#and this angst doesn’t even touch Tien’s part of the angst!

[placetneplacet]

Next week my poor Baby Giant is getting his heart hurt for the first time. He doesn’t want to be introduced as Tien’s friend. He wants his soulmate to call him his soulmate.

What if the poor baby witnesses the Patts introduction!?!?

I continue to be unprepared for the level angst in this show…

[leclsrc]

Hiii, could i request a charles angst drabble like just very angsty and sort of an ambiguous ending too? maybe theyre in a secret relationship and theres infidelity involved. sorry if this is too specific, thank you thoughh :)) <3

forever ago – cl16

genre: angst, drabble

auds here... as thanks for 500 :) this a bit long for a drabble sry! some lines are borrowed frm a drabble i posted on my last blog. title from “for emma” by bon iver—a bloody good song imo. hope this does ur req justice, anon!

Your heart twists with something unfamiliar. “I don’t know what it is,” you say, frustrated. “He hasn’t talked to me.”

Over the phone, your friend’s voice is slow and reassuring. “It’s probably nothing. The last race didn’t go too well for him, so he might just be shutting himself out.”

You nod, half-convinced, still staring at Charles across the paddock. You’re dubious, because if it was anything ordinary—if it was a bad race, a DNF, a crash—he’d shield the both of you from the rest of the world. He’s engaged in conversation with Pierre and Carlos, arms crossed over his torso, eyes crinkled with a smile. You try to persuade yourself into believing your friend, but deep down, you know it’s wishful thinking. Something’s wrong, you’re sure.

You purse your lips, swallowing the lump in your throat that doesn’t leave. You feel like the rest of the world.

He’s been ignoring you for a few days, limiting communication to intermittent texts that only come if you message first. You’ve exhausted every possible reason, but nothing works. You’re left to your own devices of wondering aimlessly for excuses. 

Nobody said pursuing a secret relationship would be easy, sure. But you and Charles had managed to pull it off for four years. And it wasn’t like anything was ever spoonfed to either of you—it was insanely difficult maintaining a professional journalist/driver relationship beside an intimate one. While some knew, it was still a secret from a good part of the paddock, let alone the public.

It meant sacrificing the better things of a relationship: sleeping in together, going on dates together, even holding hands. You resort to fleeting taps, lingering touches that look friendly. But you’re content. He’s yours, even in those moments. 

You blink, and you wake up cold in Silverstone, even under four layers of duvet.

You scramble to find Charles, and in the mess of the sheets, it takes longer than you anticipated. You kick your legs, but they only tangle. You even lift your head up, but find the duvet has totally engulfed you. You’re half-awake now, spent with the effort it takes to find him. You need to find him, even now, even when the sky is pale blue outside and you need to leave before anyone knocks.

Like always, he finds you first. A hand takes yours, pulls, and his strength causes the obstructions to clear.

You stare into his lidded eyes. “Je te tiens,” he says, voice deep, slurred, but reassuring. You nod, heaving a sigh, almost amused by your previous bout of anxiety. Why did you ever doubt yourself? It’s Charles, you think. He’s got you. 

You blink, and he’s far away again, across the paddock, distracted like he’s been so often lately. You rub the bridge of your nose, in a futile attempt to rid yourself of the dry pangs of pain there. You have a race to report. You can think of him later.

Turns out, the thoughts come sooner—just under an hour later, when you’re beside Will and using your phony reporter voice, reading off the fluorescent teleprompter text. “We’ll be inviting a few people to ask some questions on the live Formula One feed,” you say with a smile. “And our Ferrari drivers over here will get to answer some lucky fans!”

You gesture and turn to the screen beside you, still smiling. You’ll smile until your jaw aches. A fan comes on the air, a middle-aged man by the looks of it; his Texan accent permeates through the speaker and goes, “Hey Carlos and Charles, huge fan! Jus’ wanna ask, what is your favorite track this year?”

Blink, and your headache’s gone. You’re with Charles in his Monaco flat, legs swinging over the counter. He’s shirtless and cooking a grilled cheese. “I’m finally getting promoted next year,” you say, a fact you’ve reiterated about a million times tonight.

“Dunno why you’re surprised,” Charles says. “With your skill, ’twas just a matter of time, no?”

“Oh, ha ha,” you joke. “Don’t flatter me, it’s getting to my head.”

He sets the plate beside you, wedges himself in between your legs. You lean forward to rest your chin against his shoulder. “I love you,” he says into your neck. “I love you so much.”

And you blink, you’re holding your mic, Carlos is talking again, about how his favorite circuit has just got to be this and that, then the Texan fan is off the screen. It’s a few moments before the next fan fades into view, an excited and hyper teenager rattling off oh my god I love yous faster than you can count. 

“So this isn’t really related to racing,” she says, her accent distinctly Californian. “I just wanted to ask if it’s true that Charles has a girlfriend? ‘Cause, well, everyone saw him with somebody last night, and…”

The world spins slowly then, when you’re staring at the screen, listening to her voice. You try to blink and distract yourself but it doesn’t work. You keep smiling. You blink. It doesn’t work. You wonder why it doesn’t work. You wonder why you have to face this on air. You wonder why you can’t blink and be gone, if just for a minute.

Above all, you wonder who he was with while you were working late last night.

You swivel in your chair and reduce your smile to a tight-lipped one. “How interesting!” You chirp.

