He’s had to prove to himself and others that he’s worthy of it. Worthy of a voice. Worthy to work. Worthy of his family. Worthy of the money he made to free himself. Worthy to stop feeling like a piece of shit. 

Relationships were scary and volatile, he surmised. And reductive, and scary, and constricting.

To most of all is family and friends- which are like family anyway… he’s probably lives in their heads being that unsure kid. Weird, shy, awkward. Mikey’s brother. Donna’s youngest boy. Little bear. Petulant, particular, and slightly off hinge. 

To his colleagues, he’s the stick in the ass, the gold star, try hard, mute with no life. Or a meltdown away from being a horror like all the other obsessed chefs they’ve had the displeasure to cook with or work for. Maybe several meltdowns since being in therapy. To his credit, he hasn't lobbed a plate during service in almost a month. To some, he’s a type of role model. Idol. Which is fucked because he’s not sure of his own footing. Plus, he really doesn't think his neuroticism and obsession are hardly something to covet. 

(Cook. Plate. Scrap. Cook. Plate. Replate. Scrap.)

Not enough.

It’s all fucked…

But then there’s Sydney…

Sydney’s been the first person in a long time to see him without those labels. That likes and knows him as the person he is in the here and now, even the man he’d like to become. Sydney is the first person who lives with him in the present and with an eye and expectation on the future.

If he’s an asshole, she doesn’t equate that to his past. She reminds him that those are his own decisions. 

Their relationship has still been hard, but Sydney is different. This anomaly. Hands him that sleek, pristine black plate. Not to demand, or to consume or devour.

To collaborate. 

Don’t fuck this up.

.

Carmy’s just getting comfortable in his bed when he gets a phone call.

He grabs his phone from his nightstand and feels his eyes glaze over. 

It’s a Facetime call from Syd. 

He sees his face backlit by the soft, muted light from his bathroom.

It takes a while for his brain to compute so he’s sitting there, thousand-yard stare reflecting back at him, but his heart has got the memo, it throbs in his chest in anxiety. 

This would be the first time they ever Facetimed. 

Is it an emergency? 

Is it a misdial? 

Answer and find out, you fuckin’ jamook. 

He huffs, musses up his hair in a failed attempt to appear presentable, and his thumb slides to the right to accept. 

“Yo, what’s up, Syd?” He asks, feigning nonchalance.

He squints to take her in, but the camera is not on her face, and somehow, through the granulated pixels loading on his screen, he can see perfectly sautéed asparagus with braised meat as its focal point. bracketed into a green-smeared emulsion. 

“I did it, Carm!” Sydney’s voice blossoms through the tinny speaker of his iPhone.

“Looks phenomenal, chef. Walk me through.”

“Well, I kinda wanted to have a visual representation of the seasonal change of our menu- like a tone shift. We’re walking out of winter and transitioning into spring with a braised rabbit and spring vegetables.”

He nods along, feeling himself slip into his mind.

They could transition from the chaos menu to something more structured. It felt right to have her exercise her agency. After all, he’s been preparing to present her with her own equal percentage of the Bear soon.

“Uh, do you want to try it?”

“Oh, yeah. Absolutely; when do you wanna work on it?”

He sees her feet walk into a room, and the bruised purple light coat tinges her white socks a muted lilac.

She flips her camera over, and he’s stunned. For a minute, he forgets what they’re talking about because of how the light dances off her skin. It’s mesmerizing him- cinematic and ethereal in a way that makes him want to paint her. 

Syd’s pretty. That thought bounces in his brain, incessant and sharp, a ping pong ball on his cement brain walls. 

He’s known it, known it since he met her. He’s not blind but fuck, she’s gorgeous , and it’s wild how her face is framed just right with the background lights of her room and he’s so fucking thick in the head, he might as well have cement walls instead of grey matter because he barely registers that she’s still talking, fuckfuckfuck-

“—come over now?”

He heaves up with a sharp inhale, and nods, grateful he heard the last of her statement, “Yeah, sure, absolutely..”

He transforms the ping pong into a perfect clear sphere of glass and lets it break into shards.

She’s pretty, and that‘s fine . What does that matter? Set it, forget it. 

He rolls out of bed, simultaneously picking up his well-worn packets of cigarettes. Then he stuffs a square in the side of his mouth and mumbles around the obstruction to say, “Heading out to pick you up.” 

And he does. 

His shitty car put-puts over in record time, so she shuffles in the car and begins to wash him in her back-and-forth monologue of the correct temperature to get the crisp of the rabbit’s skin just right.

They decide to go to Mariano’s to pick up more vegetables so they can experiment with different artistic cuts for plating. 

Midway to the checkout queue, Carmy beelines down an aisle to re-up on his Maruchan noodles, Sydney hot on his heels.

He hears her suck her teeth when he throws another pack in the shopping cart for good measure. “Why you refuse to make something good for yourself is beyond me.”

Carmy shrugs, “It’s easier, I’m usually wiped when I come in. Quick and easy is good for me.”

She lifts an eyebrow in protest, but he stops her to ask her about the new book she’s reading.

Sydney allows this distraction. “This one’s a fiction this time, but I feel like you might like it. It’s haunting, thoughtful, chaotic, very emo...  ” She talks while swaying her shoulder bag, dangerously gaining traction with every step she takes. 

He eyes it curiously- he’s never seen it before; they both usually opt for their canvas totes.

He leaves it be until they find themselves hiking back up his apartment steps, and she damn near trips over herself. 

Carmy quickly grabs up the strap and drapes it over his own shoulder with ease. The pressure that presses near his neck is more than he imagines.

“Damn Syd. What do you have in here?”

Sydney starts protesting, nasally, dry, and affronted.

Carmy’s laughs blend in with her huffs and whines, and their syncopated symphony fills the space of his entryway as they walk through the doorway.

They dump everything on his dinner table. 

He reaches his hand on the bag to lift it again and quirks his eyebrow up, deadpan and questioning. 

She yanks it out of his hands and shuffles, revealing a case of ginger beer, an oversized hoodie, a notebook, her book, her obligatory scarf, and a Bluetooth speaker.

“Since I need your permission.” Carmy snorts, picks up the Bluetooth speaker, and hands it to her again, once again effective at redirecting her energy.

Then, they bump around in his small kitchenette, somewhat a half-beat ahead or behind to some Radiohead song, and argue with no heat about what emulsion would best tie the rabbit dish.

And, yeah, they cook.

As Carmy feels his body sway or intermittently graze Sydney, he feels a Something surge over him. 

Dr. Kimbalta’s voice drifts into his mind. 

Pay attention to how you feel in your body, Carmy. Be present.  Ride the emotion’s every crest and trough.  Breathe it in, and remember the shape of where your shoulders are.  Then, call out the emotion. Name it.

His chest is lifted. His jaw relaxed. Bones, muscles, and fascia stretch to trigger the smile on his face.

Happy. He feels really fucking happy.

You’re allowed to be happy, Carmy.

This is the best that it gets.

.

He calls her the next time.

“Oh!” She looks amused and a little bewildered all the same. 

“Hey, you, uh, down to get some late-night grub? I was gonna get Portillos…”

“Uh yeah, I’ll take a bite. Proud of you, Carm. Beyond ecstatic that it’s not those freaking noodles you’ve got squirreled away.”

So they find themselves in the late-night drive-thru lines snickering about something that transpired during the dinner prep that day. 

“Carmmyy! Why didn’t you tell me Richie actually is obsessed with Taylor Swift.” 

Carmy’s sides are splitting open, and he thinks he might actually combust because Syd is so fucking funny . 

“Listen!! Imagine my utter shock to find him whisper shouting the entire lyrics to Shake It Off! Like I just wasn’t even mentally prepared!” 

Eyes crinkled.

Smile naturally lifted, not forced.

Feeling present and seen.

Happy. 

But there’s a tinge of another Something just beyond that crest. 

.

It’s after the finalized drafts of spring menu mock-ups, and Carmy’s burning one to close the day. 

The sun is shedding off the remnants of itself across the sky lazily, preparing to plunge into blue-black darkness that rolls ahead.

For now, everything is suspended in a sort of angelic light.

The metal door banging snaps his focus from the view in front of him to see who joined him outside.

It’s Sydney, she steps into the light, and not for the first time, Carmy thinks to himself Sydney’s beautiful . 

Again, no shit. 

Her deep brown eyes shimmer and shift like molten chocolate coated in a honeyed glaze. 

Her hair, recently freed from braids, shifts and dances in the warm rays. The strands soak in the light, revealing shades of mahogany and copper reds that usually hide under the Bear’s lighting. 

Then there’s her skin, gleaming from sweat, splattered jus, and oil, but looking like it’s glowing on its own all the same. It wouldn’t surprise him.

Yeah, Sydney’s beautiful, and he catches his hands absentmindedly, trying to trace the shape of her eyes on his thighs. The ridge of her nose. The curve of her lips.

He feels hot and cold at the same time. He feels like one of those dreams that have you lurching out of your fucking skin. He chews on this feeling, desperate to macerate it and transform it into something else. In disbelief, his chewing doesn’t cut the feelings down, it doesn’t obliterate it, instead, it coats his tongue and incorporates deeper inside of him. He can’t shroud himself in the numbness, he can’t undo thi- fuckofffuckofffuckoff

“Uh, chef?” She squints up at him, shielding the light with a cupped hand. 

“Yo,” He finally wheezes out.

“Sorry to… interrupt your break, but Sweeps told me they need an equipment reset for the side window.”

He nods slowly, finishing the last inhale of his cig and wills his body to move to follow Syd back inside.

Since she was steps beyond him, she was already reaching over the stainless steel countertop space, calibrating one of the weights. 

Carmy sees the muscles in her arms undulate easily by her movements since she had shucked off her chef whites hours ago.

Her graphic shirt shifts, and the lifting fabric reveals a sliver of soft brown skin.

From somewhere deep inside himself, a small voice sounds in his head, wondering how soft the skin there would feel.

He inhales sharply and sputters on the residual spit lolling around in his mouth. Sydney starts up from the sound, her hair fanning around her face as she quickly turns her head toward him. 

“Dude, are you good?” 

He extends a hand. waving her off, “Uh, yeah yeah.” 

It doesn’t sound convincing at all, and it makes her eyes quirk up. “Are you sure? You seem, like, flushed? You better not be coming down with a cold, asshole. We’re booked to heck.” 

He touches his cheek to find it hot, and he imagines the blood blossoming all the way from his cheeks all the way down his neck. 

“‘M fine.” And then he’s pivoting into the office, desperately trying to move his body away. If he moves, he might can move his body away from these thoughts. Away from this. Away from him seeing this feeling clearly anymore. Can rustle the emotions down again with each step away from her. 

“Uh, chef?” Sydney’s voice drifts after him, voice tinged in question, worry, and slight irritation. 

“Yeah! I’m getting the calibration specs!” He calls back sharply. Let me have a minute , he thinks. I just need one minute . Just… fuck.

It can’t be Syd. Why her? Anyone else. You can’t have her. He reasons. There are so many reasons. 

And he knows them. Stop being dense.

But…

You’re allowed to be happy. The smallest voice calls out. Allowed to be a bit delusional, just indulge, at least in your hea-

No. Not this. Another voice bellows out. Not this. Not her. Not you. You’ll ruin it. You’ll stain it. You'll lose her. Get real.

He needs another cigarette. He needs space. He needs to punch something. He needs to- 

He blinks and finds himself walking to the main entry of his apartment.

Guilt is added to the cacophony of emotions boiling in his blood, but he can’t find himself to do anything with that feeling. 

Can only fish out his key and try to gain more distance from this unveiled feeling.

Chapter Text

He’s in a staring match with Dr. Kimbalta. 

He shouldn’t be making it difficult for her, he already probably exhausts her enough with his weekly sessions. 

He's probably annoying her even more, considering that he scheduled this emergency session an hour he jetted off from the Bear.

He doesn't know exactly why he did it, it's not like he's afraid for his wellbeing. He don't know if he can even talk to her. Doesn't know what to say.

But, if he’s too much of a fucking coward to talk to her, at least he shouldn’t be staring at her like she kicked his dead dog or something.

Dr. Kimbalta, the saint, quirks her head in question. Her green eyes on him in a neutral gaze.

Carmy caves not to long after, "Fuck, sorry Doc, I just really don't know where to begin."

Dr. Kimbalta gives a gentle smile, "No need to apologize. I always remind you that these sessions are yours, start wherever you'd like."

Carmy exhales deeply and presses his middle and ring finger deep into his palm for the pressure. another technique she suggested.

Accu..pressure? Or whatever the fuck.

It's supposed to help keep his mind occupied in the present, within his body. In tuned.

He notices the deep urge for a cigarette occupying the bracketed space between his fingers.

"I'm... I think I'm really scared."

He shifts in his seat, "I don't really know how I should even feel. I've been agonizing over... fuck..."

Dr. Kimbalta shifts on her leather sofa right along with him, slightly mirroring Carmy but opts to cross her legs and interlaces her fingers resting on her lap.

"My friend... my... partner... at the Bear" he trails off, useless and tired. His eyes feel fuzzy, heavy, and vulnerable. He resorts drifting his gaze towards the window.

Dr. Kimbalta tries to find his gaze again, "Sydney. Do I have that right?"

Her name snaps him out of despondence, he drags his gaze back to hers, "yeah... Sydney."

"You're quite fond of her. She's definitely a notable person in your life."

She's kind by describing her as just notable. He listed her contact as one of the emergency contacts very early on. Her name often comes up for the people he's grateful for, or the people who inspire his growth. Even helped him formulate the plans of making her part owner.

And now, he finds himself here. The side of his lip would tug in a small sardonic, machoistic curl if he could even feel all his body... if he even had the energy.

"Yeah, I'm afraid... of fucking it up with us..."

Dr. Kimbalta stays silent, letting the silence sag and accentuate the space that his self censorship takes in the room. The lingering dread that his voice carried out in the atmosphere.

He threads his hand in his hair, and exhales.

"I'm afraid of poisoning the dynamic between us. It's just really dangerous. Unprofessional for sure. Messy. And I'm not..."

He gesticulates, slowly at first, then gaining momentum more and more as his frustration builds.

He tastes the stutter on the tip of his tongue. Threatening to throttle his momentum and tumble out his words sporadically and leave him halting like a skipping record.

He seizes the movement with a slap of his thighs, huffing with finality.

Dr. Kimbalta inhales slowly and more audibly, an unspoken invitation to join him, or at least break Carmy's internal tension from bubbling hot.

Carmy takes a halting breath, and rakes his hand in his hair again, his scalp slightly stinging with his effort.

He takes in another, breath coming a bit smoother than the last.

"So, there's been shift there for you in how you regard her--"

Carmy shakes his head quickly, "think it's always been there." Think? He fucking forgot what UPS was when he first locked eyes with her.

He shakes his head again, trying to wave away the thought.

