Chapter Text
25th, 24th, 23rd…
He feels it in the slow descent of the elevator shaft towards the ground floor; how he sinks back down into himself from wherever the fuck he’s been. It’s in the way his limbs swell and spark with need and want for things that have long existed to him yet seem completely undiscovered. It’s that foreign feeling of how solid his feet feel in his shoes, the stupidly tight leather. He feels it in how his head is finally kick starting after months of static, showing him old things in a blinding new light. It’s whatever is tearing itself free in his chest. He’s not even concerned because it just feels strangely good.
19th, 18th, 17th…
Carmy vaguely recalls nodding through the end of the interview and the woman’s promise to stay in touch. He knows that he tripped right outside her office; his legs feeling unused and new. He remembers laughing to himself, trying to stifle it into his hand, as he waited for the elevator to reach him.
14th, 13th, 12th…
He’s not sure about what medical issue or episode this is, but he’s survived far worse, so he leaves his body pliant under the insistent drum reminding him that he’s here, here, here.
He shrugs off his tie to make room for the pulse in his neck, afraid that stifling it will make it disappear. He tries breathing, leaning back against one of the walls and hauling hair and feeding whatever it is the oxygen it needs to keep on going. He clenches his fist so as to not give it the chance to escape through his fingertips.
9th, 8th, 7th…
He’s pretty sure he fucked it, the interview. But he doesn’t feel bad about it. He feels… more here than he’s ever felt. He bombed it and he’s still here.
4th, 3rd, 2nd…
The doors slide open and he’s confronted with a host of people in shirts and ties. Their faces each give their own iteration of what in the truly fuck, and now Carmy is acutely aware that he appears as a flushed, semi-dressed mess with a rabid look in his eyes. He rushes past them, careful not to allow simple embarrassment to slow whatever is rushing and swishing through his organs. He’s already planning out his apology to Stevie; how he will have to explain the shitty interview and pretty much fleeing the building. He sees the door and pushes through them and -
“I don’t know how long it’s supposed to take Nat. My last interview was a... thirty second conversation on the phone with your brother -
Now that slows him down. The animated inflections of her voice is unmistakable between the clutter and noise of a busy sidewalk. He knows that he likes when she speaks; how he’s never heard someone use the full musicality of their voice around simple letters. The new indulgence though is in finding a way to ask her to never stop speaking to him.
“...Dude, I’m not fucking snooping around! I’ve seen like only two other black people here…”
She’s pacing in one of her jackets - the patchwork, colourful one. He knows it too well. Often his mind wanders and plays with the patterns and colours of a lot of her clothes; finding identical notes in the trees opposite his kitchen window and produce that used to fill the walk-in. Carmy is now painfully aware that he shows his appreciation by mindlessly plating the same colours. He immediately recognises that she’s wearing a new shirt. Or maybe it’s one he hasn’t seen yet. A graphic tee that is just as colourful as the jacket and somehow so inoffensive in the way that only Syd has mastered. If he gets closer, he’ll be able to see what artist she’s paying homage to and subconsciously remember it as part of her music catalogue.
“...oh, amazing, I didn’t realise I was on speaker Natalie. No, Neil. I haven’t asked Stevie about- he left for a second anyway. Neil, the rule about not speaking to me on my day off, this still applies. So kindly fuck off, please and thank you.”
There is still that thrum that’s breaking his body down and building it back up again and it somehow intensifies as he gets closer.
“Wait, I see him! Bye, Nat. I’ll call you and you only.”
Syd eats up the couple of steps between them as he does.
“Shit, sorry I’m late. There was a whole fucking… thing with the El,” she rushes out.
She’s a picture of furrowed eyebrows and teeth biting at her bottom lip. She’s worried but Carmy likes the novelty of this specific type of worry on her; how it comes from fondness and care.
He tries to speak, tries to tell her that him mentioning the date and time of his interview was him telling her that he was actually fucking doing it not some obligation for her to actually be here. He tries to tell her that he’s happy that she’s here anyway; that he’s glad he has somehow built up enough goodwill for her to be here today. He tries to say that he likes her new hairstyle; how he meant to say that first last week when Tina was gushing about it.
But his interview was five minutes ago, and his voice is tired out from saying these unnatural things that are first to mind; that he fully intends without the mincing from anxiety and doubt.
“Christ Carm, you’re looking… quite literally insane.” She laughs but it’s uneasy. He catches her hand flinching upwards, but she expertly lays it back down at her side.
"He looks down at his feet, shaking his hands out and tries to summon something that she can have and understand.
“Look, Stevie will be back in a second. He just ducked in to say hi to someone.”
He feels himself nodding through her words, through the feelings bubbling inside.
He must look pitiful because she allows her hand to settle on his shoulder and fuck shoulder pads because he missed her solidness. Even thinking that, that he misses her fucking solidness, takes him by surprise.
“It’s okay if it went bad, y’know,” she tries again as she ducks her head slightly. “Like that’s the whole point, I think. It’s about… trying. And doing something new.”
He does something crazy by reaching a hand up and settling it over hers and for a second he feels bad that his hand is all calloused and cut up but he feels the same grooves and nicks along her own knuckles. Syd must not hate it because she doesn’t back away and rather continues. “Like if it’s bad then that’s just it. Like fuck it, there are still… onions that need cutting and another service straight up from hell.”
Carmy meets her gaze now. His eyes dance between the playfulness in hers.
“And-and there’s babysitting Sophie because dear god, Nat needs a fucking break. And there’s those dinners with your mom which are semi-painful but kinda good.” He squeezes her hand and his mind, all shiny and new and alive, does the job of providing a reel of images as she narrates.
“And that day that you’ll finally stop calling my dad sir because it creeps me and him out. And, dude, we’ve got Tina’s 50th… and 60th and 70th.”
