Chapter Text
Artwork by the wonderful EnchantedToReadYou on Ao3, heartstringsduet on tumblr. Thank you so much!
If I can make it to the chair, TK thinks, then I can make it to the door. If I can make it to the door, I can make it to the hall. If I can make it to the hall, I can make it to the bathroom. If I can make it to the bathroom, I can make it into the shower.
He glares at the elbow crutches propped in an X position against the wall at the foot of his bed. The yellow sponge that softens the forearm cuffs and the hand grips is grubby and flaking. He has held onto them long enough. In his head, he hears the voice of Elodie Thérèse, the sweetest and most competent physiotherapist he could ever have hoped for – he loves her, while wishing they’d never met – encouraging him on, step by step. Months into this, TK’s legs can take his weight without his face turning bright red and him bursting into tears. The metal seam that reconnects his left tibia holds true. The atrophy of his muscles is starting to reverse, the more he moves.
He hears footsteps outside his room. Seconds later, there’s a soft knock and the whine of a large, gorgeous dog.
“I’m awake,” he calls.
Owen pushes the handle and peers around the door, which is bumped all the way open by Buttercup on a mission to slobber over TK’s face.
“I’ve got to head out to a shift,” Owen says, leaning to hold Buttercup by the collar. “But did you want me to bring you up a flask of coffee?”
“No thanks,” TK smiles sleepily, stroking Buttercup’s soft ears. “I’ll go down and do it myself soon.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” TK replies with determination. “This is a good day.” He kisses Buttercup’s head. The dog responds with a snuffle that speaks of unconditional love.
TK has good days and bad days. He can tell, now, which day will be which from the moment he opens his eyes in the morning.
“Okay, great. I was going to take Buttercup with me today, but–”
“That’s fine.”
“I can leave him with you – but it’s just the crew misses him as much as they’re missing you.”
“In that case,” TK laughs and looks into the teddy-bear-eyes of the floppiest Bernese Mountain Dog in town, “He should go and get all the attention.”
“Okay. They’ll be pleased. Oh, and some of the crew might drop by later if you’re well enough.”
“Yeah, definitely. I’d like that.”
“But text me later and let me know how you are – and if you need anything from the store. Proud of you. Love you,” Owen says, happy but abrupt, and leaves him be.
“Bye, Dad.”
TK listens to Buttercup thump down the stairs with Owen treading softly behind him. He waits until he hears the front door shut. Then he takes six deep breaths and pulls his covers away. Alone in the starkly silent house with nobody to rely on but himself, he presses his legs together and swings them out of bed, placing his feet neatly on the floor. He never thought about his legs all that much before the injury, but now he loves them – even veiny and blotchy and scrawny. He was able to keep both of them attached to his body, despite the circumstances, and he sees them as a team.
“Okay guys,” he says, looking seriously at his bent knees as if they’re looking back. “Here we go.”
His legs speak with a crack and an ache. They tense and work hard for him as he stands. He braces his right hand firmly against the surface of his bedside table. Grits his teeth. Thinks of knives drawn slowly and directly against the shin bone. He’d described the sensation to Owen as like growing pains when you’re a kid, but bad enough to make you scream and puke instead of just grizzle and have a sleepless night.
If I can make it to the chair.
One step forward. Two steps. The pressure is outrageous. He can’t believe his body used to lift itself so easily and totally without thought or really much feeling. He reaches for the chair. Easy. grips the back of it. Careful. He takes another deep, proud breath.
“Door,” he says.
Four more steps. His hands press to either side of the doorframe.
“Okay. Hallway.”
The hallway does not have anything in it that he can hold onto. He closes his eyes. Walking is simple. It’s the first thing he learned how to do. It is innate.
TK takes another step. His palms and feet are starting to sweat. The coolness of the wooden floor feels pleasant against his bare soles. He tries to focus on the coolness instead of the ache that swells mostly in his left leg but travels all the way up his back and around into his chest. His heart is beating like he’s out for a run. He misses running. He didn’t really love running before, but now he’d give anything to plug himself into a club mix playlist and sprint around the park like it’s nothing. Everything used to be nothing.
The hallway is wide. An ocean he could drown in. He closes his eyes again and imagines he’s a merman and he’s going to swim beneath the surface, follow the pale blue beams of the sun passing through, ignore the dark abyss below. The abyss is none of his business. He will swim to a rock and bask there in the warm.
TK shoots his arms out and grapples with the bathroom’s doorframe. Yesterday he tried this and split some of the white paint, digging his fingernails in too hard. But he’s gentler this time. He can be. Today is a good day.
