Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“TK, come on, can we talk about this?” Carlos shouts after his boyfriend. He hopes he’s still his boyfriend.

The only response is the storm door slamming. Carlos’s parents would be pissed about that if they were home, but his father is still at work and his mother is supposed to be at Tía Lucy’s all evening. Carlos locks the door behind TK, watching through the window as TK drives off, too fast as usual.

He should text TK. He should fight for him. He’s just so damn tired and he doesn’t even know what he did wrong.

Stomach churning, he collapses onto the couch and buries his face in the throw pillow. It isn’t fucking fair, he seethes. TK doesn’t get it. To him it’s just a dance, a chance to dress up and have a cute date. TK’s parents would fawn over them and take a million pictures. TK doesn’t get that Carlos doesn’t have that. To TK, Carlos not wanting to go to the winter formal with him means Carlos doesn’t want to be with him. Which couldn’t be further from the truth, but TK won’t let him explain. TK was supposed to spend the next couple of nights at the Reyes house while his mother was on a business trip and his father was off fighting a forest fire in West Texas. But after Carlos said no to the dance, TK grabbed his overnight bag and stormed out with a vicious parting shot about making room in Carlos’s closet. It isn’t fucking fair.

Carlos huffs and pulls the throw blanket over himself, only to throw it off a minute later. He’s so fucking pissed at TK he can almost ignore the gnawing pit in his stomach, the fear he may have lost TK forever. TK’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and Carlos may have fucked it all up because he’s afraid of people finding out. It’s not even the other guys at school knowing exactly, although they’ll be cruel enough. It’s the fact that his parents seem to know the entire city of Austin, and he’s not ready for them to find out he’s gay. Carlos’s parents would be appalled by Carlos dating a boy, even a boy as perfect as TK. TK’s been understanding up to this point, but everyone has their limits. TK could have anyone. Why would Carlos ever think he had a shot at keeping him?

Carlos’s stomach lurches again and he groans miserably, pushing himself upright. He has to brace himself on the arm of the couch as a wave of dizziness threatens to knock him back down, but then he’s staggering to the half-bath and emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet. He’s barely eaten today, anxious as he was over TK prodding him about the dance. He heaves violently, his stomach muscles wrenching painfully only to bring up nothing. He flushes and leans his head against the cool porcelain, waiting for his vision to clear. It feels like he’s flushed his anger away, too; all that remains is bone-deep, aching despair. This can’t be it with TK, it just can’t.

He doesn’t know where he finds the energy to get up off the freezing bathroom floor, but the next thing he knows he’s stumbling back towards the couch, catching himself on the walls to keep from crumbling to the ground. He makes it within arms reach of the couch before he needs to sit down on the floor to try to stop his head from spinning. Crawling the last few feet to lean against the couch, Carlos pulls the throw blanket down and wraps it around himself tightly. He’s sweating, his eyes burning, but he’s shaking so hard his teeth are chattering. He thinks he might be freezing to death. He rests his head on the couch, feeling seasick from the whorl of sensations in his head and body. There might be something wrong with him besides heartbreak and anxiety, Carlos muses as he pulls the blanket over his head and lets himself drift further into the tempest of fever-dreams.

************
“Carlitos!” The voice is booming, sending painful reverberations through Carlos’s aching skull. He tries to burrow further into his blanket cocoon, but the noise won’t stop. “Carlitos! Mijo, qué te pasa? Why are you on the floor? Carlitos!” He’s being grabbed, roughly, the blanket yanked from over his head, and Carlos whimpers and tries to push his attacker away. “Talk to me, Carlos.” The voice sounds angry now and Carlos whines and opens his eyes, finding his father much too close.

“Dad, what,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut tight again. “I’m too tired.”

“Are you drunk? What’s going on?” Indignity of indignities, his father is sniffing him.

“No! Leave me alone, Papá, estoy durmiendo.” Is he not allowed to sleep now? He just wants to stay unconscious until nothing hurts anymore and he’s forgotten about a beautiful boy with clear green eyes.

“You have a bed, and it’s 7 pm,” Gabriel informs him. “And you haven’t called me Papá since you were 10. What’s wrong, mijo?” His father still sounds tense, but he doesn’t sound quite so angry. Carlos opens one eye, screws up his face and tries to focus on his interrogator.

“Don’t feel good,” Carlos tells his father, failing to keep a childish whine out of his voice. It hurts his throat. A cool, calloused hand pushes his hair back from his forehead as another cups his cheek. Carlos tries in vain to keep from crying, from leaning into the touch. He’s 17, he’s basically a man, and this isn’t how men behave.

His father doesn’t mention the tears or the snuggling, though. “Christ, mijo, you’re burning up,” he tells Carlos, his voice strained. Carlos peeks out of one eye curiously, surprised to see how distressed his father looks.

Carlos closes his eyes again. The world is much too bright and painful. The calluses on his father’s hands feel jagged, like they’re going to tear his burning skin right off his face. Carlos pulls away, trying to get back into his cocoon, but Gabriel stops him. “Come on, Carlitos, let’s at least get you onto the couch.” Carlos’s limbs are heavy and uncooperative but his father’s are strong and steady, and before he knows it Carlos is lying on the couch instead of leaning up against it. His blanket is missing, though, and he is still freezing, despite being soaked in sweat. He cracks an eye open again. Gabriel has disappeared, and Carlos can see his poor fuzzy blue blanket abandoned on the floor. It’s inches from him, probably, but he’s too dizzy and achy to move. He wraps his sore arms around himself and coughs.

