Chapter Text
It started with a couch.
Carmy’s dingy, secondhand couch. His tongue in her mouth. His hand in her underwear. The TV whispering in the background, like fragments of a dream.
(Sydney isn’t sure how they got here.)
It’s earlier that day. Carmy shows up in the hospital waiting room right before she’s about to leave. He’s all frantic blue eyes and mussed curls, and he’s staring at her, inscrutable.
“Hey Syd,” Carmy says, his hands twitching at his sides like hummingbird wings. “I know you said you wanted to be alone but…I felt shitty leaving you like that. So…here I am, I guess.” He huffs out an awkward laugh. “Your dad doing okay?”
And yes, her dad is just fine, he assured her that himself, but Sydney’s eyes instantly fill with tears. “Yeah, he’s good,” she says, her voice sounding like gravel to her own ears, and she crumples anyway, falling forward in a sob.
Carmy catches her in his arms, letting her soak his shirt with tears and snot. He rubs her back and holds her tight, a soft wall of muscle. Sydney thinks, faintly, that she can’t remember the last time she cried like this. Maybe never. Now she’s done it twice in one day. In front of Claire, and then Carmy, of all people. She suppresses more tears as they bubble up and swallows hard, suddenly feeling very small and stupid.
“Can I take you home?” Carmy asks, exceedingly, frighteningly gentle. She pushes herself away from his shoulder, a little dizzy. Mostly from the emotional exertion, but also from Carmy, who smells really nice. Like garlic and chives and Irish Spring soap.
This is weird. This level of emotional intensity between her and Carmy, outside of the heat of the kitchen, feels utterly bizarre. It would freak Sydney out a lot more if she had the mental capacity to process anything at all, but all she can say is, “I don’t want to be alone,” and Carmy nods no less than twenty times.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay, you can come to mine,” he says.
“I can—but—don’t you need to be back? At the restaurant?” she argues, but there’s no bite to it. She’s too tired.
“Don’t worry, it’s handled,” Carmy assures her. “Come on, let’s go.”
Then Sydney finds herself following him, wordlessly, to his car, which smells like stale cigarettes and those cardboard pine tree air fresheners. There’s a watery iced coffee in the cupholder, an almost empty packet of nicotine gum tucked in beside it. Carmy punches out the last two pieces and chews, chews, chews.
Sydney lets him finish buckling her seatbelt when her shaky hands keep fumbling to click it in. She feels incredibly inept. Like she’s three years old.
“You hungry?” Carmy asks as he drives. The radio crackles, static cutting through the soft twang of Fleetwood Mac. Sydney presses her cheek to the window, watching droplets of rain slide down the glass.
“I don’t really know,” she tells him. She watches him out of the corner of her eye. He smiles, and the sun peeks out from behind the rain clouds, speckling his cheeks in feathery yellow light.
What the fuck.
Sydney looks away, chewing her lip. She’s too vulnerable right now. It’s making every single feeling she’s ever had come crashing down like a tidal wave.
“I’ll make you something anyway,” Carmy says. His bicep flexes as he tightens his grip on the wheel. Sydney pretends not to notice.
☆
Carmy rifles through his pantry until he uncovers a lone box of Japanese curry cubes. He then unearths two potatoes from on top of the fridge and a singular carrot from inside, gathering more ingredients here and there—honey, tomato paste, butter.
“Alright, I can work with this,” he declares. He turns to look at Sydney. Always looking, always staring. The meaning of his gaze muddled in baby blue, like frosted windowpanes. Sydney stares at the floor.
“You need to mop,” is what comes out of her mouth. What the fuck is she even talking about.
Carmy laughs, sheepish. “Heard, chef.” He starts peeling a potato. “You can sit anywhere, make yourself at home.”
Sydney doesn’t fight him on it. She flops onto his vaguely grimy couch, sinking into the cushions. She fully reclines against the pillow there, one that definitely belongs in Carmy’s bed, and not out here, in his lonely, barren living room. Her head drops to the side, and she inhales. Carmy’s shampoo, his soap, his laundry detergent. Carmy in the kitchen, humming a Phil Collins song. Carmy in the grooves of her fingerprints, under her fingernails, in her DNA. She closes her eyes.
