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It’s not until TK drops his phone from his ear and hits the red disconnect button, that he realises he’s never called Carlos before. Since the night of the honky tonk, when Carlos had surprised TK by offering to give him a mind numbingly good blow job and then his number, they’ve always texted.
Texting is easier for TK. It screams ‘no-strings-attached’, even when the person you’re texting seems to come with a fair few strings hanging off them. Strings that look a lot like inviting TK over for a home-cooked dinner, wiping dried blood off his face and listening to him wax lyrical about his frustration toward Judd Ryder.
The texts were sporadic at first. TK wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to say to someone who got on their knees in a dirty bathroom for him, all warm, brown eyes framed by dark, thick lashes and a mouth that knew damn well what it was capable of. Someone who tipped him over the edge within minutes, lips swollen and red from the effort and knees probably numb from the hard tiles. Someone who made him feel unquestionably alive in a way that TK hadn’t since he walked out on Alex in that fancy Manhattan restaurant. Someone who didn’t even expect TK to return the favour; who just shrugged and wiped his mouth on the back of one hand and said “maybe next time,” and left TK standing in a bathroom stall craving something more persistently than a hit.
TK is still struggling to get a read on Carlos, and for someone who doesn’t cope well with surprises, it’s extremely unsettling.
Since the dinner mishap and the subsequent redemption-date, the texts have become more and more frequent. TK drove that change, predominantly because he could feel Carlos holding back, and even though he will vehemently deny wanting a relationship to anyone that asks, TK’s finding it hard to resist the little thrill of excitement that accompanies Carlos’ name lighting up his phone. It’s a natural reaction, he reasons. TK exists in an ocean of grey, listless monotony that extends as far as the eye can see. It’s normal to want to latch onto the only thing that makes his life feel a little brighter. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
The texts are normally typed out in a hurry, his back wedged into the corner of the rig so that Marjan and Mateo can’t read over his shoulder, or in his bed late at night; his hand stuck out of the covers and his eyes squinting blearily at the bright screen. There’s been a few too many incidents of dropping his phone on his face or someone in the rig asking why he’s smirking in a way that suggests he’s not as cryptic as he’d like to be, but TK’s always been good at covering that stuff up. He’s the resident meme-dealer of the 126, anyway. He can pass it off on that.
Tonight is different, though. He’s been sitting on the sofa for hours, fiddling with the chain of his necklace and chewing on his lip. His dad went to bed hours ago, after they’d had an argument about the cancer and then made up. TK said he wasn’t angry anymore; that he wasn’t tempted to use, but it was kind of a lie.
He feels itchy and restless and hot in a way that doesn’t bode well, and this house and his dad and his stupid secrets lying in bed upstairs is making him want to crawl out of his own skin. Aside from trying to score, there’s only one thing to do. His dad will probably freak out that he left, but it’s for TK’s own good, and Owen can’t really complain about that.
So, he calls the one person he said he would never call in a crisis. Crisis creates feelings, and feelings are not something that either TK or Carlos can afford right now, but TK is spiralling towards rock bottom the longer he sits on the cushions, and he can’t really afford that either.
“I finish at eleven,” Carlos says simply, on the other end of the line. “You can come over if you want.”
If you want. Since the disastrous dinner, it’s always been up to TK to take the plunge. He doesn’t mind it, except when he does. Tonight, it feels like he’s being forced to be his own judge, jury and executioner.
Still, he wants Carlos. More than that, he thinks he might need him.
He anticipates having second thoughts all the way in the uber, maybe asking the driver to turn around and take him down to the seedy part of downtown where he knows there’s a high chance of finding some low level dealer selling oxys. But he doesn’t. Instead, the twinge of anticipation sits in his stomach and divides into little burning embers the closer they get to 547 Llynwood Avenue. By the time the uber pulls up, TK jumps out of the car, bounds up the porch stairs and then comes to a screeching halt at the front door.
This is Carlos. Someone who, by TK’s own error of judgement, now knows far too much about TK to be a pure acquaintance; a casual thing; a quick fuck. TK has to be more careful about what he lets on, because he’s let Carlos see more of him now, and that makes things more difficult to hide.