He’s drifting again when the calloused hand returns to his cheek, another hand jostling his shoulder. Why can’t his dad just let him sleep? “Come on, Carlitos, open up, I need to get your temperature.” Carlos groans but lets his dad slip the thermometer into his mouth, the cold metal of the mouthpiece jabbing the underside of his tongue. Gabriel pulls it back out a moment later at the piercing beep that makes Carlos wince in pain. “Jesus Christ, mijo.” Carlos’s mom doesn’t like when Gabriel takes the lord’s name in vain this way, so he only does it when he’s very angry.

“What’d I do?” Carlos moans. His head’s a mess, he can’t remember. He’d gotten a C+ on a trig test the other day. He’d tracked in mud after football practice and forgotten to clean it up. He’d fallen in love with a boy. Does Gabriel know? His breathing quickens at the thought, and his eyes fill with panicked tears.

“Shh, mijo, you didn’t do anything. Haven’t seen you sick like this in awhile, that’s all. Might need to take you to the ER if we can’t get your fever down.” Gabriel ruffles Carlos’s curls the way Andrea likes to. Carlos thinks maybe Gabriel used to do this back when he was little, but certainly not since he’d hit his teens.

“Just need to sleep, Dad, please,” Carlos begs, then turns away to start coughing, which probably doesn’t help his case. His hair hurts.

Gabriel sighs unhappily, looking at his watch. “I’m calling your mother.” He starts to move away and Carlos grabs the cuff of his sleeve. “¿Qué pasó, mijo, what do you need?” His father asks, sitting back down on the edge of the couch.

“My blanket? Please?” Carlos rasps.

Gabriel feels his forehead again and reluctantly acquiesces, reaching for the abandoned blanket. “Not over your head this time, mijo, we’re not cooking your brains on my watch,” he says sternly as he pulls the blanket up to Carlos’s chest and pats it firmly, then pushes himself up to stand.

“Yes, sir,” Carlos mutters sullenly, pulling up his aching legs and curling into the back of the couch. His dad must be worried. Carlos usually gets told off for taking any hint of a “tone” with his parents.

The blanket doesn’t do much to stop his chills, and he tries to stop shaking as he half-listens to his dad on the phone. His muscles all ache from the tremors.

“Sí, mi amor… 103.4. …No, ya sé, I don’t like it either, but you know the kid hates needles.” Carlos burns with shame, but it’s true, needles terrify him. He really hopes they won’t make him go to the hospital. He presses his hot face into the cushion. His stomach is turning again. Distantly, he can still hear his dad on the phone. “…He’s coughing, seems like he’s got a headache. …No sé. Ok. I know, poor kid. Ok, mi amor. You’re on your way? …Good. we’ll talk about it when you get here. Te amo. …I’ll tell him. See you soon.”

The couch cushions shift under his father’s weight again. “Hey, mijo, your mamá is on her way. Wanted me to tell you she loves you and to be a cooperative patient.”

Carlos grunts in response.

“Well, not sure if that qualifies, but I know you feel bad so we’ll give you a pass today. What hurts, mijo?"

Carlos’s head is swirling. “Everything. Head. Stomach,” he moans.

“You feel like you’re going to throw up?”

Carlos presses his lips together and nods, ashamed.

“Ok, ok, hold on a second, kid – “ his dad jumps up from the couch, which doesn’t help with Carlos’s nausea. He tries to breathe through his nose. “Here, mijo, here.” His dad is back and helps him sit up and hunch over something - the wastebasket from the bathroom, Carlos thinks. Carlos almost doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed about vomiting in front of his father. Again he retches painfully but can only bring up bile, sweating and groaning before collapsing back into his father’s arms, shaking hard.

“Ay, pobrecito,” his father murmurs, his hands rubbing Carlos’s arms roughly. He’s being comforting, and Carlos doesn’t know what to do with that from his father, and his skin is too sensitive for his touch. He pulls away, closing his eyes so he can avoid the look on his father’s face, an expression that looks curiously hurt. Gabriel gives him one last firm pat to the shoulder before standing again, leaving Carlos breathing hard and curled into a ball under his blanket. A moment later, he’s back. Carlos can’t remember the last time his father cared for him like this. He feels utterly pathetic.

“Can I sleep yet?” Carlos mumbles, surly in a way he wouldn’t normally get away with, but Gabriel ignores the tone again.

“Not yet, mijo. Got some ginger ale for you.”

Carlos says nothing, but drags his heavy eyelids open to see his father holding a glass of soda with a plastic straw in it. He’d had no idea they even kept straws in the house, and he’s shocked his father knew where to find them. He stares morosely at the drink, then at his father.

“Come on, mijo. You need something in your stomach. And your mother will kill me if I haven’t gotten anything into you by the time she gets home.”

“Fine,” Carlos mutters, holding out his hand for the glass. He takes a hesitant sip. The sweet bubbles explode on his tongue. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. He finishes most of the glass and hands it back to his father.

“Not quite done yet, mijo. Come on, I’m trying to keep you out of the ER tonight,” says Gabriel, handing back the glass and a couple of pills, which Carlos swallows reluctantly. He does feel a little better for having had the ginger ale, he supposes.

Squinting, he realizes for the first time his father is still dressed for work, his ranger star and tie pin in place. “Sorry you had to come home to this,” he tells his dad, closing his eyes again.

Gabriel gives him a brief squeeze to the back of the neck. “It’s no trouble. You ok here if I go get changed?”

Carlos nods. I’m not a baby, he thinks but doesn’t say. He’s already been pushing it tonight with mouthing off. His father disappears again and Carlos stares blearily at the ceiling, wishing it would stop spinning. There’s an old water spot on the plaster, and the edges of it won’t stay still. It’s pulsating, expanding and contracting in time with the pounding of Carlos’s head. He clenches his fists and glares at it, willing it to stop mocking him. Smug fucking stain.

