“put me down, ale!” alejandro, flushed in his drunkenness, hair falling into his eyes, damp with sweat and melted gel, only laughs at you, his glassy eyes twinkling with adoration. the stars are out tonight, and he can hear the cicadas singing in the distance, and there is nothing that can take you away from him, for once. there’s no gun to his head, and no orders to give or to take, and no finite amount of time before you’ll be torn apart. just you, and him, and rudolfo in your driveway, waiting to make sure you make it inside before heading home.
“no, no, no,” he argues, his words rather slurred, too giggly for a man of his stature and station, cradling like in his arms like some blushing bride whilst, at the same time, fumbling for his house key, blinded by the flickering porch light and the glare of his comrade’s headlights. it isn’t graceful, by any means, but, fuck, he’s trying. you laugh, and he pauses, as if to savor it. your smile nearly splits your face in two, head thrown back against his shoulder, his cowboy hat tipped low over the soft line of your brow, the yellowy glow of midnight painting you as an angel. “i got it, amor, see? i got it,”
the door, with its peeling red paint and rusted hinges, squeals as it’s thrown open, and, somewhere in the darkness of your home, the cat hisses at being disturbed. alejandro trips over the threshold, and you scramble to grab hold of his shoulders before he can drop you. like he ever would. he curses, near choking on his own laughter, as you wave wildly over his shoulder, to rudy, your grin never faltering, not even as he kicks the door closed behind himself.
for a moment, he simply stands there in the darkness, staring at you with the most love-struck gaze any grown man could conjure. oh, he loves you. and, right now, with you looking at him like that, tipsy and boundless, he wants to squeeze you so hard your eyes bulge like one of those cartoons you like so much, to kiss your face until both of you are breathless and blushing.
the room spins, and something paws at the back of his thighs. damn cat. “bed?” he asks, hopefully, using one hand to lift his hat so he can look into your eyes.
you frown, and it breaks his fucking heart. how dare you. how dare he — he wants to hear you laughing at him again, teasing him. “food? m’ starving.”
he nods, solemnly. you make a good point. he could eat. “food, then.”
he throws his shoulder into the light switch, making you groan as you squint against the sudden brightness, heated cheek squished against his shoulder, to which he coos an apology. making it to the kitchen is an effort within itself, almost herculean in his current state, especially with the cat bouncing between his ankles with every damned step he takes.
“lemme down,” you demand, again, as if you haven’t already had this conversation. a battle which, if he remembers correctly, you lost. “ale, c’monnn, i gotta pee!”
“i’ll carry you,” he’s already diverting, turning towards the hallway and away from the fridge, but you squeal, gleeful, smacking him lightly on the chest.
“alejandro!”
“hmph. fine.” reluctantly, he sets you on your own two feet. he feels immediately less steady, and so, it seems, do you, as you stumble in your boots before finding your footing. “apresúrate, or i’ll eat without you,”
you gasp, affronted, too far gone to recognize him poking fun at you, and bolt towards the bathroom with your ill-tempered feline nipping at your heels. he watches you go, grinning dopily to himself, swaying in place, before remembering the task at hand. his baby’s hungry. it’s his job to fix that.
by the time you return to him, sans your boots and jeans, in only the stolen hat, your underwear, and your tee-shirt, he has the coffee pot going and he’s digging through your silverware drawer in search of a little spoon (because you hate the big ones), a pan full of leftover tres leches cake waiting for you.
you hold out your arms, wordlessly, and he lifts you onto the counter without complaint, putting your spoon in your hand then kissing you sloppily on the nose before turning to retrieve your respective coffee mugs. he’s a man on a mission. food first, then he ogle at how pretty you look in your panties.
“s’hot, ten cuidado, tesoro,” he warns, handing you your mug, which used to have plants on it, before half of them were scrubbed off (his own proudly declares him #1 dad — a gift from you, for his birthday last august, though he still doesn’t know if you were flirting or calling him old). you manage to burn your lip anyways. he kisses it all better, because he’s a sweet, sweet man, and not at all for any selfish want.
it’s quiet now, save for the quiet thud of your heels hitting the cabinet doors, the hum of the refrigerator, and the occasional screech of your spoon on the bottom of the pan. alejandro nestles himself in between your thighs, head on your chest, letting you spoon-feed him cake and politely pretending not to notice when you get frosting in his hair and beard. he doesn’t mind, really. maybe, if he asks real nice, you’ll wash it for him in the morning.
his phone dings, too loudly, rudy informing him that he made it home safely, at last, and not to call him unless someone was dead or dying. “old man,” you mock, when you see the thumbs up he responds with. he pinches you in retaliation, burying his head in your lap, despite the strain it has on his back, entirely undignified.
“so mean t’me,” he laments, though he hums happily when your legs wrap around his waist.
“oh, i know. i’m the worst.” your fun is short-lived, however, as you’re squealing when his teeth dig into the meat of your thigh. there will be a bruise there by morning. “ale!”
he grins, turning his head to peer up at you through his lashes, eyes half-lidded, lips glossy, cheeks warm with liquor and affection. “love you,” he declares, soft and sober, his back twinging and his head still spinning.
the smile you reward him with makes it all worth it, though. “love you too, mi media naranja.”