☆
Sydney doesn’t remember falling asleep. When she blinks her eyes open, she doesn’t even know where she is, and she remembers this is why she doesn’t take naps—every time she does, she feels like she’s five years old again, when she got separated from her dad at the mall. She was freshly motherless, alone. The harsh lights and bright white floors of the perfume section were like an alien planet.
And maybe she’s been on that alien planet ever since, because nothing makes sense. The only person who makes her feel sure that she’s real, that she exists and she didn’t spawn in on earth on accident, is laying in a hospital bed. She’s all empty, and her insides have been replaced with teddy bear stuffing. She wants to cocoon herself and retreat.
But then her vision is flooded with Carmy, crouching at her level and holding a bowl.
“You feeling okay?” he asks, delicate, almost whispering. “The curry’s ready. I can put it in the fridge for later if you want.”
“No, no, I’ll have some now,” Sydney croaks, her stomach a yawning expanse. She spoons herself a perfect layer of curry and rice, and it melts in her mouth.
“Oh fuck, Carmy.” She shoves another heaping spoonful into her mouth. “S’amazing.”
Carmy’s face is flushed strawberry red. Like he’s never heard a compliment before. “Good,” he says. He sits beside her, air whooshing out of his lungs as he leans his head back, eyes closed. Sydney can’t help herself. She watches his adam’s apple bob as he swallows, traces constellations of freckles down his neck, across his collarbone. She bites down on a tender piece of potato. She feels like she’s eating pieces of him. His hands, his lungs, his heart.
There’s a knot in Sydney’s throat. Like a wasp has nested itself there, prodding its stinger against her esophagus. A teardrop drips into her curry.
Sydney isn’t used to being taken care of. It makes her itch somewhere she can’t scratch. She can’t be eating Carmy’s food, relaxing on his couch, taking naps. Not while her dad lies in a hospital bed. Not while The Bear prepares for the night’s service.
She’s selfish.
“Syd.” Carmy puts a hand on her knee, and it jolts her out of her spiral. Her face is wet. “You okay?”
Sydney sniffles. “I’m not a good person,” she mumbles.
Carmy looks perplexed. “What?”
“I should’ve been there. For my dad. I’ve been avoiding his calls, not visiting…being a human disaster. I should’ve been there. I can’t…I shouldn’t be here. I need to be doing something. I need to do better. But I’m so tired.” She presses her palms to her eyes hard, imagines eyeball viscera oozing out between her fingers. “I’m so tired.”
Sydney puts her hands down. She drips more tears into her curry. She takes another bite, chews, swallows. Carmy’s hand lands on her shoulder like a nervous bird, fluttering.
“You take good care of your dad. There’s nothing more you could’ve done,” Carmy says. “I’m sure he told you that. And you’re allowed to be tired and take a break, you know…it feels wrong when you’re constantly running, to just sit down. I get that. But don’t feel guilty about it. You gotta take care of yourself too.”
Sydney nods. His words are a gut punch, and she’s not sure if what he says quells her anxiety or exacerbates it. She swallows a sob and shovels more food into her mouth. Carmy’s hand stays, his thumb tracing a line up and down, up and down.
Carmy cares about her. She knows that distantly, fuzzily. But she never thought he would be so kind. So patient. Maybe that’s unfair. Or maybe it’s a consequence of the explosive environment of the kitchen, of her countless memories of Carmy, jaw clenched and teeth bared and voice reaching a fever pitch as he screams about overcooked wagyu or pasta or whatever else. And isn’t it fucked up that she goes home each night still loving him, even after he shows her that ugly, animalistic part of him?
Sydney finishes her bowl, scraping the sides until it’s clean. “You want more?” Carmy asks.
“Did you have any?”
He shakes his head. “I had a PB&J while I was making it, I’m good.”
Sydney purses her lips. “Dude,” she chides. “Come on.”
