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It’s another nightmare that gets Carmy up and running. Literally.
And he’s not this kind of guy. The kind that is infatuated with working out and staying fit and having this fucking athletic build that apparently made the ladies go crazy. Not that he was hoping for any of that. (Certainly not in the Post-Claire haze he’s living in). It’s just something he knows is the end goal for a lot of these guys.
But it’s good. It’s good for him to do something to distract from the fact that he might set his entire apartment on fire if he doesn’t get the hell out of there and breathe in some cold, cold air into his lungs. Lungs that are rapidly depleting by way of daily cigarettes and nicotine becoming a need even more than before.
Before. Before. Before. What even was that? Because that’s how he’s come to divvy up his life. The Before (Mikey is alive.) and The After (Mikey shot himself in the head.)
So he takes breaks to hack up a few coughs that burn his chest all the way down to his toes. It could make him laugh, dealing with the consequences of his own actions like this. He smokes. He runs. He just about fucking dies on the streets of Chicago at three in the goddamn morning because he can’t deal with shit like a normal human being.
Although, there is this thing. The take a run around the nearest park when he’s losing his ability to breathe thing. His going-to-bed attire somehow fits a normal workout attire, a simple white t-shirt, and sweatpants. A random pair of sneakers on his feet that he’d barely taken a second glance at.
And maybe making it even harder to breathe is making it even harder to not feel like he’s dying, but it seems to be doing something . Masochistic as he is, he does stop to take a break ten minutes in.
His hands still shake. Flashes of people, of friends, come into his head with less frequency. They’re red from how hard he had clenched them into fists as he ran. Wisps of…something escape his mouth with every gasp.
Is that normal? He thinks to himself before glancing up. What he sees almost makes him jump.
“This isn’t funny,” Carmy mumbles to what has apparently become an apparition of Sydney in front of him. He wipes his hands on the soft material of his pants.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” This Probably Not Real Sydney questions, “I hope it isn’t.”
Carmy blinks, still steadying himself from what he can now only recall as a sprint akin to finishing a marathon in second to last place. His eyebrows knit together, “I, uh—you—are you real?”
Sydney laughs like she’s a little scared and also like this is genuinely funny. It’s kind of hypnotizing, her face. He’s reminded of how often he finds himself just— staring . “I am, unfortunately. ”
“No. Fortunately. Very fortunately,” He corrects with ease, swallowing harshly, rubbing his knuckles because it’s actually kind of cold out here now that he’s coming down from the adrenaline rush. “Why?” And then adds, “I mean, why are you here? In the park.” to not seem so much like the asshole he most definitely is.
“I could ask you the same thing. This is pretty far from your place,” She gestures behind herself, “The restaurant is, like, right over there. I was just there, trying to figure out a dish. And now I’m here.”
(Seems like they’re both a little crazy for wanting to traverse the streets so late.)
She could go in whenever she wanted now anyway. He had given her and Natalie a copy of the keys. He forgot about that. He’s also surprised he somehow made it this far from his apartment without really thinking about it. Like it’s second nature.
“Now you’re here…” Carmy repeats quietly. He rubs a hand down his face, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds. His hair is damp, sweat sliding down his forehead. “I was running. It—helps. Kind of. Nature and shit.”
She nods and doesn’t question what he would need help with which he’s grateful for. “Heard,” Her gaze is burning him, looking at every inch of him. Inside and out. “But it’s also fucking freezing out here. So.”
That snaps him back with a nod, “Yeah, it is. Do you—can I see what you were doing? The dish?”
Sydney raises her eyebrows, “Uh, yeah. Yeah, of course. If you want to.”
Carmy sniffs, hoping he won’t turn sick from this whole endeavor. That would suck. “I want to.”
It’s as close to a promise as he’s getting. She smiles, looking especially soft in her puffed-up jacket to fend off the cold. He wonders for a fleeting moment why he hardly ever sees without an apron on anymore. They haven’t hung out as often. Not really. That should change.
_____
He would wake up the following day, not in his bed but beside her on the surprisingly clean floor of the dining area. He’s not entirely sure when they ever moved here because they spent most of the early morning arguing over what condiments go best on hotdogs. They weren’t even planning on having hotdogs on the menu.
Carmy stares at their ceiling, a warm sort of feeling settling in his stomach. It travels everywhere, down to his toes. It’s off-putting, knowing this is something new. Something he can’t rely on precedent for. There’s a comfort there, too, because he’s so new to all of this. It’s up to him. Solely him. No one can take that from him.
Sydney is turned away from him, dangerously close to kicking a table in her sleep.
There’s another shoe here , a voice that sounds deceivingly like him thinks. His breath hitches and he’s scared to do anything but lay there. But then she mumbles something in her sleep that he can’t understand and yet it makes him laugh, realizing he can tease her for talking in her sleep when she wakes up. The tightness in his chest loosens for a second.
His back hurts. His heart doesn’t.