She’s doing it again, mirroring what he can’t really get out himself but feels just as strongly. But there’s that all new need and want that has him wanting to mirror it right back at her.
“And… the restaurant you want named after your mom, Syd.” It’s him this time, quietly and all raspy but she hears it.
Her eyes widen. “I said that to you after three, regrettable glasses of champagne after Eva’s party. And we said that we’d strike that from the record.”
He nods to let it slide because he does have a habit of being intense with her when she least expects it. But it’s all he has in his arsenal when the simple existence of her in his life is the most intense thing he’s experienced.
Syd dips them back into more comfortable waters. “And no offence, but there’s a visit to Ikea just waiting for you. Several actually! Like your apartment still looks sad as fuck. Like where’s the artsy european vibe or eclectic manhattan inspo. I mean, I still have ways to go too but like I’m way better than you.”
That does make him laugh, one of his breathy chuckles.
“And if this doesn’t work,” she waves at the large building, “there’s community college or some other… cousin of yours to get you an in somewhere. And, and -”
His body is still experiencing a chemical reaction, and he knows that this is his chance to grab at one of these long existing, completely undiscovered things. So Carmy pushes air out his mouth and straightens the fuck up.
“And Kasama, Syd.”
“Yeah! Wait, what?”
He’s speaking without permission now. Fucking clawing at her hand. “Joy and amusement, Syd. There’s joy and amusement. Maybe it’s been there the whole time, right there in front of me with you and everyone, and I’ve just been… God knows where.”
She tries to get her hand back, but he doesn’t let her. "Dude, truly. What in the fuck are you saying?”
“I’m saying… asking, really. I mean, if I may still ask for things because I understand if you can’t, like, have me ask anything of you for the rest of our lives.” He spiraling but there’s that thrum inside him that redirects.
“I need and want… you and me at Kasama. I mean if you’d like that or want that too. But I’d like that.”
“Like…”
“Like going out. A date. Anywhere really. Dinner and even fucking brunch. Joy and amusement,” he huffs out.
He knows that he’s blubbering and floundering but then there’s her body sinking against his.
And he remembers why he loved their hug. It’s the shoulder to shoulder, the hip bone to hip bone, the chest to chest. Now, they have their hugs as placeholders for all that is overwhelming and spilling between them. He finds his arms going under her jacket and wrapping his arms around her torso in a greedy way completely not normal to regular hugs. Her arms are just as tight around his shoulders with her cheek squeezed to his neck.
“Only you Carmen, I swear.” she laughs against him and his cheeks twinge because yeah, in retrospective it’s so fucking obvious. Like he’s not remotely casual about anything relating to her. He’s already bookmarked that she listens to someone called Ayra Starr just from peeking at her shirt.
“So like yes or…” he urges.
She pulls back, resting both her hands on his shoulders now, gripping at his shoulder pads in her own not normal way. Maybe he has his answer already in the bright apples of her cheeks and the stretch of her lips around a toothy smile.
“I mean, I’m employed and busy as fuck.” He’s still blushing but squeezes her waist at her ribbing. “And I have, like, a fuck load of questions.” He hopes to God that he has the answers; answers that won’t scare her or him.
Though, Syd turns shy and buries her head back against his neck. Carmy doesn’t mind and his mind already runs with the idea that it’s her spot now anyways.
“Like, when did this start for you? And why now?” she mumbles and he has to not concentrate on the honeyed way her balmed lips brush against his neck.
“Syd…”
“Dude, I mean you’re like a complete mystery one second, and then the next you’re like saying the most insane thing!”
He reminds himself that she doesn’t know about the plates of lamb, and the stolen scrunchie and notebook and the amount of time he just stares at her. Looking at the entire picture makes it really fucking embarrassing for him but she knows enough. Like the fucking blood orange hamachi, and that he told her that he likes this, and their completely normal fight in the alley.
‘For a long time, Syd. Which is so fucked. I get that,” he confesses. He waits for her to shirk away but she doesn’t, and her next words are kind of muffled into his neck.
“Well, it’s kinda the same for me. Oh, God. I mean up until now, I thought I had more skin in the game.”
He shakes his head at that; his cheek being tickled by the newly curled strands of her braids. “You don’t even want to fucking know, Syd.”
She laughs again because what else can they do at just how long and convoluted this has become. It makes her chest knock against his and he pulls her impossibly closer to absorb it.
“Like, I’m even thinking of doing something insane like kissing you on a sidewalk right in the centre of the fucking CBD.”
Her laughing stops short and he’s worried that he’s already blown it before they could even get started but she pulls aways and looks at him, eyebrows raised and eyes daring.
And he’s already done such a disservice to himself by denying himself the gift of being present and feeling, so he kisses her right there. He kisses her in the way they both deserve: warm lips meeting shyly and then firmer and not-so shy anymore, cheeks cradled in his hands, teeth nicking at her bottom lip at just the right time and asking for permission, licking into her mouth and absorbing both their groans.
And he’s obsessed with the fact that underneath the faint earthiness of her morning matcha he tastes Syd. He tastes her so well that he’s pretty sure this is what was missing from all those tossed plates of lamb. The buzz that’s been building inside him for the past half hour finds peace in the warmth of her mouth, the solidness of her tongue, the sounds that she’s letting free.
He pulls back because they both need to breathe to keep at this.
“What the fuck?” they both say against each other’s mouth. And there’s more laughter because of that. In the past month, he’s laughed more than he has in the past couple of years. Carmy allows himself new indulgence by pecking at the corner of her lips, her cheeks, on her fucking teeth because she’s still giggling.
“Yeah, Berzatto. You can take me out.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes! Now come back here.”