Years of practice have done your voice justice; even if you want to scream, your voice is level, enthusiastic. Your eyes flit over to Carlos, who’s already looking at you. His brows are furrowed, mouth half-open in clear confusion. You can hear Will stuttering beside you. “Oh, I—um, how in—how splendid.”

It’s not splendid. It’s not interesting. But Charles gulps and says still, “Yes, I’m seeing someone.”

The words cut through you like shrapnel. You feel yourself fall apart, right there, trying desperately to put yourself back together. Four years, and they’re gone, on the air. You exhale, try to subtly signal for the segment to be ended early. The rest is a blur—Will carries the rest of the interview with standoffish, fake interjections and additional questions. You just smile.

How could you have been so stupid, really. To think a secret relationship would survive. If anything, it made it easier for him to do what he did. You steal a glance and his eyes are cast low, dark. He’s so far away. Is this it, you think. Everything you’d ever worked for, loved for, fought for, hidden, celebrated—is this it? For another girl? You can’t help but wonder who she is. If she was that much better, that much more alluring, that Charles thought it a good choice to throw away four years under the bus.

The feed ends before your thoughts run out, and you drop your mic onto the surface of the table, leaving the pen immediately. Will says something but you can’t decipher it. Charles follows, even if you can hear Carlos holding him back. Leave her alone, he says, and Charles says, no, I need to talk to her.

He circles a hand around your wrist, wrapping just underneath the Cartier bracelet you’d gotten to match his. The reminder makes your chest ache with a totally wrenching pain, throbbing through you as he pulls you into an empty space in between motorhomes.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He sounds desperate, solemn.

“Do you love me?” You ask weakly. And when he laces your fingers together and nods: “Then why do make me look like a fool?”

He shakes his head. “It meant nothing, cherie. I promise.”

“You’ve no right to tell me that,” you heave. Your chest is so heavy you legitimately feel like drowning. “And for me to find out on the job? I thought this whole time that I did something to you. Turns out you’re just busy fucking someone else to be kind to me. I thought you were mine, Charles. How could… how could you hurt me like this?” You don’t mean to sound so broken, but you can’t even blame yourself.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen this way.”

“But it still did,” you say simply. “I thought—I thought it was gonna be us. I thought you were the one—the one person who would never hurt me.”

You’re crying, you realize, tears running down your cheeks and onto your jaw. When his silence persists, you purse your lips, wipe the tears out of your eyes before they stream again. You can feel people staring, you can hear hushed voices, make out your friends trying to find you. “Charles,” you say wetly. “All I ever did was love you. You said you would do the same.”

This time, when you blink, you manage to picture the past clearly.

You’re in Monza, your first day on the job, a balmy day with a sea of red fans. The paddock is intimidating, crawling with people,  and you’re having trouble looking for your boss. The crowd is unbelievably noisy, vibrating through the entire area. Vaguely Italian cheers erupt through the place.

You’d circled the area a couple of times but still, you haven’t placed where you need to be. You turn several times to pinpoint the landmarks, the hospitalities, the logos, but to no avail. You’re lost.

“You okay?” Someone says, with an accent just as European as everybody else’s. 

“Yeah, uh—well, lost, to be honest. I need to find the media pen, ‘cause it’s my first day.”

“Right over there,” he says, smiling. His eyes crinkle, almost disappear with how big he beams. He stretches a hand out to shake yours and you take it, introducing yourself quickly. He lets his hand linger, and you smile back. You have a feeling this isn’t the last time you’ll see him.

Your heart twists with something unfamiliar. “I’m Charles.”

[tenshindon]

if i think about tien fretting over chiaotzu and yamcha’s safety one more time i think i might explode so For Once i’m writing out my thoughts in the main part of the post :)))) under the cut of course :))))))

We all know that Tien’s concerned over Chiaotzu’s well-being all the time, like that’s a defining part of their relationship. Even when they’re already dead Tien’s still horrified at the prospect of Chiaotzu dying during their spar with Piccolo. However it isn’t until Resurrection F that we’re given a notice that Tien’s concerned over Yamcha as well. Whether this was a development exclusive to Super or it’s just been a background thing that’s only now manifesting in the subtlest of ways, we will never know <3 Either that or my memory of Everything Ever is very hazy <3 however I will talk about it anyways because my brain is decaying as we speak because holy shit 

Like through Dragon Ball and Dragon Ball Z, we repeatedly see Yamcha extending his heart out to Tien: Yamcha repeatedly pleading with Tien to reconsider learning the mafuba, Yamcha granting Tien reassurance before he goes off to fight Tao and subsequently understanding Tien needs time alone after the fight, Yamcha wishing to stay with Tien and Chiaotzu in the afterlife, and so on. From these instances alone, we know that Yamcha is certainly more open about his affection and care towards his friends (which is a whole post I can make on its own, Yamcha’s incredibly emotionally intelligent and it’s so good).

However this type of care isn’t exactly reciprocated towards Yamcha- or not as obviously, anyways. Which isn’t all too surprising; pardon Chiaotzu and especially by Z, Tien’s very reserved and generally just keeps to himself and Chiaotzu. 

However, as aforementioned, Tien remarks that he left Yamcha and Chiaotzu behind away from the fight. It’s a rather innocuous line when you think of it: on the surface, Tien’s just clarifying- well, he just left Yamcha and Chiaotzu behind because he feels it’s too dangerous for them. But then you have to ask the question: since when did Tien have authority over what Yamcha did? And why was Yamcha so willing to listen? Was Yamcha just not clued in on what was happening and Tien figured he wouldn’t tell him? 