In the bathroom, he wraps his fingers around the heated towel rail and reaches to open the shower door. A white, plastic chair with holes in the seat is placed beneath the rainhead. As he undresses, he listens to songbirds through the open window – a congregation in the blossoming tree in the backyard, which is their church. It’s another beautiful March day in Austin, and if he can make it downstairs without his crutches, he’s going to bring his coffee outside into the fresh air. Yesterday he didn’t. But today is new. Today is good.
He takes off his pajama t-shirt and shorts and the silver medallion he only ever removes when he washes. He hooks it gently over the end pipe of the towel rail and rubs the thick disc with his thumb, pressing at the Maltese cross engraving as if to make a wish. This is a keepsake from his old life in New York, a kind of insignia for his former firehouse, the 252 – representative of the good days there – and the only item he genuinely cared about taking with him during the move. A reminder that his former-self was not all bad.
He doesn’t miss New York, but he’d barely got to know Austin before his injury and now he can’t remember what home should feel like in the broader sense. He isn’t really anywhere. He isn’t anything or anyone. But still – still – this is a good day.
TK lets go of his medallion. It swings into the towel rail, clinking against the steel. He enters the shower, closing the door behind him quickly, as though trying to shut out something that follows. He sits down with a thump onto the chair. “We did it!” he calls to his legs, which throb and twitch as if to say we fucking know.
He turns on the water. It shocks him with a burst of cold and then runs almost too-hot, the way he likes it. He lathers his hair with shampoo, and as he tilts his head back to wash it off, he starts to cry.
“Welcome back, Reyes.”
“Welcome back, man.”
“Good to see you.”
“Hey! Glad you’re here. How are you?”
“Thanks, everyone. I’m good.” Carlos Reyes blushes and drops all eye contact as he passes his co-workers in the locker room, heading for his compartment. He is about to take off his shirt in front of everyone and he doesn’t want to know who among them will look for the scars on his body. Eight weeks ago, something happened. He doesn’t want to talk about it or think about it. The permanent physical reminder is plenty torturous. Being assigned to desk duty for the foreseeable is another kind of insult to injury, although he was starting to spiral, stuck at home. He’ll take the paperwork and the camaraderie, such as it is, at the precinct. He loves Grand Designs, but there’s only so much he can watch on the daily, and he can’t concentrate on any of the novels or non-fictions lined up on his to-be-read shelf.
Carlos dresses into his uniform with urgency, whipping off his sweater a little too dramatically and stripper-like, perhaps. Once his work shirt is over his shoulders he fastens the buttons at such a pace he threads them into the wrong holes and has to start again.
His co-workers seem to realize he needs space. They leave the room one after another until Carlos turns around to find only himself staring back in the full-length mirror screwed to the wall. He looks good. He’s gelled his hair neatly. His uniform is snug against his broad, strong back and large biceps in a way that always makes him feel confident. As soon as he was cleared to go back to the gym he was there within an hour, chalking up his hands and hogging the free weights. Even as his leg healed he found himself fairly able to manage Pilates and press ups if he made sensible use of his yoga bricks. He hasn’t lost his body, he tells himself. Other aspects of himself, yes, maybe, are gone now and will never return. But at least he looks strong. That’s all anyone really seems to care about.
Carlos drops in to see Captain Warner by request before heading to his own desk. Captain Warner is a nice guy until you cross him – Carlos never has, so far, and as a man of color he felt a strong connection when he was a rookie, like Captain Warner was showing him the future. He could be Captain Warner, someday. Now, he’ll settle for just being a working cop who is still alive, even if he never rises through the ranks.
“Officer Reyes. Shut the door and take a seat,” Captain Warner says with a smile when Carlos ratters on the door frame. Captain Warner’s office is a fishbowl – a cube of mainly glass, central within the open plan first floor. There aren’t many secrets at the Austin Police Department. Carlos feels like he’s on stage in some kind of interactive theater show.
Carlos smiles back politely. “Good morning, Sir.” He sits down on the blue swivel chair on the opposite side of the desk.
“How are you doing, Officer?” Captain Warner asks with a warmth to his voice that he can put on convincingly.
“Oh, I’m doing well, Sir, thank you. I’m happy to be back – I just want to get on with things.”
“Good to hear. It’s not easy being away so long.”
“No, Sir.”
“And you know I’ve been exactly where you are. Got the scars to prove it, too.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“It’s a hell of a thing.”
Carlos swallows.
“And I appreciate you didn’t dream of desk duty when you were a little boy playing cops and robbers.”
Carlos smiles, tries to laugh a little. “It’s okay, Sir,” he says, and repeats, “I’m happy to be here.”
“You’ll be back on patrol in no time. But we have a duty of care to you and the public. You understand. So, you and me, we’ll keep talking, and you’ll keep seeing your therapist, and when the time is right, we’ll know.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll let you get on. And if you need anything, my door is always open. I mean it, Reyes. You’re one of the most diligent guys I’ve got, and it’s better with you around.”