While he’s standing there for a minute, trying to rearrange all of the emotional barriers in his head, the door flies open. He hadn’t even knocked. It’s like Carlos knew he was there all along, trying to compartmentalise his feelings, and all of the half-built walls suddenly seem a little bit flimsy.
“Hi,” Carlos says. His voice is tinged with breathlessness, like he just ran down the stairs, and his eyes are wide, with a worried look written across them. It’s a far cry from the nonchalance on the phone earlier, and something flips in TK’s stomach as his brain registers the possibility that maybe they’re both bad at pretending they don’t care about this as much as they do.
“Hey,” TK replies, trying to school his features into a neutral expression, “can I come in?”
“Yes, of course,” Carlos adds, pulling the door open fully and stepping neatly to the side to let TK pass. There’s no immediate reach for him, or any semblance of a hurry, and Carlos’ hair is wet and he’s wearing a shirt.
“You’re not making dinner for me again, are you?” TK asks drily, scanning the living and kitchen area for any sign of illicit activities.
Carlos frowns as he closes the door and turns back to face TK, leaning his back against it for a moment. “It’s a bit soon for those jokes, isn’t it?” he asks.
TK shrugs. “Maybe,” he admits, foregoing the sofa and walking over to the kitchen. He picks up a few pieces of fruit from the fruit bowl and pretends to appraise them, rapping his fingernails over the counter as he does.
“So, are you going to tell me why you’re here?” Carlos asks, pushing himself away from the door and walking toward the kitchen, “or am I supposed to guess? Because if we are making jokes about my ability to interpret what you want, I would say that history is against me—”
“My dad has cancer,” TK interrupts, and God, it feels weird to say it out loud. There’s a swell of relief that comes after the exhale and he sinks into the fact that it’s real and scary, but he doesn’t have to keep it locked up inside of himself. There’s someone he can share this horrible truth with; someone who’s not in the 126 or who belongs to TK’s past life in New York, or his mom who will freak out and get on the first plane to Austin to smother them all with misguided care. Someone who he can trust, although TK is loath to admit that he feels that way.
Carlos’ face goes blank. “What?” he breathes.
“Yeah,” TK sighs, picking up an apple and tossing it in his hand. “He didn’t tell me, either. I just…found his cancer medication and then confronted him about it. He swears otherwise, but I think it’s because he’s scared that I'll…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely with one hand.
Carlos might have forgotten about that conversation at the police station, TK thinks. He’s not sure if the idea is more or less comforting, but he never has the desire to bring up the addiction thing, not when he can avoid it. His therapist says that it does him no good to treat it with a kind of reverent shame; like it’s so thoroughly unspeakable that he respects its right to silence, but TK doesn’t feel comfortable treating it in any other way. Not now, not when it’s so raw.
“Will you?” Carlos asks. It’s certainly not the question TK expects, and he’s kind of taken aback to see the plain, questioning look on Carlos’ face. Like he’s asking about the weather, or whether TK follows the major league or what kind of coffee he drinks.
“I don’t know,” TK admits, the honesty drawn out of him by the bluntness of the approach. “That’s why I came here.”
“Oh,” Carlos says, and there’s an inexplicable plummeting feeling of regret in TK’s stomach, mixed with some kind of euphoria at the look that crosses Carlos’ features. It’s something like gratitude or relief and it looks so lovely on Carlos' already beautiful face, but TK can’t place why Carlos would ever feel pleased about TK barrelling into his personal space to talk about his dad’s medical issues and TK’s addiction-related anxiety. It doesn’t make any sense.
“I’m sorry,” TK mutters, putting the apple back into the fruit bowl and shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. Vaguely, he recognises that it’s the same yellow one he wore the last time he stormed out of the townhouse, and wonders whether there’s some kind of poetic justice in that. “I shouldn’t have come over and put this on you. I don’t even really know why I’m here, so I can go—”
He makes a movement towards the door but finds himself blocked by Carlos’ chest; a hand settling itself on TK’s waist through the layers of fabric. “TK,” he starts, his voice smooth and caring and full of concern, which is teetering on the edge of being too much for TK to cope with. “Come here.”