Chiaotzu is understandable; despite Chiaotzu being just five years younger than Tien and thus being in his early 40′s by Super, Tien still treats him like a younger brother and as his guardian. So when he so casually adds Yamcha to this- to just so naturally say “I left Chiaotzu and Yamcha behind. The danger seems too much for them,” it just really makes you think a bit. Because Tien made a conscious decision to leave Yamcha behind for his well-being.

In this instance Tien is putting Yamcha on the same- or at least similar level as Chiaotzu, someone we’re all very well aware that he would literally kill someone for, even if that someone is himself. The meta explanation for this could very well just be Toei didn’t want to bother giving Yamcha and Chiaotzu anything to do during the movie, and since they were already perceived as the weakest among the cast it was much easier to leave them out of it entirely (though that’s a rant for another day). The issue that arises however is that Toei accidentally (or maybe intentionally) adds a layer to Tien and Yamcha’s relationship, or at least shows us that Tien does care about Yamcha’s safety and shows some type of growth to Tien. As I talked about before, Tien is reserved and doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve- so for an action like this to occur on his part, it demonstrates a great leap in his development as a person and opening up.

And the thing about this is that it’s not entirely out of Tien’s character to leave people behind to protect them- it’s completely in character, in a way. During the Saiyan Saga, Tien initially attempts to dissuade Chiaotzu from attending the Saiyan fight, forming a similar excuse as that it would be too dangerous for him. With an instance like this, it shows us that if Tien isn’t confident he can protect Chiaotzu on the battlefield, the most he can do is make sure he’s at home and assuredly safe. He does this again during the Cell Saga by leaving Chiaotzu at Roshi’s abode, once again asserting that it would be too dangerous for Chiaotzu.

During Z Tien doesn’t show this type of concern towards Yamcha, which isn’t wrong or even irrational. Amidst Z, Yamcha was more than capable of taking care of himself and looking after his own back; Tien didn’t reason it would make sense for him to look after him. Not only that, but Tien and Chiaotzu’s relationship is just seemingly more natural to him: he’s known Chiaotzu since he was a child, it makes sense for his care to be more open and at the ready. Tien knows Chiaotzu and his boundaries, and vice versa.

The important thing about Tien though, as I already mentioned right- he’s reserved. Coupled with the fact he was raised by Shen and Tao of all people, it’s probably hard for him to make deep connections with people, let alone traditionally express care. That’s why Chiaotzu is such an anchor for him: he’s really all he has at the end of the day, if not himself. And he’s already demonstrated he’d rather die than live without his brother.

Shifting to Yamcha, it’s... a topic that really should be touched on more. When Yamcha dies during the Saiyan Saga, the anime offers a particular reaction shot on Tien. It’s not much all things considered, but it does allow the viewer to be able to identify that Yamcha’s death had somewhat of a significant impact on Tien specifically, as he’s the only one with an isolated reaction shot (which is especially telling considering Krillin was friends with Yamcha longer and logically would be more devastated and more deserving of a singular shot. He gets this, however by actually checking on Yamcha’s body but I could touch on that whole topic another time). Later on in the Cell saga, Tien is subjected to watching Yamcha die (or be on the precipice of dying) again via Dr. Gero; Tien is the first of the Z Fighters to show up to the scene, thus giving us another Tien-specific reaction shot.

Obviously, Tien’s reactions to Yamcha and Chiaotzu differ severely; we’ve already gone over why Chiaotzu has a greater bond to Tien, and despite the friendship Yamcha and Tien have been able to build over the years it would be near impossible for Yamcha to ever be totally on the same level as Chiaotzu. But at the very least and looking at the Resurrection F dialogue, Yamcha’s deadly experiences have had a lasting impact on Tien.

It wouldn’t be improbable to assume Tien suffered from guilt from Chiaotzu dying during the Saiyan Saga- he even warned Chiaotzu about coming along, so being helpless to protect his brother as he watched him be bashed before he ultimately kills himself could have been certainly traumatizing. Chiaotzu’s death in the Saiyan Saga, in my opinion, is more devastating than his King Piccolo death.

Against King Piccolo Chiaotzu was killed swiftly, and he was at least able to leave a body behind. Of course, there definitely comes feelings of guilt at the fact Tien was the one who instructed Chiaotzu to get into danger in the first place- which is probably why he’s more open to the idea of letting Chiaotzu sit a fight out in the future. During the Saiyan Saga, Chiaotzu is thrashed over and over again and rammed against mountains while Tien is found in a similar position of being physically incapable of protecting him. The whole display definitely lasts much longer than the King Piccolo incident, and it’s far more agonizing as Chiaotzu telepathically communicates with Tien during this. All for it to culminate in Chiaotzu uselessly sacrificing himself, Tien even hallucinating Chiaotzu amidst delirium.

Tien best shows his care through action and protecting those he loves- he’s just incapable of verbally saying he cares and thus best does it through service. For Tien to implicitly order Yamcha to stay away from the fight with Chiaotzu, it shows us that he harbors similar feelings of fear, guilt, and care that he does towards Chiaotzu towards Yamcha as well. Tien does his best to keep Chiaotzu away from fights because he’s afraid of losing him again because he wasn’t strong enough to protect him- it’s a fair-enough bet to wager this fear extends towards losing Yamcha as well.