Carmy laughs. He looks so boyish, cheeks apple-round. “Alright, fine, I’ll have some.”
Carmy halves the remainder of the curry in a bowl for each of them. They turn on Food Network and watch five episodes of Chopped in a row and laugh at the absurdity of the ingredients.
“It’s like she didn’t even try to incorporate the fruit roll-ups into her sauce,” Sydney yells, gesturing at the TV like they can hear her. “Like, of course she was gonna get chopped.”
“Yeah, her lamb was seared perfectly though,” Carmy answers. “The French guy’s lamb could’ve used like, eight more seconds in the pan.”
“Eight more seconds, are you serious, Carm. You can’t possibly tell that from looking at it through a screen.”
Carmy’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. “I’m estimating! But it’s for sure not more than ten.”
“You show off,” Sydney snorts.
They watch the dessert round. The ice cream machine breaks and the French guy is scrambling. He still wins, though, somehow. Carmy scoffs, and it makes Sydney laugh again.
The sun is nearly set, casting them in dancing shadows. The intro to Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives starts playing, and Carmy mumbles his annoyance at Guy Fieri, changing the channel to a nature show. They’re sitting closer than they were earlier. They’ve been pulled into each other’s orbit, something electric in the ever-diminishing space between them.
Carmy keeps looking at her, gaze lingering, enigmatic, and Sydney feels light, floaty, loose. A little drunk, even though she’s totally sober. Her common sense is slipping away. It’s like Carmy’s apartment is a black hole where her desires unravel. She doesn’t think; she lets her body curl against him like a comma, her ear to his chest. His heart is beating so fast, and she thinks about hummingbirds, about the imperceptible flap of their wings, about Carmy’s fidgeting hands.
“Thank you for taking care of me,”she murmurs into his shirt, and his breath hitches, and she thinks that maybe he might cry, too. His palm comes up to caress her face, gentle, gentle, flower petal fingertips, tilting her chin upwards.
“You’re really good, Syd,” Carmy whispers, his breath ghosting across her lips, and she shivers. “You’re good. You’re the best person I know.”
They collide into each other. Their lips meet and a star explodes in Sydney’s ribcage, obliterating her from the inside out. Carmy kisses her like he’s been stranded in the desert and she’s his first sip of water. He kisses her and kisses her and kisses her, and Sydney’s so lightheaded. She thinks she might pass out. She crawls into Carmy’s lap instead, slides a hand up the nape of his neck, tangles her fingers in loose curls. She licks into his mouth and he makes a tiny, relieved sound, holding her tighter around her waist.
And then Sydney really has to pull away and catch her breath. Carmy looks punch-drunk, dazed, eyes locked on hers. Staring, always staring. “You’ve got a staring problem,” she teases, because she doesn’t know what else to say. You’re beautiful seems like too much. Carmy smiles. He’s flushed carmine red all across his neck, spreading like ink below the collar of his shirt. “I like looking at you,” he says, his voice barely there. Sydney feels like she’s going to pass out again.
She pulls him back in by his necklace, presses her wanting mouth against his throat, tastes the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Carmy’s hand slips under her shirt, warm and ticklish as it brushes against the bare skin above her hip. She sucks wet kisses along his jawline, shifts just right until she can feel him hard beneath her, rolling her hips and sending a spike of pleasure up her spine. Carmy gasps and grinds up against her in answer, and it feels so good.
Sydney tries to steady her breathing as Carmy unbuttons her pants. She finds his lips again, and they kiss open-mouthed and messy, Carmy’s quiet, rumbly moans getting louder. His hand goes still on her waistband, hesitant, silently asking. Sydney manages to murmur, “You can touch me,” and Carmy dips his hand into her underwear, painting his fingers with her wetness and rubbing her clit. Sydney gasps and her hips jolt and she thinks she’s never been more horny in her life.