There are warm arms around him and the starchy collar of Carlos’ shirt resting against his cheek as TK folds himself into the embrace. There’s a safety to it, something which should make him feel like he needs to run, but it's so inviting that he can’t bring himself to. He’s melting into the heady smell of Carlos’ cologne, and the little, damp tendrils of hair and the way that Carlos’ head is tucked into TK’s shoulder; his lips pressing softly against the skin on TK’s neck.
It’s so perfect, and exactly what TK is not looking for.
He doesn’t want to lean into this. He wants to rebuild the walls, Carlos on one side, and himself on the other. He wants to hide behind the cruel, uncaring curl of his lip and the anger that usually simmers inside him, which feels oddly far away. He wants to allow himself to wallow in the pain of rejection, and call Alex his soulmate and convince himself he doesn’t deserve love, because if the world has taught TK anything over the past few months, it’s that he doesn’t.
TK isn’t built for sweet, caring, respectful people like Carlos Reyes. He’s built for the men he finds in nightclubs when he’s high out of his mind, and people like Alex who appear nice on the outside, but are complicated and rotten and unfaithful under the veneer of perfection.
The problem is, TK has been treading water in the unending grey ocean of Austin for months now, and the only thing that keeps him from dipping under the swell is the bright, safe lifeboat on the waves. Always next to him, always willing to reach out and haul him up to safety, but TK can’t force himself fully onboard; can’t resist the song of the water and the way it calls him back into its depths.
He can always hang off its sides for a little while, though.
“What do you need?” Carlos asks, his voice low and his lips featherlight over the crook of TK’s neck. “How can I help you?”
The way he says it is careful and considerate. It’s not even necessarily sexual, but sex is what TK needs right now. He needs to bury the depth of his emotions and resist the way Carlos is stripping back his walls, dissolving the mortar and pulling them down, brick by brick. He needs to lose himself in the incandescent feeling of Carlos’ tongue or his lips or his fingertips. He needs to chase the high of being with someone who is so out of his reach and so easy to touch at the same time.
He finds Carlos’ hand at his waist and curls his fingers around it. They’ve not really held hands before, but TK doesn’t feel much like talking, and Carlos is so pliant and patient and doesn’t second guess the movement. He just looks at TK with an unasked question in his eyes and allows himself to be led up his own staircase.
“I just need this,” TK whispers, as they wind their way around Carlos’ bedroom door and he presses a hand lightly into the firm muscle of Carlos’ chest, pushing him gently against the adjoining wall.
Carlos stills under his touch; lips inches away from TK’s own, as he presses a hand back. “Are you sure?” he asks, his bottom lip dragged through his teeth and his eyes clouding over with a hunger that TK knows well. Still, the cautious, considerate question is exactly what TK wants to avoid right now. He doesn’t want to know that Carlos Reyes cares about him. TK Strand doesn’t get to have that.
“Yeah,” he replies breathlessly, pushing back against Carlos’ hand and losing himself in the intoxicating heat of Carlos’ mouth as he covers Carlos’ lips with his own.
There’s a push and pull in the way Carlos kisses TK. It’s almost as if he’s trying to hold something back; a frenetic energy that wants to be released, like he’s trying to be gentle, even when TK is very clearly asking for more. It makes TK want to growl in frustration or beg in equal measure, and he sucks on Carlos’ bottom lip as Carlos laughs into the roof of his mouth; a strong, warm hand finding the back of TK’s neck and pulling him in closer.
There’s a rippling of anticipation wrecking TK’s body and a pulsing electricity in the places where their bodies meet, and TK chases the feeling over Carlos’ lips as he searches them for something rougher; more on his level.
“Easy, TK,” Carlos murmurs against his lips, making TK groan impatiently and push himself up onto his tiptoes to crowd over Carlos’ mouth for another kiss, full of unspoken craving. There’s a sudden sweep of Carlos’ tongue and a solid, strong thigh between TK’s legs and he grinds his hips into it almost involuntarily as Carlos’ other hand hikes his hoodie up; his fingers curling around TK’s hip.