He closes his eyes but he can still hear the damn thing, spinning faster now. TK’s angry, hurt face flashes behind his closed eyelids. The guys from football hoot and whisper in the locker room. “Don’t change in front of Reyes! He likes it!” His mother’s face, so disappointed. “Mijo, is it something we did? Did we make you like this?” At the winter formal, TK dances with another guy, grinding and whirling, faster and faster. The floor shakes and thuds, far away at first, stopping next to Carlos’s head.

“No, stop, I’m sorry, I just can’t!” Carlos cries out.

“Carlitos! Tranquilo. Breathe,” his father orders. “Open your eyes, son.”

Carlos opens his eyes, seeing only the burgundy flannel of his father’s shirt. Gabriel reaches out, strangely tenderly, and grasps Carlos’s face in one hand, then reaches to a side table and hands Carlos a tissue. “Wipe your face, mijo.”

Carlos does his best, realizing his cheeks are soaked with tears and sweat, his nose running. His hands tremble violently. Gabriel grabs a tissue himself and finishes the job, as though Carlos were a small child. “You’re okay,” he tells Carlos firmly.

Carlos shakes his head. “Nothing’s okay,” he argues.

Gabriel gives a short sigh. Carlos doesn’t mean to annoy his father, but everything he does seems to exasperate the man. He’s too dramatic and soft. “Sorry, sir,” he whispers.

“No, mijo, I’m not – don’t apologize.” Gabriel sounds even more frustrated. Carlos shuts his mouth and tries to swallow down the tears. It doesn’t work. They keep leaking out of his sore, hot eyes, running back into his ears and hair as he lies on the scratchy couch. Something wet lands on his face and he groans and tries to swipe it away. “Tranquilo, mijo,” Gabriel says again. “I’m trying to cool you off.“

“I’m already cold,” Carlos whimpers. More tears seep into his ears.

“I know, mijo, I know. I’m sorry,” his father says. Carlos stares. His father never apologizes. Certainly not to his children, certainly not to his disappointing only son. “But your fever’s too high. I’m trying to help you feel better. Mamá will be home soon, all right?”

Carlos nods, his neck sticky with tears and sweat. He would prefer to be left alone altogether, with his blanket and his thoughts of TK. Fuck, TK. He brings a hand over his face and tries not to openly sob.

“Ay, mijo, what’s hurting you? Talk to me,” Gabriel demands, pulling his hand away.

Carlos shakes his pounding head. “TK. I messed up.” He can’t look at his father. He looks back up at the ceiling, where the spot is still taunting him. Now it’s the shape of TK kissing another guy. A cooler guy with cool parents who don’t care he’s gay, and the cool guy is too cool to care what his parents think anyway.

“TK? What are you talking about?” His father drags the wet cloth over his face again.

“Hates me. I said no and he left and he hates me,” Carlos tells the stain on the ceiling.

The cloth swipes down his cheeks. “It’ll be all right, mijo.”

“No, it won’t,” Carlos whispers. TK and his new boyfriend are giggling together, laughing at how pathetic Carlos is. Carlos turns away from his father and the too-cold cloth and the spinning ceiling, pressing his damp face into the back of the couch. “I need him,” he tells the couch cushions, and then he’s too tired to talk about it anymore, and lets himself float into the spinning nothingness.

Chapter Text

TK wakes up with the hangover from hell, which is deeply unfair considering he doesn’t drink anymore. He pushes himself upright in his bed and grabs his water bottle, his sore, parched throat sucking it down greedily. His head spins slightly at the movement. “What the fuck,” he mutters. His voice cracks painfully like he’s 13 instead of a few weeks shy of 18. He presses his hands against his throbbing face, exhaling in a half-sob. His closed eyes feel swollen and sore as he presses his fingers into them, and for that, he realizes, he has an explanation. He had literally cried himself to sleep, pathetic and heartbroken that the boy he loved doesn’t want to go to a dance with him.

What a fucking cliché.

TK groans aloud and collapses onto his back, then rolls onto his side and into a ball. Like a little rolly polly bug, he thinks, safe from gorgeous boys who act like they love you then break your heart.

He’d really thought Carlos was different from other guys. Different from Alex. But maybe Carlos isn’t the problem. TK is the common denominator here, after all. And he’s a hot mess, damaged and weird. He should have known better than to fall in love with someone as hot and sweet and perfect as Carlos.

TK is sighing sadly to himself and sniffling, settling in for a day of wallowing, when his phone buzzes on the bedside table. He shoots a hand out from under the blankets to grab it, desperate to see if there’s any word from Carlos, but it’s only Marjan, asking if he and Carlos want to go to a movie that evening with her. It’s a group text with the three of them, but Carlos hasn’t responded yet. Which is fair, because it’s been three seconds, but TK stares at the screen, eyes burning, for many more, and no response comes.

When he starts to zone out and his eyes blur, he huffs and drags the back of his hand over them before opening his text chain with Marj. “Carlos and I are in a huge fight so we’re definitely out. Sorry”

Marjan answers immediately, as always. “You two???? Trouble in paradise??? What happened????”

TK wrinkles his nose at the preponderance of question marks. “I don’t want to talk about it” he texts.

Incoming FaceTime Call: Marjan (Crazy)

Fucking Marjan.

He accepts the call because Marj is nothing if not tenacious and would probably show up at the house if he ignores her calls. Better to get it over with.

“Hey, Marj,” he says wearily, his voice cracking painfully again.

“Dude, what happened? And why do you sound like you’re going through puberty?” Marjan demands, peering closely at her phone screen, her large gold hoop earrings flashing dizzyingly against her fuchsia hijab.

“Shut up,” TK moans. “I said I don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t know, my throat hurts.”

“Come on, you know I’m just going to interrogate Carlos after I hang up with you. Don’t you want me to be sympathetic to your side?”

“You’re only friends with Carlos because he’s my boyfriend!” TK protests. Carlos is still his boyfriend, right? He doesn’t want to contemplate the alternative. “You wouldn’t be loyal to me first?”

