Chapter Text
The offerings were substantially different each visit. Consistency seems to be the weak link here. While the food offered an insight into the chefs’ technical talents, it dulled when it came to displaying their passions. The Bear is many things: bold, brilliant, occasionally transcendent. But for now, it remains a restaurant in search of a center.
Carmen’s eyes read over the review a few times until he realizes that he’s not blinking. He’s not breathing.
The Bear is many things…But for now, it remains a restaurant in search of a center.
He grips his phone and tightly shuts his eyes, ignoring the tears that drop momentarily relieving him from the stinging.
“Fuck,” he exhales what feels like the last air in his lungs. He looks up at the skyline, inhales deeply, lets it fill him until all he can hear is the thud of his heartbeat. He releases it, again and again, until the blood quiets in his ears.
"Occasionally transcendent." What does that even fucking mean? Are those the days when he can shut out the noise and focus? Maybe it’s the chaos that makes him great—maybe it’s peace that dulls him. Maybe those flashes of brilliance aren’t his at all. Maybe it’s Sydney holding them up, and he’s dragging her down.
His stomach twists. Has he been dulling her spark this whole time?
The past few months blur together in his mind. R&D sessions, late prep, menu revisions. Her dishes. Her voice. Her presence. The fucking margins on the menu. And now the Tribune thinks The Bear is rudderless. A kitchen lost at sea.
He chews through the last piece of nicotine gum like it might give him answers. His dream– him and Mikey’s, and now The Bear is “ in search of a center, ” according to the Tribune.
He holds his hand to his mouth like he’s taking a drag of a cigarette and he tries to focus on what the Tribune is asking of him, of The Bear. A center? Damn sure isn’t him. The place would be better off without him. The Bear with Carmy at the center looks like… like a failure, fuck if he knows. He doesn’t deserve to be at the center, no. The Bear deserves to be focused on the people who make it what it is like Sydney and Sugar and fucking Richie, and Tina, and Ebra. Isn’t that what it already is? If they aren’t, then what’s the point of all the shit he’s been doing?
Carmy thinks about Sydney and the texts he saw earlier in the group chat about the party at her new apartment. She doesn’t deserve this—not the review, not the weight of his spirals, not the way he’s made her goals into a punishment instead of a partnership. She deserves someone steady beside her. Someone who doesn’t unravel every time the air gets too quiet. He’s not Andrea. Or Thomas Keller. Or whoever else she’s read about, dreamed of working with, deserved to learn under. He’s fucking Carmy, a bitch that she has to babysits on his shift when shit doesn’t go his way.
He pulls up the review on his phone again. Thinking about sending it to her, just texting it with a simple “can we talk?” Like maybe she’ll read between the lines and understand what he can’t say directly: I’m sorry. I fucked up. I think I’m ruining this. But that would be selfish. A way to offload his panic, to drag her out of her joy just because he’s incapable of holding anything without crushing it. He would be spoiling her night with a piece that boils all of their work to a string of inconsistencies.
He imagines Syd in her new apartment surrounded by everyone, enjoying herself and everyone enjoying her. It’s hard to not smile in Syd’s presence. He thinks of their menu development in his apartment. He has so few memories like that with her, yet they replay over and over in his mind. He looks back at his phone and swipes away the review. The groupchat stares back at him. People are already there. Her address is right there, he could be there in 10 minutes.
His heart races. He stares at the intersection in front of him, traffic lights changing, people walking past. Maybe showing up would ruin everything. Make it weird. Make him weird.
But is this how he centers his family? By disappearing?
The gum’s doing nothing. His jaw aches. He throws the packet into a nearby trash can and runs a hand through his hair. He should go to her.
This might be the last easy night before everything changes—before Jimmy starts breathing down their necks, before another critic walks through the door, before he forgets how to breathe under the weight of the thing he built to honor Mikey and somehow turned into a cage.
The party’s probably already loud. Everyone’s probably buzzed. Tina would’ve brought something thoughtful, a plant or wine. Ebra’s probably dominating some corner with a monologue about jazz. Sydney, holding court like she doesn't know she’s the reason everyone showed up.
He tells himself it would be selfish to go. To bring this mood, this review, into her night. To show up and drag her back into his spiral.
But not going— not going —feels like letting something rot. Like leaving a dish unfinished, half-prepped on the counter, waiting for someone else to make it make sense. And he’s tired of not doing anything, of letting it fester. That makes him the center, he isn’t the fucking center. She is. They are. And he should be with them.
He doesn’t remember most of the walk—just the sound of traffic, the ghost of a cigarette he didn’t smoke, and the metallic taste of guilt sitting heavy on his tongue. He rounds the corner to her block and slows down when he sees the cars parked messily along the curb, people laughing inside with the windows cracked, light spilling out onto the pavement like it’s trying to pull him in.
He stops across the street, heart hammering, breath shallow. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say. Doesn’t even know if he’ll go up. He just wants to see that she’s okay. That she hasn’t seen the review. That she’s not thinking about him. He climbs 3 flights of stairs, thinking of how he's going to be cool when he walks in there. How he’ll be present and not stressed.
But then he sees her.
Sydney’s slumped against the wall just outside the apartment door. She’s crouched low, back against the door of her apartment, head down, one arm wrapped tight around her ribs like she’s holding herself in place. Her other hand shakes as she tries to pull in breath after breath, but it’s all shallow. Not enough. Not even close.