There’s blood rushing in TK’s ears and adrenaline coursing through him in a way that he only ever really feels on calls, in emergencies or under the influence. It’s strange, a tiny voice in his subconscious recognises, because he’s not sure whether he ever felt this kind of hunger for someone else before. As soon as the thought comes, it’s gone, pushed down as far as TK can send it with another rut of his hips against Carlos’ thigh.
“What can I say?” TK replies, choking slightly as Carlos’ lips find the spot on his neck that effectively acts as his kryptonite. TK isn’t sure how Carlos managed to find that so quickly, but it’s one of the more impressive things about him. “I’m feeling eager.”
“Clearly,” Carlos hums, before sucking on the spot and making TK moan in an embarrassingly gratified way.
“Why does that sound so judgemental, Carlos?” TK retorts, shivering as Carlos presses urgent kisses along his jawline, winding his way back up to TK’s face. In response, TK drops his hands and makes quick work of the buttons on Carlos’ shirt, helping him wriggle out of it and then throwing it into the corner of the room.
“It’s not,” Carlos whispers, sinking his lips back onto TK’s for another rough, desperate kiss that’s a little more needy than before. “I’m just surprised you want me that badly,” he says, and dips his head to ravage TK’s neck again while TK’s mind reels at the words. He can’t quite comprehend how someone like Carlos is even single, let alone amazed at the fact that someone as broken, imperfect and complicated as TK might want him. It’s absurd.
Carlos lifts his head back up to meet TK’s eyes. “Hey,” he asks, shaking TK’s shoulders slightly. “Where did you go?”
TK tries to smother the panicked look on his face, which is only partially successful because Carlos’ expression falters, and a little crease works its way into his brow.
“Did I say something wrong?” Carlos asks, lifting TK’s chin with two of his fingers, his eyes searching TK’s like he’s trying to draw the answer out of them.
TK has the ridiculous urge to scream. The plain, simple fact is that nothing about Carlos is even remotely wrong. If anything, he’s so right in every way, that he’s gone all the way back around to being wrong.
Carlos is everything TK has ever wanted in a boyfriend and nothing that TK has ever deserved. TK barely knows him, and yet he knows Carlos is good, right down to his core; loyal and dependable and attentive. He’s patient with TK and knows far too much about him to be sticking around, but he’s still here, warm and solid and real under TK’s fingertips. He’s beautiful and connects with TK on another level in bed, and TK just can’t understand why this is happening to him right now.
He’s supposed to be alone. He’s supposed to be emotionally destroyed by his failed marriage proposal. He’s not supposed to find someone who wants to be his boyfriend and listens to all his problems without judgement and knows too much about him and still looks at him like he hangs the moon. He’s supposed to drown in an ocean of his unhappiness. He’s not supposed to find someone who wants to haul him out.
“I just—” TK stutters, struggling to find the words in his mouth. He can’t say anything that’s going to encourage Carlos, because he’s sure this won’t last. It can’t. TK will blow it up, and when he does, he doesn’t need Carlos spiralling along with him.
“We should stop,” Carlos says, taking a step to his right and sliding out of TK’s space. “TK, you’ve had a pretty traumatic day—”
This is worse. It’s worse because Carlos is asking him to be vulnerable, and TK can’t give that to him right now. He needs to shut that down, just like he does when he uses; he needs the safety of floating into nothingness, or completely letting go.
“Please,” he says, his voice hoarse as he follows Carlos along the wall. “I need you.” He can feel Carlos trying to read his expression, raking his brown eyes across all of TK’s features for an answer. “Trust me,” TK insists. “I’m good.”
“Okay,” Carlos whispers, stepping forward into TK and nudging him backwards as he captures TK’s lips in another kiss. “I want to take care of you, but you have to promise to tell me if you want to stop.”
“I don’t want to stop,” TK replies adamantly, allowing himself to be turned around and tugged towards the bed.