Which not only makes Tien’s underwhelming reaction to Earth blowing up so fuckinnnn aggravating like oh my god like fucking he actually kept his loved ones behind and they still died can you imagine the fuckin turmoil and angst jesus christ im going insane Also this is why I needed a fucking scene of these three knuckleheads talking about chiaotzu and yamcha staying behind like toei im begging you throw me a bone LMAOOOO

[lire-casander]

tienes mi voz, tienes mis versos (no somos perfectos)

[3,090 words] [teen and up audiences] [beta’ed by @meloingly] [title from moriré en el intento by antonio orozco. the title roughly translates into you have my voice, you have my verses (we are not perfect)]  [carlos reyes, tk strand, paul strickland, mateo chavez] [angst, mentions of a fight, blanket theft, making up, fluff, love languages] [written for the @tarlos-valentine Tarlos Corazonados Weekend 2021, day #1: “babe, please, sharing is caring” + blanket hogging + favorite outfit] [love languages used: physical touch + receiving gifts] 

[he knows they need to talk, he knows they need to make this right]

tienes mi voz, tienes mis versos (no somos perfectos)

The envelope is glaring at Carlos from its spot on the kitchen counter where he’s dropped it as though it burns, after he’s signed the paper the postman has forced upon him in order to receive this registered letter.

He knows he should call TK — he knows he should interrupt his scheduled shift and barge into the station brandishing the letter like a sword. Or a shield. It should have been them against the world, but they’re currently in a situation that prevents Carlos from even picking up his phone and calling TK, because he knows TK won’t pick up.

He’s fucked up. Again.

It had all started with a small, petty fight. Carlos doesn’t want to remember how they went from eating a rushed breakfast before their shifts to the yelling that ensued — he just knows it's been half a week, and they haven't been on speaking terms ever since. And Carlos is aware that most of it is on him — heʼs to blame for the silence that stretched after the yelling, for the slamming door in his wake, for not picking up the phone and for driving TK away from him.

It's been a pattern these past months ever since they started this process; the rollercoaster of emotions usually catches them together, on the same wavelength, but not this time. This time Carlos had to go and be stupid about something as silly as TK hogging the blanket at night. So yeah, maybe he remembers why it all started. So sue him. He still doesn’t want to reminisce about it.

He just wants TK to talk to him again.

But that seems to be an impossible feat right now, because TK is currently in the middle of a forty-eight-hour shift and Carlos has just begun the first of his three days off work.

He wanders through their apartment aimlessly, moving from the couch to the fridge without opening it, only to climb up the stairs and stop dead in his tracks right before entering their bedroom. Carlos sighs when he finds himself one step away from the bed for the fourth time in a single morning; it's evident that heʼs mourning something he isn’t even sure is dead. He needs to talk to TK.

He needs to set things right.

He makes a decision in a split second, grabbing his wallet and his keys, and pocketing them as he walks out of the building. The ride to the station is short, but Carlos can't help dreading arriving at his destination. There’s not much he remembers about the reasons why they were fighting, but there’s just one thing he canʼt shake off — TK has gone on shift without saying I love you, without Carlos making sure TK knows he has a home to come back to, a beacon in the night in case things go south at work.

Carlos knows that everything can change in a second, and he doesn’t want to waste another moment. This is why they never go to bed angry at each other; maybe they should create a new habit of never parting ways without having cleared the air between them, if either one or both of them are starting a shift. They're both first responders — there’s a high chance one day they wonʼt make it back home.

He parks the Camaro outside the station but he doesn’t get out of the car. He needs time to think, time to organize his thoughts and carefully choose his words. Then he goes back to the fight from earlier in the week, he begins to remember clearly that he was being grumpy about TK hogging the blankets on the bed during the night. Heʼd thought he was being polite but his words had come out all wrong and TK had been upset and somehow they had started shouting things neither of them truly believed.

Or at least Carlos hopes TK doesn’t. It would break his heart if he did.

“Carlos?” he hears, followed by tapping on the window. When he looks up, he can see Paulʼs concerned eyes looking down at him. Carlos rolls down the window. “You okay, man?”

He wants to tell Paul that heʼs peachy, but when Carlos takes a second, longer look at Paul, he can tell that Paul might already know, if his sympathetic smile is anything to go by. Carlos doesn’t know what he was thinking, coming here and trying to play it cool after talking himself into walking inside — of all the people the universe could send to him in his moment, it had to be Paul Strickland, observant extraordinaire.

“I don’t know,” Carlos replies.

“Well, your man isn’t any better,” Paul points out. “Same nervous energy, same bags under his eyes. You know, if I didn’t know you two, I would think youʼd have kept each other up all night.”

“And how do you know that's not the case?” Carlos doesn’t know where this sassiness is coming from, but he's also conscious that he isn’t fooling Paul.

“For once, TK and I have been together for twenty-four hours now in this shift, Reyes. Not a chance I’d have missed him sneaking out to get some,” Paul replies, arching one eyebrow as though daring Carlos to deny it. “And then, I can assure you, after all this time, I think I can distinguish TKʼs nervous energy from his Iʼve gotten laid energy,” he finishes crudely, air quotes in place. When Carlos doesn’t say anything, Paul sighs. “Are you getting in to talk to him? Judd's so close to throwing him out a window next call.”