Carlos nods, almost bows at him with gratitude, and leaves at what he hopes looks like a decent pace. He doesn’t want to appear eager to get the hell out of the room, although he is, but neither does he want to appear lumbering – or like he’s limping. Better with you around. He’ll ride on the high of that compliment for the rest of the day.
Pinky-brown cardboard wallets of processing papers and miscellany are piled on Carlos’ desk, and the only way out is through. He makes himself a black coffee in the small kitchen offshoot, using a mug with a Peanuts cartoon on it, and listens to the bustle and chatter out there on the main floor. Telephones ring, fingertips on keyboards sound vaguely like the patter of rain. He watches Sergeant Cody at her desk replace a photo of her baby with a photo of the same child, now many months older. Life goes on. He returns to his desk and opens a file. The statement on the page blurs. He puts on his glasses. Better. Word by word, minute by minute, he gets through the day. Lunch is a cob salad, a banana, a chocolate chip cookie and a glass of homemade lemonade that Officer García brought in. It’s incredibly tarte and makes him wince despite his best efforts to smile and nod after his first sip. Everyone is being very nice to him. Very patient. He wonders if he’s coming across as slow and dazed.
By 5 p.m., Carlos is struggling to hold a pen. His hand tremors. He signs off a document messily after processing a man arrested for assaulting a Walmart cashier. The man uses all kinds of slurs and acts like he doesn’t care. Carlos hates it when shifts finish like this. Not long before the event that he doesn’t want to think about, he ended a shift by rescuing a Labrador puppy from a storm drain. He wants another day like that. At 6 p.m., he gets into his car where he feels safe and alone and blinks hard against tears in his eyes, willing them away. He wins. No crying today. He starts the engine and drives to the gym.
One Month Later
“The pool at Central Austin Fitness is quietest on Tuesday evenings,” Elodie Thérèse assures TK while she sips her breakfast latte from Starbucks and watches TK walk with fair agility back and forth along the black rubberised mat that stretches the breadth of the treatment room. Four weeks of nothing but breakthroughs, Elodie Thérèse can chill out against the support rail mounted to the mirror wall. TK turns around and watches her gaze at her reflection. She’s nearly forty, gorgeous, happily single, and TK thinks she has the exact speaking voice of Dolly Parton. She fixes her dark hair and runs her tongue over her teeth to dislodge a little something. He sort of loves that she’s not paying attention, and he’s sort of sad. All signs point to him not really needing her anymore. It’s like she’s subconsciously (or maybe consciously, he isn’t sure if there’s a bit of a game to this) starting to lose her interest in him, in a good way. TK imagines fledgling seabirds taking off from a cliff edge with ready wings.
“I’ll think about it,” TK hums.
“More doing, less thinking.” Elodie Thérèse shakes her finger at him in behest. “Swimming will be fabulous for you. Nobody is going to stare. Your legs look fantastic now, and that ointment for your scars has worked miracles. Mind and body, you need it.” She smiles, and dramatically concludes, “It will carry you on, where I cannot!”
TK laughs, “Don’t say that.”
“Let it soothe your soul, honey.”
“I’ll miss you.”
Elodie Thérèse winks at him.
“Do you have favorite clients?” TK asks with a smirk.
“Yes,” she says.
“Am I one of them?”
“Definitely not,” she answers quickly, gazing at him with remarkable fondness.
TK straightens his back – it clicks, but that’s okay – and he attempts a saunter, as if the rubberised mat is a catwalk. His medallion swishes on its chain and thumps against his chest. “I should have modeled for Versace,” he says.
“It’s not too late.”
“Less dangerous than my other dream job.”
“Firefighting.”
“Yep.”
“You’d be surprised. I’ve treated catwalk models, ballerinas, actors. Nothing is ever as glamorous as you’d think. Go swimming regularly, TK. You won’t regret it.”
“Fine, E.T. Anything for you,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Don’t call me E.T.”
“You’re in my phone as E.T.”
“Don’t call me at all,” she tells him softly, “You’re on your own, kid.”
TK looks at her, dipping his head with a nod of appreciation because he can’t speak anymore. Physiotherapists and their clients go through an awful lot together, he has learned, and in some ways the broken heart he arrived in Austin with has also started to heal under her watchful eye. He wonders if swimming will help with that too.
