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Carmy's not sure if he cared about hands so much before he started cooking — professionally, that is, not just the weekend stuff with his brother in their childhood kitchen — or if it's the hours spent obsessing about the positioning of his own hands on a knife, the handle of a pan, the curve of a tomato, that led him to this point. The point being—
"Fuck, chef." Carmy exhales when Sydney's hand strokes up, up, up and her thumb swipes across the tip of his dick.
—the point being, he's really into Sydney's hands right now. Occupational hazard or sex-induced thought, Carmy's pretty sure he could write poetry about Sydney's hands and not just the one on his dick but also the one grasping at his thigh, holding on for balance or life or both. If he ever took up a pen for anything else but recipe scribbles and signing vendor invoices, that is. If he even had the time or willpower or even the fucking words to describe how he feels about those hands.
He thinks about the occupational hazard part of it once more and wonders if this will be a problem when tomorrow arrives, when they're in the kitchen again and Sydney has her hands on a knife instead of his dick and he needs to be professional about it. He sort of shrugs it off mentally, figures it'll be fine, like he'd been doing fine not thinking about her in any kind of inappropriate way until tonight.
Tonight, two months after The Bear's opening, during an unusual occurrence of post-service family drinks. Tonight, after a dinner service that had destroyed them a little but not as badly as the previous one, after happy faces had trickled out the door one by one, with compliments to the kitchen and promises to come back and tell friends about The Bear that Carmy had heard without really believing in any of it.
He'd been fine, chugging along and being a non-believer, least of all in himself, until tonight. The post-rush buzz under Carmy's skin is steady and comforting, almost more than his own pulse, erratic at best and even more so when he goes out to the back to smoke and Sydney joins him a few beats later. She closes the door behind her, an oddity in itself. Everyone lets it slam shut on its own usually, but Sydney closes it with purpose and walks up to him.
"Nice job tonight, Chef. I feel like we're getting the hang of this."
"Do you?" Carmy asks,voice tentative and soft, taking a drag out of his cigarette.
He thinks of how much she's grown in those two months — hell, since she joined The Beef, even — and he doesn't want to use the cliché apprentice-surpasses-the-master adage but there are just things that Sydney excels at and he doesn't. Gaps she can fill where he's utterly useless. Perhaps even gaps in his character that she fills in for seamlessly, almost. It's a good symbiosis, good chemistry. It fucking works, and it's working better and better with each service.
"I do."
And Carmy— Carmy doesn't believe in himself, doesn't believe in others believing in him. Usually. But tonight, when Sydney says that she feels they're getting the hang of this, Carmy almost starts to believe.
"Thanks. It's— Thanks." Carmy taps out the ash of his cigarette, more to keep his focus on something than because he really needs to. "Couldn't have done it without you, you know." Puts the cigarette back in his mouth and keeps his gaze straight ahead, noticing the way Sydney seems to be closer to him than she was a moment prior.
"Carmy." Sydney says, plucking away the cigarette from his mouth and crushing it under her shoe. "Thank you."
For what , Carmy almost starts saying, instead fixating on how close Sydney's face is to his, the rush of the evening, of the past few weeks, months , crashing into him all at once like a wave breaking ashore.
Carmy closes the distance and believes in himself, for one split second. It's always a thrill, kissing someone new, numbing, almost; dizzying, for sure. Their lips press for a heavenly second or so before Carmy draws back, swearing.
"Fuck. Sorry, Syd, that was inappropriate."
"Carmy."
"I'm sorry, I'll just— I'll fucking go home, I knew I shouldn't have drunk tonight. Stupid cousin. Always ruining things for me when I'm not ruining them myself."
"Carmy."
Sydney's voice, unwavering and stable, a constant now in Carmy's life, with all the annoyed inflections and deadpan jokes he's come to expect. Sydney's voice, anchoring him back to the present, right there behind The Bear, 1am or so, the din of the rest of the crew inside and—
"I'd really like to make out, Carmy. If that's okay with you."
—and Sydney's lips on his again when he breathes out a Fuck, yes, Syd and she moves swiftly, one hand latching onto his hair and pulling ever so slightly as Carmy gets his bearings and anchors himself, one hand on her hip, the other on her neck.
//
Then: Carmy slipping back inside to grab their jackets and bags, thinking it's going to be impossible to avoid anyone's pressing questions but finding Richie leading what's probably the world's worst card drinking game in the room at the back, the crew somehow enraptured and focused around him as Ebra yells I've played this one before!
Then: getting inside his car and Carmy worrying about the single whiskey-coke he had an hour ago, before the only feeling that's left within him is the embarrassment he feels about bringing Sydney back to his place. Like a fucking college guy about to pull. Except Carmy's never done any of that.