"I mean, trying to work through the nightmares, and desperately needing her for the Beef I... stuffed it down? Wanting to prove that the Beef was at least not going to be worthy to only for memorizing Title fucking 9, I..."

"Ah, so you downplayed your attraction for the sake of her staying at the restaurant." a newfound understanding tints Dr. Kimbalta's voice.

Carmy winces. When you put it like that, he sounds manipulative. "I mean... I wasn't trying to be a creep. Like, I never acted on my feelings. I actively shoved them down. I figured it would be pretty horrible to abuse the power dynamic. I can have self control. Plus, we started being friends by then..."

Dr. Kimbalta hummed in acknowledgement, then clicked her pen to jot notes down.

He hated when she did that.

When she finished, she met his eyes again. "It's admirable to uphold boundaries and acting appropriate to your staff. That's understandable. But I still wonder if that the point of focus is not directly protecting Sydney herself, but rather protecting your emotions."

Carmy wheezes, choking on his spit.

Huh?

She continues, "From what I hear, it's been a long time that you and Sydney have been operating off of equal standing within the Bear. So, there's no fear of power imbalance, right?"

Carmy swallows roughly and nods slow, hating the sinking feeling in his gut.

Dr. Kimbalta mirrors him yet again with a nod of her own, her salt and peppered sleek bob undulating along with her movement, "Okay. What are there other hesitations?"

Carmy presses his fingers into his hand for pressure once again. "I've been selfish... and I really... There's so many times I didn't see her needs. I..."

Dr. Kimbalta tilts her head and hums, encouraging him to continue.

"It hurts to know that I don't have the right things in me to love her."

Carmy feels the twists in his side curl tighter, the pit of his stomach growing larger. You always do this. Love people wrong. Useless.

"We've been working through my dynamic with Claire. It's obvious that we weren't compatible. I still tried to make it work, despite us giving not being what another needed. And... I'm still a fucking wreck."

Dr. Kimbalta holds the space for him.

The silence shows it's face again, lingers.

It stretches out forever it seems, until finally it rises up again to make way for Dr. Kimbalta's voice.

"Carmen, your assessments are valid. Through pattern recognition, you are able to extrapolate your mistakes and fears... and accurately name them. It's good progress that you are able to take accountability for not seeing Sydney clearly. These admissions can definitely improve and strengthen dynamics. They also inform us when things are worth the investment. For other people, and for ourselves."

Carmy nods, "That's what I'm saying Doc. But even me changing things, they don't take up for the fact that I'm not.. The family I come from... It's fucked. I mean Suga- Natalie is the only one who came out the most sane, and... I'm... I'm no Natalie. And even then, she tells me it's been hard... for her sometime with Pete. It's just a part of the Berzatto curse."

Dr. Kimbalta uncrosses her legs, "I imagine it's difficult to make sense of what can be changed, what traits will remain, and how to deal with the fallout of it all... I wonder if sometimes the wires get confused. I know for me, there were oftentimes those wires used to get tangled and I would blame myself for things out of my control and then excuse the things I could."

Carmy's eyes shot up, narrowed and eyebrows scrunched, "I'm... I'm not following."

"Carmy, your language suggests that due to your family dynamics and history, you are incapable of having a fulfilling romantic life. Outside of your own personal areas of improvement... you believe that it is impossible. What of your own locust of control?"

Carmy shut his eyes, his head beginning to pulse with continued tension. "Doc, I really think I'm beyond fucked. You can't unbake a cake."

Dr. Kimbalta chuckles, a small, breathy and short thing, "Well, thank goodness you're not a cake!"

His eyes snap open, "I'm serious!"

She nods, "Me too! Carmen, yes, upbringing is responsible for shaping us. However, we continually form ourselves and our identity. And, yes, there will be pieces of them or their impact that remain with us, but we continually take on how we walk those traits out."

Carmy's eyes sting, "I don't think it's that simple."

Dr. Kimbalta sighs, it's almost imperceptible but it's there. He almost feels the air that's shifted from the space of her lips. "I agree. It's definitely not simple. But life demands to be lived."

A beat passes.

"Outside of feeling incapable, do you feel deserving of having a fulfilling love life, Carmen?" she speaks this so softly, but it feels like a 10 ton truck crashing through him.

A voice he doesn't recognize cracks out of him, "No. Not really."

They both allow the silence to return, a familiar friend. It hangs out on the sofa with him. Stays awhile.

Then, Dr. Kimbalta ushers them out with her gentle voice, "I believe that will be your biggest roadblock. If you don't believe you are deserving, your actions, decisions in choosing people, your hesitations with people, everything will reflect that."

"You say that, but I don't even think Sydney even feels the same."

"First, how will you know if you don't even try? Secondly, it's not about her. Yes, it will hurt if she doesn't like you but you'll move on. Probably feel more empowered to be yourself and acknowledge your needs moving forward."

"I'm afraid of how that changes the relationship, though. She's the only one who's seen me."

"Relationships shift and change all the time. A guarantee of the outcome cannot be certain. If she doesn't, who's to say the friendship will be ruined even? And furthermore, who's to say that your hidden feelings are actually hurting the relationship too? How do you know if she likes you and your self denial is creating dearth for the budding of a romantic dynamic?"

He hums, rubbing the back of his head. It's burning red with shame.

His body continues to ache, but the muscles have relaxed. His fingers are still balled, but they've lost their severity in pressure.

"Are you this direct with all your clients?" He finds himself asking, sarcasm colors his tone, but he doesn't hold back.

She laughs, more full bodied. It fills the room and envelops him. "Just with the clients I feel might benefit from it. I know you believe in tough love, Carmy. In your field, aren't there different critical heating points that need to be achieved for different dishes? I see it like that."

"You see yourself like a chef, cooking up your clients?"

"No, Carmen. I see myself like a sous, trying to help identify the best way to bring out the flavor. My client is the one in driver's seat. Or in this case, wearing.. that big hat that chef's wear."

He, again, surprises himself, by laughing. His shoulders, centimeter by centimeter fall away from his ears.

Damn, she's good.

He sees himself in his mind's eye, side by side with Dr. Kimbalta, hovering over a giant pot. Both have metal spoons in their hands, eyes intently focused on the contents within. Carmy, in a big stereotypical chef toque.

Almost as if she see's inside his mind, Dr. Kimbalta smiles gently, "By the way... I would venture to say that there might be other people who see you more than you think... Plus, how many people do you allow in your life?"

Carmy snorts, "Damn Doc, tell me how you really feel."

Dr. Kimbalta chuckles, "Why don't you take your own advice?"

Chapter Text

Cutting vegetables is the worst task for a chef.

People might say otherwise, like the ordering, hiring/firing process, the bills- oh fuck, yeah they might tie, that and brunch, but yeah, ultimately, it's fucking prep.

Cutting vegetables rely on precision and accuracy, the steadiest hand, paired with quickness to get through how ever many dozens of fucking carrots, potatoes or whatever the fuck your handling for service.

Ever since they slowly scraped the "Carmy Trauma Menu" (lovingly dubbed by Sydney), they have been moving towards more season inspired choices for their only slightly fucked chaos menu.

Sydney piloted the pivot. She cited her recent inspiration through Japanese Kaiseki Cuisine. They honor different seasonal feels and concepts throughout the entirety of the courses, interweaving repeated emotional lines, patterns, textures to illicit a strong emotional reaction to the patron.

Weeks ago, she presented her case for the switch to the staff.

"Kaiseki! The- the concept, guys, it's just so beautiful!" she exclaimed, waving around her 17 page notes to the crew, "If we stay inspired by the seasons, it'll... it'll keep us focused! It supports local food systems! It's more economical..." She gave a pointed stare to Carmy. "And it will help with prep!"

Well, she was sure shot right for everything else, but Sydney might just have to eat crow on her last point, because prep has been brutal.

Carmy accepts this change in pacing. Between his reinvigorated, unveiled attraction and deeper developing feelings for Sydney, the punishing pace in the kitchen is the only the thing keeping his mind in tact.

The crew does not share Carmy's total embrace.

Instead of a diversified group of vegetables, back of house finds themselves having to do monotonous, finger-numbing work with mountains and mountains of the same vegetables. Some intricate cuts, some rough, but it all resulted in curses floats from the prep station, promptly followed by "fuckin' Kaiseki" muttered under breaths.

Needless to say, prep work in the mornings were dreaded even more.

Currently, Carmy, Sydney and the rest of the BOH crew had just finishing up with the carrots and now pivoting to the radishes.

Sydney rounds the corner with a clear basin of radishes almost damn near the height of her. They threatened to tower over her and topple her outright, until Carmy swoops in, and grabs them out her clutches with practiced ease.

"Your refusal to ask for help is outrageous, chef." He chides at her, shaking his head and placing it gingerly on the prep station.

She huffs, and tosses her signature ombre black-blonde braids over shoulder, feigning being affronted, but her smile betrays her.

This is always their song and dance.

And despite his unveiled emotions upending his peace these days, he decided that he's not going to change how he interacts with her.

He's still going to pick up the too heavy load of vegetables for her. He's still going to joke around with her pre-Bear shift, but ensure to respect her rank around Bear staff.

He's still going to be dialed into her. So in sync. Almost to the point were he swears she knows what he's thinking in his head and he'd like to think he understands her thoughts too.

He might need to take his distance outside of work, he's not sure about it at all, until he knows just what he wants to do, but he won't forfeit her wellbeing. Her form of income. Their shared passion. Her reputation as a exquisite chef.

He can't fuck up that for her.

Not when she's so close to her goals. Not when she needs him the most. Not when she's worked so hard for this.

This is what he knows he can do, he can be here for her in the ways she's asked him. He can do this for her.

Carmy is just about to leave, plotting on carrying the fennel to secretly get ahead of her, but he's stopped by Syd's voice. "Hey! Chef! Actually, can you- I just... wanted to ask your opinion on the radish cut."

Carmy nods, rubbing the back of his neck, while he pivots back toward her. "Sure, what's up?"

Sydney smiles, and steps around to the space grab a radish with her left hand and knife in her right, then pins him with her doe eyes, beckoning him to come join her at the prep table.

"I've been..." She starts, as she begins cutting and twisting the radish under the pressure of the knife, "wondering about what exact flower I would want to present for the rabbit dish."

It was a recent Chef Sydney Idea to pair a radish and arugula salad with the braised rabbit dish she's been working on.

Carmy still finds himself snorting throughout random parts of the days at her splash of sadistic association.

Even now, he finds his mouth curving into a smile, a chuckle bubbling between his lips wanting to surface.

The chuckle never develops because he gets distracted watching her work. His eyes are tracking her hands and their deft movement. He takes them in, their elegant dexterity, the smooth skin, the measured strength punctuated by the sure cuts she slices through the radish.

"This is oneee optionnn..." She's completed it, and now twisting the radish to scrutinize it's integrity in the light.

The radish is fashioned into a flute-like shape, almost mimicking the lines of orchid leaves. It's a bit blocky but the shape is striking and sleek.

"Ooooor..." she makes another grab for a radish. It's closest to him and he's in her way, so Syd decides to reach across him, her arm grazing him and her side resting on his body until she successfully grabs another one of her coveted red orbs.

Sydney begins chopping, but Carmy is only halfway present. His other half is still relishing in the warmth of her body, the electric current from her touch running throughout his being... the need for her to press all of her to all of him...

Stop being a perv, you fuckin-

"Carmy!"

A intricate radish rosette waves in front of his face.

It's perfect.

He follows it with his eyes, then finally plucks it from her hand.

She's somehow gotten the petals paper thin. They curl out like real rose petals. Intricate is an understatement. The look of it makes him want to run his fingers through and leaf through the layers. Fan them out like a book.

He admires her artwork before placing it in his mouth, doing the final check for mouthfeel and taste distribution.

Sydney looks on, considers his face as he crunches it thoughtfully.

The fragile cuts allow for the texture of the radish to slightly change. The distribution of flavor also would change as you eat it alongside the greens they will present it with.

"They're gonna hate you, ya know?" Carmy says finally, his words smushed in the side of his mouth around almost mashed up radish.

Sydney laugh-sighs. She braces herself on the lip of the stainless steel countertop to properly glare at the mountain of radishes next to him.

"I wish they cut themselvesssss..." she drones.

"I can help," Carmy says, because of course he does. He wants to help her as much as he can.

.

So, they find themselves hunched over the prep station, sweat beading on their brows, practicing the perfect rosette designs, and tweezers on standby for the correct plate positioning.

Sydney sighs, "It's going to be worth the pay out, but be honest, asshole... Do they actually really hate me for this Kaiseki shit?"

Carmy hums while he twists the knife intentionally across the radish's skin, trying to find the right words. "Nah, they'd never hate you. especially Tina, you know that, Syd. But you know prep work... it might be worse than brunch rush. It's really a great concept, but we prolly just need to hire more people to assist with the load."

He considers his cuts now, quirking his head sideways to factor in symmetry.

Sydney moves in close next to him, cocking her head to the side. "Eh, a little to the right of it."

He sees where she's identified and goes in for the cut.

Carmy apparently still didn't execute, because he hears Syd suck her teeth, long and slow, a true Nigerianism he's long since been accustomed to.

He can't anticipate when he's crowded in closer by her, she places her hand atop his own, the one that isn't holding a knife, to point closely to area that needs tending to.

"Where are you, spacehead?" She teases.

He splutters nervously, finally gathering enough words from his mind to say "careful, the knife..."

Sydney only lifts her hand from his to turn it palm out, awaiting him to place it in hers.

He huffs and gives it over.

She moves probably only a centimeter over, then makes quick work of making her edits.

In the not so far distance, he hears a shutter of something, but he's far too focused on Sydney to properly interpret the sound.

Can she tell that he's staring? Is he staring too much? He probably shouldn't think too deeply about this. Title fucking 9, Carme-

"Why are you acting like such a noob today?"

He starts, scrapes his eyes off the side profile of her face and grabs a radish, just to have something to do, something in his hand to hold.

Sydney steps away from the cut radish to show him their collaboration, "Better!"

She hands it to him, easy smile on her face.

Carmy retrieves it, and tries to smile back, but all his muscles feel offset. It surprises him how much she doesn't know her effect on him.

And like some sick joke, her smile falters, "Should we... not go through with this? Like, is this too much?"

Carmy flagellates himself in his mind's eye. Get a fucking grip, you're throwing her off.

"No, chef, this is tremendous, I-"

Sydney snorts unamused, "Oh no, not tremendous again."

Carmy winces, why did he have to use that word?

Full focus, she needs your full focus.

"Sydney, I meant it then, and I mean it now, and you are right in your instincts to go with this cut. This'll sharpen the other chefs with their cuts. That'll help with us gunning for that star. Let's just see how it does tonight, and make determinations?"

Sydney nods, her face determined. "Yes, chef." She lunges for the radishes and drags them between them on the prep station in a huff. "Welp, let's start to rock before we get rocked tonight, I guess."

