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TK opens his eyes to Carlos’ bedroom, cast in the nearly golden light of evening. The sun is beginning to set, and TK is sure that means he’s been asleep for hours. He’d had an odd fill-in shift today that ended in the middle of the afternoon. Before this, he’d worked a 48 that had left him wiped. It isn’t so bad doing a short shift from early morning to midafternoon, but by the time he’d gotten back to Carlos’ place, TK had been drained of all energy. He’d only meant to lay down for a short cat nap — half an hour at most — but it’s probably going on seven or so now, meaning he’s been sleeping at least three or four hours.
He can hear movement downstairs. Carlos had still been gone at work when TK got back. It makes sense for him to be back by now. There are some clangs of metal on metal and the sound of the fridge door opening and closing. Carlos is probably making dinner.
TK’s stomach rumbles loudly. He’s hungry, and the scent of whatever Carlos has started is wafting up the stairs. It smells amazing.
He smiles to himself, rolling onto his back with a deep sigh and stretching. There’s a fuzzy headache settled in his forehead, which TK is sure is just dehydration. He’ll usually keep a water bottle at hand wherever is convenient, but seems he forgot earlier in his single-minded interest of getting to sleep.
Just as TK is about to push himself into a sitting position, a much louder, clearly unintentional clang rings out, followed immediately by a sharp shout of pain.
TK is out of bed and rushing down the stairs in seconds.
“Carlos?” he calls out, pounding down the stairs and rounding into the living room.
Carlos is on the floor of the kitchen, gripping one wrist tight in his hand. His teeth are clenched, expression contorted in pain. The skin of his hand is bright red. All around him is spilled water and cooked spaghetti, steaming in a way that tells TK exactly what just happened.
His heart about stops anyway.
“Carlos!” he says again, rushing to his boyfriend’s side. Carlos only spares him a glance, chest heaving as he breathes heavily through the pain and shock.
“What happened?” TK asks, reaching out and taking Carlos’ arm gently in hand. He turns it side to side, looking over the burn and assessing how bad the damage is.
“Went— Went to drain the— the pasta. Slipped.”
“Okay, come on,” TK says, taking Carlos by the elbow and helping up. “Here we go.”
He leads them to the sink and turns on the water, letting it run cool without being too horribly cold.
“Hold your hand under here, and I’ll be back with the first aid kit. It’s still upstairs?”
Carlos jerks his head in a single nod, trembling slightly as he holds his injured hand beneath the running water.
TK turns on his heel and jogs back through the living room and up the stairs. His socks are wet, and he luckily avoids all the cooked pasta, managing not to slip on his way back upstairs.
Carlos keeps his first aid kit — larger and stocked as if he plans to camp in the woods for a week — in the cabinets of the upstairs bathroom. It’s a red bag that unzips and unfolds, displaying pretty much every piece of medical supply you could possibly need at home or otherwise. TK will concede that it is obviously not better stocked than an ambulance, but that doesn’t stop him from teasing his boyfriend about his preparedness, either.
Carlos has blamed his childhood in scouts and his father the Texas Ranger as the reasoning for such a useful first aid kit. TK certainly isn’t complaining about it now.
He returns in record time, opening up the pack on the island and digging through it. The aloe should work just fine after they take him out from under the water. After that, they’ll wrap it up with the roll of gauze, probably with the petroleum jelly or neosporin. And he’ll have the painkillers standing by, just in case.
“Carlos?” he says, searching for the roll of medical tape he knows is in there. “How we doing?”
TK looks up when he hears Carlos let out a stuttering breath.
“F-fine,” he tells TK. He’s leaning over now, elbows propped on the edge of the sink.
“Does it hurt badly?” TK asks as he steps up to Carlos’ side.
Carlos winces. “U-uh… Not the worst I’ve had,” he admits.
TK believes that, but doesn’t count it as a particularly comforting answer. He nods and keeps that thought to himself.
“Fair,” he says.
“The water’s helping, though…”
“That’s good, Carlos. Just keep holding your hand under there for a few more minutes, okay? Then we’ll dry you off and bandage you up.”
Carlos nods, glancing to the side and catching TK’s eyes. He tries for a smile, but winces at the end of it and lets the expression fall.
“And then order takeout,” he says, making TK laugh.
TK rubs a hand soothingly between Carlos’ shoulders.
“Yeah, and order takeout,” he agrees.