Carmy stands there for a second like he’s walking into a dangerous scene. He has to do this. He has to be present.
He jogs up to her, slows when he sees the panic in her face—eyes wide, locked on nothing, lips parted like she’s trying to speak but forgot how.
“Hey, hey—” he drops to a knee beside her. “Sydney. Syd. You with me?”
She flinches when he says her name, and doesn't look at him.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he says, voice low, calm, the way he talks to Sugar on the phone. “Can you breathe with me?”
He doesn’t touch her, but he moves close enough that she can hear him, feel the rhythm of his voice cutting through the muffled party on the other side of the door.
“In for four,” he whispers. “C’mon. One, two, three—”
Her chest shakes. It’s not enough.
“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, trying again. “You’re not alone. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
She blinks, slow and confused, like she’s trying to piece together where she is. Her gaze finally flicks to him. She has tears down her face and they’re both in the same clothes from the Ever funeral. He thinks about the last time he saw her, before he confronted Fields and he says all the things he wishes someone would’ve said to him.
“You’re okay,” he says again. “Just stay with me, yeah? Just breathe. You’re doing great.”
She nods once. A jagged breath rattles out of her. Then another.
“I—I’m sorry,” she chokes.
“You don’t have to explain,” he says. Now he’s sitting perpendicular to her. His back against the wall adjacent to her apartment door. His knees are in his chest and he’s trying not to bump his loafers into her sneakers. She’s looking straight ahead and taking deep breaths and he’s watching the rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes.
“Thanks,” she mutters as she dries her face.
“Of course,” he replies. He’s looking her in her eyes now, filled with delayed worry and curiosity. How long has this been going on?
“Syd-”
“Carm-”
They both pause. Sydney lets out a watery sigh and Carmy is trying to remember to be present, but his emotions are weighing heavy on him.
The hallway light flickers once, soft and yellow, like it’s tired too.
Sydney wipes the back of her hand under her nose, then her cheeks. There’s nothing left of her panic attack, but it gives her something to do besides stare at the floor. Her legs still feel numb. Her heart’s not pounding anymore—it’s thudding, dull and low, like it’s run out of adrenaline and just wants to sleep.
“I’m good,” her voice shakes as she lies. .
“You don’t have to be,” he says. She stares at him a beat too long and nods.
Inside, someone laughs too loud. Probably Richie. Maybe Marcus. The party’s still going. She hates that she can hear it.
“I’m embarrassed,” she admits.
“You don’t have to be,” he repeats.
His curls are a mess. His eyes look wrecked in that Carmy way—red-rimmed, not just from exhaustion but from holding too much in for too long. She wonders if he cried before he came here. Wonders how his conversation with Fields went if it took him so long to show.
“I don’t want to ruin it for anyone,” she says.
“You won’t.”
“You probably will.”
He almost smiles. Not quite. “Yeah.”
They sit in the quiet for a few more seconds. Her legs ache from being curled so long. Carmy moves first, standing with that slow grace like he’s still in a kitchen. He offers her a hand.
She hesitates then takes it.
Inside, the apartment is full—voices bouncing off the walls, music low but steady, laughter in the kitchen. Marcus is talking to Luca near the window, Tina and Ebra are doing something loud and competitive with wine bottles, and there’s pizza crumbs all over the coffee table. Andrea is the first to say good night, and then Tina and Ebra. Luca and Marcus talk for god knows how long in the bay window, questioning each other on different techniques and pairings. For a second, Sydney is jealous. She used to have that with Carmy. Now he’s in her living room picking up empty cups in her apartment like he wasn’t just ignoring her for the past few months in the restaurant they built.
After Marcus and Luca say their goodnights, the room feels even fuller with just her and Carmy picking up. Sydney moves to the kitchen to clean her and Chef Terry’s mess while Carmy finishes bagging trash.
He’s standing near the kitchen window, arms folded, chewing the inside of his cheek like he’s waiting for service to start again. He’s been quiet most of the night—hovering at the edges, never more than a few feet away.
Sydney rinses a glass just to keep her hands moving. When she finally speaks, her voice is low.
“You gonna tell me what’s going on?”
He doesn’t move.
“Carmy.”
He looks at her then. Tired. Guarded. Something raw in his posture, like he’s already bracing for impact.
“I’m fine,” he says.
“You’re a shit liar.”
He almost smiles. Doesn’t.
Sydney dries her hands on a dish towel, leans against the counter. “You look like hell. You barely spoke. I know you, Carm. Something’s wrong.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah.” Everything he wants to say is so far away. All of the apologies and explanations and feelings are in the deepest part of his throat and he’s choking on it.They’re heavy in his throat, thick with everything he hasn’t let himself feel since he was in the freezer. He stares at her as if all of those things can be communicated through glances. That would take some of the guilt away. Some of the stress.
Sydney looks confused and she lets out a huff. She can’t keep doing this. Can’t keep guessing what his icy blues are fighting to say when he can't even fix his mouth to say something that might alleviate the heaviness that’s grown to be a part of them. But she’s an accomplice. Allowing everything to slip and build up to this moment.
“You ever think we’re bad at talking?” Sydney asks, her voice light, so light that it makes Carmy feel guilty for holding it all in. His shoulders shake and breaths out a shaky laugh. His face is red as he keeps chuckling and Sydney's eyes widen in shock. She lets out a shaky breath as Carmy laughs with tears streaking his cheeks.
“We really need to talk,” he lets out between sniffles.