“I should, shouldn’t I?” Without waiting for Paulʼs answer, Carlos maneuvers to open the door and steps outside, under the inquisitive gaze of his friend.

“Heʼs in the kitchen, probably terrorizing Mateo,” Paul guides him. “Tell the probie that I need him out here. I guess Marj and Judd would know better than to stay where they could get in the crossfire.”

“You know it's been literal years since Mateo stopped being the probie, right?” Paul simply stares at him, his eyebrow shooting up again in a dare, and Carlos chooses not to argue. “Iʼll tell him.”

“You must. The kid wouldn’t realize heʼs in a landmine even if a bomb exploded under his feet.”

Carlos chokes out a startled laugh. Paul pats his shoulder before leaning into the Camaro and crossing his arms. Carlos hesitates with his first step forward, but as he approaches the open space he feels more and more secure in his skin. He needs to talk to TK, he needs to apologize. And if Paul is right — and he’s usually right — TK isn’t in better shape than he is.

When he heads for the kitchen, he sees Marjan and Judd making their way out of the station hastily. Judd shakes his head in greeting, while Marjan squeezes his arm in passing. It’s a small gesture, but Carlos appreciates it anyway — it makes him feel like part of the family, like he matters to them.

Like he can fix this.

Carlos stops dead in his tracks a few steps before reaching his destination. TK is in the kitchen with Mateo, just as Paul said, leaning into a counter and actually terrorizing Mateo with a rant about — Carlos doesn’t need to strain his ears to actually hear it — bubble tea and the properties it holds in comparison to other kinds of tea.

“If you let him go on,” he interrupts, leaning into the closest counter. Mateo jumps a little upon hearing his voice, but TK simply stares ahead. Carlos doesn’t rule out the fact that TK might have sensed him coming in. “If you let him go on, you’ll be trapped here forever. And Paul needs you outside.”

“I—I should go. Now,” Mateo mumbles, rushing out of the kitchen. Owen is nowhere to be seen, as are Tommy, Nancy and Freddie, but even though they’re alone in the kitchen TK is stubbornly refusing to acknowledge him.

“TK,” he begins, hands moving on their own accord to touch TK’s arm on the counter. He stops his movement when he sees TK visibly flinching. He doesn’t want to be the reason why TK is afraid of touch anymore. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have attacked you like that.”

TK sighs. “You were right,” he mutters. “I do hog the blankets at night. I get cold, but that shouldn’t be an excuse.”

“I’m sorry,” Carlos repeats. This time, when he moves his fingers, he reaches TK’s skin and squeezes his arm without TK moving away. “It was a horrible thing to shout at you.”

“You were just speaking your truth,” TK mumbles. Carlos takes step after step until he’s standing behind TK, his larger frame covering TK’s body, his hands resting next to TK’s on top of the counter. “It’s me who’s sorry.”

“You can’t really believe that me screaming at you because you hog the blankets is my truth, right?” Carlos speaks directly into TK’s ear. “I’ve known you for seven years now, Tyler Kennedy, I’m used to you stealing the blankets. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I was stressed, I’m still stressed, but that’s no excuse.”

“What would you have said, instead?” TK twists in Carlos’ arms until they’re facing each other; Carlos can feel TK’s breath on his skin. “Babe, please, sharing is caring?”

“Most probably,” Carlos chuckles. He’s beginning to get drunk on TK’s scent, now that he can see his green eyes once again searching his soul. He allows his gaze to roam over TK, taking in every single detail of his appearance, until he realizes something. “Why aren’t you on your AFD uniform?” he asks.

TK’s wearing his grey hoodie, the one from all those nights back when they stared at the green-lit skies on top of his Camaro — the night it all started. His eyes widen as he faintly remembers the clothes he’s hastily put on before running out of their apartment.

He’s wearing the maroon polo shirt he’d been wearing back then, because he knows how much TK loves the way the color brightens up his eyes.

“I’m benched,” TK confesses. “Dad doesn’t want me out there while I’m unable to focus. And he’s right, I’ve been out of my mind ever since this shift started.”

Carlos nods. He knows exactly what TK means — he’s not been himself either.

“I left you without telling you how much I love you. I broke our promise,” TK mumbles. Carlos’ hands shoot up, drawing caressing patterns on TK’s arms.

“Hey, hey, don’t say that. I drove you away, remember? I yelled at you because you have cold feet at night and steal the blanket. Something that can be easily fixed if I bought another blanket for myself.”

“Or if I wore socks in bed,” TK suggests, resting his forehead against Carlos’ chest. And God, Carlos has missed this, this touch, this feeling of invincibility just because TK is staring right into his soul.

“Wearing socks in bed is sacrilege,” Carlos jokes. “Do you forgive me?”

TK giggles, the sound reverberating through Carlos’ body. “Is this your way of apologizing? I would have thought you’d be more thorough, Officer.”

“Not when we’re in public, Firefighter,” he jabs back. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve already said that,” TK points out.

“You haven’t said if you forgive me.”

“Of course I forgive you, you twit,” Tk says, swatting at him. “I’ve forgiven you the moment you stepped into the station. Probably way before that. But,” he adds, “I’ll only forgive you if you forgive me.”

“What for?” Carlos pushes TK away briefly, a frown marring his features. He doesn’t understand.

“Well, I’ve been stressed about this whole process. I don’t want to disappoint anyone, and I’ve been taking it out on you.”

