Work Text:
TK can’t breathe.
The man’s hand is around his neck, crushing his airways, choking him, and he can’t fucking breathe. His vision swims, something wet and warm—blood?—running down his face, so he kicks out blindly, desperate to get free.
His foot connects with something and the man attacking him cries out in pain, his grip loosening and allowing TK to wriggle away. He falls to the floor, heaving in painful gasps of air, but he’s barely given a second before his attacker’s hands are on him again, hauling him up, reaching for him, and this time—
This time, TK shoves with all his might, and it’s enough to make the man falter. A few more thrashes and the hands are gone, TK falling to all fours as the darkness threatens to close around him. He blinks it back as best he can; he’s not out of danger yet, so he starts crawling forward hesitantly, frowning when his hand lands in a pool of something viscous.
He stares uncomprehendingly at the black stain on his palm, then follows the trail along the loose gravel of the alleyway to—
Oh, god.
TK’s eyes meet those of his attacker, except the other man’s stare back without acknowledgement, blank in a way he’s seen far too many times in the field. He’s dead, unmistakably so, and TK… TK caused it.
He did this. He killed him.
TK gags, any breath he’d managed to regain fleeing from him. And when the darkness comes for him again, he goes into it gratefully.
TK wakes up gasping, choking on air. The sheets are suffocating him and, when he tries to free himself, they only seem to get tighter. The hands reaching out for him, trying to calm him, are the final straw; TK throws himself from bed and sprints to the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him as he collapses against the sink.
On some level, he is aware that the hands were Carlos’s, that the sheets were theirs, that his hands are clean, and that the dream was just a dream.
Except it wasn’t ‘just’ anything. TK did do those things. The bruises around his neck and the cut to his temple may have healed but it doesn’t matter; that night is burned into his memory, the dead man’s eyes watching him constantly. In a frenzy, he turns the taps on full blast, scrubbing and scrubbing until his hands are redredred , sore and stinging.
He glances up, catching a glimpse of his reflection, and it gives him pause. He looks a mess, his hair sticking up in all directions, his eyes wild and red-rimmed, his face ghostly pale. Pale as a corpse, perhaps, except TK isn’t the corpse in this situation, and a sudden flash of rage fills him.
Pain explodes across his knuckles before TK even knows he’s moved, and it takes a second to connect it to the sound of shattering and the spider-web cracks across the mirror. He watches his blood run in rivulets down his hand and wrist, feeling a measure of satisfaction at the sight.
Until, all of a sudden, reality sets in.
The bathroom’s fluorescent lighting throws what he’s done into sharp relief, and TK realises what it is. Another mess for Carlos to deal with, to fix, as if he didn’t have enough on his plate without his basket-case of a boyfriend going nuts every other night. TK’s legs tremble and give out, glass shards crunching as he collapses onto them, but he barely feels it. He barely feels anything; barely hears anything save for the harsh sound of his own ragged breathing echoing in his ears.
Even the crash as the bathroom door bursts open is muted, as are Carlos’s shouts; the only reason TK knows he’s saying anything is the sight of his lips moving. Carlos carefully reaches out for him again, and this time TK doesn’t fight back.
He allows himself to be eased upright, allows Carlos to sit him down on the toilet and clean and dress his wounds. They mustn’t be too bad, as he’s just taken back to bed rather than the hospital. TK lies down on top of the sheets and clutches onto the pillow, staring blankly at the opposite wall.
He doesn’t move again until long after the sun has risen, and only then because Carlos walks in with toast and a glass of water.
TK takes the water gratefully, avoiding Carlos’s eyes as he sips. Setting the glass on the nightstand, he shifts into a cross-legged position, staring down at his lap. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Carlos says, because of course he does. That’s been their routine these past two months—an endless cycle of apologies and rebuttals.
“I’m sorry about the mirror,” he clarifies.
Carlos’s frown is audible. “That’s what you’re upset about?”
“You’re not?”
“TK, baby, no.” Carlos’s hand appears in his vision, hesitating; TK turns his own palm up in invitation, and Carlos takes it. “Mirrors can be replaced.”
“People can’t,” TK whispers, that familiar guilt settling heavy in his stomach.
Carlos’s fingers are gentle as he tilts TK’s head towards him, his eyes even gentler. “Ty, listen to me,” he says. “I’ve told you this before and I’m going to tell it to you as many times as it takes, even if that’s every day for the rest of my life. It was not your fault . You were just protecting yourself; there was no way you could have known what would happen.”
Carlos pauses, searching his face, then moves his fingers to brush them down TK’s cheek. “Do you know something else? I’m so fucking glad you fought. It means that I still get to have you here, in my life. I wish things hadn’t turned out like they did, but that’s only because I hate to see you suffering, sweetheart. I promise you, if it came to a choice between this and losing you forever, I would choose this every single time.”
TK swallows against the sobs building in his throat. He looks away from Carlos again, taking a bite of the toast for something to do. It tastes like cardboard on his tongue and sticks uncomfortably in his throat, but he forces it down, ignoring the way his stomach churns.
“How can you say that?” he mumbles, dropping the rest of the toast back on the plate with a sigh. “How can you say that and mean it?”
“TK.”
“I’m a fucking mess, Carlos,” he says bitterly. “I can barely stand to go outside, I can’t sleep more than an hour or two at a time—I feel like I’m going insane because everywhere I turn, I see his eyes and his blood and no matter what you say, I killed him . I broke your fucking mirror last night, and I don’t even know why! I just… I don’t recognise myself anymore.”
This last admission is little more than a whisper as TK finally loses the battle against his tears. He squeezes his eyes shut and does nothing to wipe them away. “Sometimes I think I did die that night,” he admits quietly. “I’m not who I was before then; I don’t know who I am and I don’t know how to get back to who I was. I don’t even know if I can.”
A pause, then he’s being pulled into Carlos’s side and wrapped in a strong embrace. TK stiffens, but quickly melts into it, letting loose his cries into Carlos’s shirt.
Carlos presses a kiss to the top of his head, his lips barely straying when he whispers, “You’re Tyler Kennedy Strand. You’re the man I love more than anything else in this world, and that will never change no matter what. I’m going to be here for you every step of the way; trust in that. If nothing else, trust in me . We’ll get through this, Ty, together. I swear it.”
TK sniffs and burrows further into Carlos, tightening his own arms around him. It’s a thank you and an I trust you and an I love you all rolled into one.
It’s a promise.
It’s hope.