“Not if you’re being a dumbass and I only have his side of things,” Marjan reasons. “Spill.”

TK glares at her before relenting. “I asked him to go to the Snow Ball with me. He said no. He just wants to go with a group as friends and if I want I can be one of those ‘friends’”. He spits out the last word venomously.

“Ouch. But I mean, it’d be a pretty big step to go on such a public date, right? That’d be coming out to the whole school.”

TK pouts at her, but Marjan’s pixelated image is glamorous and unperturbed. “I thought you said you’d be on my side if I told you.”

“I didn’t say that,” Marjan replies breezily.

TK huffs. “I just feel like he’s ashamed of me.”

“I really don’t think that’s it. Don’t look at me like that. Carlos isn’t even out to his parents, right?”

“Right,” TK mutters.

“Whereas your parents basically threw you a party when you came out?”

“It wasn’t a party. Mom just took me out to dinner.”

Marjan laughs. “Right. I’m just saying, I can understand why it’s different for him. Can’t you?”

TK glares at her, which would probably be more menacing if he weren’t a sniveling, sweaty mess. Marjan ignores him.

“Look, I have field hockey practice, I gotta go. You should probably go back to sleep, you look like shit. This kid in my homeroom ended up in the hospital for like three days with the flu, did you hear about that?”

“I just have a cold or something,” TK mutters.

“Sure. Byeee!” Marjan blows kisses like she’s an influencer ending a video and ends the call.

TK sighs, feeling worse than before. Of course he’s the bad guy here. Fucking Marjan. Pacing, he finds himself in front of the thermostat. It says 70, but he’s freezing, but also sweaty. Stupid thing is probably on the fritz. Everything sucks. He pokes it at a bit, turning the temperature up several degrees, before retreating back to his bedroom. The righteous anger that he’d been wired on before has faded, leaving only deep exhaustion. Feeling lightheaded, he crawls wearily back into his bed, curling up in a ball again with the comforter pulled up to his ears. The house is quiet in a way he hates, the only sounds the humming of the refrigerator, the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway. You messed up, you messed up, the clock chants rhythmically.

Shivering, he drifts, clutching his phone in case Carlos decides he doesn’t hate him anymore. He startles awake after a bit when it finally buzzes and amazingly, Carlos’s name is on the lockscreen. His momentary excitement dissipates when he sees it’s a two-word response to Marjan’s earlier group text, reading “Can’t, sick”. Is Carlos actually sick, or just making up an excuse for not being with TK? TK should have just said that. It wouldn’t even have been an excuse. He really does feel like crap in a way that heartbreak and crying himself to sleep don’t fully explain. He absolutely cannot get warm, his head aches, and it hurts to move. I think I have the fucking flu, he thinks, and groans as he’s instantly sure that’s the case. Is Carlos feeling this bad? TK hopes not. He doesn’t like when Carlos hurts. Carlos had twisted an ankle in football a few weeks ago and laughed at TK for fussing over him. TK exhales - through his mouth, because now he’s all congested - and closes his eyes again. Almost immediately, he’s dragged painfully into restless, hazy dreams.

In the middle of a confusing fight with Carlos and Paul about the correct way to care for and train rainbow-colored chinchillas (or possibly extremely small horses?), one of the tiny animals starts buzzing insistently in TK’s hand. Startling awake, he answers the phone.

“Why do you sound weird?” Gwyneth demands.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, TK. Are you all right? Andrea Reyes just called me to make sure I knew you didn’t end up sleeping at their house last night. You know you need to tell me where you’re spending the night.”

“Mom, I’m not a little kid,” TK argues. “I’m almost 18.”

“I know you’re almost 18, which is why you’re allowed to stay home alone overnight, but I still need to know where you are. Please tell me you are at home and not answering your phone from a ditch.”

“Don’t worry, Mom, it’s a really nice ditch. Gonna get it all feng shui’ed the way I like it,” TK snipes.

“Tyler Kennedy.” Gwyn sounds unimpressed. TK’s parents never appreciate his humor.

“I’m at home, Mom.”

“Good. You sound awful. Are you sick?” Gwyn doesn’t wait for a reply. “Andrea said she would have called me last night but they forgot because Carlos got really sick. Is that why you didn’t stay there?”

“No. I didn’t know he was sick,” TK mumbles, realizing too late that he’s left himself open for the inevitable next question.

“So why didn’t you stay there? You two are usually attached at the hip. What happened, honey?”

TK groans and admits, “We had a fight.” He leans back into his pillow and puts his arm over his hot eyes. “I asked him to the Snow Ball and he said no because he doesn’t want anyone to know we’re together.”

“Oh, honey.”

“Whatever. It’s fine,” TK mutters, then coughs.

“Sweetie, you really don’t sound good. Are you feeling ok?”

TK hesitates. He knows his voice sounds obnoxiously feeble and nasal, and his mother is annoyingly difficult to lie to. While he’s contemplating his response, the phone starts buzzing again with a Facetime request from her. Caught.

As soon as he turns his camera on, his mother orders, “Go take your temperature. Now.”

“Mom,” he complains, but sits up anyway, his head swimming.

“I mean it. You look even worse than you sound. Go.”

“Doesn’t this constitute an illegal search?” TK asks, making his way unsteadily to the bathroom and rummaging through the medicine cabinet.

“You wish. I’m not a cop, I’m your mother, and you’re still a month away from 18, so I am entitled to your medical data.”

TK isn’t sure that’s true, but nothing good ever came of trying to argue legal matters with Gwyneth Morgan, let alone parenting matters. He finds the thermometer and puts it under his tongue.

As soon as the device beeps, his mother demands, “Well? Let me see.”

