Well. They do, but they fight about things like, who ate the last tangerine, and who gets to drive today, and who left the towel on the floor, snapping and sore at each other for five minutes at most, and then going back to talking like nothing ever happened. So it’s a shock to the system when it’s this bad.
Unlucky race number fifty-something, he’s lost count. Outside and in his head it’s lashing rain. Teto says, “Don’t go out,” and Carlos says, “I’m going to go out.”
He goes out on his bike, and predictably crashes so badly he has to lay on the wet, cold ground for ten minutes to catch his breath and lament everything and everyone in a way he hasn’t done since he was a kid pushed off a track. Funny how he can keep his eyes wide open, staring up at the breaking sky. Then, because there’s nothing else to do, he picks himself up and limps back on shaky legs, an old, beaten dog taken out by something far larger and meaner than he is.
Teto gets one good look at his skinned knees, skinned shins, skinned palms, and starts yelling, purple-red in the face like all of Carlos’s wounds are a personal affront to him.
“Be nicer to me I’m bleeding,” Carlos grits out, when all he means is, Please don’t be angry at me.
They stomp off into separate rooms and it takes Carlos three tries to admit that bandaging his own palms when both palms are scraped is a task too colossal to surmount.
“He worries about you,” Gigi says.
Carlos must look too much like a kicked puppy now for Gigi to step in and help, when it was abundantly clear Gigi had been on Teto’s side since the start of this whole debacle. Heaviness set in his brow when Carlos had insisted on going out, as if a bike ride in a storm could fix anything worth fixing. Carlos worries them all, with his impulses and his tantrums and his body, too soft by half.
“He’s bad at it,” Carlos says.
“He’s trying,” Gigi says tartly, pulling the bandage tight and making Carlos wince.
Unsurprising that Teto’s loyalty inspires loyalty in return. A shining knight in splendid armour, with the way he rides out so often to Carlos’s defense. Body always half-turned toward the rest of the world, angled to catch a stray bullet meant for Carlos. Flesh is flesh, and anything sharp passes through Teto to carve Carlos up anyway. That doesn’t stop Teto from trying.
“Maybe I don’t want him to be good at it,” Carlos says. “The worrying.”
Gigi gives him a look, like he’s a child. “Then go tell him that.”
He hates being the first one to apologize, because it’s something that’s been stamped out of him for a long time now. Carlos shifts from one foot to another outside of Teto’s room. What he hates worse is the idea that Teto will never speak to him again, even though he knows down to the marrow of his bones he’s being dramatic, that their return policies when it comes to each other have long elapsed.
When he knocks, Teto answers so violent and fast Carlos gets all warm thinking about it, Teto waiting behind that door for Carlos to come.
“All I know how to do is make trouble.”
“All I know how to do is bark,” Teto says. Carlos doesn’t remember a time in which they haven’t been able to meet each other in the eyes, and it’s a chest melting relief, knowing that hasn’t changed.
“I don’t need anything else,” Carlos says.
“Good, because otherwise you’re shit out of luck.”
Teto reels Carlos in and kisses him, so familiar yet all-encompassing that Carlos begins to crumple. The steady hand on the back of Carlos’s neck holds him up, some supernatural force more powerful than gravity, giving him just enough strength to make it to the bed.
He hits the covers skinned knees first, and makes certain to emit the most pathetic moan of pain.
“Idiot,” Teto says affectionately, reaching down to arrange Carlos just how he likes him, on his back, loose and easy. Carlos makes grabby hands at him.
So that’s not entirely true. There was a time they couldn’t meet each other in the eye, when they were both more stupid and reckless and hungry with each other than they can bear to be now. The sex wasn’t good, and when you’re that age, all sex is supposed to be good. It didn’t make sense. But what actually frightened Carlos was how Teto looked down, looked past him, and Carlos couldn’t figure out what to do with himself when the endless horizon suddenly became a blackhole.
Teto’s mouth is on him, and Carlos is content to lie there and be kissed. It’s all they do nowadays, having gone past rough and too careful to reach this comfortable middle ground. Carlos knows better than to think in forevers, after everything that’s happened, but it’s possible he would like to kiss Teto for the rest of his life. And let himself be kissed by Teto for the rest of his life.
“Gigi bandage you up?”
Carlos nods. “Couldn’t do it myself.”
Teto hums, smug and satisfied. Carlos lets him have this one, leaving the scoreboard between them to continue collecting dust. He tilts his head, an invitation Teto doesn’t need, and Teto licks back into his mouth, hand tangling in Carlos’s hair. Messing it up to match the rest of him, skinned knees and all.
Bastard, Carlos thinks fondly, and tangles his own in Teto’s in return.
It’s hard to describe the taste of Teto, the unique, constant taste of Teto. If Carlos doesn’t know any better, he’d say it tastes of himself.