And it's not— it's not that he's a virgin, but he's an inexperienced guy in his very late twenties who can count the number of people he's been with on one hand. Fleeting moments here and there ultimately bringing him more bad than good once the afterglow fades away and the loneliness creeps back on him, when he goes back to the kitchen and it's the cold steel of a knife under his fingers instead of warm skin.
Turns out, you can be the most excellent chef de cuisine at the most excellent restaurant in the US and still be a loser with no game — Richie's words, but Carmy very much so believes it.
The deafening silence in the ride from the Bear to his apartment, gripping the steering wheel with one clammy hand and wiping the other dry on his pants as discreetly as he can. Sydney's presence beside him in the passenger seat, not the first time she's sat there but it feels entirely different tonight.
Carmy gets a glimpse of the clock on the dashboard when he parks — 1:50am. Fuck, this feels— illicit. Like an obscene meaningless midweek Tinder hookup. All these words the opposite of what Carmy realizes he wants this to be.
The walk-up to his apartment, designed to be a tedious affair that will make him combust with every step he climbs, jiggling his keys in one hand and running the other in his hair, nervous as fuck as Syd trails behind him, thinking What the fuck are you doing, ruining the one good thing you've got going .
"Hey chef." Sydney's voice bringing him back again as they reach his doorstep, panic boiling in his blood that she's about to call this off. As she should, why would she be with a loser like you, a fuck up who can barely keep a restaurant afloat and couldn't make it in the big leagues without developing an anxiety disorder, stupid asshole . "Stop thinking so loud, okay? We're okay. You're okay?"
She phrases the last one like a question.
"Yeah," Carmy exhales, acquiescing without much conviction, "yeah."
Carmy unlocks the door and pushes it, closes it after Sydney crosses the threshold and crowds into his space for lack of real estate in the entryway. He wants to kiss her but instead he asks something that sounds a little insane.
"Do you remember your first day staging?"
"Yeah, Carmy, of course."
"Sugar came around that day. She told me to sell to my uncle, I told her I was gonna fix this place even if no one told me to. It felt— I felt fucking stupid in that moment, stupid but hanging on to that crazy thread, to that one idea that I could maybe turn this place around."
"I think you did it now, Carmy."
"Yeah," Carmy feels his eyes well up and fuck , if that isn't the worst fucking time for this, "yeah, think I did. Think we did. Not just you and I, the whole crew."
"Are you—" Sydney doesn't finish her sentence, instead crowds Carmy's personal space even more so and smoothes the pad of her thumb against Carmy's cheek. It's wet because Carmy's crying like a little bitch, apparently. "You're okay, Carmy."
"Yeah, I might be." He says with more conviction this time.
//
The next thing he knows, Sydney's taking his hand and leading him into his own apartment, Carmy feeling shame coursing through his body at the disastrous state of it, hoping that the lights being out means she won't notice it too much. There's an ominous crunch when Sydney steps on something and Carmy swears under his breath, turning on the floor lamp next to the couch.
"Maruchan ramen, really?" Sydney says unimpressed once the offender is revealed.
"You know how it is," Carmy rakes a hand through his hair, "you come back home after a 15-hour day working at a restaurant and the last thing you want to do is cook for yourself."
"Beef flavor is fire."
Carmy chuckles, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders dissolve. "For sure."
He sees Sydney look hesitantly around her, like she's not sure if she should sit, or if the couch can even handle both their weights combined, which is a fair assumption. Carmy hasn't had anyone over yet in this place. Not that he'd had many people over in New York, anyway.
He steps closer and leans in, feeling bold and setting a hand on Sydney's face. The expanse of his hand spans the entirety of Sydney's cheek, his thumb rests against her jawbone.
"This okay?"
"Yes," Sydney breathes out with urgency, "yes."
Kisses her again and then steps backwards until the back of his legs hits the couch and he sits, Sydney getting the silent message as she climbs on, thighs on either side of his, a perfect sight on his lap. There's more heat to their kisses now, a sense of urgency that has Carmy feel like he can never play catch up, like there's always something more to reach, another corner of Sydney's mouth to explore, another plane of her skin to lay his tongue upon as he trails down from the column of her throat to the collar of her t-shirt, pressing, demanding, but soft, ever so soft in his touch.
There's one thing that leads to another, a series of events that Carmy can't be expected to re-tell in the correct order, really, but the point is that Sydney ends up with her t-shirt off and one hand down Carmy's pushed down underwear, Carmy's pants discarded somewhere. Carmy's struggling with coordination as he tries to take off his own shirt while Sydney's hand wanders around his groin, leaving a trail of goosebumps on his upper thigh as she explores but never really brings Carmy any relief.