“We’ve both been stressed. The interviews, the background checks, all that takes its toll,” Carlos tries to reason. They’ve been through this before, several times, from the moment they decided to embark in this adventure.

“But what if we don’t make it because of me?” TK says in despair. “What if they have a look at my file and decide that they won’t give us a chance because they won’t give a child to an addict who also has been arrested before?”

“There were no charges pressed against you, remember?” Carlos sighs. “And they’d be idiots not to give us that chance. And even if they are, it won’t be your fault. It’d be theirs. And if that ever happens, we’ll go somewhere else. We’ll start anew. We can do it.”

“We should have received a letter by now,” TK says with a creaking voice. “It surely means bad news, huh?”

“Actually,” Carlos starts, holding his breath when TK looks up at him. “A letter came in the post today. Had to sign the reception and all that jazz.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” TK says frantically. “Where is it? What does it say?”

“Hey, hey, take a breath, tiger,” Carlos tries to calm him, his fingers already cupping TK’s face lovingly, stroking the skin until he feels TK’s breathing slowing down. “I haven’t brought it with me. I want to open it with you, but I want to do it at home, together. We can wait until you’re back from your long shift.”

TK leans into Carlos’ touch. “Okay, that will be my reason to power through this hell. And now you should go,” he continues, looking over Carlos’ shoulder. “The whole crew is snooping.”

Carlos laughs. “Okay, I’ll leave. I have a couple of days off ahead of me and I should really, really catch up on some sleep.”

“Sleep for me, will you?” TK says playfully, lifting his hands to caress Caros’ cheek. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Carlos whispers, pecking TK’s lips before the catcalls come.

He saunters out of the station with a new spring on his step. He’s just content that things have finally worked out between them — he just wishes he hadn’t been so stubborn not to come over the station sooner. He should have done it, but there’s no point in dwelling on the past now that they’re good again.

They will get through anything. Together.

He hops into his Camaro and starts it, mentally going through the groceries he will need to buy. He decides to stop at the store on his way back home, since he needs to restock their pantry.

When he pulls up next to their building, it’s almost three hours later. He jumps out, grabs the bags and balances them as he fishes his keys in his pocket. He frowns when he feels the ease with which he opens the door, as though the door had been unlocked. He enters the house with caution, not knowing what to expect, when he spots TK in the middle of the living room with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket.

“TK?” Carlos asks, surprised. Soon his astonishment morphs into worry. “Are you hurt? That's why you're home so early?”

“No, nothing like that,” TK rushes to explain. “I, uhm. I was dismissed when Dad knew the letter had arrived. He literally told me he didn’t need me to be distracted on site. And to call him the moment we knew, bad news or good news. The rest of the fam wants in, as well.”

Carlos chuckles. “Let me leave this in the kitchen and I will be back here with you.” He does as he says, the bags falling askew on the counters, before he runs out of the room and into the living room.

Where there’s no sign of TK.

“Love?” he calls out. “Where are you?”

“The bedroom,” comes the muffled reply from upstairs.

“But the letter is—” Carlos trails off when he notices that the letter isn’t where he put it in the morning. The envelope is nowhere to be seen.

Carlos climbs the stairs, two steps at a time, and heʼs panting when he reaches their bedroom. He sticks his head through the open threshold, and the sight steals the rest of his breath.

TK is standing in the middle of the room, next to the bed, where Carlos can see what looks like a navy blue blanket. It seems fluffy and soft, and Carlos finds himself wishing he could touch it. But there’s more.

There’s a note on top of it, and he can spy the corner of the envelope with the letter he's been dreading to open on his own.

“How? When?” he manages to croak out. He’s walked into the room without even paying attention to his movement.

“I might have bought it the moment I stepped out after our fight,” TK confesses. “Several online stores deliver the same day to fire stations, so I was just waiting to apologize to you with it.”

Carlos smiles softly. He leans in, dropping a kiss on TKʼs already pursed lips. “Thank you.”

“There are other ways to say I love you, not just your touchy-feely method,” TK jokes.

“I don’t remember you complaining about my touchy-feely ways a couple of days ago.”

“Hush now,” TK mumbles, kissing Carlos back.

Carlos maneuvers them across the room until heʼs within armʼs reach of the blanket. There are words written in TKʼs messy scrawl on the note. Carlos feels his heart swelling with pride and so much love that it's almost unbearable.

“Sharing is caring,” he reads out loud on the note that's left on top of the fluffy blanket, before picking up the envelope that's beneath with shaky fingers.

“Are you ready to know?” TK says at his back, arms sneaking around his waist and pulling him in closer.

Carlos can only nod, overwhelmed by the love he is feeling right in this moment. He manages to tear the envelope open and extracts a piece of paper from the inside. “Dear Mr. and Mr. Strand-Reyes,” he begins reading before he breaks down in tears and falls on his knees on the floor, accompanied in the motion by TK, who's holding him tighter.

“Babe,” TK whispers into his hair, dropping a kiss on his hair, a suspicious wetness coloring his words. “We made it. Weʼre in.”

Carlos nods, turning in TKʼs arms until heʼs openly crying into his hoodie, the letter abandoned on the floor, although the words are engraved in his mind forever.

We are happy to inform you that you have been approved as prospective adopting parents by the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services.