“I can’t read you at all,” Carlos whispers, kicking off his shoes and flopping onto the bed as TK follows suit and chases him across the covers. “It scares me. I feel like I’m going to do something wrong.”
“If it makes you feel better,” TK replies, pushing Carlos’ hip down into the mattress and straddling Carlos’ hips with his thighs as he tugs his hoodie and T-shirt over his head, “I can’t read you, either.”
“I’m easy to read,” Carlos murmurs in a voice that makes TK’s heart hurt just hearing it. “I just want you.”
Those words. That voice. All of it, right there, is why TK can’t handle this, and he doesn’t know what else to do except crowd over Carlos’ lips, plunge himself into a deep, searing kiss and do everything in his power to make Carlos shut up.
If Carlos is surprised by the movement, he doesn’t act like it. Instead, he arches up off the mattress to meet TK’s body and rolls his hips in a way that makes TK wish he had the foresight to take his sweatpants off before he got on top of Carlos. Not that it matters much, because a few messy, desperate kisses later, full of Carlos’ hot, wet tongue and a lot of unearthly noises that seem to come from TK’s throat, he finds himself flipped over on the sheets and the material being dragged off his legs as Carlos throws his own over his shoulder.
There’s something about being manhandled that ignites something within TK, and he pants into Carlos’ mouth and ruts his hips against his thigh as Carlos crawls back up TK’s body. There’s fingernails raking up the inside of his legs and Carlos’ teeth dragging over his earlobe and somehow the quiet, wariness is gone and replaced by the thundering of TK’s heart in his chest and Carlos’ short, laboured breathing.
Carlos hisses into TK’s mouth as TK bucks against him again, pushing his hips against Carlos’ hardness. In response, Carlos throws TK a sinful look, whips a bottle of something out of his nightstand and warms the liquid between his hands, before dipping one of them under TK’s waistband; his hair looking like it’s been through a dryer from the way TK has been pulling at it.
There’s another press of Carlos’ lips against his own, working TK’s mouth open and teasing his bottom lip with his tongue as he finds TK’s cock and pulls slow, languid strokes over his length. TK shoves one hand into the mattress and curls his fingers around the sheets like an anchor as he moans into Carlos’ mouth, the aching tightness in his stomach as much of an indicator of how much he wants this as the pre-come that has spread across his underwear in a little wet patch.
There’s a frantic energy now, as Carlos twists his hand slightly, just how TK likes it, before stroking from base to tip, curling his fingers around the crown and sweeping his thumb over the slit. Carlos’ fingers are dexterous, firm and sure and feel like certainty and safety and there’s something so intoxicating about it that it makes TK feel as if he might cry.
“Carlos,” he breathes, trying to suppress another desperate sound in the back of his mouth that’s begging to spill from his lips. “Carlos, I—”
“You like this, TK?” Carlos murmurs into the rough stubble of TK’s jawline. “What do you need?”
“More,” TK rasps, finding his voice somewhere in between the ecstasy he feels and the little fires Carlos’ lips are setting on his neck. He takes a hand and threads it back through Carlos’ damp curls, eliciting a little noise of approval from Carlos’ lips that TK finds somehow even more appealing.
“More?” Carlos teases, pausing to suck another pressure point on TK’s shoulder as his hand sweeps up TK’s length again, collecting the wetness that TK is sure is pooling at the tip and making him arch involuntarily off the bed again. “You’re going to have to specify.”
TK can feel Carlos’ erection through his underwear at his hip and desperately wants to reach for it, but pauses and breathes. “I want you to fuck me,” he says. “Preferably right now.”
Carlos groans. “TK, are you sure—” he asks, stopping himself when he sees TK’s expression. Instead, his hands still over TK’s cock before pushing his underwear all the way down to his knees, where TK kicks them off, obediently. “We're opening you up properly, though,” Carlos warns, uncapping the lube again and TK tries not to melt into the sheets.
He’s scared of Carlos seeing him like this, laid out and open and raw. He’s scared of it, but he craves it, needs more of it, and will probably ruin them both by being unable to stop himself from reaching out to take what Carlos is so willingly giving him. He wonders if that’s selfish.