Until—
The hands thing. Carmy wondering if he's cared about hands so much before. Sydney's hand on his dick, a curious grip around the base of it at first and then a treacherously slow glide upwards, her thumb against the tip and Carmy being mesmerized by her touch. He can't stop staring, can't stop the stupid bucking of hips when she picks up a rhythm, the slight whine that leaves his throat, the—
"You good, Carmy?"
"Y-yeah. Great. Perfect. Really." A wet chuckle, half-disbelief, half-self-deprecating. It feels a bit surreal to be getting a handjob from his colleague, his business partner, his friend .
Carmy's not sure what the manual says on this type of relationship, or any kind of relationship or situationship actually, but he's pretty sure that this isn't the norm. But fuck norms, really, because sometimes you're the most excellent CDC at the most excellent restaurant in the US and then your brother offs himself and you're back home making sandwiches. So, like, Carmy's allowed to go a little off the rails, as a treat, and ignore conventional relationship norms.
"Fuck, sorry, I— sorry—" Carmy says on a particularly treacherous buck of his hips, feeling self-conscious of his own desire and want, overcome by how into this he is. He doesn't have much of a benchmark to compare this to, but this is definitely placing as the number 1 handjob he's ever received.
"Carmy, with all the love I have for you, would you please stop apologizing for a second? Especially when I've got your dick in my hand."
Carmy bites down on his lower lip, trying very hard not to overthink what Sydney just said. With all the love I have for you . With all the love .
"Yeah, right, I can do that."
//
"Hey, can we just—" Sydney's hand finds his hand on top of the covers and he turns his face to the side, looking at her. "I want to, but not… not tonight."
She doesn't turn her head towards him, staring at the ceiling instead. Carmy presses her fingers against his.
(Back on the couch, Carmy had ended up coming onto Sydney's fingers in a pathetic record low amount of time, not without another sorry slipping past his lips. Sydney's retaliation had been to shut him up with a kiss, which was highly effective in preventing Carmy to apologize some more and mostly an hindrance when it came to what he wanted to do next. Which was: to get Sydney out of her pants and then to get his fingers inside of her. They'd managed though, detaching their mouths from one another and Sydney going through the usual ordeal of trying to get your clothes off in both an efficient and sexy manner, failing on both counts as she almost tripped and brained herself on Carmy's coffee table.
But then, he'd maneuvered her on top of himself, getting her cunt right above his face and gripping at her thighs with his hands as she adjusted her position and lowered herself. He'd eaten her out for what had felt like hours but surely must have been minutes, hoping that his lack of (very distant) experience didn't show too much but figuring that the trembles of her thighs under his fingers were enough indication, figuring that the way she got very still for a split second before her entire body relaxed was enough proof that he'd been decent at this. So he'd maneuvered her right back on his lap, pressing a kiss to her temple as she'd slotted herself against him, boneless and chest rising up, down, up, down with urgency.
"Fuck." Sydney had managed to exhale eventually. "Can't move. Stuck here, sorry."
Carmy had seen the perfect opportunity, then.
"Sydney, with all the love I have for you , would you please stop apologizing?"
And he'd seized it, getting up from the couch with Sydney gathered in his arms, almost a bridal carry but not quite.
"I could get used to this, Carmy, don't spoil me like this." Sydney had said as he'd deposited her on his bed, the covers still unmade from this morning.)
Carmy looks at her, the side of her face, the cut of her jaw, the slope of her nose, and for a moment there, all his brain provides in lieu of a reply is an echo of with all the love I have for you, with all the love I have for you , on infinite repeat.
"Yeah, sure thing. No rush. We can do whatever you want."
"No rush." Sydney repeats with a laugh, turning her face to face him now, a glint in her eyes. "No rush, wow, so like, the opposite of the rest of our lives, uh? What happened to 'sense of urgency'?" She strokes her fingers against his knuckles, right where his SOU tattoo is. "Do you wanna take this slow?"
"Okay, I didn't say slow so, like, maybe don't get any wrong ideas here—" Carmy retorts, warmth spreading around his chest at how easy this back-and-forth of banter comes to him when he's with her.
"We can take this any speed we'd like." Sydney says, adequately settling the matter. "By the way," Sydney inexplicably contorts her body to look at the side of the bed, "can't help but notice that you have a bed frame."
She doesn't phrase it as a question but Carmy still acquiesces with a nod.
"Yeah? Is that surprising?"
"Kind of? Sorry, it's just— you know. Kitchen stereotypes and all that. I stepped on ramen in your living room. You told me you've never used the dining table since you moved here, only the coffee table. I have a right to be surprised that you even have a bed frame. But good for you, Carmy."
"No you're— quite spot on, actually. You're right. It is unexpected of me. You should see what's inside my oven."
Sydney's eyes widen at that, demanding to know.
And in this moment, lying on top of the covers, bodies pressed against one another side by side as he tells her, Carmy's mind is quiet, quiet, quiet.