TK groans and flips the camera so she can see the reading, an unfortunate 102.5. No wonder he feels so shitty.

“TK!” His mother exclaims, aggrieved. “Why didn’t you tell me? You must feel awful. I’m going to have Andrea or Gabriel come get you.”

“Mom, no, I don’t want to see Carlos,” TK pleads, sniffling. “He hates me.”

“I know for a fact that isn’t true. And sweetheart, I get it, I do, but you can’t be home alone when you’re this sick, and your father isn’t there, and my flight isn’t until late tomorrow morning. I can change it if you need me to, but it would still be hours from now. And the Reyeses are the only other ones authorized to make basic medical decisions for you if it comes to that. Andrea said they almost had to take Carlos to the ER last night.”

“Is he ok?” TK asks before he can stop himself, his voice cracking on the last word.

“She said he has this awful flu that’s been going around, and he had a high fever and was vomiting. I’m sure he’ll be ok, honey, because he’s got his parents taking care of him.” Gwyn raises her eyebrows meaningfully.

TK sighs wetly. “I can’t go over there. I’ll take some medicine and drink fluids and I’ll call you if I feel any worse. I swear,” he begs.

“Honey, I really am sorry, but I have to put your health first. I can’t let you stay home by yourself like this.” Gwyn does sound legitimately regretful. “I’d be the shittiest mother in the world if I did. But take some Tylenol and drink some water or Gatorade for me now anyway, ok?” She stays on FaceTime with him as he obeys before crawling back into bed. “Good job, sweetie.” TK rolls his eyes even as he soaks up the praise. “I’m so sorry you’re feeling so bad. Keep your phone on you. I’m calling Andrea now. Love you, sweet boy.”

“Love you too. Wait. Mom?”

“What, honey?”

“Can you bring me back matzo ball soup tomorrow? From the place by your office?”

Gwyn smiles fondly. “My New York boy. I’ll try. I don’t know if they’ll let me carry it on but I’ll see if I can get some frozen. I’ll talk to you soon, ok?”

“Ok,” TK sniffles and hangs up. His eyes swim with tears and he wipes them with the blankets. He should have gotten tissues for himself while he was up. He’s much too tired to get up now, so he’s just going to have to be gross.

Almost 18 or not, he desperately wishes his mother were here now to fuss over him and feed him soup and rub his back. Carlos’s mother loves him and can fuss with the best of them, but she’s not his mom, and he’s not ready to find out if Carlos really does hate him. Apparently he doesn’t have a choice, though. His phone buzzes and he answers it. He’s so tired of talking to people.

“TK-cito!” Carlos’s mom croons and TK can’t help but smile a little in spite of himself at the diminutive. He’d had to ask Carlos what it meant the first time she used it. Andrea thinks TK is a Sweet Boy and a Positive Influence on her Carlitos. If she only knew. “I’m sending Gabriel over now to get you. I’m making caldo de pollo and we’re all stocked up on sick day supplies. I’m so sorry you’re sick, mijo, but we’ll have you and Carlitos fixed up in no time.”

“Thanks,” TK croaks.

“Don’t mention it, mijo. You know we’re always here for you, TK, and I know you and your parents would do the same for my boy if we weren’t home. Oh, I hate to think of you all alone with this horrible flu. I know you and Carlitos think you’re all grown up, but sometimes you still need someone to take care of you. You wouldn’t even believe how helpless Gabriel is going to be once he catches this in a few days. Ok, he just left, TK, he should be there in ten minutes. We’ll see you soon, ok?”

“Ok,” TK responds, although he’s not certain his input is required for this conversation.

“Chau mijo!” Andrea hangs up and TK curls in on himself in his blanket nest, shivering. He should probably get up and get dressed and be ready for Major Reyes. His overnight bag is still packed, abandoned by the front door, so at least he won’t have to worry about that. He can probably shut his eyes for just a minute.

TK startles awake to his name being bellowed, sounding surprisingly closeby. “What, what, I’m up!” he calls weakly, pushing himself up on arms that feel like overcooked spaghetti. Gabriel Reyes strides into his bedroom and TK blinks owlishly at him. “How did you get in? I locked the door.”

“You didn’t answer the bell. Y’all need to hide that spare key better. Under the doormat? Didn’t take me two seconds to find it. What if I had been an intruder?”

TK goggles at him and tries to think of a response that isn't “Aren’t you intruding?” Luckily, Gabriel keeps talking. “All ready to go, kid? Carlos’s mother was cooking enough soup to feed a football team when I left. Think that’s where this bug came from, anyway, Carlitos said a bunch of boys on the team have been out sick. Guess you were just unlucky enough to be caught in the crossfire, being Carlos’s best friend.” Gabriel raises his eyebrows and looks intently at TK. Apparently he is expected to respond this time.

“Um. Yeah. I mean, I think a lot of people at school have been sick,” TK stumbles.

Gabriel gives him that assessing stare for another moment before nodding solemnly. “Come on, then.”

Gingerly climbing out of bed, TK takes a moment to find his sea legs before wobbling over to the doorway to pull on his discarded sneakers. He has to sit on the floor to get them on, which is surprisingly comfortable. He takes a moment to relish not being upright before Gabriel’s boots are next to him on the carpet.

“You’re almost as bad as Carlitos. Can’t stay on the floor, son, let’s get you up.”

As Gabriel pulls TK to his feet, TK has the curious feeling he’s being arrested by a sheriff in an old Western movie. On charges of corrupting the sheriff’s handsome son, no doubt. Gabriel claps a hand to TK’s shoulder and TK tries not to sway right into the brim of Gabriel’s Stetson.

“All right, TK, let’s go,” Gabriel says. Off to the jailhouse, TK thinks dizzily. Or maybe they’ll have a shootout at high noon. Gabriel holds out TK’s coat, which TK never saw him pick up, and TK obediently slides his arms into the sleeves. Despite his shaking hands, he even manages to zip it himself.