Carlos stands on the edge of the deep end of pool at Central Austin Fitness. The water is mesmerizing. It catches the dimmed ceiling lights and shimmers with a soft pulsing movement, waves created by the wake of the swimmers moving through. The tiles all around are pale green, which gives the water a jade tint in the evenings. Earlier in the day, under brighter lights, it’s more of a greeny-turquoise, like a tropical lagoon. He’s never known another pool like it. After the doctors cleared him for exercise, he headed straight for the weights, but halfway through, heating up, he began to crave the pool. He didn’t have swimming trunks with him, so came back the next evening – a Tuesday, when he knew it would be quiet – and booked a lane. The place has felt like a friend to him ever since.
Carlos arches his back, throws his arms forward and then swings them behind him, elbows bent. His knotty muscles clench and ache. The scars on his back stretch and tighten. This is not a sensation he enjoys, and one he can’t ignore, though he tries. He rolls his shoulders a few times, tilts his head from side to side, letting the weight of it tug his stiff neck. He shakes his arms and opens his hands wide and then balls them into fists. Open, closed. Open, closed. He does this a few times. He lowers his goggles from where they sit securely on his forehead and fixes them over his eyes, blinking as his vision adjusts to the imperfections of the plastic. Ready, he steeples his arms and springs from the edge of the pool into the water, entering the glittering jade surface with the elegance of an experienced diver. He leaves barely a splash. The water covers him like it’s been waiting for him. He disappears underneath, traveling a couple of meters before he breaches and takes a breath. The water that felt bitter on entry is suddenly bearable, as though he is warming it.
Carlos’ head clears. He thinks of beautiful nothingness. Then, gradually, he contemplates the size of the ocean, the size of Jupiter, the edges of the universe, which he imagines to be like old photo negatives, reflecting everything that has ever happened back in pale gray reverse.
Carlos takes a breath and dips his face down, wheeling his right arm and quickening his breaststroke. He turns his head to the left. A pinkish looped object flashes in the corner of his eye and smacks him sharp on his cheekbone. His jaw thrums, teeth filling like hollow squares with icy drips of pain. Carlos bursts up, out of the water, gasping.
“Hey, dude, what the fuck!” The man who collided with Carlos yells, his voice peculiar in Carlos’ waterlogged ears. “Watch where you’re going!”
“Me?” Carlos spins around, holding his face and squinting through his goggles. The bottom of the pool is reachable on his tiptoes. He floats vertically and bobs up and down.
“Yes, you. You’re in my lane.”
“What?” Carlos half-blindly reaches out for the blue floated rope divider. It’s not to his left where it should be. He finds it with his right arm searching a small way behind him. He pulls his goggles upwards – they make an awkward, sucking noise as the suction breaks around his eye sockets. All is clear now. In his reverie, he accidentally swam beneath the divider and entered the other guy’s lane.
“Ah, no. I’m sorry.” Carlos turns around, hot with embarrassment, hoping his expression conveys apology instead of confusion.
A face he has never forgotten stares back at him.
The man is wearing swimming trunks of the gaudiest bubblegum pink, and he’s panting as he paddles, mouth open and eyes wide within his purple-framed goggles. The water sparkles over his skin. Droplets rain down from his flattened hair that is wetted black. He bobs in a semi-circle until he’s in front of Carlos and can grip a float. With much less haste than Carlos, he peels his goggles up and away. Green eyes reflect the green water with a jewel-like sheen. The last time Carlos looked into these eyes was – what – back in the fall? That rainy evening at the honky-tonk when he and this man shimmied stupidly during a line dance until they laughed and then rushed to the bathroom fifteen minutes later, crashing into an empty stall and slamming the door shut. These are the same green eyes that fluttered shut when this same mouth – and the lips the man is licking right now – sucked at the head of his cock.
“You – er – I haven’t seen you in a while,” Carlos says.
“I’ve been on extended sick leave. I got injured really bad.”
Carlos nods. He knows the story. He knows this is Firefighter TK Strand, son of Captain Strand, who heads up Station 126. They moved to Austin from New York City to reinstate the firehouse after an explosion wiped out almost the entire crew. Carlos met TK while out on a call; later that evening, everyone gathered at the honky-tonk to celebrate a successful rescue. He drummed up the nerve to ask TK to dance. They did. Things escalated beautifully. A blowjob of magnitude – of the kind he’d never experienced before. He could have cried on orgasm. Every day for a week after, Carlos hoped he’d end up on a shift involving the 126. Day eight – he finally linked up with them at a car wreck on MoPac Expressway. But TK wasn’t among the team. Later, he found Michelle and made a casual enquiry; as E.M.S. captain, she reliably knows everything about everyone. He asked something like, “Hey, is the captain’s kid not around?” he can’t recall exactly, although he remembers Michelle’s answer with terrible clarity.
“Haven’t you heard?” she said, “Sorry, I should have text you or something. A former employee set fire to an office building on West 3rd Street and it got totally out of control.”