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

JOHNNY ‘COCO’ CRUZ x READER ⨟ PROMPT + SONGFIC

Aurora comments: I was in a mental breakdown with Coco, since a month ago. I just wanna say thanks to @chibsytelford and @satchie666 for helping me with some tips to bring back my inspo with him. Honestly, I think this is one of my favorites writings, a fucking masterpiece. I have mixed three requests and added one of my favorites spanish songs (I translated it under every part of the lyrics). I just hope you enjoy it as I enjoyed writing it.

Anon #1 asked: may i request 19 and 29 with coco?

Anon #2 asked: 37 and 39, angst, coco cruz

@hoooli13 asked: Hi I love your writing! Could you write 19. “You’re the only good thing I have”. With coco?

Song: ‘Orgullo’, Justin Quiles ft Káren Méndez.

Prompts:

19. “You’re the only good thing I have”.

29. “I don’t deserve you”.

37. “Stop ignoring me, please…”

39.“We need to talk”.

Word Count: 2k (including the lyrics and the translation)

Author comments: The paragraphs in italic mean that it’s a past situation. This work wasn't re-edited, so I'm sorry if you find grammar mistakes! I hope you all enjoy. Gif isn't mine, credits to the author.

Tag list: @starrynite7114 ​ @chibsytelford ​ @dazzledamazon ​ @mara-mpou ​ @sammskellington ​ @gemini0410 ​ @1-800-imagines ​ @briana-mishell24 ​@sassymox @whyisgmora @aquamento @sadeyesgf @viviansafizada @samcrobae @jade770 @witchy-wish @rebel-without-cause-x @xx--day-dreamer--xx @spiced-reads @tita127 @ifoundmyhappythought @enamouravecleslivresetlechocolat @angelxshiba @sheeshgivemeabreak @destynelseclipsa ✨ (if you wanna be tagged, send me a message!)

Él me dice que le llame, que no duerme temprano. Si no textea, no texteo y si no llama, no llamo. Pero él es igual…

(He tells me to call him, that he doesn't sleep early. If he doesn't text me, I don't text him and if he doesn't call me, I don't call him. But he does the same…)

It’s been almost two weeks since that night when, apparently, you fucked up whatever you and Coco had. Comings and goings of furtive kisses and improvised sex. You were catching feelings, he was catching feelings too. It’s the thirteenth night that you are sitting on the sofa, waiting for a call or a text, waiting even for an email. You know he is on line, you can see him writing you with those three grey points flashing in your screen. But the text never comes. 

“Stop ignoring me, please…”

You would like him to write you, but he doesn’t do, so you either. Pride is stronger than you want to admit. The phone flies off from your hand with an angry move, crashing against the wall and breaking into pieces. And you don’t even care, because he won’t budge.

Estamos envueltos en un juego, donde somos prisioneros del sentimiento que llevamos por dentro. Me siento incontento, y yo sé…

(We're wrapped in a game, where we're prisoners of a feeling we carry inside us. I feel unhappy, and I know…) 

“(Y/N), Templo, now. We need to talk”. Bishop just says, as soon as you cross the main door of the clubhouse.

Everybody is staring at you, confused by the way he has talked to you. So serious, so dry. For a second, just for a second, you look at Coco. Maybe you’re ignoring each other, but he’s worried too. Licking your lower lip, you leave your bag over the empty table, before continuing your steps to the meeting room. Closing the glass colorful door, you find the man sitting on his chair having a smoke of his cigar.

“Sit”.

You obey, as a dog would do when the master talks.

“Why are you late?”

“I just… Last night I had a problem with my phone, and I needed a new one. I’m sorry, Prez, it would never happen again and… I’ll recover this lost hour today. I promise”.

He nods in silence, having a sip from his coffee.

“What’s up with Coco, ah?”

“Orgullo, Bishop. Eso es lo que está sucediendo”. (Pride, Bishop, that’s what’s happening).

“Fix it. I don’t care how. But… this situation is awkward and uncomfortable for every one of us”. He leans over the table, supporting his weight on his forearms. “I love you, and you’re a good mechanic. But he is a Mayan”.

And you know what that means. You can’t help but let some tears run out from your eyes when you're grabbing again your bag. The guys look more worried now, and even if you just want to punch Coco on the face, you lead your steps to the huge warehouse next to the club. Throwing your stuff somewhere on the ground, you attack enraged the punching bag hanging from the metallic ceiling. Your cry gets more angrier when you feel two big arms surrounding your body.

“Com’ere, McGregor”. 

Angel whispers on your ear, putting you away from it to turn you under his grip, hugging you tightly. You’re furious. Really furious. And your cry floods the place making some echo, while the oldest Reyes tries to comfort you. Fucking pride that doesn’t let you talk with him. And when you do, is his who talks for him.

Me esta matando el orgullo, cuando más quiero estar al lado tuyo. De solo verte concluyo que tú eres para mí y yo soy para ti.

(Pride is killing me, when I want to be by your side the most. Just seeing you I know you are for me and I'm for you).

Maybe you drunk too much that night, starting with beers to end up with a bottle of tequila. You were needing some fresh air, walking in some kind of zigzag to the empty yard. Having a deep breath with eyes closed, you continued your clumsy steps to the farthest picnic table. And you decided to have your own party. Playing some latin music in your phone, and leaving it over the wood, your body began to move alone, under the influence of the rhythm and the alcohol wreaking havoc on your mind. You saw him coming towards you, a little harmed too. He threw the cigar away, holding the hand that you were offering him.

