Work Text:
Hank stares at the faces on the phone’s screen. A curly-haired preteen boy and a younger girl missing nearly all of her front teeth smile on either side of Cristobal at a dinner table. Hank draws in a grounding breath but doesn’t move. His vision goes blurry with what must be tears.
Cristobal sighs beside him and uncomfortably shrugs one shoulder.
“They’re a little older now, but…”
“I cannot be here,” Hank responds, abruptly rising from the couch and heading for their bedroom. Cristobal is quick to follow, though he nearly fumbles his phone as he bolts to keep up with Hank.
“Hank, come on, you said–”
“I know what I said. But I cannot be here right now,” Hank repeats. He doesn’t bother to turn back to Cristobal. When he reaches their bedroom, he makes a beeline for the walk-in closet. Cristobal’s shoulders sag as he watches Hank walk directly toward where they keep their emergency bags. Against his better judgment, Cristobal crowds his space and places a hand on Hank’s shoulder. Hank shakes it off immediately.
“Hank, will you look at me? Please?” Cristobal begs. Hank unzips the side pockets of his duffle bag to make sure the essentials are there. Gun, rope, stack of cash. He can leave. But Cristobal’s still standing right there.
“Cristobal,” Hank says sternly. “I know I say I can handle it. But I can’t. Not right now. And it is just like you always say: if I do not have anything nice to say, I better shut the fuck up.” Cristobal furrows his brows and shakes his head.
“That is not what I say,” Cristobal corrects, but Hank just brushes past him. Cristobal follows him again, but keeps his distance this time. “Look, it is against my principles to ask you to stay, but… Can you at least tell me where you are going?” Hank sighs again as he walks to the front door. He slows when he arrives. Cristobal stops a few feet away and stuffs his hands into his pockets. Cristobal has been so small lately. Shrinking in on himself. Hank hates it. He wants to make Cristobal feels as big as he makes Hank feel. But Hank can’t be that right now. Not like this.
“I can’t sleep here,” Hank starts, tears stinging the corners of his eyes again, “knowing that this is where I took you away from them.”
Cristobal freezes. How is he supposed to respond to that? Hank knows that’s not how it is – Hank didn’t make Cristobal do any of this. Cristobal did it himself and takes full responsibility for any pain he’s caused Hank. They’ve been over this multiple times for multiple hours over the course of multiple days.
Hank stares at Cristobal for a moment longer, eyes his long hair tickling the nape of his neck and the open maroon button-up Hank had bought for him. Then, he’s gone. Cristobal supposes he deserves it. He did that to Hank more than enough times.
But then the door opens.
“I will turn on Find Friends location,” Hank whisper yells at him.
The door closes again.
Cristobal nods to himself. At least it’s something. He just wants Hank safe and as happy as possible.
The door opens again.
“I love you,” Hank whisper yells. Cristobal’s eyes light up. His shoulders relax. He rocks on the balls of his feet a little.
“I love y–”
The door slams shut.
Hank isn’t in the room when Elena and Cristobal talk, but he’s two rooms away and can still make out every single expletive she hurls at him in both Spanish and English.
“Maybe – and please hear me out, Elena – maybe it is good for the niños to get away from that life for a few months,” Cristobal reasons. Elena had just finished telling him to never return to Bolivia, never try to run an operation within the family again, and to stay out of her business for the rest of “¡tu vida miserable!” She punctuated this by throwing her wedding ring at his face, hitting him pretty hard on his cheekbone, and telling him to shove it somewhere that honestly made Hank giggle a little bit from the den.
“Oh, right, I forgot how involved you are in their lives!” Elena quips. “I forgot you know every-fucking-thing about them, pendejo!” Cristobal sits patiently with his hands clasped in his lap. Small. Curled in on himself.
“I’m just saying,” he shrugs. Elena flares her nostrils and seriously considers throwing a stiletto at him. “They would be safer here. The LAPD thinks I’m dead. And it’s good for them to try new things. Discover new interests, you know.” Elena cackles.