.

All in all, the night, even with the addition of the intricate rosette radish cut, went without a hitch.

Sydney had to go over the carving process twice in detail before opening, and made quick on the fly modifications to address potential time issues for dishes.

Carmy is noticing that she's getting much better at developing the expediting process, of feeling the heat of the kitchen. The collaboration between Richie and Sydney works like a well oiled machine, and she's been developing her own style of commandeering the ship and the team.

It's been so gratifying and heart warming watching her confidence build on her own.

Now, the Bear crew is enjoying some cake that Marcus baked just for family after hours. It's a decadent carrot cake (because of course it was carrot, at Sydney's request... another ode to the rabbit bit). Team members mill around the restaurant with their cake and drink of choice.

Carmy opts to meander around the kitchen with some Sprite and lemon wedges in a clear quart sized container he snagged from the Beef side. He takes intermittent sips, in an attempt to dislodge the lump of cake he shoved in his mouth.

He almost collides into Sydney, who's been filtering in and out different rooms, checking in with the team members and receiving her well deserved props from the FOH team who reported well from the patrons' experiences with the food tonight.

"Oh shit! Sorry, Carm!" She backs away from him, clutching paper napkins tightly around her middle.

"No worries, Sydney," he chuckles, he's so used to her energy during on hours, she's a little energizer bunny, bouncing to and fro. Usually, she loses steam after hours, but this is the first signature dish she's piloted by herself, so it only makes sense that she's coming off her high.

He makes it a point to congratulate her before she zips off, "Job well done, Chef. Fantastic job."

She beams, pivoting from the doorway to the dining area to face him again. "Thanks... so much! I know- well, not really, because I've never owned a restauran- well... a brick and mortar restaurant before. I can imagine, somewhat, how much anxiety it would be to let someone in and trust them with the reputation of your baby... your dream. Thank you for letting me work here and do this with you."

Carmy waves her away with his hand, even though his eyes tingle. "You own this dream as much as I do, Syd. You're just as responsible and deserving to execute."

Syd, still smiling, scoffs good naturedly, "Well, thanks for saying that but, not really-"

Carmy stops her midsentence, to beckon her to the office, "Shit, cm'here."

Sydney rolls her eyes, still with no real heat, "Darn it Carmy, I really thought you were doing better at the whole listening to me thing. I wasn't donnneee."

Carmy laughs and starts walking, "Just trust me on this."

They filter in the office together, the office painted in low light and lazy shadow.

The door, heavy and with a mind of its own, snicks closed behind them.

Both of them make no moves to right the door.

Instead, Syd drops the napkins she was holding in the leather chair's seat, props herself on the desk right next to Carmy, while he ruffles through different papers, forever still trying to find a organizing system.

Sydney makes her commentary on his disorganization, until he surfaces from the chaos with a hefty, stapled document in his hand.

He turns to her with the document, and presents it to her, eyeing her carefully.

Sydney stops, frowns in confusion. "What's this?"

Carmy opts to say nothing, just nudges it closer to her, prompting her to take it.

Sydney slowly reaches for it, then grabs it gingerly, as if it might bite her. "Too many papers to be a pink slip." She jokes, while her eyes dart back and forth from the page.

Carmy snorts, "Just read it, Syd."

Sydney sticks the tip of her tongue out, still looking at the document, until her eyes bulge and her tongue retreats quickly back into her mouth.

"What the fuck?" She says quietly, almost mouths it out.

"What the fuck?" She repeats again. Her voice is louder and a bit cracked now, raw emotion oozing out of her.

Carmy continues watches her, shifting his weight from left to right.

She peels her eyes off of the document slowly, almost reluctantly, to meet his. "Carmen, what the actual fuck?"

"I meant it, this is yours as much as it's mine, Syd. We built this together. And really, this is just a formality, you know."

Sydney places the document on the table softly, then, to his surprise throttles herself into him.

The wind gets knocked out of him, along with a surprised laugh he lets out as he wraps his arms around her.

"Thank you." she whispers it in his ear. It's such an intimate thing, and it's sweeter than the cake still lingering on his tastebuds.

It makes him shiver, so he holds her tighter so she won't detect her affect on him.

"You don't need to thank me. I should be thanking you. The Beef or the Bear wouldn't exist without you. Not like this."

Sydney burrows her face into his neck and wraps around him tighter in response.

This is definitely new for them.

They have hugged before, especially during the inception of the Bear, but this, this feels extremely different. Like, he doesn't know how long they've been embracing, and he doesn't mind.

If Sydney does, she doesn't let it on. They cling to each other, suspended in the soft glow yellow light blanketing them.

They breathe together.

Heaven knows how long they would have stayed like that, until Tina barges in, "Carmy! Sydney! Where the fuck- oh! there you are!"

They break apart, like red-handed children. Somehow, they dart their eyes away from each other, despite not having minded to share their long embrace.

Carmy rubs his neck, feeling cold from not having the shared body heat with Sydney anymore.

Behind Tina is Richie, his eyes are squinted, forever always a little judgmental and calculating.

"The fuck are yous back there for?" Carmy doesn't like his tone. It's not accusatory, it's molasses slow, intentional and computing.

Tina turns around to face Richie, "You idiot! You know that Jeff had plans to tell Sydney she's part owner! Quit being dense."

Richie clicks his tongue, and nods once, dramatic. He's still looking at Carmy, it's almost like he's looking through him.

"Are y'all done with this low-lit mushy mushy moment and ready to celebrate with everyone else?" Richie asks, clasping his hands, almost formal in nature.

Sydney rolls her eyes, "Yes, I suppose."

Richie smiles, and the glint reaches his eyes, "Great, c'mon, Sydn- part owner."

They file out one by one.

Carmy finds himself cold for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

Carmy’s at some rando’s house, supporting Fak at this Beyblade video game tournament.

The Faks love video games. All the boys in his neighborhood used to.

That was the connector between Neil and Mikey.

Hell, Beyblade was actually where Mikey’s catchphrase came from.

See, people probably knew about the spinning tops you could battle with, and even the television show, but at first, Beyblade had started off as a videogame released in 2001. Technically, it officially released in 1999, but a US version only had just released in 2001.

Carmy remembers when Mikey bought it on their shared Gameboy Color.

He remembers the catchphrase “Let it rip”, bouncing around the crowd of sweaty pubescent teenagers Mike used to hang out with.

Carmy himself remembers playing a handful of times, but the love of Beyblade never stuck with him. Don't get it confused, he liked video games just fine... at least, certain ones, but he was more into his paints, colored pencils, and clothes anyways.

Apparently, most of those sweaty teenagers grew up to be sweaty adult men with the same love of the game.

That's who surround him and Cousin now. It's a deceptively big and surprisingly expensive house. It's packed out with arcade games crammed in every room, from basement to the second floor. Loads of people filter through the space; food, consoles, or money in their hand, talking fast and excitedly, bumping around people, transferring their sweat person to person.

Carmy wants to commiserate how he's feeling much more sticky he than he came in... but he's sure Neil would come barreling down from somewhere to make the double entendre and call him...tacky.. for stating that out loud.

Then there's the weed. There was a perpetual cloud of smoke moving through the different rooms.

Carm and Cousin are positioned right in front of the sweeping staircase, so they get bombarded by the sound, sights, smoke, all of it, from all sides and floors.

Needless to say, Carmy is a bit overstimulated.

Fak better be grateful I agreed to come this, Carmy mumbles somewhere inside of himself.

Think of the devil, Neil comes barreling down the steps, eyes already locked onto his friends.

“Heeeey guys!!! Thanks for comin’! Means a heck of a lot. The others said you might not, but I told them I have supportive friends. Man, you guys are real pals.” 

Richie sneers around the stem of his beer, eyes glinting “Hey, it’s no problem. I just wanted to see these loser baby incels in their natural habitat. Totally beats The fucking Discovery Channel.” 

Neil blinks at him in confusion, "Dude, you know like 85 percent of these guys. They're mostly married with children? I-"

Carmy rolls his eyes at Richie, then cuts Fak off, “Hey, just ignore him. Kick ass tonight, okay?” 

Neil nods empathically, "Oh absolutely. There's real fucking money on the line. These pretentious assholes bet hard."

Carmy returns his nod with one of his own, making a show to glance at the opulence that surrounds them. "Yeah, I- I kinda already could tell that."

Richie opts to scoff and swig his beer in response, probably salty that his insult fell flat. Or maybe licking his wounds, since he's just now gotten to the point of taking off his marriage ring. Divorce really has made him a bit more sour and sassy.

Neil considers Carmy and Richie both, just looks back and forth at them, then leans close to wraps his arms around the both of them in an impromptu smooshed group hug. "I literally love you guys so so much. Even you, Richard, you dick."

"You want to yell Mateo so bad tonight huh, you friggen cornball? And watch my drink, why dontcha!?" Richie shouts, twisting and turning, one arm raised to hoist his beer up, to protect it from spilling. Despite making a huge show of squirming, Cousin wasn't really fighting Neil's embrace in earnest.

Carmy knows that that's Richie's way of saying I love you back.

Carmy's own way of showing affection to Neil was standing awkwardly, and patting Neil's sweaty back for reaffirmation. "Yeah, yeah, we love you too, man."

Finally, after a second too long, he turns them loose, and walks backwards away from them. "Gonna let it fuckin rip, boys!" He points at the ceiling with purpose, "this one's for you, Big Mike!"

Richie chuckles, "What a fuckwad."

But, in solidarity, Richie jabs his finger at the ceiling too.

Carmy smiles.

.

They're all gathered in a huge ass room.

It's suped up with at least two or three mounted T.V.s to project the fight for visibility. That doesn't stop a large congregation of guys surrounding both Neil and his opponent.

Carmy and Cousin are at the perimeter of the crowd. Cousin, with another beer in grasp, and Carmy, with his go to Sprite he's sipping on, in one of those red solo cup deals.

The weed is... pervasive. Every so often, a huge cloud of it will plume out from a j, or a glass dick pipe, or surprisingly (according to Cousin), cigarellos.

"Dammm, didn't even know this crowd got down with the 'rellos. Bet they think they their real fuckin' tough. Fucking soft asses."

Carmy squints at him for a beat, before turning his attention back to the monitors. He opts to swirl his squidge of flattening Sprite in the bottom creases and ridges of the cup to give his hand something to do. He really wants a cigarette though.

But he just couldn't take the low-hanging fruit dangling in front of him. "Richie, you think you're fucking tough."

Cousin ignores him and continues on, "I would have brought my stash. 'Course, I didn't think to, with you being straight edge and all. Don't want you to get contact high. You good, pipsqueak?"

Carmy nods at the monitor distractedly, looking at two spinning tops collide. Then, he catches on to Cousin's quip, stops mid nod and cuts a look at him at the corner of his eye.

Cousin chuckles, because apparently he only looks over when he's the roaster not roastee. Richie still chooses to not pay mind to Carmy's side eye. "C'mon Carm. I get enough of that evil eye shit from Syd. Feels like that's the only way she looks at me."

"Yeah, well maybe if you weren't such an ass all the time, Cousin." Carmy says, but he corner of his lips tup upward despite himself.

They're interrupted from their check-in-disguised-as-smack-talk briefly, by people nudging by to get closer to the fight.

Carmy gets smudge-sweat-brushed by one burly man with a Gangsta Tweety Bird print shirt and jorts, but what's more notable is the absence of his internal tension from the people in the room. (Even more so, that icky sensation of unknown people touching him. It always leaves him like his skin is inside out.)

Undoubtedly... he has been socializing more. Doctor's orders - especially in the beginning- but also now, it's more like, intrinsically answering a call within, he's guessing. Like how talking was, at first concerted, but now, it's just been easier.

So, he attributes it to that.

Sugar has been leaning on him these days, with her being "humongous and just very much pregnant", Pete likes to say.

It feels good for her to call him for things now, and the unspoken warm feeling of they both know he'll follow through, for the most part.

He's got his standing Al-Anon meetings, of course.

Cousin's been coming by to bother him regularly now since they're in a good rhythm in the Bear. Sometimes, he'll surprise him by bringing Marcus and the three of them walk around the city for a man hang. Carmy is infinitely surprised by Richie's caring side, especially surrounding Marcus, now that he's entering the true hump of grieving his mother. So there's been that.

He's obviously been hanging with Syd more often, with their weekly reset tastes and impromptu calls/whatnots. He hasn't been able to really create distance or space, because he doesn't really want to, and all the things they are bleed into one another.

The tension that wasn't present within him makes a strong comeback at the mere thought of his feelings for her.

It's become a huge problem he's developing, he's wondering if he should bite the bullet and just tell her instead of agonizing, but he still can't get over this rippling fear, guilt, and self doubt.

It's harder too, because he loves talking with her most.

Because he can’t help himself, he taps their thread with sweaty hands.

Carmy: Yo

Carmy: what are you doing right now?

Sydney: Nothing much, just watching Star Wars for the first time.

Carmy: First time? That’s nuts. 

Sydney: Shush. Not everyone was indoctrinated and enfolded into the nerd culture when they were young okay?

His phone buzzes in his hand with another message.

Sydney: I’m realizing how janky Yoda looks. 

Sydney: You mean to tell me that’s what Grogu will have to look forward to when he’s old? No wonder he’s the last of his kind.  

He snorts at her commentary, while his mind paints the scene of Sydney wrapped up in a blanket, maybe munching popcorn, eyes squinting up at a T.V. screen, eyebrows downturned in slight disgust at wrinkly Yoda piggy-back riding the back of Luke Skywalker.

He wonders if that's the scene she's at. Or even the right movie. Then, he wonders how it would be if he was next to her. Their bodies awash in the glow of television. If he would feel her warmth radiating from the covers to reach his... if they would even sit that closely together for him to feel it.

He blinks his awareness back to his phone screen. Back to reality.

Carmy: Good job not confusing the two together

Sydney: You expect me not to do my research? People keep on mixing them up, it's driving me nuuuuuts

Carmy: You sure you're not a nerd?

Sydney: I resent that. Anyways, what are you doing? 

Carmy: At a Beyblade competition. 

Sydney: What is that? 

Sydney: Never mind, just looked it up. NERD. 

Carmy: Ha, not really considering I’m here to support Fak

Carmy: To be honest I have no idea what the fuck is happening 

Sydney: Send a pic?

Carmy snorts again, and flicks through his phone to tap on the camera app. He awkwardly tried to aim for one of the mounter screens, but also tries to catch the crowd, the brightly lit arcade machines lining the walls, and real-life Neil, only visible by his bright hunter orange beanie intermixed with the throng. He obsesses with it for a while, framing different types of configurations, swiveling the scene out in front of him in the grid on his phone (he's still forever obsessed with the rule of thirds, sue him).

Finally pleased, he presses send and awaits her response.

She's quick.