He’s being helped into the passenger side of Major Reyes’s pickup truck when he blurts, “Wait! My bag.”

“We got it, TK,” Gabriel responds, gesturing to the backseat of the cab where sure enough, TK’s duffel is tossed.

“‘Kay,” TK murmurs. He buckles his seatbelt with shaking, fumbling fingers and leans against the cool window as Gabriel slides into the driver’s seat.

“Good thing your mama called us,” Gabriel says casually as they head back to the Reyes house. “You know we’re always happy to have you.”

“Yeah,” TK mutters before remembering his manners. “I mean, thank you, sir.”

“You’re very welcome, TK. Andrea and I are so glad Carlos has such a good friend in you.”

TK’s brain is working much too slowly for this conversation. He’s too warm and sweaty under his coat, and his stomach sloshes uneasily despite Gabriel’s careful, smooth driving. “Uh. Carlos is great.”

Gabriel breaks into a wide smile. “He is, he is. You know, he mentioned you last night.”

TK’s mouth is very dry. “He did?”

“Yeah, mentioned something about you two having an argument?” Gabriel rolls to a smooth stop at a red light and looks over at TK, his face blandly impassive.

TK has the strange urge to ask for a lawyer. He fakes a cough into his elbow to buy time, but of course it turns into a real coughing fit, which makes his head whirl unpleasantly.

“Easy there, kid,” Gabriel says, reaching over and squeezing TK’s shoulder. “But you and Carlitos, you’re ok?”

TK tries desperately not to tense in Gabriel’s grip. He flops his head in a weak nod.

Gabriel beams and claps TK on the back. TK tries not to yelp in pain.

“That’s good! Poor kid was running a fever so high he probably didn’t even know what he was saying.”

TK wipes sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. Gabriel hums to himself and turns onto the Reyes’s street. Parking in the driveway, he helps TK out of the passenger seat of the truck as though TK is his date or a little old lady. TK is grateful anyway, as he thinks he might have fallen on his face without Gabriel’s help. And Carlos might have seen, which would have been deeply embarrassing.

Shouldering TK’s duffel, Gabriel herds TK into the house. Even with the escort, TK is wobbly, his knees like jello. Andrea meets them at the door and exclaims over him, and he tries not to flinch away from her voice.

“TK! We’re so glad you’re here. Ay, you look just awful, pobrecito. Come in, come in!”

TK stumbles through the doorway. The house is too warm, Mrs. Reyes’s fussing too shrill. The floor is pitching like the deck of a ship in a storm. TK grasps for the wall to try to regain his balance. Dark spots crowd his vision and his knees buckle. He tries to slide gracefully to the floor, but he doesn’t think he quite manages it. Voices speak frantically, too fast for him to understand.

“Give him space, let him breathe,” Major Reyes orders, sounding far away.

“TK?” A new voice warbles. TK looks up through blurred vision to see Carlos, a nubbly blue blanket drawn around his shoulders like a cape, his hair a riotous mess of half-smashed curls. His eyes are giant and — unless it’s wishful thinking on TK’s part— worried.

“Sorry about this,” TK tries to tell him, his voice sounding distorted to his own ears, and then the black spots take over.

Chapter Text

TK is coming over. That’s fine. Carlos is absolutely not worried about it. He’d been in a sweaty half-coma when his mother came in to make him sip chicken broth and take cold medicine, and it had taken him a moment to understand what she was talking about - TK is apparently just as sick as Carlos, and since his parents are out of town, he would be coming over to the Reyes house. His mother wonders aloud why he hadn’t stayed over the previous night as planned.

“He just. Decided not to,” Carles mumbles lamely. His mother continues fluttering about as if he hadn’t spoken, which is also fine. She makes him remove his shirt so she can rub Vick’s Vaporub, one of her miracle cures, on his chest. Carlos protests that he can do it, he’s sick but he’s not 4. Andrea throws her hands up and allows it.

Anyway, now his father has gone to pick up TK and bring him back. And he’s presumably going to sleep in Carlos’s bed with him. Carlos hasn’t been able to get warm all day, but now his face feels hot imagining it, even though it’s the usual arrangement when TK comes over. They have an air mattress, but it isn’t comfortable, and Carlos has a queen bed in a relatively small bedroom, so why shouldn’t his “best friend” share the bed? He does it with his cousins at the ranch all the time. Andrea had been the one to suggest it the first time TK stayed over, adding that of course Carlitos wouldn’t mind giving up his bed and sleeping on the air mattress if TK wasn’t comfortable sharing. They’d both blushed furiously then, too. They’ve always been much too nervous to actually do anything in this house, but they still love the chance to sleep in the same bed.

But today TK is angry with Carlos, and Carlos is mad too. He thinks. It’s hard to remember.

But it will be fine.

*******
It isn’t fine.

At the sound of the front door opening, Carlos shuffles out of his bedroom, his trusty blanket around his shoulders. It’s the most activity he’s had since an exhausting, annoying trip to urgent care that morning. The doctor had said he had the flu and that he needed to rest and drink lots of fluids. They’d all agreed it was a waste of a trip. After spending the rest of the day sleeping, coughing, and being fussed over, he figures he should probably greet his guest. His mother would say it’s good manners. And if Carlos desperately wants to see TK — almost as much as he’s dreading seeing him— that’s his own business.

Voices rise in a concerned flurry as Carlos approaches the front door. He hobbles in just in time to see a pale, sweaty TK fumble for the wall, leaning against it heavily before sliding to the floor. “TK?” Carlos says dumbly. TK mumbles something unintelligible before his eyes roll back and he flops to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Carlos has to steady himself against the couch to keep from falling to the ground as well. “TK?” he whispers again, his heart in his throat. He can barely hear himself, but Andrea turns to him and hurries over, taking his hand and leading him to sit on the couch.