Carmy isn’t talking, just making pretty, pleased sounds at increasing volume in answer to her own, his teeth on her collarbone. Sydney lets him manhandle her off his lap and onto her back, her braids spilling over the arm of the couch. She helps Carmy out by yanking off her shirt and her bra while he helps her wiggle out of her pants and underwear, until there are no more clothes left to remove.
She can’t believe she’s lying naked on Carmy’s couch. This is all playing out like one of her 3 AM fantasies. Carmy doesn’t move for a moment, crystal blue eyes taking her in. His face is lit up in awe, almost reverent.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Sydney whines, but she’s smiling, butterflies soaring through her chest and leaving a trail of sparkly warmth behind.
“Sorry,” Carmy whispers, ducking his head with a grin. “You’re just really beautiful.”
Sydney’s breath gets caught in her throat. He’s being so lovely. It’s unbearable. (It’s wonderful.)
He pulls off his shirt, all sculpted muscle and pink-tinged skin and a smattering of tattoos she’s never seen before. He unbuckles his pants next, shucks them onto the floor. Sydney’s brain short circuits. He’s so hard in his dark gray boxer briefs. Her mouth waters.
Carmy lowers himself back on top of her, kisses her again like she’s a cool drink of water. Sydney usually doesn’t like kissing all that much. It gets boring and repetitive and the very short list of people she’s slept with all used too much tongue. Not Carmy, though. Just kissing him is making her dripping wet. She would kiss him for six hours straight if she could. He rolls his hips up against hers and she all but yelps, digging her nails into his shoulder and panting into his open mouth.
“Oh my god, do that again,” she breathes in a voice she doesn’t recognize, and he obliges, and they rock against each other, over and over, until his underwear is soaked through from how wet she is. It’s obscene. Sydney’s vision blurs and Carmy keeps moaning like a wounded deer. He kisses down her chest, sucks on her nipple, his other hand smoothing across her stomach as she writhes, yearning for friction. She’s just about to try and ask, with the limited cognitive ability she has left, if he can get a condom, but Carmy interrupts her before she can speak.
“Can I eat you out?” he asks. He’s staring up at her through his lashes, smiling small and shy and boyish. It’s extremely endearing and super hot at the same time.
“Yeah, okay, yes, yes please,” she says, covering her face and giggling. It’s so hard to look at him—he’s like the sun. Carmy laughs too, his hair tickling her breast. She opens her eyes as he kneels down on the floor and kisses down her body, chain glinting in the light, his head haloed by sunset. He presses his smiling mouth between her thighs and she melts into liquid gold under his tongue.
Carmy licks into her slow, takes his time, savors it as she practically gushes into his mouth. He works his tongue in long, languid strokes, bumps his nose up against her clit, sighs and moans and flexes his hand on her inner thigh. Sydney watches him, trying not to hyperventilate, rolling her hips against his chin and grasping for his other hand. She links their fingers, tracing the S in SOU with her thumb as Carmy kisses, sucks, laps at her cunt. She comes fast, her hips stuttering, unspooling and unraveling into a bundle of exposed nerve endings, weak and sensitive to his every touch. Carmy just holds her close and coaxes her through it, lets her squeeze his hand tightly enough to snap, drinks up every last drop of her like she’s his last meal.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Carm,” Sydney manages when her soul returns to her body. Carmy lays his head on her hip and closes his eyes, lips glistening. “I think I ruined your couch.”
He snorts out a laugh. “I could not fucking care less about this couch, Syd,” he murmurs, pressing one final kiss to her inner thigh before he climbs back up onto the couch with her. She reaches for him, still dizzy with want, for whatever he will give her and more. She grazes her hand across his dick over his underwear and he makes a weird hiccuping sound, a muscle in his jaw twitching as his eyes flutter shut.
“Yeah?” Sydney asks. There’s a teasing lilt to her tone that makes Carmy smile, leaning in to capture her lips in another kiss.