Sydney: What the fuck even am I looking at here? How can you even strategize properly?

Sydney: Also, holy hillabeans. Who's place are you at?

Sydney: That room alone just screamed "broke!" "bad credit!" in like five billion ways, languages, and everything at me. They're rich?? Rich nerds??

Carmy chuckles again.

Carmy: Dunno, valid point. I remember vaguely that the strat is related to the builds. Don't know shit else though. Like, how much can you customize a top?

Carmy: actually don't know...again I just kinda pulled up at the address Fak gave me and yeah

Carmy: Broke? Don't like the pay increase you got, partner? Nah but forreal, feel free to talk to HR or Unc, if you wanna but pretty sure Computer will actually have a conniption this time if we fuck up his numbers now that it's in the contract. You talk to computer about the credit deal too. But yeah, rich, can confirm. Loaded, actually, yeah.

Sydney: Oh wow, there's different builds and everything, huh?

Sydney: *sends GIF of Bilbo Baggins "I'm going on an adventure!"

Sydney: Ah, no need to renegotiate... partner... (cowboy emoji) as long as you weren't the one who did the numbers for my pay increase we're good. Good to know I can go to him. I need all the help I can get D: Will say though, he's very intimidating... I always feel like he's judging me. And, wow, loaded huh? bet they have like dried saffron, like the real deal, in their kitchen.

Carmy: It's nuts, but like I said, what I remember it's not super involved. Seems like the strat is just luck of the draw.

Carmy: (Likes GIF media)

Carmy: Surprised you know LOTR, not-a-nerd.

Carmy: Ha, fuck you. Like, fuck am I? An accountant? But, fr, glad you're good with the pay, you deserve it. Yeah, sure he'd be happy to help. Actually, I'm not sure but still go if you can. Yeah he terrified me as a child. Still kinda does... and he totally does judge us all. And, hm doubt they're that type of crowd. Just one of these arcade games are worth about the same as like twelve grams of it. insane

Sydney: (Four leaf clover emoji) hope Fak's lucky then. What a fun guy.

Sydney: Whatevvveeeeerrrrr. I wasn't under a roocccckk. But, I guess some people don't know about that. Or don't like it. To each their own, I guess.

Sydney: Carmy, you literally own a business. But I get it... quick mental maths isn't my total bag either. That's why we're chefs, I guess, ha. Speaking of luck, I really lucked up myself that my Nigerian father didn't disown me for being a chef and not doing something STEAM related. My cousin on his side still catches hell from their parents. And she's in data analytics (but she like majored in Mathematics??!). She's also like loaded and super successful, so I'm like, why the fuck hate on Esosa? Just because she's not a friggin MD?! Anywho, lmaoooo, not you judgingggg.. how about the type of insane to have stacks of crazy expensive jeans in their oven weirdly? something something about glass houses and stones something something

Carmy blushes, feeling a surge of emotions wash over him. He feels seen, a bit called out... in the best way, and giddy from Syd's humor all rolled into one. He also has so many questions to ask her. He's so happy when they talk, and he gets to know more about her and her family.

Carmy: He's a riot, for sure. I'll tell him you wished him luck after the game. So be prepared, for whatever the outcome. He's a sore winner AND loser, and extremely superstitious

Carmy: Notice how you're not bothering with fighting the claims this time. And fair, everyone has their thing

Carmy: Word. But you're like, way better at it than I. Glad you're a chef, and even more glad you're my partner. Def lucked up with you. Also, glad that your dad approves, he's really cool. He still coming next week to try your Peter Cottontail? Damn, heart goes out to Esosa, sounds really tough

Carmy: aha, fuck you, again. no not around the most fashion centric bunch rn. Also low punch. Didn't know you'd be over to cook that one time

Sydney: Ahhhh, well, let's hope he winnnsss

Sydney: (Middle finger emoji)

Sydney: Fair. I guess math mindedness is your like... debuff? Did I say that right? All your buffs went into your genius chef brain, and being a undiscovered artist /painter/ on the side. :D feel samesy's to both. YES he IS really cool. He's the most sane out of all his family members. Outside of Esosa, I guess. He likes you too, especially since he never has to pay when he comes, lol. So yes, to answer your question, he definitely will there next week. Anywho... BEFORE YOU CALL ME A NERD AGAIN. Esosa is a big nerd. She rubbed off me through the years. I recently told her that a lot of my work fam are huge nerds too. She said I might as well learn "The Ways"

Sydney: Ha! sensitive a bit there Carmen? Oh my god, shady boooooooooots. Fantastic! Low punches are my favorite! Also, don't have clothes in your oven????

Carmy finds himself hesitating on her last text. He decidedly does not want to not talk about his neuroticism. Of buying so many of the same fucking jeans. Or different shades of the same ones, because they're comfortable but he wanted slight variety. Or just having too many pairs that it overspills and crowds out his closet, because he couldn't be assed to buy a fucking expensive drawer set at Ikea and then have to assemble it alone.

Or how placing his jeans there alluded to his past maladaptive, self harm habits. The potential of burning up his jeans, a special interest and obsession that only his brother would kinda get. Because why would it matter? And who fucking cares, right? Who would fucking know, or want to know?

Or the fact that it could be seen as an actual passive suicidal attempt in the past. A voice, eerily familiar, coercing him if you're strong enough to fucking even commit to it, turn on the oven, asshole, and just walk away. walk away forever, c'mon.

Good thing pure denim is a bad fire starter.

Good thing, he's not done that in while, and finally just crammed them away on extra hangers in his closet.

So, that's the thing he'll choose to mention.

Carmy: (fingers crossed emoji)

Carmy: lol, who's sensitive now?

Carmy: Ha, yeah yeah, you used it right. Only you would roast me but also spin it positive. Thanks for the reframe. God... am I turning into one of those people who use therapy speak in everyday convo? I dunno about genius tho. Richie definitely would contest to that too, always calling me dum-dum or other funky shit. Fckn jamook. It's nice that your dad likes me. And, obviously he wouldn't have to pay. Family doesn't pay. Tell him we look forward to seeing him. Anyways, now your turn. I would say your buffs are cooking skills too obviously. Your capacity to handle bullshit, mine in particular, and your unique humor. Your debuffs are being very delusional... nerd. But seriously, what's with all the nerd denial? That's cool that you seem to be embracing *The Way with her now. You should bring her to The Bear sometime, if you want.

Carmy: Har har. Wow. What a sadist thing to say. Idk, guess I didn't want to crowd the closet.

Sydney: Hey, at least your learning good things! Look at us, using nerd speak and therapy speak together. Dude, tf??? Like who's not living reality now?? Listening to Richie??? RICHIE!? Aside from him being actually Goofy himself, Richie's just probably making sure you don't get too much of a big head, big head. The rest of what you said is truth tho, lmaoo. I'm actually a saint. Awwwwh, you think I'm funny? I'm used to people just calling me insufferable and strange, lmao, but you have good tastes, I totally am. Ahhh, the nerd denial is probably a trauma response from being bullied constantly for being myself and my interests, ha. I had to hide a lot of myself, because unlike for the youths today, it was really uncool to be a nerd or to be perceived as one. Especially when you're half Nigerian. I was forever called a oreo! Or misunderstood. By everyone! Wild.

Sydney: >:D Just a shade of sadist. But, more masochistic, especially to deal with your shit. Aren't all chefs like slightly deranged? You know the vibes! And, okay I see it... fair point , but your oven?

There goes the oven again. Damn her little prying, perceptive self.

Carmy: Look at us. You're too kind, until you're not I guess, ha.

Carmy: Yeah, you're right, I guess. I have a big head? Like forreal? That's new. Hmmm, definitely not a saint... but maybe saint adjacent. Dude, yeah, you're one of the funniest people I know. Yeah, well ppl are fucking incorrect assholes. Wtf?, That's horrible. I'm sorry you had to go through that. Yeah, the kids will never know, that's good though. That is very wild, yeah. Sounds like they were straight confused tbqh. Thanks for sharing this with me, btw.

Carmy: I do know the vibes. Shady boots?

He finds himself sliding upward to Safari to try to urban dictionary it, but Sydney's faster that his two thumbs. Her name drops down with a Ping! and he clicks it to see her message in totality.

Sydney: >;P

Sydney: Well, you sure don't have a small head. I'll take saint adjacent (shrug emoji). Thanks for defending my honor and humor... and thanks for listening <3 ~~~ that's true but it sucks that the kiddos have to deal with so much other things now too though... wait, oh my god, Carm. Shady boots, like shade? You're glad I'm here to provide culture. You will learn, padawan (yoda voice) Anyways, how are you going to talk about that young man's outfit? Can you confirm?

Carmy: Damn, guess you learn something new about yourself everyday. Bet you will. Ha, no prob, any time. Ahhh, I see. Thank you for your service (salute hand emoji)

Carmy: *learn you will, padawan

Carmy scouts for the guy that bumped him. Like a prayer answered, he's got eyes. The man is still at the fridge of the crowd, and he could just see two third's of Tweety's mean mug. He's got to act quick. Carmy sneakily takes a picture, careful of not getting his face, because hey, he's not THAT type of asshole, and sends it to her.

Sydney: Lmao, yeah. Why does that sound kinda like a threat? Oh, so you'll provide the nerd culture, thanks, my guy. Also, I so hate you're right.

Another message slots in its place with a pleasant Ding!

Sydney: ?!?!?!?? Why does Tweety Bird have Timberlands on????!? We aren't in New York??? So he's decided to co-opt twice... Everyday I say this, but wow, I hate gentrification, dude (derogatory) I also hate it's kinda cute.

Carmy laughs again, a more reedy and high pitched thing. Syd's just so funny, man.

Carmy: Lmao take it how you want. Ha, I have you, Chef.

Carmy: Ha, yeah, it's fucking outrageous. Although gentrification is no laughing matter. I think you think it's cute because it's Tweety Bird.

Sydney: I guess I will? Thanks, Chef. Wow such an ally response, Carmy. But, srsly, jokes aside, you're right. And wow, that's really valid. Tweety is the cutest.

Sydney: So if not the fashionista scene or ballin' buying saffron type what other vibe are they? Like, what ingredients do you think they'll have in their kitchen?

Carmy: Lol. and hm, fun question, dunno

Sydney: Wanna find out?

Carmy is about to text back but he feels eyes on him. He glances up and it's Cousin. His face is contorted into a comical grimace.

Carmy stares.

Richie continues on, with his face scrunched up.

Carmy holds his gaze.

Richie holds his face, eye twitching. Real concerted effort to hold this fucking goofy ass expression.

Carmy caves, "God, What?!"

Richie points to the phone with the butt of his beer, then just makes a big circle to gesture at... all of him.

Carmy huffs and rolls his eyes, "Wanna try words, Rick?"

Richie quirks his brow, "Oh, someone's brave today. Okay, I'll spell it out for you. Who are you texting- mighty looongg I might add- that's got you... giggling like a fucking school girl??"

Carmy, who had his mouth slightly agape, finds his mouth snapping shut.

Richie howls, "Oh, so weren't ready then?"

"I was not fucking giggling."

"Were too fucking giggling!"

"Was not fuckin- yeah, never-fucking-mind, I'm not doing this with you, actually, Richie."

"Uh, yeah, you fucking are, Cousin. Who?"

Carmy tugs on his shirt, was it always this hot? "I was talking to Sydney, asshole."

Richie smirks, "Figures, you guys practically share a brain cell."

Carmy glares at him, "Fuck do you mean?"

Richie rolls his eyes, "Oh gosh. Okay, I forgot about my PC pledge, princess peach. Not saying that yous guys are dumb. Geez. I'm saying, like, look you guys basically finish each other's sentences. It kinda spooks the fresh meat out."

He's feeling seen again, and super aware. He wants to talk, but the words feel like sludge trapped in the back of his throat.

Cousin notices. "Hey there. You looking peaky, guy."

Carmy nods and the look must have been panicked.

Cousin places his hand on Carmy's ushering him away from the room.

"Let's get you some water, Carmy Parm."

.

The kitchen is immaculate.

Even the snacks are on the good side of boujee.

There's snacks staged on the marble countertop. Cases of Sprite, Saratoga, and Chicago Root Beer are stacked on one side, varieties of chips in glass bowls are on the other. The center is the designated spot for a brownie pyramid. The brownies themselves even look good, cut precisely and appear to be the perfect ratio of gooey and slight bite on the bottoms for structures integrity and mouthfeel.

Even factoring in the crazy amount of people here, the kitchen is still cleaned to the T, probably because it doesn't get much use. But it's evident the owner of the house takes a concerted effort to clean.

This would definitely pass checks, so it's something.

He peers in the cupboards for a glass to fill his water. There's clearly solo cups in the living room near the keg, but Carmy uses this opportunity to snoop.

He stumbles on a half filled flour sack, an opened Arm and Hammer baking soda container, and a few other dry ingredients stand awkward around them, too small to fill the large spaces in between. A shelf below, is a lone Beef flavored Maruchan noodle package propped against the singular glass within.

Carm reaches for the cup, the noodle package slides on it's face, almost as it's it's in relief. It will escape another day from getting eaten.

Carmy realizes how he's actually really fucking thirsty. It's almost as if there's a minute film of cotton lining his gums, tongue and inside-cheeks. So he gets water from the fridge while Cousin yaps about the dates he's been on. While he swipes the Brita to fill his cup, he takes note of the shit ton of assorted apples contained in the crisper of the fridge.

He's also hungry, so he swipes one of the brownies on the countertop, and eats it seconds flat.

He hates how he forgets to eat at times. He mentally jots that down to talk about with Dr. K later.

He's been halfway tuning in and out Cousin's soliloquy, only because this is the third bad date story he's heard since being in the kitchen, "- and she complained how I kept on retelling that story?! Can you believe that? It was a funny story! Mikey wouldn't have done that shit to me! So I says to her, I say. 'sorry, just what kind of humor do you even like, Katherine?' and she-"

He finds tuning him out easy to do, as long as he gives halfway nods at all the times that Richie gives an especially pointed look, or when he gesticulates with more added flair so much Carmy thinks that Richie might actually sweep back too far and topple off some of the snacks on the island.

Fak eventually joins them minutes later, saving him from the one sided conversation.

He's high off a winning buzz, if his crazed eyes and pumped hands don't say it for him. He doesn't mind to interrupt Richard's Katherine story, "Succeesssssssss!!!" He squeezes into the island space, bracketing himself between Carmy and Richie, wiggling like a dancing worm as he settles in the space.

Richie tuts, "Hey, you ingrate, I was talkin'!"

"Well, now you're not! Anyways, I won! Put her theeeerrrreeee, boys!" Neil swings his hands down, palm faced up. He presents them both a hand between him.

Carmy places his hand to Neil's offered one, holding it. Richie slaps his offered hand away instead.

"You little-"

Fak interrupts again, choosing to take his hand that Richie rejected and place it on top of Carmy's.