“Oh, of course I heard about that – it was massive,” Carlos told her, “I wasn’t working that day.”
“Neither was I. But TK was. He had to jump out of a window. He broke his legs. Luckily nothing worse, even though that’s plenty bad enough by any standard. A bush broke his fall, protected his head.”
Carlos remembers swallowing so hard it hurt. He wanted to do something. But what? Send TK a card? Get his number and text him? He did almost ask Michelle for his number, and he found TK on Facebook and Instagram and almost messaged him, but freaked out every time. It would be too weird. What if he looked like a creep? In his head, he only asked the hardest questions and imagined the worst scenarios.
Then Carlos’ own situation happened. His own extended sick leave. His mind has been both off and on TK Strand ever since. He’d started to tell himself that TK’s beauty was a lie: A too-perfect, rose-tinted image of the first man he’d been intimate with for many months, and the last man he has been intimate with for many months since.
“Sorry to hear that,” Carlos says to TK, deciding it’s best to play ignorant. “I’m really sorry for interrupting your swim. I’m just back from sick leave myself. I don’t think I’ve got my head screwed on yet.”
“No, you’re fine. It’s fine.” TK shakes his head and smiles. The drops of water diamonding his skin fill with light, and Carlos is momentarily dazzled. “Well. Enjoy your swim. I guess stay a little closer to the edge, or something.”
Carlos chuckles. It comes out sounding fake, which it sort of is. “I will. Thanks.” He quickly shuffles his goggles down his forehead and over his eyes again, as if obscuring his own vision will help him disappear. He slides under the lane divider and resumes his journey to the end of the pool, mindful of swimming in a straight line. He goes slow, lets the water lift him and ease him towards the green tiled wall. He meets it with a soft touch of his palm and turns, screwdrivering around until he’s facing the opposite direction, and butterflies off to where he started. TK Stand. He feels the water push against his hips. He thinks of TK’s mouth.
TK pauses at the shallow end of the pool. He leans back, arms crooked on the edge to support himself. The guy’s name is Carlos. He remembers Carlos’ breath pouring warmly into his ear when he gave his name at the honky-tonk. He watches Carlos meet the far end and breach the surface and then curve back under so he can spin around. A true, calm water creature. He’s a big man, but he moves through the water like a golden arrow. TK sees the shadow of Carlos darken as he nears, the split-second rise of his face when he takes a breath. His blurry form sharpens right next to him. TK watches as he touches the wall and spins again, swimming off back to the deep end. Part of TK is disappointed. If Carlos had decided to stop by him, maybe they could have spoken again. TK could possibly endeavor to swim back to the deep end too, and join him there, but Carlos would have turned around again by that point, and TK would be exhausted and on his own. Flailing. The lifeguard’s whistle would blow. He’d be rescued in front of everybody. The shame. Elodie Thérèse was not wrong – swimming did feel good, to begin with. He just hadn’t expected his body to tire so quickly after the work he’s put into its recovery.
Carlos stops at the deep end of his lane – finishing up, it seems, although like TK he doesn’t get out of the water straight away. He leans against the side of the pool too, facing the wall, resting his folded elbows on the edge and running his hands through his hair. TK remembers the feel of those large hands tugging his hair while he had the man’s cock in his mouth. It was big. Rock solid. Carlos came hard into his throat.
TK stares at Carlos’ back. Broad and barrelled with muscle, beautiful golden dark skin shining under the low, evening lighting in the room. He’s quite heavily scarred – TK had already noticed – with crescents of keloids and white fine lines. But that doesn’t bother him at all, outside of curiosity and regret to see marks of pain. Shadows further define the muscles of Carlos’ trapezius, as though their prominence is inked out with black pen. They undulate even with subtle movements. Carlos rubs the back of his neck with his left hand. His scarred shoulder blades flex and contract. TK can’t remember if he ever touched Carlos’ back during their hook up – maybe just his shoulders, briefly. Now, he wants to touch his back more than he wants to feel his cock again.
Carlos straightens his arms and hoists himself up. Water pours off him in sparkling streams as he turns around to start heading out. TK finds the strength from somewhere to swim again, propelling himself forward so it looks like he’s still doing lengths instead of just staring. He peeks as Carlos struts past, glimpses his gorgeous face and wet curly hair, his taught abs, his meaty pecs and hardened nipples, long, strong legs – another massive scar like a shark bite on his left thigh – and the outline of him in his smart black trunks. There are parts of this stunning man that TK has tasted.
When Carlos has fully passed him by, making a line for the changing rooms, TK turns and then swims splashily back to the shallow end. He launches out of the pool, forgetting that he has an obvious semi-boner, and follows Carlos with haste. He loves his own legs. Look how fast they can go now, when they want to, even when tired after swimming.