“I can do it myself,” TK offers, knowing that some people prefer it when he does. Alex always did. “If you want.”
Carlos’ lips part into an expression that TK’s unsure if he’s ever seen before, and then shift into a devoted gaze that TK has worn on his own face far too many times. It feels like staring up into the sky on an overcast day and watching the clouds part slightly to allow a little beam of sunshine through, and TK swallows thickly and scrambles to hold onto his feelings.
“Do you actually want to?” Carlos asks, “because I’m kind of desperate to do it.”
“Oh,” TK stutters, “no, I’m good. I mean, go ahead. I—”
“You’re so beautiful,” Carlos whispers, as he runs a slick hand up TK’s thighs and circles the rim. There’s a beat, where TK swears his whole world pauses for a moment and his body vibrates with anticipation, before a moan is being ripped from his lips at the feeling of Carlos pressing a deft finger inside him, curling the tip slightly and finding a pressure point.
There’s an aching expression etched across Carlos’ features, and although he still has underwear on, TK can feel the wetness leaking onto his side from Carlos’ own arousal. It does absolutely nothing to dissuade TK from working back against Carlos’ finger a little prematurely, pursuing the stretch and the burn that he feels half-crazed for; losing himself in the way that Carlos reacts to his own hunger.
“Do you want more?” Carlos asks, a haunting look on his face as he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. The way he looks at TK makes him feel venerated; like some kind of deity that’s slightly beyond his grasp.
“Yeah, yes,” he pants, clenching little tufts of the sheets with his hands as Carlos slides another finger in, opening him up. TK is struggling to keep up the pretence that this isn’t as devastatingly good as it gets. Being under Carlos’ adoring gaze as he asks what TK wants, and the mere fact that their bodies react to each other in a way that makes it feel like they’ve been doing this for decades and not weeks, is irresistible. A wedding night should feel like this, TK thinks. Not some kind of casual fuck.
Carlos mirrors one of TK’s needy noises and he snaps back to attention, watching Carlos’ slack jaw and brown eyes that are blown wide with desire. “You should see yourself,” Carlos stammers, “you’re so fucking—”
TK doesn’t even think he’s ever heard Carlos swear before, but he cuts him off, shifting his face towards Carlos to press a messy, imperfect kiss into his lips. Carlos reciprocates greedily, and after a few moments of sliding tongues and swollen, bitten lips, TK asks for more and Carlos obliges, slipping another slick finger inside of him.
There’s a moment, wrapped up in the addictive feeling of Carlos’ fingers, that TK thinks he might just come right there and then. He’s never been able to get himself off like this, without any attention on his dick whatsoever, and it scares him half to death that Carlos can do something to him that he can’t even do himself.
“Carlos,” he rasps, breathing heavily, and Carlos anticipates what he’s going to ask before the words have left his lips. TK whines at the feeling of Carlos’ hands sliding out of him and being wiped on the folds of his underwear as Carlos rolls a condom over himself, slicking it up with more lube. “Are you sure?” he asks, crowding over TK’s hips and dropping a kiss onto his upper thigh.
“Are you serious?” TK half-demands, half-moans. “I wouldn’t be so wrecked if I wasn’t sure. Of course I’m sure. I’m so sure I—”
“Okay, okay,” Carlos laughs, his breath ghosting a spot next to TK’s hipbone before he replaces it with his fingertips and re-positions himself.
The bed is a mess, already wet in a certain spot, but as Carlos sinks into him, carefully despite TK’s protestations, TK finds that he doesn’t really mind. The heat, the pressure, the soft moan that escapes Carlos’ mouth and reverberates in his ears is like being transported to some kind of paradise. TK can’t believe he ever pursued sex that was less than this. This is what he craves.
“I think I’m going to pass out,” Carlos murmurs in his ear as he reaches the hilt and pauses.
“You better not,” TK teases, raking his fingernails up the broad planes of Carlos’ back and then running them down to his hips. “I need you to move.”