"Do you know what this means? I can finally take my girl to the Signature Room! Like I always envision in my daydreams! She's a girl of class, ya'know?"

Richie's quick to burst his bubble. "That place is closed, you bozo. Been closed since what? Two years ago? Maybe even a bit more that. Fucking uncultured swines didn't support it. Fucking fucked up economy. Fucking COVID."

Fak's eyes turn into puppy dog eyes, "What!? What am I even supposed to do now?!" Then he considers Richie, "And isn't the plural form of swine, just swine, Cousin?"

Carmy snorts, halfway in the conversation, halfway too concerned feeling the continued weight of Fak's hand. Usually, he'd pull away but, it feels nice so he doesn't contest it. Grounds him.

Richie, however, is not having it, "Ain't your fucking Cousin, Fak. And, I don't know. Carm was jizzing his shit last pre-shift about North Pond."

Carmy nods, an automatic response more than anything. "Real heat. Your girl would love it."

Richie takes another deep look at him, "You still looking... pinkish. You carrying a fuckin' contagion or what?"

Carmy laughs, it erupts out of him without his say. "No, you friggin dingbat."

Richie chuckles in response, "Whatever, you say, goofball. I think this fucking weed is getting to you, guy."

Carmy shakes his head, wanting to wave his hand, but realizes he's still holding hands with Fak.

Carmy blinks up at Fak, while he resets the puppy-dog eyed stare at him again. "I was hoping you didn't notice. I needed moral support, friend."

"Well, I'm going to kinda need my hand, Fak."

"We used to cuddle all the timeeee. Richie! Do you remember when me and Carmy used to cuddle!"

Yeah, it's going to be a long night.

.

Carmy doesn't know how it happened.

One minute, he was leant backwards on the lip of the countertop, sipping on a Root Beer, watching Fak and Richie from afar. They opted to play Mario Kart in the living room area, and leave Carmy to relax. Money was to be made tonight, after all.

Well, that was futile because, right now, he’s giggling, placing ingredients on the countertop for an apple pie.

He can't believe he couldn't call it before, of couuurssee who ever lives here liked to bake.

He giggles, he's got to tell that one to Syd. And maybe he would tell Neil later, he would definitely appreciate that one.

Carm roots out his phone, unlocks it, and thumb presses the button for FaceTime on Sydney's contact.

She answers after about four rings, looking cute and cozy with fuzzy blanket around her shoulders, her hair in spiraled space buns.

"Hey!" She furrows her brows, assessing him, "Kinda red there, my guy. You okay?"

He circumvents to address more pressing matters, "Leia, huh?" His tongue still feels funny in his mouth.

Sydney laughs, touching her hair, "Yeah, was practicing. I know it's stupid early. But thinking about being her for Halloween this year, maybe?"

Carmy nods, "Think that would be- you would look.." Words were churning around his head that he wanted to say. Apt, pretty. He refuses to release them in the ether.

Instead, he flips his camera around, opting to show her his ingredients.

"They're a baking-apple-pie type."

Sydney guffaws, "Carmennnn, did you raid their pantryyyy?" She stretches her words, in an attempt to reprimand him, but the laughs that wrap around her words make it ineffective.

"Technically, they're just a baking sweets type. They made brownies too," he moves the camera for her to see them. The tower is substantially lowered, but the structure is still solid and pleasing to the eye.

"Syd, they're so goooood." He stretches his words too. At this, Sydney's eyebrows shoot up. "Carmy, were they... weed brownies?"

Carmy shakes his head, but then, he realizes that he doesn't have the camera flipped over still. He laughs, presses the button and tries again. "I'm pretty sure I woooould be able to tell." He says, but then, it hits him.

All the weird sensations he's feeling.

How his body feels unnaturally sluggish and slow.

How he really wants to make this apple pie. The host won't mind, right?

"Oh fuck, Syd. I ate weed brownies." Somehow, that's funny to him right now. Like really funny. So, he laughs. Almost kneels over, from folding in from his laughter.

"Oh, Christ on a cookie. Send me the address. Right now."

.

Carmy actually attempted to cook the apple pie, and yes, turns out that the host did mind. Apparently, they were heirloom, and yes, really fucking expensive.

So, they annexed Carmy to outside.

He's sitting on the curb, laughing to himself about something, but really nothing in particular when he spots Syd.

Sydney jogs over to him, in oversized hoodie and hilariously in a Grogu printed pajama pants, and braids barely contained in a rushed bun piled messily atop her head.

He’s so grateful for her.

She crouches down to meet him on the foot of the curb and gives him a winded, “Hey, dude.” 

“Syd,” he sighs out. 

He surprises them both by resting his head on her shoulder in greeting. He has no time to consider his movements and Sydney laughs in surprise. She places her hand on his head, ruffling his hair gently. 

“How are we doing, Champ? What did we learn?”

Ricky decides to strolls up and ruin their tender moment, “The only thing this lizard learned is that when you're high you get the munchies. Little asswipe was in Gordy’s kitchen actually trying to bake an apple pie. Fuck was that all about away? There was pizza in the house. Can't believe he ate the wrong batch. Why the fuck you didn't ask before eating it, Cous?”

Carmy takes a long look at Syd. Her deep brown skin, eyes a brilliant kaleidoscope of cut smokey brown quartz, her full lips pressed together tightly to hide her smile.

Syd’s really pretty. 

There's that thought again.

Yeah, there are pretty people in the world, and Sydney’s one of them, for sure. Not a big deal.

Except it kinda is big deal. Specifically, she is a Big Deal.

He’s aware and totally open, and what the fuck? He doesn’t quite know how Sober Carmen thinks it’s normal for him to catalog different smiles she has, or to recognize every intonation of her voice, or actively try to imagine the glow of her skin, and his kinda creepy ability to guess her measurements so closely to get just the right measurements for her custom Thom Brown chef whites.

He guesses all of this could be logged as Normal behavior. He knows the different voices of Cousin, hell even Fak. It could be Normal. Yeah, that's true.

Except there's that urge of wanting to know how her tongue would feel against his after she eats apple pie a la mode.

Feeling the smooth glide of it. Wondering if it would be more warm from the freshly baked pie, or would it more cold from the ice cream?

How would the cinnamon pair with that fruity clear lip gloss she always puts on her lips? What would her whimper feel like vibrating on his lips? Could he taste her desire?

How woul-

And he’s falling too deep inside his body, and surely the weed wasn’t that strong.

It's getting harder to modulate his feelings.

Please stop. You’re going to fuck up the only real thing you ever had.

.

Syd decides to come over his house.

It’d be too late for her to take the train back alone, and he means it, Syd. Richie concludes. And hey kiddos, he’s not a taxi, so he’s making one fuckin’ stop, so figure it out, losers.

And that’s how Richie hoists up Carmy on his bed. He places him on his side, dangerously close to the edge of the bed. It was kind of uncomfortable, head smooshed in the pillow like that, and uncentered, but Carmy stated put.

“I’ll keep monitoring him.” Sydney promises, and Carmy can tell through his haze that her eyes look slightly more careful. 

“Christ on a cracker, this screw off isn’t terminally ill, Syd. Big baby. He's high, it'll wear off in like a couple hours.” 

“I know, but...” She doesn't bother to finish, just looks at Carmy. He looks back with dopey eyes and a lazy smile.

Even waves.

Richie sighs and leaves Sydney to be the only one to answer Carmy's wave. “Yeah, okay, I get it. I’ll let you weirdos rest for the night. See yous for family tomorrow.” 

"Do I need to follow you to lock the door or anything?"

"Nah, I have a copy of this head case's key. Night, Syd. Later, loser!"

Richie walks out the bedroom, then moments later, they hear the front door close and muffled snick of the lock shifting into place.

Silence.

Until Sydney, starts to shift around. "Uh, do you need anything? Are you sure you're okay?"

Carmy nods, "'M okay." He smooths his hand on his wrinkled sheets. He revels at the softness.

"Well, I'm going to crash on the couch, but just like holler if you need anything and of course, I'll pop in every now and then to check in with-" She makes a turn to go, but Carmy grabs her wrist. He's thankful she was that close for him to reach out and touch her.

Her skin is delicate, soft, warm. So incomparably better to his sheets. He pulls her, gentle but firm, until she relents and plops unceremoniously on his bed.

"Nonono, don't go" he mumbles halfway in the pillow.

They're so close now, she's practically nestled in the crease of his lap.

"Can I- should I be here? Is that not weird?"

"Not weird. 'M Italian." No finesse, minimal context, but Sydney gets it.

"Ah, I can see it. Right, I think Neil mentioned you guys being cuddle buddies until like your sophomore year in high school before he headed out for the night."

Carmy groans, shutting his eyes tight, "Why can't he ever shut up...?"

Sydney chuckles, "I thought it was really cute. I didn't peg you for being so physically affectionate."

Carmy halfway shrugs, "'M Sicilian."

Sydney rolls her eyes, smiling. "Move over, you big teddy bear."

His heart skips a beat. Something about her calling him so close to his family nickname was so intimate and tender.

He rolls over, mustering up newfound energy to move.

"You gave me virtually no space, you bed hog!" Sydney scoffs, and he can feel her breath fanning gently on the back of his neck. He shivers, regretfully moving an inch further.

He doesn't have to mourn their space for long, because she scoots up closer to him again.

Then, she lightly spoons him. He feels his whole body light up.

“You know when I first smoked, I thought I was going to die?” He feels her shift, releasing her hand that was trapped underneath her. She opts to place it on his head, grazing her fingers through his waves of hair.

Is he in Heaven? No way this is happening to him.

Sydney mistakes his silence for reason to worry. She lightly raises up and calls out his name "Carm?" in worried question.

“MhhhI'm fine, sorry, I heard you. Whathappened?” His words are dragging, because they're still obscured in the corner of his pillow, and he's so damn relaxed by her presence... and her rhythmic combing through his hair.

“Phew, okay. Good. Getting back to the story. Legit thought it was cardiac arrest. But, haha, turns out it was actually just this demonic burp that needed to be released from the depths of my body but, yeah.” 

“Ndyoustillsmoke?” Why won’t his tongue work properly? 

“Yeah, but baby dosages. Sometimes, it can really not agree with people. I'm hella anxious so it theoretically should help me, but biochemistry is all fucky and what not. I know your aversion to drinking, so I figured... Well, that’s why I was worried, you know.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

He feels so cared for. So warm.

“Thanks, Syd.” 

“Course, Carm.”

She’s touching him, and he’s so aware. It's a soft awareness. Like the first sunrays dancing on your skin.

The warmth of this moment caresses him and carries him to a restful sleep.

Behind his eyelids, he sees the shape of her smile and those beautiful brown eyes.

Chapter Text

Carmy woke up feeling well rested and warm... it surprised him. Sure, he's getting better sleep these days, but rested was uncharacteristic for him.

He blinks slowly, eyelashes almost glued to themselves, and scans his body.

He is... uncharacteristically groggy, body feeling like a heavy stone stuck at the bottom of the ocean.

Then it all comes back to him, like a rolling wave.

Flashes of the decadent and earthy taste of weed brownies, the cold sensation of pulling heirloom apples out of the crisper, and images of Sydney's Princess Leia's space-buns wash over him, speckling his cheeks with retroactive embarrassment and sentiment.

Then, the gentle wave builds into a crashing one, setting his body and brain to shore.

Sydney's still here, cuddling him into a little spoon.

Instead of that gentle, soft embrace when they faded away into sleep, her grip had tightened into a full smoosh, encasing him in her delicious body heat.

Despite the warmth, he shudders, because that's just her affect on him.

He tries to escape from that feeling, for fear it might rouse... deeper emotions, and instead, dials in to tracking her breath.

Was she asleep?

Was she awake, and mortifyingly embarrassed?

Even worse, was she awake and apathetic and unmoved by their proximity?

He no longer has the patience nor stillness in his body to check her breath, and decides to steal a glance at her face.

He turns just his neck, glacier slow and steady.

What awaits him has him stunned.

There she is, in the soft morning glow, resting on his usually lonely pillow.

Her pouty mouth is slightly agape, and sweet, light breaths escape from the opening.

Her face is relaxed and calm, and it's so weird to see her THIS calm, as she's always so expressive, alight, and forever animated.

It's not a bad weird, leaves this imprint on her, an endearing feeling enters into himself, making his heart-glow, and he strongly wishes to her this at peace in her waking moment too.

Her long eyelashes flutter, while her eyelids shift, deep in R.E.M. sleep.

Her skin is radiant and houses different glittery kaleidoscopes, refracting different shades of golds, reds, and browns.

She's got him enamored.

He doesn't know how long he's been staring, but a crook of his neck forms, and leaves him wincing.

His jerky movement slights shifting jousts her awake, her eyes snapping up in a relatable panic.

They lock eyes instantly, because they're obviously face-to-face and he was staring at her like a fucking psycho.

"Hello?" Her voice is groggy and confused, but she still has that spit-fire, slight sarcastic energy he's become accustomed to.

He clears his throat, and darts his eyes away from her, afraid of what his eyes might contain. "Mornin'."

Sydney gives a noncommittal yawn-moan in response, still coming online, groaning and wriggling (Is she trying to KILL him?), until she comes to the realization that they're practically glued together, and she's the binding agent.

"Ohmygod, sorry, sorry, sorrrryy," she's frantic, practically throwing herself off him.

Ouch.

"It's.. fine."

"No, no. That was like weird of me, I guess I was really touch starved, I guess. Sorry you had to deal with that."

Carmy rises to prop himself up on his headboard so he can look at her.

She's fucking adorable. She's curled herself into a ball, and her pretty doe eyes stare up at him, in clear embarrassment and uncertainty.

He places his hand on her back, hoping it's the right move. "Syd, it's fine. I'm... no stranger to being touch starved."

It is the right move. She opens up like a flower, the stress eases from her face and she reveals the prettiest smile.

"Phew, okay. I thought I scared you off for a second."

He quirks an eyebrow at him. "You know, it just might take a bit more to scare me off."

She nods soberingly, and he tracks the way that she's leaning into his touch, "I, indeed, do know the vibes."

.

Carmy prepares some things for Sydney to get freshened up.

It's all very domestic.

Carmy finds her a shirt and pants, hands her an extra toothbrush, fresh in it's package, and a washcloth for her to take a shower.

"Syd, here's some things for you so you can shower. Toothbrush, clothes, washcloth... toothpaste is in the bathroom... obviously, ha." He places the things in a pile on his work desk. It's a simple, sleek wooden work desk in the corner of his bedroom. Sturdy, dependable, and much needed for when he awakes in the night about new cooking ideas.

"Praise GOD you know what a washcloth is... and have extra for guests!" She exclaims. She was still in his bed, scrolling on some app on her phone, but she throws her phone away from her to look up at him to cast a warm smile his way.

She sheds off her oversized hoodie she slept in, but she made no further movements to raise up. She looks really comfortable there.