TK has a quick hose-down in the communal showers, retrieves his gym bag from where he stuffed it into a locker outside of the changing room, and swings it over his shoulder. He strides on with a determined confidence, fighting off every tremor that curls through his body. He enters the changing room as two older men leave, and finds himself alone within it. The room is made up of cream floor tiles with a grain to them, a wide plastic bench in the middle, and white-doored privacy cubicles forming an L shape along adjoining walls. One door – only one – is closed. TK runs his hand through his soaked hair, messing it up, feels his cheeks go pink. It's humid and hot in the changing room, like a sauna that smells of male sweat and bitter cologne and wet hair and insipid chlorine.
"Carlos?" TK says, "Hey, man, you in here?" TK doesn't know why he's doing this, what threads have pulled him this far. Part of him thinks don't answer. Something about this scares him.
He hears the sound of a metallic scrape, and the white cubical door to the left of him opens slowly on its rusty hinge. TK steps closer – his legs, all of a sudden, ache. He wants to drop to his knees. He approaches. Pauses. Approaches again. Stops by the door and looks inside. All the air leaves his body. The sight of Carlos. Damp brown skin. Gleaming brown eyes that stare back at him. Body of a triathlete. So solid and so strong and naked apart from a white towel that is clenched in his fist, held so it's draped demurely over his cock. He looks at TK with something like concern rolled into desire. He bites his bottom lip and then opens his mouth. TK watches the deep pinkness of his lip pop away from his teeth bit by bit.
Carlos hangs up his towel. He is as hard as he was in the honky-tonk stall – which is to say, maximum, tight and purpling, like he’s been masturbating. TK has seen him this way only once before, but he has never forgotten the details.
TK exhales shakily, as if he’s held his breath, still under water. He steps into Carlos’ cubical and shuts the door, smiling as he hangs his bag onto a hook and then slips his hand into his bright pink trunks and rubs. He wants to match Carlos in growth and hardness. He never likes to be outdone, and it's rare that he is, but there's something about this moment that isn't just competitive, but communicative. ‘I like you, and here my body proves it.’
Carlos reaches out, takes TK's forearm, twists it very gently. TK is pliable enough to let him, so that the hand that was rubbing his cock is now pinned behind his back. Their bodies are touching, erection against erection.
"Take these off," Carlos says, using his free hand to snap the waistband of TK’s bubblegum trunks.
TK does what he's told, but his trunks are damp and sticking to his legs. Carlos seems to enjoy that removing them is taking time and concentration.
Then the trunks are balled up around TK's feet and he has never felt this naked, as if all other naked circumstances in his life didn't really count.
Suddenly – a shadow and some pressure. Carlos' forehead is nuzzling against his. They both look down at themselves, their cocks parallel lines crossing over.
Carlos dances a fingertip at the base of TK's spine and then works upwards, an unexpected but extremely pleasant back scratch that makes TK close his eyes with trust. He pouts instinctively. Carlos reads him, pressing his lips to TK’s, parting them. Carlos tastes like chlorine, and warmth; hot stone on a summer day and the blue pool just beyond. TK's tongue seeks Carlos' and licks against it slowly – it’s as good to TK as their cocks sliding. There is not a part of his body that doesn't want to be touched by this man. Their teeth knock and it’s paradise. He thinks he's dreaming.
Carlos stops kissing TK’s mouth and places his lips on his neck tenderly. "I've thought of you," he growls, touching TK with his voice.
TK says nothing, just tingles and breathes louder. He wants to act like he's speechless, even though so many words are running through his mind about what this is and how it feels. Just before moving to Austin, he proposed to Alex. Alex rejected him. TK thought the only solution was to get obliterated on hard liquor and down a bottle of pills.
"I'm off men," he'd said to Owen as they entered Texas on the I-30, "I'm never having sex again." He meant it, and he managed it well until Carlos asked him to dance. Sometimes, TK has the strongest willpower of anyone he knows. Sometimes, the weakest. He doesn't understand himself. He would like to.
Carlos kisses him again. It's rougher and TK matches it. It hurts. Carlos takes him and turns him and thumps him against the back wall. It's winding and cold but enlivening. Carlos holds TK firmly in place, pinning him upright with his body, taking the weight off his legs. TK could be floating inches above the floor. They rub their cocks against each other with a maddening friction. Carlos' face scrunches – he's focussing, trying to last. TK whimpers. He can't hide his enjoyment and doesn't want to. He puts his hands on Carlos' ass and squeezes, pushing so he can close any possible gap between them. Carlos does the same – but then goes further, tracing his finger down the line between TK’s cheeks and then parting them to find his hole.
"Fuck, fuck–" TK seethes as Carlos aches a moan into his mouth.