You were having a good time alone, but with him, it only got better. His chest was pressing your back. His arms surrounding your waist, and your hips dancing against him. You could feel his warm breath on your neck, colliding in a delicious way, before starting to kiss your left shoulder. Since the moment you two met, a sexual tension got installed between both, following you whenever you went. And his mouth was feeling so good on your skin, that you wanted to taste it. 

No sé por qué el orgullo nos está matando, si tú eres mía, bebé. Ya sabes desde cuando. Nuestras miradas aquel día estaban chocando, y al besar tus labios el deseo iba aumentando.

(I don't know why the pride is killing us, if you're mine, baby. Our looks were crashing that day, and when I kissed your lips the desire incresed).

Turning under his arms, your faces met, twisting a little your necks. Your bodies kept moving to the sound of the song, your noses almost touching. Eyes closed, drinking each other breathings. You wanted too bad to kiss him. He wanted too fucking bad to kiss you. With a hand on your lower back, he wrapped your throat with the other to push you a little bit closer. Enough to you. Your mouth found the other with a ephemeral caress full of desire. You were playing, and he didn’t like it. Coco pressed his lips on yours, not wasting another second, looking for your tongue with his. And it was like an explosion. Your hands getting tangled in his hair, while you two continued dancing, with a leg between yours and vice versa. 

It was like touching heaven with your fingertips.

“Shit, I don’t deserve you, mami. You’re a fuckin’ blessing”.

Es que tú me tienes a mí en un vaivén, y me matan las ganas de volverte a ver.

(You have me in a swing, the desire to see you again is killing me).

“Who’s that mami, bro’?” Coco asked to Angel, resting his shoulder against the wooden column, having a drag of his cigar.

“New mechanic. Taza’s friend, or something like”.

Che was your father’s best friend, so when you told him what you were studying, he quickly offered you to work at Romeros and Bros. It was a good opportunity to learn a little more. You saw sideways how four men walked towards your car, from where you were grabbing your stuff.

“Welcome to the fam’. I’m Angel. And these are my brothers. Coco, Gilly and Creeper”.

You smiled with pursed lips, not ashamed, but kinda like. Four big guys with tattoos and looks on their faces of being truly assholes? No, thanks.

“I’m (Y/N)”.

Since the first moment, you knew they were betting who would be the one who would end up dating you. But they were wrong.

“Don’ try to fuck with me, guys. I’m more into drivers than into riders”.

Or maybe, you were the one who was wrong. 

Me está matando el orgullo, cuando más quiero estar al lado tuyo. De solo verte concluyo que tú eres para mí y yo soy para ti.

(Pride is killing me, when I want to be by your side the most. Just seeing you I know you are for me and I'm for you).

It was an innocent dance with Angel, what kick out of you two that fucking pride. When you came back to the clubhouse, holding hands and laughing loud, your favorite song were playing through the speakers. The oldest Reyes, who was your best friend since you met the Mayans, wanted to dance it with you. And you couldn’t say ‘no’. Dancing close with him, as you did many times before. The funniest thing about the night is that you danced with everybody.

Ella me dice que la llame, que no duerme temprano. Si no textea, no texteo y si no llama, no llamo. Pero ella es igual…

(She tells me to call her, that she doesn't sleep early. If she doesn't text me, I don't text her and if she doesn't call me, I don't call her. But she does the same…)

Coco has been the whole day trying to figure out what did Bishop say to you. No one, but you two, knew what happened inside the Templo. Not even Taza. He’s sitting in his terrace with both legs over the table, drinking a beer and his phone in the other one. He wants to call you. And he has been typing your number by heart, the last hour. Once and again, ending up locking the screen. Until he decides that he doesn’t want to play this game anymore. He doesn’t want to lose you. The world is less shit waking up with you.

You need to breathe fresh air, stepping out of your house with no destination. You just want to walk, leave your mind blank by listening some music, with your headphones on. Actually, you don’t give a shit about the work. You don’t want to lose him. The only moments of peace you have had, you have found them between his arms, under his kisses and his caresses. You need him. You love him.

When you want to notice where you are, your feet are leading you to his house, being pushed back to reality because of the roar of a bike coming closer. You turn at it, when the wheels stop dead making a scratchy sound. Then, you see him. And he sees you. Getting off the motorcycle, he leaves the helmet above the seat. You turn off the headphones to keep them inside a pocket, taking some steps closer about to say something. But, what can you say? He’s coming towards you too, as if it was a slow motion scene. 

Me está matando el orgullo, cuando más quiero estar al lado tuyo. De solo verte concluyo que tú eres para mí y yo soy para ti.

(Pride is killing me, when I want to be by your side the most. Just seeing you I know you are for me and I'm for you).

You swallow hardly, barely breathing when Coco is just one step away from you. And maybe you don't need any words. Maybe you've been too stupid to recognize what and how you feel about the other. The mexican raises up a hand to your left cheek, resting it there, knowing that you missed him much more than you thought. His right hand helps the other to hold your face, before crashing his lips on yours. A soft needy moan drowning in your throat, when your fingers get tangled in two fist in his shirt. Your tongues stroking the other so desperate, that you don't care about being out of air.

Your back finds the wall, lifting up your arms to his neck, surrounding it; while his hands go down to your lower back. Fuck the pride.

“You're the only good thing I have, mami”.

“Tú eres para mí y yo soy para ti”.