There’s an energy coursing through TK that is so pleasantly warm and euphoric, and when Carlos finally gets his act together and moves his hips, TK wonders whether he might actually be dying. If he is, it feels fucking fantastic.
Carlos’ body is warm, firm and tangible underneath his fingertips, and TK’s breath hitches as they find each other’s lips again. There’s hot, heavy breathing like hell against each other’s mouths, interspersed with kisses and little moans littered into the space between them and Carlos’ shoulders flex under the strain of keeping himself upright in a way that TK is pathetically weak for. Fuck a firefighter’s calendar, he thinks deliriously. Carlos is way more sexy.
He comes slightly more undone with every rock of Carlos’ hips, and at some point Carlos stops kissing him and just stares down at him like TK holds Carlos’ world in his hands and it’s too much. He tosses his head sideways in response, sliding his lips over the heel of Carlos’ hand and whimpering against it, trying to push down the very real feelings that are threatening to spill out of his lips. Carlos is etching something permanent into TK’s skin that TK has no chance in hell of rubbing off, and it doesn’t even itch like his addiction. It’s soothing and calming, and honestly, that’s the worst part.
There’s a tight coil in his stomach that’s on the precipice of snapping, and as soon as Carlos reaches between them to find TK’s wet and aching cock, it only takes a few strokes for him to practically sob into the skin of Carlos’ hand.
“Let go, TK,” Carlos chokes out, and TK doesn’t have much of a choice at this point, because Carlos is dragging his thumb over the tip and sliding it back down his shaft and it takes another two seconds before TK is panting hot, quick breaths into the pillow as he spills into Carlos’ hand.
“Carlos, baby,” he breathes without meaning to at all, and Carlos takes one look at him, eyes wide and lip stuck between his teeth before he hurtles over the edge, collapsing into TK's chest as he does.
They breathe against each other for a moment, Carlos’ eyes full of questions that TK is steadfastly not going to answer. He keeps his own gaze averted until Carlos rolls off onto the bedspread next to him and groans.
There’s a high, an amazing, post-orgasm high that TK wants to drown in, and although he’s wrecked and tired and more than a little concerned about the fact that a term of endearment somehow managed to make it out of his mouth, he can’t help but feel deliciously satiated. Carlos is by far the best sex he has ever had, and it’s what makes everything else a little bit more complicated. TK can’t stay away, although he’s not entirely sure it’s just the sex. A ridiculous part of him wishes he could run out the door to a shift, like the first time he came to the townhouse, or be left alone in a bathroom to have a mild panic attack like he did in the honky tonk. It’s not really possible now. Carlos knows him too well.
He’s so lost in his own thoughts he doesn’t realise Carlos has left the room until he’s back, a soft touch on TK’s hip as he settles between TK’s thighs and wipes a warm towel over him, cleaning the mess that TK has left on his own stomach, before directing his attention between TK’s legs.
Whatever TK wants to say is stuck in his throat, behind some kind of ridiculous lump that feels too big for it. He tries to swallow it down, unsuccessfully and then opens his lips to protest, but his eyes prickle dangerously in the edges. Instead, he clamps them shut, flexing his jaw and tries not to freak out about the fact that Carlos is caring for TK in a way he doesn’t deserve. Carlos is washing away the convictions that TK hides behind bit by bit, and everything TK thinks he’s earned in life, and showing him something else entirely. He craves it.
When Carlos is done and has cleaned himself up, he nudges TK up the bed and pulls the covers over them.
“Stay,” he whispers into the crook of TK’s neck as he curls into TK’s back. There's soft breathing against TK's skin and a warm arm resting over his waist connected to a hand which reaches up and captures TK's; threading their fingers together.
Wriggling back into the touch, TK feels exhausted. Maybe tomorrow he’ll wake up and start again, push Carlos away and wallow in regret, but for now he’s just tired. Maybe tomorrow he can go back to feeling sorry for himself and rebuilding the walls or drowning himself in his own anxiety and feelings of inadequacy.
But not tonight. Tonight, he’s going to stay.