Like she belongs there.

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Donna wasn't having that shit growing up. Said we'd better wash our ass properly, or else people would think we were 'low class Italians'."

Sydney flops her body with a dramatic, exhaustive huff. "Yeah, that's right, Chicago was really segregated... I guess it still is. Redlining originating here and all that."

Carmy scrunches his nose, nodding, "Yup. Fucking sick. Ya'know, my ma actually lived through the times that Italians were still separated from "white" people on the census? They real life hated us, actually. Nona Bunny always used to talk about it when I was growing up. Funny how people think they can just erase history all the time."

Sydney rolls her eyes, "It's literally insane!" Then she considers him, almost a bit sheepishly, "You know how I, like, never take anything seriously, right?"

Carmy hums, perching himself on his office desk in the corner of his room. "I do recognize this trait in you. Pretty well, actually. Kinda to offset your tendency to take everything else so seriously, huh?"

Sydney sucks her teeth at his revealing read, "Hey now, Dr. Carmy, a little too close to home there."

They share laughter for a moment, but then, silence comes to join them, bringing an air of unease.

Sydney fidgets with the hem of her green camisole. He takes note that the gauzy lace that's ridged at the camisole's bottom is slightly frayed.

"Well, obviously, you know I'm, like, joking when I'm talking about culture stuff... sometimes."

Carmy nods, "Yeah, I figured as much."

"Yeah, well like, obviously it's annoying my experience through life as Black woman. Oftentimes, no one wants to hear, or like never even cares. Humor is my salve for experiencing that hurt... well, humor is my salve for most all the uncomfortable shit I experience, I guess. But, you already noticed that... But, I never considered if my approach ever invalided you, your culture, or the way you experience life before."

Carmy shakes his head, "It's kinda apples to oranges. That's nice you care about me, and trust me, I feel it. I don't actively go through spaces being invalidated on the basis of ethnicity or like, gender and that type of shit... well, not currently, or at least, not all that often. I know that's actively not your experience. The main shit I get on the day is being short guy, but who like gives a fuck, right? I wouldn't even dream of comparing our life walks. But, it's always nice sharing. Makes me feel... seen? Thanks for checking in, though."

Sydney exhales, deep and heavy, eyes wide, "Wow. Therapy has done you wonders." Then she winces, "See? I'm doing it again."

Carmy shakes his head, a chuckle bubbling up.

She harrumphs, looking up at the ceiling, darting almost wildly, visibly trying to find her words. "Uh, thanks for all that. Thanks for, like, hearing me and like having, like, compassion? People have like told me all the time that I shouldn't care so deeply or, like, just get used to how things are? I think that's like so horrible... and impractical! It just... infuriates me! Like, how is the world supposed get better??? Anyways, I still want to... see... you. All of who you are, you know? Like, there's safety and space of both of us to be seen?"

Carmy's left stunned. Well, she doesn't have worry about not seeing him properly. Just her saying that has him feeling like someone's flipped his skin inside out, leaving all his organs to drop out on the floor.

He clears his throat, breaking their eye contact, "Yeah, well... sure... no problem... And uh, thanks for saying that too." He rises up and turns her back to her and addresses the pile of clothes.

He busies himself getting them stacked neatly one after the next, while he considers his next words carefully. "I think that it's so... beautiful... that you care so deeply. I totally feel you, I think it's fucking evil that the world is like it is... But, yeah. Your passion, your energy, it really inspires me. I honestly don't know how you have that energy all the time. It's.. wild." He pauses to laugh because she really is like a ball of energy.

He hears her laugh mix along with hers, hears the tone of exhaustion that's interlaced with her amusement. "Thank you... well, it's not all good... I feel insane some days. It's fucking frustrating to feel like I'm constantly.. running?"

He nods, while he continues to busy his hands with the items. Now, he's decided that the clothes he gave her need to be properly folded, so he takes the mini pyramid down to properly readjust it. Something in him knows that it's really just that he doesn't want to face Sydney again, for fear of how open his face would read.

Some days, he hates that his emotions have been so reawakened.

So while he trifolds one of his infamous white shirts, he concurs with her, "Yeah, that must be tough. Emotion can be intense. I think that's why I can shut down the way I do. Or like, just get angry."

"Ah, do you mean, the classic emotional range of a 'standard man' operating in the patriarchy?" Syd jokes behind him.

He snorts, thankful for the reprieve of the intensity. "Yeah, sure. Unless you're Fak."

"Fak attackkkkk," Sydney stretches her words, an unspoken agreement contained in only her delivery.

"Oh yeah, he's a character for sure. Love that guy, fucking goofball." He smiles, "Think he saved me from being totally consumed from the Berzatto Curse." He chuckles, heart filled with fondness.

"Berzatto... curse?"

Ah, he's said too much.

Satisfied with his fold, he resorts to stacking all the items up again. "Just a fucking silly thing me and my siblings made up."

Finally done, he turns back to her again, with all the items neatly arranged. "Better get the day going, before it escapes us."

Thankfully, he had his impromptu bender on Saturday, and he could recover today.

Sunday was their days off from the Bear.

Chalk it up to his residual Catholicism upbringing, but damn it, everyone deserved some type of reprieve. Well... The Beef was still operating (it's a fast food styled restaurant after all), albeit they still had shorter operating hours, but he's grateful he doesn't feel beholden to show up and help with prep.

They still keep their tradition of having full staff of both the Bear and Beef Family at end of shift, because it was a good way of strategizing, getting bonding time (even though this fact was mainly unspoken), and a great overall check in for both restaurants.

Nowadays, it also served to function as a way for Carmy to circumvent eating alone by himself.

He really didn't want to analyze too deeply that a large part of why he doesn't cook just for himself is because they're just no motivation if he's not eating with others.

The process of cooking, especially the act eating of it, was just etched in his DNA as communal, forever intertwined with others, for better or worse...

He guesses that's another reason why cooking and eating with people terrifies him as well. But, he's obviously getting better at it... with him regularly showing up and eating with everyone these days (for the most part... some times, he still strays off in his own little corner.)

Regardless of his own personal reasons, it was good to see everyone's dishes and support them.

He's doing a much better job of separating that urge to control, or fearing rejection, or irrationally competitive. Sharing the Bear with Sydney and truly collaborating has done wonders for him... it's caused him to soften in ways he hadn't anticipated and it's been spreading and webbing throughout his life.

It's evidently changed his relationship with the Beef and Ebraheim even. His newfound capability to relax, trust, and comfortably delegate has resulted into Ebraheim feeling more confident in showing his abilities to direct the Beef.

Ebraheim was more than capable and on his shit to run it now. Carmy's both grateful and proud of his development.

And really, The Beef, under Ebraheim's watch was mainly to thank for them keeping both businesses afloat in the beginning. In truth, that's who he really should be appointing to help him with the Bear's main financing. But, then again, he'd probably just get a long talking too. Ebraheim loved to sprinkle in a many parable/lectures about his wasteful spending on "bullshit" items. He and Sydney both would be left exasperated and left with not many options, just feeling shamed about their champagne tastes.

But really, under the careful, critical watch of Computer, The Bear is surprisingly three months ahead of paying Unc back.

He's thankful for his motley crew of family.

Moreover, he really can't believe it, what they have all accomplished together.

That's what he and Sydney end up talking about.

After they'd showered, clothed and such they collaborated on some tasty cheddar eggs and waffles.

He realized how nice it is to just cook, without the pressure of the clock, without the overbearing expectation of performing, or that sick, twisted feeling of having to compete with someone else, even if that's his former self. He had too much of that competition from his childhood that could last him a lifetime.

Hell, he doesn't even feel that pressure of... changing himself. Of hiding away parts of himself like he does with other people.

With her, he can just... cook.

He files all these insights away, compartmentalizing it for analysis later.

With the food settled in their laps, they're curled up on his couch, talking about the Bear admin stuff, because, apparently on their days off, it's still unescapable.

The Bear is their baby after all.

"Carm, I can't believe it. We're actually killing it!" Sydney exclaimed, stabbing her eggs with a satisfied punctuation.

Carmy nods emphatically, "We really are. I had to... 'check to see if the math was mathing'." He looks at her with a raised eyebrow, making a show at emphasizing the words, clearly making a jab at one of her favorite slang 'callouts' for him.

She snorts, "Oh goodness, focus up!"

He laughs, loving their friendly spar. "Okay, what should I be focusing up about, chef?"

"Me! I have exciting news relating to all this to share!"

"You have my focus, chef." He stares at her.

He hopes he's not looking at her with hearts in his eyes.

She smiles, and he can feel her excitement bubble over into her as she prepares to share her news, "Soooo... you remember how I said I was broke? Despite just getting this very nice pay increase?"

He rolls his eyes, laughing, "Yeah, I can kinda recall this from yesterday."

She giggles, "Just checking, weed can mess up with your short term memory, ya'know?"

He grunts playfully, feigning uninterest at her jab, waving his forefinger in a circle, ushering her to go on and share.

She sobers herself, and starts again. "Just joking....  Anyways, I'm broke because I just put money down for an apartment! I've been saving up ever since being able to pay off my credit card debt. Oh, yeah! I paid off my credit card debt! I mean, sure, my credit's still fucked but I asked my dad if he could cosign on my lease, and surprisingly, he said yes! And, it's all approved!"

Carmy smiles, sharing her happiness, "Syd, That's huge! I'm so happy for you."

She nods, “Yeah! I love my dad, but nothing beats cooking at 3 am when the mood strikes, or having your own place in general, you know?” 

Carmy nods in return, he can't imagine what a nightmare it would have been to stay with his mom in his adulthood. He almost shudders in horror.

He thinks back to Mikey, having to stay with their ma, and he almost shuts down. Yeah, he'd actually prefer not to think about it.

"I picked the keys up yesterday actually. Was going to text you about it, but then, I had to support your bender."

He laughs, "Get all your roasts out now. Don't wanna here it during family. I already gotta deal with Cousin."

She giggles again, evidently pleased with herself. "I willlllll! But, seriously, how are you feeling from everything? Are you okay?"

He nods again, "Yeah, I'm fine. If anything, more relaxed, but we can go back to me later. I wanna hear more about you. This is huge."

She smiles wider, and he feels like he's facing the sun.

"Okay, cool. I care about how you're feeling, anddddd thanks for listening. OhmygodI'msoexcited!" She subtly vibrating now, eyes darting around, clearly her mind is placed somewhere else, probably at her new apartment.

"It's so nice! It's got wood floors. Wood! The bathroom's okay, I wish the bathtub was slightly bigger, but I guess it's big enough for two."

She pauses, blinking up at him sheepish, "Wow, I don't know why I shared that. Uh, ignore me."

He feels hot and cold, trying desperately not to conjure up an image of her in a bathtub, nothing but smooth skin and artistically placed bubbles obscuring more scandalous areas of her body.

He clears his throat, "No, I hear you. Big tubs are nice. I kinda hate I have only a shower. I love bubble baths."

She nods, clearly happy to move on from her awkward admission.

"Yeah! Totally! Uhm, anyways. I'm celebrating by treating myself to get some decor and essentials. Was gonna tell you that I'm going to have to raincheck our tastebud reset, but glad we still got a chance to hang though!"

He blinks, "Oh, wow, yeah, no, no, definitely. Glad you're celebrating. You definitely deserve it, ya'know. Glad we hung out too, sorry I was fucked up for the most of it."

She laughs, "It's okay, I still had fun. It was nice to see another side of you. Like, do you know you talk in your sleep?"

Carmy feels himself turn red, "Uh, yeah I do know that. Fak has told me that many of times. So did Claire..."

For some reason, he feels the air shift into something he can't place.

"Ah, I should have figured you knew." She shifts along with the swift change and heaves herself up, collecting her plate upon her ascension.

"Well, I better head. Wanna get in front of the crowd and work while the sun's still up. It's gonna be a doozy heaving all this furniture up. Plus, I gotta do all this before Family tonight."

He rises up too, body operating in spite himself. "Do you need help?" Apparently his mouth wants to run in spite of him too. He's still trying to track what might have changed. Was it something that he said?

Sydney laughs, “Dude, you don’t have to come. It, like, might just about be the most boring thing ever.”

“Nah, I’m not doing anything tonight since today was our palette hang time. Julia and a shitty PB&J can wait another day. Plus... I want to help.”

Sydney considers him with a smile. "Ahh, I'm getting it now. You're a sweetie pie, under all that Italian-unaffected-tough guy act, huh?"

He feels the tips of his ears get hot. "Shut up."

.

They decided to meet up in the afternoon. Sydney told him she originally had plans to meet her dad, gather up some things at his house, and drop them off at her apartment before making her runs.

"I better still meet him. He'll have a conniption if I don't show up like I said. He's always, like, talking at me, 'You word is your bond, Sydney.' Even though he's first gen, he still very much carries the sentiments of the Motherland with him. Oh my god, he hates that he lost his accent. That would have really sealed the deal with his lectures."

Carmy nods emphatically, "Totally get it. Nona was always yelling at my ma, saying she was raising us as Americans more than anything. Anyways, go do what you gotta do. I can pick you up, I guess? Just text me."

Sydney smiles, grateful for his deep understanding. "Okay, talk to you later."

They go in for a hug, and the urge to kiss her is roaring so loud. An incessant desire echoing through the walls in his heart.

But he doesn't, and he's just forced to watch her leave.

.

He decides to take another shower.

The pure stress has him funky.

Something about the sheer amount of cortisol in his system has that affect on him sometimes.

Probably needs to figure that out.

Plus, he needs a cold shower from the proximity of Sydney. Something to clear his head, something to help him escape from these thoughts and urges.

At least Catholicism taught him all about self flagellation and the human error of wrongfully coveting.

Yeah, some things from upbringing just persist.

He was hops out the shower, and commences to put a towel around his waist, when he gets a text.

Cousin: Hey loser.

Cousin: Hope ur feeling okay. Maybe this'll make ur day brighter.

Cousin: (Downloading one multimedia image)

Cousin: C youse guys for family ig

He waits for the image to load, and when it does, he's stunned into a halt.

It was a picture of him and Sydney on her first day of her Rabbit Dish, right when she was helping him with his cut.

Sydney was almost completely enfolded into his side, knife in hand. She was focusing her eyes down at the delicate slices of radish cuts to make petals, tweezers an arm length away, ready for plating. Despite her focus, she's got this small smile on her face. She looks... relaxed, even in her focus. Happy.

Carmy, who was supposed to be dialed in to her edit, is looking at her instead. A small, gentle smile on his face too and open adoration, affection... yearning all contained in his eyes.

He could see the chemistry from them, too romantic to be passed off as platonic. It's almost palpable. Like the feeling is a living entity itself.

It was so fucking intimate, and somehow, it's only registering now that they almost always have been that physically close. That this is what other people see when they look at them. He feels the sparks... the pull. Like two planets, locked in orbit with one another.