“Shit, I forgot how simple your life must have been before you married into mine,” Elena spits. She adopts a mocking tone and sits next to Cristobal on the guest bed. “Interests and dreams and experiences.” They both take a breath or two. Cristobal shifts.
“Don’t you want that for them, too?” Cristobal asks. He steels his face and looks at Elena seriously, genuine intrigue in his eyes. “I mean, when they were younger, that’s what we talked about, right? Giving them the childhood we never had?”
Elena pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. Her jaw tenses. Cristobal prepares for another round of vitriol.
“It’s hard to do when your partner leaves you,” Elena admits softly. “I could not be half the mother I wanted to be.” She drops her hand and stares back at Cristobal. “You did not call when you said you would. You did not write to us. And on top of that, you let the operation here fall to shit and get my father killed. The abuelo of your fucking children. And you think you deserve fairness?”
Cristobal knows he doesn’t. So he stops trying. Elena will go back to Bolivia, and Cristobal will be cut off. From the business, from the family. From their children.
It’s simple. It’ll be simpler this way.
But Elena walks the halls slowly on her way out of the house. Pictures and paintings on the walls, handmade pottery on the shelves. A fresh coat of paint in the other guest bedroom that she passes. (It took her and Cristobal four years to get anything on the walls of the ramshackle house Elena’s tía had left them, and the outdated wallpaper still remains in their kitchen to this day.) A small chalk sign on a shelf with “Solos somos fuerte. Juntos somos más fuertes” written on it in handwriting that definitely does not belong to Cristobal. A sense of quiet outside that Elena hasn’t known in years, maybe decades.
She stops in the den. Hank sits upright, back completely flat. Hank hears one of the guards by the door grip his gun a little tighter. He can see tears in Elena’s eyes. But instead of looking to Hank, she turns back around to Cristobal, who is still halfway down the hallway.
“Just for the summer?” she asks breathlessly.
Their next goodbye kiss is a happy one. Hank has a suitcase that they packed together, and Cristobal hands him the printed directions to a luxury hotel near the beach. This constantly endears Hank. They both know Hank is going to do two things when he gets in the car: turn on Emotion by Carly Rae and put his destination into both Google Maps and Waze. Cristobal always makes a habit of doing things for Hank “just in case.”
“I’ll see you in a few days,” Cristobal murmurs against his lips, cupping Hank’s face with one hand and shoving the directions into Hank’s jacket pocket with the other. Hank laughs and grabs the hem of Cristobal’s shirt lightly, playfully.
“I see you then,” Hank beams back at him. His smile falters a little, though, and his expression turns pensive, almost timid. “Can I still send you… pictures?” Cristobal hangs his head and chuckles lowly, one of Hank’s favorite sounds. God forbid they go 24 hours without insufferably lusting over one another.
“Any time after 10pm, I’m all yours,” Cristobal grins with a wink. He grabs Hank’s hand and brings it to his lips. “Te amo, mi cielito.”
They had agreed it’d be easier for the kids to adjust to just Cristobal for a few days before introducing Hank. Cristobal would never say it himself, but Hank easily supplied what they were both thinking: “I am just, like, kind of a lot for people to consider, you know? Especially the… tots.”
Hank also, obviously, needs a few days to practice how to speak to a child.
Cristobal has to fight back tears when the driver finally drops off the kids at the door later that day. Their last flight was delayed. It’s dark out now. They look exhausted. Mariela shrugs off her little, pink backpack and trudges forward into her father’s arms. Cristobal falls to his knees and holds her tightly, so tightly.
“Mijos,” he whispers. He kisses Mariela’s hair then looks over the top of her head at Emilio, beckoning him in for a hug. He reluctantly steps forward and lets Cristobal place his arm around his hoodie-clad body in a side hug. “I’ve got you.”