Beyond their cubical is the noise of the changing room door opening and the voices of three older men midway through conversation. Footsteps. Doors opening on squeaky hinges. Doors closing hard with a metallic prang. The line of cubicles shaking.
Carlos looks into TK's eyes. TK nods. Carlos keeps his right hand where it is, exploring TK’s ass, but takes his left hand from TK's waist and places it over his mouth. He puts his own mouth against the back of his wrist to muffle himself, and they temper for the necessity of secrecy, grinding super-slow, and listen to the men prepare for their swim. Two are ready before the other, saying they'll meet him out there. The third guy takes another two minutes. TK doesn't care. He's being held upright by a golden and godlike body.
When the third man leaves, and they are alone, Carlos drops his hand away and kisses TK's bright red mouth. But he’s affectionate, tender again. Maybe this is too real. TK leans in for more, shoving his tongue against Carlos’. He wants to be impossible to misunderstand. They are hooking up, that’s all.
"Fuck. You feel so good. You feel amazing," Carlos whispers desperately, rolling his hips faster.
"You like this," TK says.
"Yes. Yes–" Carlos takes a huge breath, "Yes!" He howls, "You feel so fucking good." It’s sudden – seems to take him by surprise when he comes hard over TK's cock. He slumps against him, panting, gripping onto TK’s left buttock like it’s something stable and he’ll fall over if he doesn’t. TK leans his head into Carlos' shoulder and stares down into the shadows. He lubes with Carlos' come before it can dry, just for the gross sexiness of it, and starts jerking himself.
"Can I?" Carlos asks.
"Yes."
Carlos blinks, focuses his eyes, and takes TK into his hand. Ten swift strokes, TK grunts through his teeth, and pours over Carlos' sticky fist.
They are hooking up. That’s all. Some hook ups are better than others. TK is well aware. But when has it ever been like this? Not even with Alex. Not even close. The thought pounds like a headache. The thought feels dangerous, like reaching for a livewire. The thought will follow him home and get into bed with him, and tomorrow his first thought will be Carlos.
TK has almost got Carlos out of his head by sunset.
Owen is out on a date, so his company for the evening is his calvary: Mateo, Marjan and Paul have arrived, bringing a giant chocolate Easter bunny for TK that they’d been saving for him. Thai takeout has been ordered, and they've agreed to chill and start watching Stranger Things from season one onwards, because all of them rate it high and couldn’t agree on a movie.
TK fills Buttercup's feeding bowl with kibble and listens to his co-workers recount their daily adventures. He’s grateful, and warmed to his core, that their friendship towards him became true-blue after he was signed off on extended sick leave. Otherwise, he would be completely out of the fold, and lonely in a way he doesn't want to consider – not discounting the love of his father and the loyalty of a drooling Bernese Mountain Dog.
"I just don't understand how people get impaled on things so frequently," Marjan says.
Paul nods glumly. "Right? You'd think it would be bigger news." He looks at TK. "Lamp stand at a furniture store."
"And last week two golfers got into a fight," Mateo adds, "And, man, that one was nasty."
TK laughs, but it's in commiseration. Some sights stick with you more than others. He unscrews a cap of fridge-cooled sparkling water and fills a glass for them each. As he secures the cap back onto the bottle, he notices Paul and Marjan looking at him, and then they smirk at each other. Paul wiggles his eyebrows.
"What?" TK and Mateo ask at the same time.
"Nothing," Marjan answers, a blithe tease to her voice. "We were just wondering – is something going on with you?"
"Like what?" TK tries to hold an innocent expression, but knows his cheeks are going pink.
"I don't know," she says, "But–"
"You are glowing," Paul finishes.
"I am? Really?"
"Huh," Mateo says, and shakes a finger at him. "Yeah, dude. You're actually looking way better than I've ever seen you."
"Cool. Thanks."
"It's good to see, that's all," Paul says, picking up on TK's discomfort, which hadn't been their intention to cause. "Where's our food? I'm starving."
"I've been getting a lot more exercise lately," TK offers into the awkward air. "You know, I’ve started swimming. And I'm eating vegetables and drinking water and green tea and taking multivitamins and getting sunshine."
"Sure," Marjan says, "Well, it's working. It suits you."
TK turns to place the bottle of water back into the fridge, catching his reflection against the side of a steel saucepan on the drying rack. Is it really obvious that he orgasmed earthquake-hard into another guy’s fist yesterday? Is he wearing the experience across his face?
Mateo and Marjan busy themselves setting up Netflix when the doorbell rings. TK goes to fetch their takeout with Paul needlessly accompanying him, and Buttercup pawing at their heels.
"You're seeing someone?" Paul whispers as they wrangle Buttercup out of the way so the door can actually be opened.
