TAGs: Bad Bunny x (ex)reader, Angst, tensión, friends and tattoo
This come to a serie
Someone once said Puerto Rico is a bastard. Well, Benito said it—which made the sting even deeper—and he wasn’t wrong. The whole city, which smells like the legality of forbidden things, tends to wrap me up in memories and cravings that New York helps me avoid, but never quite forget. On the island, it’s impossible.
An old friend, Puma, was throwing a party, and not just any party: it was her Grammy win celebration. It had to be historic; she wouldn’t let the public down, and I had to be there. That’s what friends are for. Her voice was a constant reminder that I needed to show up, but Puerto Rico wasn't the same for me as it was for the rest of the guests. I was using every ounce of my energy not to think about him... and that, in itself, trapped me in a vortex of memories that karma insisted on rubbing in my face. Damn him. The voice, the timbre, the scent, the taste. Everything I was trying to erase, praying for amnesia, came back even stronger on this turf.
I had one foot out the door, determined to leave before I met my karmic debt at the bar or saw him dancing with someone new, totally happy without me, when a voice caught me by the heels.
— Qué peligrosa, mami. — Victoria, or rather, Puma, was standing there, clearly wasted and flanked by Rosa and Rebeca, the last two people who should see me at the rock bottom my life had become.
— Running away from my party? — My head shook no before my mouth could come up with a better answer.
— No, I was just... I... I was gonna do something — I started, gesturing vaguely, but there was nothing to say.
— Smoke? — Becky asked, trying to save the situation.
— Hace mucho tiempo que no fuma... — Puma answered for Becky, staring right at me.
— Yeah, it’s been a while since I quit, but this isn't about me — I replied, trying to sound natural and focusing on her. — Puma, congrats on the Grammy!
Puma did a little victory dance, but the conversation died because she spotted another guest trying to escape from across the room and left Becky with me to make sure I didn't bolt. The brunette dragged me onto the dance floor toward the VIP area and left me there. The vibe was emptier than the rest of the club; most people were sitting with friends, drinking and smoking—two things I did plenty of right after the breakup, but they didn't help much. If I smoked, I’d remember him smoking; if I drank, I’d only call just to hear his voice on voicemail.
I walked until I found an empty beanbag and sat down. The waiter brought over a whiskey, which I downed fast, ignoring the burn; nothing burned more than the loneliness. When my eyes finally scanned the room more carefully, I found the one who was supposed to be the cure, but was actually my tormentor, my executioner.
He was laughing with some friends, his hand covering his neck where my name used to be, marked on his skin with the ink I designed myself. I couldn't see if it was still there; the light, the distance, and his position wouldn't let me. My traitorous eyes filled with tears seeing him right there, so close. My heart sank and my stomach did a flip. What wouldn't I give to lose myself in that body again, even if it were for the last time...
My feet guided me, instead of keeping me stuck there, drinking and eventually crying. I went against the tide that should have swallowed me; I accepted the tab before it even hit the table and went to the bar where he was. The air changed as I got closer. I was a step or two from reaching him when his eyes looked up and met mine. I froze. I felt something sink in the pit of my stomach; memory and pain mixed together, burning worse than pitorro.
I imagine he felt something too, because he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and back again, looking for a comfortable position. The friends around him scattered when they saw me, leaving us alone. I almost asked them to stay, because I knew I’d lie and say I was fine, when "fine" was the last thing I could possibly be.
— Mami... — He started, his face slightly turned, still hiding the side of his neck.
— Don’t call me that.
— La fuerza de la costumbre...
I wanted to back away, but I closed the gap instead.
— Shouldn't you be with your friends?
He looked toward the corner where most of them had gathered. That’s when I realized it was still there: the mark with my name, exactly like the day it was done.
— Quiero estar aquí, ahora.
My hand trailed over the calligraphy; I felt his heartbeat under my fingers, racing, snitching on him.
— You didn't erase it.
— Nunca te borraría. Y aunque lo intentara, como lo hice, es imposible.
I pulled him even closer. His hands, fingers heavy with rings, found my hips just like they used to, fitting me against his body. His scent and the texture of his embrace intoxicated my senses. I fell into him, completely, when his lips finally found mine.