“Mm, mm-hmm,” he hums, his teeth knocking against hers. Sydney shoves him, gently, onto his back, helps him yank his underwear off, laughs at him a little bit because he wants to keep his socks on. It’s Sydney’s turn to admire Carmy, all splotchy raspberry red speckling his skin and wispy golden-brown hair down his stomach and marbled muscle like Michelangelo’s David. His dick is flushed pink and pretty and hard against his bellybutton. He looks like a Renaissance painting. She wants to frame him and hang him in the Art Institute. She’s so obsessed with him, and it’s terrifying, and it’s just right.
“Can you tell me where your condoms are?” Sydney asks, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. Carmy opens one eye, smiling like he’s trying not to.
“There’s maybe like, three of them buried in my bathroom cabinet somewhere,” he says. “Hopefully they’re still fine.”
Sydney has to search the cabinet under Carmy’s sink, which conveniently lets her snoop. She moves aside foaming shower cleaner and glass cleaner and Fabuloso (lots of cleaning products—green flag), a couple rolls of toilet paper, two bottles of fancy shampoo and one bottle of a green apple scented dollar store conditioner, copious bars of Irish Spring soap, hair gel, and an unopened bottle of leave-in conditioner that she’s 90% sure Nat bought for him. She successfully finds a stray condom shoved in the back, trying and failing not to be too eager when she dashes back into the living room.
Carmy is still stretched out luxuriously, his pupils swallowing up the blue in his eyes. “Sorry I took so long,” Sydney says, dangling the condom in the air triumphantly. “I may have been snooping.”
“Oh, really?” Carmy laughs. “What did you find?”
“Nothing much, except that your hair would probably really appreciate it if you used that leave-in conditioner,” she half-teases.
“That was part of a Christmas gift from Sugar,” he says, confirming her suspicions. “A couple years ago. It was full of ‘self-care’ shit.” He shrugs, and Sydney settles herself back on top of him, straddling one of his thighs. Carmy reaches for her, brings her close. They don’t act yet, content to let their hands wander. Sydney smooths her palm against one of the tattoos on Carmy’s chest, a pegasus. Carmy traces his fingers across the curve of her spine. The sun has set, and the sky is turning a milky blue, a sliver of silver moon beginning to glow. The colors from the TV flicker on Carmy’s skin.
“Can I turn the light on?” Carmy asks, sounding as soft as Sydney feels. She’s all ooey gooey marshmallow fluff, wondering faintly how having sex could be so sweet. She’s never experienced this before; her few other sexual encounters always felt impersonal, furtive, and dirty. Somewhat physically satisfying, but not much else. It made her feel incredibly lonely.
This is so much different.
Sydney nods, and Carmy leans over to switch on the nearby table lamp, illuminating them in muted yellow light. “That’s better,” he says, tilting her chin upwards so he can kiss her. Sydney melts into it, and they get carried away again. Carmy massages the ache between her thighs, and her brain goes stupid. She reaches out to return the favor but he pushes her hand away, and she stops kissing him, startled.
“Sorry Syd, I just.” He hasn’t stopped blushing. “If you do that, I don’t think I’ll last very long.”
“Oh.” Sydney bites her lip. “Maybe we should get on with it, then.”
“Yeah, yeah, we should,” Carmy’s voice comes out in a breathy whisper. God, she’s a fucking goner.
He swears quietly while she rolls on the condom, trying to indulge in the fleeting moment of getting to touch his dick. And then she sinks down, down, forgetting how to breathe for a second at the sensation spreading through her veins like wildfire. Carmy goes quiet and completely still, and he looks like he’s in pain. Sydney frowns.
“You okay Carm?” she asks.
“I’m so good, so good, Syd, it’s just a lot, give me a minute,” Carmy mumbles, and Sydney takes his hand, threading their fingers together. Her other hand winds into his hair, smoothing stray curls away from his forehead. His chest rises and falls with deep breaths for a minute before he taps Sydney’s hip and nods, telling her “You can move,” and she does. She snaps her hips forward and they both moan brokenly. She sets a rhythm, lets herself get lost in it.
Carmy can’t keep his eyes open, and Sydney watches his every micro-expression in lieu of his intense stare—the way his jaw goes slack and his eyebrows scrunch and his tongue hits the roof of his mouth. They’re still holding hands, clasped together on the pillow next to Carmy’s ear. His other hand is on her hip, firm and strong, pushing and pulling. Guiding her to hit the spot that makes her vision go hazy and white.