“He’ll be all right, mijo, don’t worry,” she assures him, but her eyes are anxious too.

Gabriel pats TK’s cheeks gently at first, then a little rougher. “He’s breathing, he’s got a pulse, think he’s just fainted. TK, you with me?”

TK groans, his eyes fluttering open for a moment before closing again. “I don’t feel well.” The rest of the room lets out a collective sigh of relief.

“I can tell, mijo, you gave us a bit of a scare there,” Gabriel tells him. TK opens his eyes again and looks around the room. His glazed eyes meet Carlos’s for a moment before he closes them again. He definitely hates me, Carlos thinks.

“Sorry,” TK croaks. “That’s embarrassing.”

Andrea shakes her head, kneeling beside TK as Gabriel helps him sit up against the wall. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, we’re just worried,” she tells him. “When’s the last time you ate, mijo?”

TK scrunches up his face in thought. “Um. I think I ate lunch yesterday.”

Andrea gasps in horror, getting to her feet and hurrying to the kitchen. TK lets his head fall back against the wall.

“Well, that explains some things, hmm?” muses Gabriel, a hand still on TK’s shoulder to keep him from falling over. “She’ll get you fixed up.” He shakes his head. “You boys gotta stop worrying us old folks like this. It’s not good for our hearts.”

“Sorry,” TK mumbles again. Gabriel sighs good-naturedly and rubs his shoulder lightly.

Carlos is the one who needs to look away now. He wonders which would be worse: his parents finding out about him and TK, or him and TK breaking up and TK never coming over. There are days Carlos thinks his parents like TK more than they like Carlos. His father is also very impressed by TK’s brave fire captain father. Carlos likes the way things are, or at least, the way things were before yesterday. He can’t bear the idea that he could lose TK by telling his parents about them, but he could just as easily lose TK by not telling them. Carlos sneaks a glance at TK and finds TK looking back at him, his expression sad. Or maybe he’s just sick.

Carlos’s brooding is interrupted then by Andrea, hustling back into the room with a bottle of Suero and a steaming mug of caldo de pollo. Together with Vaporub, ginger ale, and an ungodly amount of fussing, these items comprised Andrea’s arsenal against any and all ailments. TK would be fixed up in no time.

“Drink, mijo,” Andrea urges, uncapping the Suero and handing it to TK. TK takes the bottle in his shaky hands and sniffs it quizzically.

“It’s like Pedialyte,” Carlos explains. “It’s the mango flavor. It’s not terrible.” TK takes an obliging sip and nods in agreement, bringing it back to his lips.

“Not too fast, we don’t want you getting sick to your stomach,” Andrea cautions. “But drink as much as you can, you need the electrolytes. And try the soup too.”

They all watch TK eat and drink – Gabriel and Andrea overtly, sitting close to TK with expectant looks on their faces – and Carlos covertly, sitting on the couch with a hand on his face as though to ward off his headache, sneaking glances at TK through his fingers.

“Thank you,” says TK hoarsely after a while. “That was good. I feel a little better. I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to get everyone worried.”

“No more apologies,” says Andrea sternly. “Do you want to go lie down in Carlitos’s bed now?”

Carlos flushes involuntarily. He hopes nobody is looking at him, but he’s pretty sure TK is.

“Uh, sure, I’m, if that’s ok –?” TK stammers.

Andrea eyes him curiously. “Of course it’s ok, mijo. Gabriel, help TK up.”

“Of course, of course, mi amor, I’m getting used to this now. Come on, TK, it’s like I told Carlitos, no sleeping on the floor.” Gabriel helps TK to his feet. TK looks a little unsteady on his feet at first, but manages to propel himself towards Carlos’s room under his own power, Carlos’s parents trailing close behind. Carlos, still cloaked in his blanket, heaves himself off the couch and takes up the rear of the procession, a little parade to his own bedroom.

Andrea tucks TK into what Carlos secretly thinks of as TK’s side of the bed. Awkwardly, Carlos slides into the other side. The room is too full of secrets with all four of them in it. Carlos wants his parents to leave, but he’s not sure he’s ready to be alone with TK. Cowardly, he closes his eyes, hoping to avoid all of them. His parents talk quietly to TK for a few more moments. Then his mother brushes a kiss to Carlos’s temple, and his father gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Sleep well, mijos!” His mother calls.

Then finally, they’re alone.

For a moment, their gross, congested breathing is the only sound. Then TK, strangely timid, asks, “Carlos? Are you awake?”

Carlos rolls over to face TK. “Yeah,” he whispers. TK is pale and sweaty, his green eyes red-rimmed. His nose is pink and a little raw. Carlos thinks he’s beautiful. He swallows painfully, trying to memorize TK’s face.

“I know I was a little bitch,” TK blurts.

Carlos shakes his head, trying to ignore the insistent buzzing ache. “No, you weren’t.”

“Yes, I was,” TK insists, then turns away to hack into the pillow. “Oh, my god, are you sure we’re not dying?”

“No, I definitely think we might be,” replies Carlos honestly. “I hurt everywhere.” He’s painfully aware of every bone in his face. The joints in his fingers ache. His ankles are throbbing where his socks are squeezing them.

TK smiles a little. “Look. I thought you not wanting to go to the dance with me was about me. But I think maybe I’m just an idiot. Can you—“ TK breaks off. He won’t make eye contact with Carlos.

Carlos sighs deeply. “It wasn’t about you. It’s me. You’re not an idiot. I’m just a coward.”

“I thought maybe our relationship didn’t matter to you like it matters to me,” TK confesses. “Like I didn’t matter to you.” He closes his eyes. Carlos can see a tear shining in the corner of one.