TK freezes up with his fingers hooked around the latch. “No, I’m not.”
"You're not? Really?"
"No," TK replies sharply. One last futile attempt. It’s useless, pretending. "God. Come on, Paul. How do you know everything?"
"So, you are seeing someone?" Paul is far too intrigued now. Far too happy.
TK huffs and finally greets an equally grumpy delivery guy, who lazily snaps a bubble of his chewing gum and nods a thank you without saying anything. TK bundles the takeout into his arms, frowning as Paul shuts the door.
"I had an encounter," TK says.
"An encounter? Like, a close encounter."
"Yes."
"Like, close-encounter-with-a-hot-guy-kind?"
"Do you need me to paint you a picture? Don't smile."
Paul tries to behave, squeezing his lips together to force a grin away. "Why would I smile about something happy and good?"
"It's not happy and good.” TK retorts without thinking, and then finds that he can’t lie about this, either. “I mean, actually, it was."
"Nice."
"But it was a one-off. I think. Look. It's not anything. It's not a thing. And I don't want to talk about it."
"Not a thing? Or you wish it wasn't a thing because it actually is a thing, and you're just not ready for a thing?"
"It's not a thing-thing," TK repeats. The problem with things, for TK, is that things can escalate into love surprisingly quickly, and there's no way he's putting himself through that again. He might as well wish for another broken bone.
"Um, hello?" Marjan does a shuffley dance through the kitchen. "What's taking so long? Oh wow!" She pulls an expression of corny outrage. "You're gossiping without me?"
"No!" They both chorus, too quick and obviously lying.
Paul takes a couple of takeout cartons from TK. "It's just guy stuff."
Marjan's mock-outrage crosses into genuine offense. "I am a firefighter, jackass. I have more conversations about guy stuff than most guys."
TK glances away for a second – uncomfortably hot and on-the-spot and jumbled. When he looks at Marjan again, she seems to have settled, and is shrugging it all off in a way that erases the past two minutes. Maybe Paul shook his head at her or said something with his eyes.
They'll gossip plenty later, TK thinks. Without him.
The focus switches to Buttercup. TK and Mateo fuss him and get slobbered over in return, while Paul and Marjan take charge of plating up their food. After a thorough handwash to remove the slobber, they all sit together in front of the TV. The sound of the synthy, atmospheric opening credits of Stranger Things fills the room.
TK eats his red curry and jasmine rice hungrily while Buttercup whines and repeatedly steps on his foot before sitting on it and trapping him.
He becomes absorbed by the familiar opening scenes easily enough, but at the halfway point of episode one, TK gets a small twinge in his chest, a singular flapping butterfly in his stomach, a slight giddiness in his head. It comes out of nowhere. He finds himself taking his eyes off the TV to look at his phone instead. No new messages since Marjan confirmed they were making their journey over. There's nothing to have stolen his attention away from the show. But he stares at his phone anyway, for several seconds, fixated on his lockscreen of Buttercup in the yard.
Unseen by the others, he accesses Instagram swiftly and searches for Carlos, whose account is set to private, and taps the follow button. It takes seconds. Best not to overthink it. When it's done, it's done.
This is not a thing. It’s simply fair to say that they are acquainted now. They live in the same city. They move in the same sort of circles. It's perfectly reasonable to connect over social media with anyone who meets such criteria.
TK checks the app again ten minutes later. Carlos has not accepted the follow yet. Another twenty minutes – he still hasn't. Which is obviously fine and totally meaningless.
Two hours later, Carlos has still not accepted or followed TK, and everything is still great.
TK's friends are tired from work and heading home – it's been a pleasant, relaxing evening. He and Buttercup see them off at the door. He walks up the stairs to his bedroom, with Buttercup lumbering floppily after him. He checks his phone while still standing in the hallway. It’s been five minutes since he last looked. Carlos still hasn't accepted his follow. It's fine and entirely understandable. He’s probably at a shift. Or out on a date because he’s gorgeous. And that’s fine. Good for him.
TK gets ready for bed slowly and checks his phone while brushing his teeth. Still nothing. Still fine.
He decides to put his phone away in his sock drawer before getting under the covers, so he can't reach for it.
In the dark, he listens to Buttercup thump to the floor beside his bed and almost instantly start snoring. Some nights, Buttercup falls asleep elsewhere so doesn’t follow TK to his room. In such instances of being alone, TK will take the opportunity to jerk off – not ever wanting to do it with the dog present. Right now, he’s more than grateful that Buttercup has chosen to spend the night by his side like a good boy. He is saving TK from himself.
TK places his hands on his chest and neatly interlocks his fingers. He stares up at the black ceiling that seems sky high – and he is a tiny dot beneath it. He thinks about how everything is completely fine.