“Feeling good?” Carmy asks, which is a silly question. She feels fucking spectacular, and she can’t stop making sounds to show for it, but the fact that he asked at all makes the warmth pooling in her belly turn to molten lava.
“Yes, yeah, amazing,” she breathes, trailing off into a whiny moan as he fucks her harder. She’s starting to teeter towards the precipice of her orgasm, and Carmy immediately brings her closer to the edge when he says, “Yeah, you feel so fucking good,” and his words hit her like a lightning strike to her lower half.
“God, Carmy,” Sydney hears herself saying, high-pitched and foreign to her own ears. She reaches down to rub her clit just as Carmy opens his eyes, and he watches her, mesmerized, both of their movements getting erratic, desperate.
Carmy covers her hand with his own, starts to ask, “Can I—“ but Sydney cuts him off, answers, “Please,” and he barely touches her before she falls apart, gasping out a litany of curses, and she’s a star going supernova.
She rides Carmy through it, and he comes right after her, silent and rigid and entirely beautiful. He’s somewhere else, and he’s all around her, and she can’t remember where her body ends and his begins. And then he comes back down to earth and he’s so relaxed, all butter and jam spread out across the couch cushions. Sydney begs her brain to never forget it.
Carmy throws the condom away in the little garbage can next to the couch. Sydney repositions herself in his lap, wondering if she should stand up, give him space, make a run for it—but then he just slumps back onto the couch, eyes half-lidded.
He’s so serene, calmer than she’s ever seen him. He looks like a cherub. Sydney feels a surge of affection, and she leans down to kiss his forehead. Carmy looks at her, his gaze pillow-soft. His pupils are enormous.
“Syd,” he says weakly, separating their still-joined hands to snake his arms around her waist and pull her to his chest. Her braids spill over him, and the butterflies in her stomach start flapping their wings.
Sydney gives herself approximately one minute to savor it. “This is really nice,” she starts, “but the last time I didn’t pee after sex, I actually did get a UTI, so…”
Carmy releases his grasp, and Sydney stands, grabbing her sweater and her underwear and throwing them on. “Also, can we maybe go lay in your bed?”
Carmy nods no less than ten times. “Yeah, of course,” he agrees. “I’ll be in there when you’re done, okay?”
Sydney nods. She darts into the bathroom and closes the door.
While she washes her hands, she catches her reflection in the mirror. She looks a little bit of a mess, her lips kiss-swollen and her scarf missing from her hair and a tiny bruise beginning to bloom on her neck. She feels good, though. No panic, no dread. Just happy.
Carmy’s room is as sparse as the rest of his apartment. There’s no art on the white walls, and a single lamp on his nightstand is all the light in the room. Carmy sits on the edge of his bed, his head down. He’s wearing sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts from the Beef.
“Whoa, throwback,” Sydney says, gesturing to his shirt. Carmy looks up, and his eyes are red-rimmed and teary. Panic hits Sydney at freight train speed.
“Uh,” she stammers, her heart in her throat. “Um, I’m sorry, I-I can—I’ll leave, I’ll—“
“Syd,” Carmy interrupts, “stop. It’s okay. I’m fine.”
She frowns. “You look upset.”
“I’m not upset.” He worries his knuckle over his upper lip. “I’m…I don’t really know. Overwhelmed, I guess.”
Sydney studies him, measuring his hangdog stare. “Bad overwhelmed? Or…good overwhelmed?”
“Good overwhelmed,” Carmy answers instantly, letting out a shaky breath as more tears fall. “Sorry, I don’t know why…”
Sydney climbs onto the bed, laying back and beckoning Carmy towards her. “Come here,” she whispers. He does. She hugs him close and he tucks his head into the crook of her arm, sniffling faintly.
“I got you.” She rubs his back underneath his shirt, smooth, warm skin under her palm. “I got you.”