The roar comes back in his chest full focus as he's looking at the picture.

He saves it, and then exits it to catch his breath.

Moments later, he reopens the thread and texts back with shaky fingers.

Carmy: I'm fine, asshole

He hesitates, considering his next move.

Carmy: Thanks for checking

Carmy: See you for family

He chooses not to address the picture or what Cousin might be insinuating.

Unwantedly, he's transported back to that moment briefly. Only this time, he pays attention to the auditory stimuli that surrounded him.

The chopping of the radish.

The soft lilt of Sydney's teasing voice.

The distant sound of a shutter that left him in a momentarily state of confusion.

Fucking Cousin.

Fuck, he knew he heard a shutter sound of something.

That fucking guy.

.

Sydney and Carmy are at a TjMaxx Home Goods franken-combo store, getting miscellaneous things for her new apartment.

He'd picked her up with no hitch. Her dad was already gone by the time he arrived, and all she had to lug over in his backseat was a container filled with cosmetics, her quite full baggy of medicine stuff, and a handful of toiletries.

Then, they were off to run errands.

So, yeah, there's that.

They just left from the food aisle, for some of her obligatory La Croix. He can't understand her love of the staticky drink, but maybe that's just his faint association to beer.

He logs it in his mental About Sydney notes anyways.

He knows that she loves fizzy stuff, so Carmy decides to sneak a sparkling Welch’s (another one of her favorites) in the buggy so he could join in on a celebratory toast at her apartment. 

He won't want to drink wine with her so this is the closest analog. Plus, he already texted the Bear group chat to prepare red velvet cake to celebrate her getting her new apartment and sloughing off the weighty debt that was plaguing her.

He wants to join in on celebrating her wins. It's a more than worthy achievement.

He’s manning the shopping cart, Syd leading in front. She directs them to the bedding aisle, in deep thought, already beginning to mull over different comforters. 

“Choices, choices,” Syd mutters to herself, feeling for the texture of the fabric displayed in front of her. 

Carmy leans over the railing of the buggy, one foot propped on the railing, watching her. 

“You gonna help, or are you just going to stand there, looking at me?” Sydney asks, not bothering to turn around to address him.

Carmy's ears tinge up.

Does she have eyes on the back of her head or something?

He clears his throat, and looks up at the ceiling, trying to shift his focus. Trying to dodge the claim of being creep of the year. “Ah, dunno how I'd really help... ” 

“Hey! Figure it out, smarty pants! This is a big choice! Duvets can set the whole tone for the bedroom design. Once you lock in, the palette is decided for you forever, you know.” 

"I don't know about forever..."

"Ugh, so not the point, Carmy... and anyways I'm balling on a budget. So I'll be seeing this for a hot minute anyways. A small infinity, if you'd like."

Carmy holds his hand in faux surrender.

Sydney presses on, “Sooo…” from his peripheral, she whips her head from the selection in front of her to give him a slightly vexed look.

Properly scolded, he returns her look, sheepishly. “Uhhh, I don't know. What are you between?” 

She sighs and shrugs heavily, “Honestly, no clue. Like, do I want to do the whole minimalism thing? Do I want a pastel color?  Something bright? I'm at a loss.”

Carmy considers the options. “Just my opinion, Syd, but definitely not the minimalist thing. Wouldn’t be harmonious with your style.”

Syd frowns, slightly affronted, “Why wouldn’t it be harmonious?” 

“Too bland. It’s for boring people.”

“You’re kinda a minimalist, Carmy.” 

“Exactly.” 

“You’re not-”

Carmy cuts her off, dead set on contributing now, “Regardless of the colors or saturation, I say center it on a print. You know, you dig 'em pretty tough. You can... I dunno?  incorporate different colors within the pattern, oh, and use color theory for cohesion. Most all colors can be blended into prints. Just depends on the harmony forreal.” 

Syd nods thoughtfully, satisfied. “Huh, you're right! Thanks, Picasso.” Then turns her back, shifting through with renewed purposed.

One corner of his mouth cracks into a half-moon smile.

He resorts to fall back and pull out his phone to busy himself as she keeps deliberating.

He turns away from her too, in attempts to lean back on the buggy to peruse-scroll through one of his apps, but his ministrations are interrupted as his eyes fall on a young couple huddled together in the candle aisle, a few feet away from them.

The couple are close, almost merged into one person, laughing softly about something shared in their own world.

Somehow, in his mind's eye, the two people slowly morph into Carmy and Syd, The Picture Richie showed him this morning fresh on his brain. 

He regards he and Syd now, in the bedding aisle, choosing the sheets for her bed, and it strikes him how intimate this act is too.

That great Something roars in him, so loud he can’t breathe for a minute. 

What should he even do?

It's getting harder to contain this.

-

High stakes. He’s keyed up like a chain wound too tight. Or a spider that’s cursed to twirl in on itself until it gets caught in its own web.

He doesn't know how he's going to control himself.

They'd just parked outside her apartment.

"Home sweet home! I just love how it's so close to the Bear! I could even walk to it if I wanted. Plus, there's this cute little bookstore that's not too far. It's no Printer's Row, but it'll do!"

Carmy feels himself distantly nodding, more present in his mind. He's actively trying to somehow build reinforcements for this overwhelming emotion threatening to ooze out of him.

He decides to look out and take the apartment building in with her.

The building is quaint, he sees why she chose this.

It's red brick, and ivy tendrils up the side in a heaping mass. The Chicago architecture shines through, capturing the intricacies, thoughtful craftmanship, and also the slight whimsy of the apartment building.

He loves it.

"It's old, so that's a mixed bag. I worry about it properly heating and cooling because of the old appliances, but it's still got character and good bones. I mean, I know it's not a house, but I'll be living here for a while, at least I think so. A good home can make or break you for like your health, your mental state.. just a whole lo- oh god, I'm rambling. Let's get this stuff in here. Thanks for helping, again, by the way."

They make their way up. She lives on the fourth floor, almost at the top flight. It's going to be great for her views, but terrible for his back. He's grateful he lifts weights and knows the proper lifting positioning for his body.

She's really only bought a credenza, so it's not going to be absolutely terrible. Turns out his car wasn't the best option for helping her shop for her items. He may ask Pete if he can borrow his truck. Or he might borrow the company van. He'll figure it out the next time Syd decides to come back out for a shopping spree.

They decide to get all the bags first before he tackles the credenza.

Both filled with exorbitant amounts of bags in their hands, they trek up the stairs. To fill the space, Syd shares with him in the new book she's reading.

This one surprisingly is a romance.

"Romance is not my go to... only because up until recently, I wasn't represented within romance fiction, at least not often or well done. And even then, the Black characters were usually always a side character, stereotypical in some way, or just... misaligned. And on the rare chance that they depict the romance, it usually was just so fucked! It just was never a proper fit for me... So, that's kinda why I usually always go to nonfiction. That or horror. And, ha, you'll love this... sci-fi. Like, the real existential stuff. I love it. Even if it fucks with my nerves."

He did notice that she tends to stick to non-fiction. "Huh, makes sense."

He pauses to try to catch his breath from the exertion of going up the stairs.

Man, he needed to start back working out more frequently.

Once he got a hold of his breath, he continues, "That's fucked. You deserve representation... To be fair, I always think romance is so overidealized, or a bit too easy. Love in real life is much harder. Way rarer. So, I guess I share you discontent with the romance genre."

He decides not to talk about the other genres, she knows that he relates anyways to jittery nerves. Of constantly fighting for meaning. Of having to make friends with death despite the pain and suffering that comes with it.

He thinks she's grateful of his focus on her, the space for her, because Syd continues to gear herself up to talk.

She nods, face straining from the bags in her hand. "Thanks! Yeah, it's irritating. I'm actually a lover girl at heart. I haven't really admitted that to anyone, but it's so true. And yeah! I agree about it being harder. I dunno know about rarer... we constantly choose to grow with our soulmates everyday ya'know? You create your soulmates, at least that's what I think. That's why I've been liking this book. It really delves into the willing work that goes into a relationship, and the beauty that can be gained. And, it's like, not depicted as bad? Like, yes, work can be grueling... but it can be fun too! It's so satisfying to see the fruits of your labor, and even the journey while you're in it can be fun too, even in the exhaustion."

He laughs, "Wow, thanks for sharing. Wouldn't have pinned you down for a lover girl, but actually makes a lot of sense. You talked about me, but you're a softy too, huh? So, that means we're both softies and nerds at heart... in our own right. Heard. Nah, but forreal. And, huh, I guess that's true, like, the constant being and becoming... That's true, work doesn't have to be as bad as people make it. All things require work, anyways. Although yeah, it shouldn't be, like, torture."

They finally reach her door, and Sydney unceremoniously drops her bags at the threshold with a loud, heaving sigh, save for her tote bag. She digs out her keeps from the side pocket of her bag, and when she procures it with a gleeful chirp sound, she drives it in, twists it and reveals the entry way.

The breezeway walls curve into a concave shape, providing comfort from the rounded edges, visual dimension and subtle stop of where the entry hallway ends and where the living room begins.

The wooden floors she so excitedly described, stretched elegantly out before them, inviting and welcoming. He can't see the rest of the space, due to the long walls bracketing the rest of the space, but from his current vantage point from the breezeway, he sees the boxes scatter her apartment.

He can't explain it, but his body picks up on the Good vibes.

It feels good that he can feel it.

That he can trust it.

He doesn't really know how to make since of this trust... it's a thought coming through fragmented and staticky and maybe it's not even the space itself at all, but the feeling of Sydney opening the door to her space and allowing him through.

Of trusting him, and it feeling like they both are on the same accord. Both walking on the same solid ground.

He toes off his shoes, mirroring her same courtesy that she shows him at his apartment, and walks in with half done shoes.

"Thank you." She mutters, taking note of his sentiment and respect for her space, bending down to take the bags she practically threw down.

They waddle their way in with the bags. Sydney takes the lead again, knowing the floor layout, and it being her space after all.

He finishes kicking off his shoes, and waits for her to toe her shoes off too. Then, they begin their waddle further inside the house.

The walls fall away to reveal the open floor plan of the kitchen and living room, and there's a sizable window for strong sunlight in. She's even got a balcony, obscured from the front of the building, exposing the back area that showcases a nice pond with a winding path surrounding it.

It's pretty sweet.

Carmy whistles, "Okay, check you out. Sweet digs."

Sydney smiles, the apples of her cheeks aglow, pleased as punch, "Thank you! Wouldn't know how long it was to find this diamond in the rough! Talk about work! But, it was all worth it in the end."

"It usually always is," He agrees, gingerly placing the bags with the other pile of boxes.

Sydney stops him, "Actually, do you mind taking that stuff to my bedroom? I think you have my new bottle of castile soap, and I need that in my bathroom."

He nods, bends down and grunts, heaving up the bags again, "Lead the way, Captain."

They shuffle down another short hallway and it leads to the door to her room.

It's already opened.

It's very nice... romantic, even.

It features a nice, big rounded bedroom window too, so light can filter through the space. It's going to be a pain winterizing it though. He'll be sure to mention it to her later.

Fuck ComEd, truly.

The crown molding adds a nice touch, it adds subtle curves to the ceiling, again adding depth to the space.

Her dark wooden princess canopy bedframe is the on main display, halfway erected, as if she stopped and had to switch gears abruptly. Boxes and tools scatter around the wooden floors.

It's a nice touch that they opted to keep the bedroom floors wooden. It's more cohesive that way, and less room for being potentially outdated, stained, or worse fill with dust.

Her box spring and mattress rest uneasily, propped on the wall, threatening to topple over. But he can just tell that both are the great balance between soft and firm for support.

It's a great space.

It scratches a space deep within his brain. Satisfying.

Claire used to claimed it was something about his Virgo placements somewhere, having a deep love of aesthetic (and obsessed with perfection and details), but he's less convinced that it was about that and more about his slightly boujee upbringing, or his own personal tastes.

Who knows.

Sydney, however, doesn't know all his internal assessments, and begins apologizing, "Yeah, sorry for the mess, it's only day two being here. I've been still camping out at my dad's as I get this space centered." She's sheepish, darting from his face back to the halfway finished bed and the boxes shrew around.

"No, no. It looks good. Impressive that you've been doing all this behind the scenes. And, wow, kudos to you for finding a place with this much character. It's beautiful."

She gleams, "Thank you so so much! It means so much that you say that! It's been a bit challenging. But I'm excited about the finalized step. I mean I'm having a lot of fun in the process, but I'm grateful it's coming to a close."

He nods, all to familiar with the feeling.

"Am I good to set this down now?" He looks at her, smiling slightly, because her smile is infectious.

"Yeah, the bathroom is just through that door." she points to the left, to a closed door he didn't register. The door was white and blended into the wall at the angle he was standing.

He nods, and gingerly places the bags down, finally letting his muscles relax.

Only momentarily, because he's got to gear up for getting this credenza.

The things he does for the people he loves.

Stopstopstopstopstopstopstop.

.

A long journey through a flight of stairs, grunting, and aching shoulder later, he finally heaves up her dark blue wooden credenza up and places it in the breezeway.

Sydney, who had told him that she was going to finish working on the bed frame, walks over to him.

"Wow, you placed it just where I was thinking too." Sydney places a hand on his arm, the touch is electrifying. He wonders if she can feel that too. It makes his breath hitch up, even worse than heavily up the credenza.

"Word? That's what's up." He places his hands on his hips, trying to regulate his breath.

It felt good to exert some of this internal energy outward. He again underlines the point that he needs work out. A side effect of it all was that, he became... some how more... stimulated, to put it lightly.

His sexual appetite hadn't been invigorated in a while.

Even with Claire, he didn't really get the urge to have sex often.

Actually... especially with Claire, since he was in a weird position with their whole off kilter romance and not to mention he was still actively grieving Mikey. It didn't help that he felt rubbery with her. For a thing as nebulous as compatibility, he guesses it was true of what people say... you need that unexplainable force to move things along.

It does definitely help not wishing you were a different person all the time when you're with them though.

Moving on from that feeling, and moving away from thinking about Claire entirely... he does some general reflection.

Since then, his emotions have settled, and he's more placed his body...

He's feeling seen from the people in his life...

More open...

Well...

He's... he's.. well, horny.

It's kinda weird for him to even be in that headspace, but he is.

He looks over at Sydney, finally gaining confidence to peel his gaze away from the credenza and meet her gaze.

She's already looking him, unbridled joy apparent on her face.

She still has her hand on his arm, and he still feeling that strong, pulsing electric current coursing between them.

There's another element to her look but it's obscured, like the emotion is cloaked behind something just right in front of it.

He tries searching in her eyes, somehow... this time, for whatever reason, he's unafraid now to find it, but she breaks contact and pulls away.

"Oh! I totally forgot I was touching you! Sorry about that." She fidgets away, opting to slide her hand on the smooth surface of the wood. "You're pretty strong, huh?"