“That’s not it at all.” Carlos hates himself for making TK think he doesn’t care about him.

“It’s your parents?” TK asks.

Carlos nods slowly. “Being out to our friends is one thing, you know I’m ok with that. But I’m just not ready for the whole school to know, because if they know, my parents will know.”

TK nods sadly. “I guess I thought you wouldn’t care so much since you were the one who asked me out in the first place. But I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

Carlos shakes his head, dislodging a tear that drips off his chin. “I know my parents love me. But this isn’t what they want for me. I’m letting them down all the time already.” He presses his face into his pillow, startling when he feels a hand in his hair. “I love you, TK, and I do want people to know you’re mine. But I’m afraid. I’m not ready to disappoint them more.”

“It’s ok,” TK whispers. “You can tell them I’m your friend, your tutor, your personal shopper.” Carlos laughs painfully. “I don’t care. I’m on board.”

“What if it never changes?” Carlos murmurs back.

“Nothing ever stays the same.” TK’s hand is gentle in Carlos’s hair. Carlos doesn’t deserve this sweet boy, but it seems he gets to keep him anyway.

“Can I hug you?” Carlos blurts out. His parents might let themselves in at any moment. He’s ok risking it.

TK nods fervently. “Please.”

Carlos pulls TK into his arms, where TK belongs. He loves being a little bigger than TK, being able to fold TK into him. He tucks his face into TK’s neck and rubs TK’s shoulder and holds TK as close to himself as he can. TK holds him just as tightly, brushing a kiss to Carlos’s cheek. They stay that way for a little while before TK starts coughing and sniffling again and has to sit up and grab for tissues and the bottle of Suero Andrea had left by the bedside.

“I’m sorry I got you sick,” Carlos tells him.

TK wipes his nose and shakes his head. “It’s not your fault. Might not even have been you I caught it from. And now we’ve got the perfect excuse to lie in bed all day.” He reaches over and takes Carlos’s hand under the blankets. “This is ok, right? They won’t see if they come in.”

Carlos glances over at the closed door. He can hear his mother in the kitchen, banging pots and pans, laughing with his father. “It’s better than ok.” He leans in and presses a quick kiss to TK’s chapped, warm lips. Neither of them smell very good. He probably should have at least popped a cough drop first. It’s a perfect moment anyway.

“You know your dad is kind of terrifying?” TK asks, breaking the moment.

Carlos laughs congestedly. “Right?” he hisses.

TK nods. “Felt like he was booking me when he showed up at my house,” he giggles. “He definitely doesn’t know about us, right?”

Carlos shivers. “He can’t. He would say something.” Would he? His parents talk a lot, but the most important topics are rarely covered. Carlos wraps his arms around himself and shivers harder.

“Hey, hey, c’mere, I didn’t mean to freak you out,” TK says, wrapping his arms around Carlos’s neck. Carlos feels warmer and safer instantly. “Let’s take a nap, ok?”

******

TK can’t smell much, but somehow his mother’s perfume permeates his fog of congestion. He coughs and stretches painfully, and a slim, familiar hand rubs between his shoulder blades. Beside him, Carlos snores deafeningly. Thin beams of morning light peak through the curtains as he drags his eyes open. His mother is sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Mom?” He croaks. “What time is it? I thought your flight didn’t get in until later.”

“I changed it. Took the red eye,” Gwyn tells him, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead.

“Oh. You didn’t have to do that,” TK says, snuggling closer to her.

Gwyn pushes his tangled hair back from his forehead. “I know I didn’t, but my kid was sick. I wanted to.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, leaning into the touch. “Do I have to go to school today?”

“Well, you still have a fever. Plus it’s Sunday, so I think you’re off the hook today, kid.”

“Oh, yeah.” Jovial voices echo from outside the door. TK squints his eyes open. “Wait. Dad?”

“Hey, kid!” his father says, much too loudly, strolling into the bedroom along with both of Carlos’s parents. Carlos jerks upwards with a hand to his head. “Oops, sorry Carlos, didn’t mean to wake you.”

Carlos groans. “That’s ok, sir.’

“What are you doing here, Dad?” There’s a strong possibility TK is still dreaming.

“Well, it’s good to see you too, son,” Owen teases.

TK shakes his head. “I’m glad to see you. But – forest fires?”

Owen squeezes the back of TK’s neck, and TK melts into the touch. “Wind changed. Got back late last night. I was just thanking Gabriel and Andrea for taking care of our poor sick kid while we were gone.”

“Yes, we really can’t thank you enough,” Gwyn agrees. “I knew he’d be in good hands with you two until we could get back.”

“No thanks needed, TK’s basically family now. And just like I told him, I know you’d do the same for my boy,” Andrea says warmly.

“Of course we would,” Owen smiles. Gwyn nods.

“Well, TK’s welcome here anytime,” Major Reyes says firmly, smiling at TK.

(The man still terrifies TK. He’s so kind, his eyes twinkling warmly now at TK. But he also makes TK want to confess to every lie and prank and petty crime he’s ever committed.)

“Well, honey, we’ve already got your stuff together, and I’ve got your matzo ball soup back at the house,” Gwyn says.

“Oh, that’s what he needs, pure salt,” Owen says sarcastically.

“Excuse me, matzo has been curing sick Jewish children for thousands of years. It has electrolytes. And he asked me to get it for him,” Gwyn retorts. “What would you have him eat?”

Owen unleashes a torrent of vitamins and supplement names, some of which he is surely making up on the spot, while Gwyn scoffs.

Amidst the bickering, TK catches Carlos’s eye. “Do you think I can just stay here?”

Carlos treats him to an honest-to-god giggle, teeth showing, eyes sparkling, dimples on display. TK smiles dumbly back at him and thinks maybe they’ll both be all right.