He chuckles, "I... uh... I guess. I'll let you be the judge of that."

She giggles, "Again with these threats. Just what are you implying?"

He freezes, suddenly aware that his comment could be taken for a double entendre. So he opts to speak to the less sexually charged one, "Ah, I... uh, wasn't trying to. I would never threaten you. I mean... not- Anyways, what's next on the list, menace?"

She laughs, but says nothing. He takes note of the sharpness of the tone, high and pitchy.

She slides out the hallway, rounds the corner, disappearing out of sight, an open invitation to follow her.

He follows, because, yeah. He's pretty sure he'll follow her anywhere.

.

He finds her in her bedroom.

She's trying to finish tightening allen screws in their designed places. It's kinda hot that she knows her way around tools like she does. He didn't know that before, but he can see with her sure fire precision that she does. He can't explain it fully but... it's hot in the same way she loves cooking. Or in the same way she's so passionate about her books. Or how she lights up when a favorite song of hers comes on.

It's all short for he thinks she's hot.

He just wants to get to know her, all her faucets.

He wants that intimate knowing of her, because he lov-

He shakes his head, desperately trying to escape that headspace.

Stop.

He clears his throat, "Uh, tell me what you need. Please."

She looks up from her work, there's a look of almost bashfulness and surprise in her eyes. "Oh! Uh... You can help set up the canopy part. I'm almost finished with tightening the frame."

He nods, "Heard, Chef."

She snorts, "You're so unserious, Carm. Like, we're not even cooking."

He laughs, "I know, but it's just effective. Just shorthand for 'I hear you, I respect you, and I'm present'."

Her laugh dries up.

Now, she's the one who clears her throat. "Uh, heard, Chef."

And, they work.

.

Finally, the bed is assembled.

When they finish, they wordlessly clamber away from their own perspective spots and meet each other at the front of the bed to analyze their work.

Carmy considers the bed, making sure it's level. Sydney has too much energy within her, so she decides to rock the bed, analyzing it's sturdiness.

The wooden bed, a nice deep brown hardwood, is sturdy and secure. It doesn't budge from her rambunctious efforts to destabilize it.

After one rough attempt from her too many, Carm quirks his eyebrow, and questions her.

"Uh, Syd?"

Her movement seize up, clearly embarrassed.

"Oh my god, pay me no mind. I, uh, was just testing it."

"Can see that." He snorts before he continues his roast. "Just wondering what are you planning to put it through? A storm?" Then, he considers his words, and finds the suggestive nature that could lay hidden in them.

Damndamndamn. No, he didn't mean it like that. Or maybe it was a Freudian slip? Either way, that's not what he was actively implying.

It doesn't matter, because, Syd turns her head to back look at him. "Ohhh, right. Yeah, nothing much. Just all the extreme sex I'm obviously having." She quips back, faux matter-of-fact but slightly biting.

He knows it was supposed to be a joke, but it misses it's mark and leaves him gaping at her.

"Oh."

He doesn't mean to say it, because it totally adds to the awkward aura floating around the room. He wishes he could have joked back, but what was he supposed to say to that? He wishes he could take it his failed attempt of communicating back.

But, it's too late, she turns her head in embarrassment, no doubt trying to shield herself from him now.

Syd's fidgeting, back still facing away from him, and slightly leaning forward on the bedframe. Her shoulders are tight and arm muscles are taunt despite not moving an inch.

"Ah, I'm, like, obviously fucking with you. Oh, bad choice in words there, I guess. Anyways, no, like, sometimes, I shift in my sleep! You know how dramatic I am! Anyways, moving on."

The awkward aura lifts... kinda, but he'll take an out, gratefully.

He snorts again, thinks about her dramatic flop on his bed this morning, "Yeah, no. That tracks. You are dramatic."

She turns again, affronted and eyes sharp. "Hey! Fuck you."

"Okay, it's time to add the box spring and mattress." She rerights herself and walks over to lift the box spring.

"Can I... have help? With this?" She asks.

He whistles, "Ahhhhhh, you're finally asking, Chef. Good job."

He can see her deep brown skin gets slightly ruddy in the direct sunlight the window provides, he swears that her subtle red undertones becoming more pronounced. It could just be a trick of the light, though.

"Shut up! I just figured that, if you could change. So could I."

He hums, joining her at the other side of the box spring.

"Fair point."

"And like, honestly- be real too- if I asked before you pre-therapy, would you have even listened?"

Okay, ouch.

"Okay, Dr. Syd, that tracks."

.

They finish the assembling the bed. They return to the same spot, at the foot of the bed, to assess its integrity.

Sydney hums, looking around. "Trying to figure out how I wanna place it now. The feng shui of it all, ya'know?"

Carmy nods, "yeah, I get it."

He gestures to the center, right in front of the window, "I think that might be nice."

She considers it, no doubt picturing it within her mind's eye, then nods, "Yeah seems like a good place. Regretfully, I dunno much about feng shui. Hopefully the window gives me some good juju or somethin'."

On the same accord, they push the be as far as they can to the windowsill. Good move, well, if anything... it looks great.

"Ahh, this is going to be so nice, I'm going to get some nice fabric to drape over it, so the wind can catch it, ya'know?"

Carmy nods, "Sounds nice. Relaxing. You definitely deserve it!"

She plops down on the bed, diving in the center. "It's dooonnnnnee!" She rolls over to one side, heaves herself up to prop herself on the headboard, and considers Carmy, "Thank you!'

He smiles, and shifts his weight to one side, "Yeah, you're welcome. Any time, well... considering if I'm free and such."

"Yeah yeah!" She nods, "I... uh, any time I'm free, I'll help you! Within reason, I obviously can't like, lug a fricking credenza by myself or something."

He laughs, "Nah, wouldn't expect you to. But thank you for your extension. I'll definitely call you if I need you for something. Within reason."

She smiles in response, considers him with a long stare, and then, pats the surface next to her, "C'mon, sit down. Take a load off. Your back will thank you. This bed is so friggen comfy!"

He smiles, "Yeah, okay."

.

So, they sit there, talking for a while.

It's fun.

They share what's been exciting them in cuisine and even more personal stuff, outside of the culinary space. Carmy makes a concerted effort to ask good questions, he picks up on her tendency to ask great questions, of her care and consideration for his interests and the things he told her.

It's long since inspired him to find good questions to ask her, so he mirrors her behavior.

He pays close attention to her different smiles, takes note when her shoulders relax at certain points, versus when they tighten, drawing up like they were controlled by invisible string.

His detailed noticing pulls him out of the moment. Deep into introspection.

His therapist notices his excellent ability to call out certain behaviors, or being keyed into good detail at certain times.

This almost intuitive ability he has. He prefers deductive reasoning as opposed to intuitive but he sees her point.

She gave him resources for this thing called hypervigilance, apparently it could have stemmed from being raised by his mom, who more than likely has BPD.

At any rate, while it's not the best thing to be hypervigilant all the time, it can sharpen your ability to be keyed into the hyper fine details. He likened it to the ability of being a sommelier, being trained to know specific flavors.

He knows certain flavors of energy and emotion, now, he's getting his body open and aware of a different range.

Anyways.

Sydney's talking about her love of the show Parks and Recreation.

"My favorite element is like, the dynamics of the show. I know it might be cringey to some, but it really is fascinating to see how much they all love each other, and like, the group dynamics of it all! And all different types of love, connection, and personality types represented. You'd think that mix would be discordant, But, it works. Very much like a healthy family constellation, or like a tiny microsociety. Very Family Systems base--- ha"

She pauses to laugh, its colored with self depreciating hue, but, she presses on. "I guess you're not the only one who's going to be using "therapy speak". My cousin on my mom's side is a psychiatrist. I rarely see her because her schedule is so demanding, but she's actually doing a career pivot to becoming a counselor. So, she's got me reading some books on counseling. When we link up, that's kinda how we bond. Wow okay, I'm just, like, yapping. Thanks for listening to me. It's like kinda weird to be talking this much without someone like interrupting or like not following, or like zoning out."

"Huh, I never really watched it. I guess I'm not a show watching kinda guy, except if it's my cooking shows. But, I'll give it a watch. Maybe, we can watch it together one day? Or I can watch some and like, give you my audio messages of what I've been thinking? We'll figure it out."

He pauses to wriggle his toes, feeling his body. Grateful for a pause to collect his thoughts and push back against his low grade anxiety, then he continues.

"Oh wow, that's cool that she's doing a career pivot. I hope she's liking it. That's cool that you guys talk through, like, shared interests and take the time to like catch up. Don't worry about yapping at all, I like hearing about your life. It's cool hearing about your family. You see mine on a day to day basis. It's really nice getting to know you more, you know?"

Finally, "Yeah, I know what you mean. It's hard to talk sometimes. Especially when you've been received like that. I definitely know those feels. Funnily enough, that's what I worked on the most at the start of therapy. Learning how to like, get comfortable talking? For some people, like Fak, or Cousin, or like... my brother, it was so easy for them to be themselves, to like talk and just take up space... or like, I don't know, maybe it isn't. Especially when I think about my brother. It's like, he talked, but not really about the stuff that hurt him. He lived, but... maybe he already felt dea- ah... I don't know. But, anyway, I'm saying all this to say, I get you."

Sydney blinks. "Oh. Uh, I wasn't really expecting you to, like, do all that for me. That's really sweet... Uhm, thank you! Uh, I would.. love to do something like that. And.. thank you... for taking interest in me and whatnot."

She fidgets around, in search of her words, "Yeah, I'm pretty proud of her. My best friend is a social worker, so I get like double dosage of the mental health space world. Which is like, insane, because my mental health is so bad? Now, you're in therapy... it's kinda like a sign for me to go. Wow. Did the Universe really just bully me into looking into therapy? I think that just happened."

They laugh for a shared moment, allowing a wave of emotion to glide through. A shared feeling of unspoken elation and revelation.

Sydney continues, after the moment reached it's crest, "Yeah, you like hit the nail on the head. Thanks for sharing your experience. It's like definitely helpful... and like. Yeah, talking... about your family members, and friends of family, which I guess are like your family, anyway. It's... I don't know.. cool to see you guys interact. I come from a small family, so being able to, like, take it all in. It's.. nice."

She pauses, closes her eyes, clearly about to broach the conversation about Mikey. He feels the air get heavier, "Carmy, I'm... just... I'm glad you're talking... I'm sorry Mikey... for whatever reason... he felt like he couldn't or didn't say what was really in his heart. I... I don't know if that's the right thing to say, but..." And she stops, just lays a hand on his arm.

He feels her sentiment, all the emotions that words fail to convey. Just by that touch.

He sighs, and allows himself to lean in.

.

They decided after having their impromptu relaxing bonding session on her bed to get up and get some movement.

Carmy's grateful for the break. He has all this buzzing energy crackling through his body from being so close to Sydney.

They, surprisingly, don't decide to cook, not only because she just doesn't have all her kitchen items unpacked and organized in the way she'd like or need, but they're both dog tired.

"Lemme treat you to some food, though." She snaps her finger, looking for her phone, "As a thank you!"

Carmy smiles, "You sure?"

Sydney smiles back, easy and face open, "I would love to. Equity in action."

They choose Asian food for their late lunch, one of their mutual loves. Both cite different reasons for liking it, but it all comes circling back to the shared appreciation of the fusion that is a unique Asian-American translation. All these different flavors and experiences creating something new.

Not to supplement or stand in as a replacement for experiencing traditional, authentic cuisine, but a celebration of sorts. An amalgam of all these spices from different places to blend in and some how find harmony. Resonance.

Also, Asian, was a good call, due to the fact that they were anticipating a big family dinner.

When the takeout is delivered, Sydney goes to the front to receive the food, while Carmy roots out the grocery bag for the Welch's sparkling.

Upon her return, he presents it to her.

"Chef."

Sydney grins, "How'd you know?"

Carmy smiles in response, "I took note."

.

They're forced to have their lunch in Syd's bed.

She doesn't have her couch yet, and the wood, while pretty, is unforgiving, cold, and decidedly not comfortable to actually sit for too long.

They sit back in their perspective seats they had before. Both obviously creatures of habit.

They don't talk much while they eat, just allow themselves to immersed in their food.

Little hums from either one of them surface and bubble up, tiny affirmations of a particularly good bite of food.

They steal glances at each other when that happens, and smile, delighting in their shared joy of what they ordered.

It's good.

When they finish eating, they simultaneously sigh. They look over at each other and laugh,

"Can't say you owe me a soda now," Sydney huffs out, words curving between her chuckle. She bends over to her side of the bed to grab her cup full of sparkling juice.

Carmy rolls his eyes and laughs, grabbing his cup from the side too.

Just before she can take a sip, he stops her.

"Hey, let's make a toast."

She nods, "Oh that'd be nice. Okay... uh, what are we toasting to?"

He thinks for a beat.

"Uh, to your accomplishments. Your never ending growth. Gaining what you need. Even if that's through the.. uh... Universal calling you out."

They chuckle for a beat, then Sydney takes a gasp of air, places a hand dangerously close to her heart.

Carmy takes her silence as a punctuation.

He makes a move to clink their cups with finality but she stops him,

"Waiiittt!" She drones out, moving her glass back, very careful to keep all the contents of her cup inside. "I wanna say something!"

Carmy laughs and nods, "Yeah, true. Sorry, I didn't check in."

Sydney laughs "It's okay! I won't hold it against you... this time. Uhm. But, yeah, I just want to say, same? Like, I'm proud of all the growth you've been doing too. A toast to valuable insights. And, uh, To nights like these! To found family- related or not. To, uh, cycles changing. To... being seen... and cared for...,"

"To being seen and cared for." He affirms. 

His heart adds, to love... and being loved. A secret wish he holds close.

Carmy's heart sings and they move together and clink their glasses in unison.

They look at each other as they take their sip.

Who knows if it's out of habit, superstition, luck, or whatever greater Force that causes it. It just felt right.

Carmy feels renewed somehow.

Doesn't know if it's the food, or the fizzy drink, feeling the constant static from being so close to Sydney. Whatever it was, he's warm, fuzzy, and buzzing with vitality.

Carmy somehow can tell Sydney's feeling it too.

They clear off the containers of food, swipe any minuscule crumbs that might remain and sit back down, sated.

Somehow, they turn towards one another again.

There is an inexplainable force drawing him close to her, so he adjusts just a little to get closer to her.

She wriggles around, just looking at him, absentmindedly biting a small section of her lip.

He dares to take another centimeter closer to her, not really sure what he's doing.

Not sure if this is the right move. For once, not trying to balance all the conflicting emotions, or analyze the best move would be, but just letting his body take control.

Let his heart lead him where he wants.

Now, it's Sydney who moves closer, just a centimeter. A silence agreement. A proverbial nod. A bid,

Then, they both surge forward, and their lips finally meet.