Emilio is 13 now, and he’s got dark, curly hair almost as long as Cristobal’s, but it’s parted in the middle and frames his browbone in a way that Cristobal thinks makes him look entirely too much older than he is. But, Cristobal thinks, this must be how every father feels about his son. He’s got Elena’s almost honey-colored eyes and angled features, but when he smiles, it’s all Cristobal. Judging by Elena’s recent accounts of Emi’s mood, however, Cristobal isn’t so sure how much of himself he’ll be seeing in his son.
Mariela is eight, turning nine at the end of the summer. When she was five and at her most conniving, Elena would tap Ela on the nose and ask her, “Estás mintiendo con la nariz de papá, pinocho?” She was a spitting image of Cristobal until her hair got longer, until her chin and her cheeks started to take shape just a year or two ago. Cristobal can’t remember a day he’s seen her past the age of six when she didn’t have a bright-colored clip or barrette in her hair, today included.
The children sleep soundly in the beds that Hank had made up for them. Hank raided Walgreens a few days prior for the perfect Squishmallow for Mariela’s bed in the smallest guest room, and ordered a plasma ball and a book called Haunted Houses of California for Emilio’s slightly bigger room. He had shrugged at Cristobal when they arrived. Hank was never very good at being a teenage boy, so he’s not quite sure what they like. Cristobal made quick work of removing the ghost book from the room after Hank left for his staycation.
The first few days are interesting. Mariela frequently makes cheerful comments about how glad she is that her papá’s business trip is over. Cristobal mixes up Emilio’s lactose intolerance with Mariela’s soy allergy, but Emilio catches it after one bite of what should be his sister’s cereal. Yes, Cristobal reverts to cereal on day 3. After years of having a personal chef and a few months of Hank whipping up most of their breakfasts, he’s a little rusty in the kitchen before noon. Mariela clinging to him every moment that she’s not engrossed in her toy ponies or a coloring book certainly doesn’t make cooking easier. And, in addition to being acutely aware of his parents’ failed marriage and his family’s less-than-legal activities, Emilio is a 13 year-old boy with more attitude than Cristobal’s ever seen him wield.
Cristobal shielded Emilio for as long as he could. But then he got sent to Los Angeles three days after Emi’s 12th birthday, and… he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there to protect Emilio from things that no child should ever have to see or hear. To Fernando, you become a man on your 13th birthday. Cristobal doesn’t fault Elena for failing to fight that mentality. It’s the same one she was raised on. And he wasn’t there. He was too busy giving into every single one of his desires and impulses in Los Angeles – business or otherwise. Elena made sure Emilio wasn’t involved in anything directly, but the careless phone calls and meetings in his presence could no longer go ignored.
So Emilio doesn’t talk much. He puts his AirPods in when Cristobal takes them for a drive up the PCH to the Ventura County line. Mariela gasps and coos at all of the mansions and beaches and nice cars from the backseat, but Emi pulls up the hood on his sweatshirt and listens to his music. Welcome to the teenage years, hijo, he can hear Fernando’s voice echoing in his brain. How long will he have that? Is it permanent? Some cruel reminder from God that he loves and defends the man who carries his suegro’s blood on his hands?
Hank paces for what feels like two hours, but is, in reality, only about fifteen minutes. Today is the day. He’s back home and getting ready to welcome Cristobal and his literal children back into the house. They’re out shopping right now – Cristobal sent Hank a picture of Mariela with chocolate ice cream dripping down her face and Emilio coming to the rescue with napkins in the background. If there’s one thing Emilio is and has always been, it’s a tremendous big brother. Cristobal texted Hank as much. Hank only cried a little.
He lights nearly every candle in the house, skims the pool, straightens the place settings on the dining table, and fluffs the pillows on the kids’ beds – twice. All things that children care so much about, of course. Hank feels lost as he tries to prepare for them. It’s not like hosting a dinner party or a brunch meeting, two things at which Hank is absolutely fantastic. But kids don’t care about fancy napkin rings, they don’t drink fine champagne, they aren’t impressed by monogrammed towels in the bathrooms. Hank has to impress all on his own. And that’s quite scary, isn’t it?
If he were less inundated with anxiety, Hank might even laugh to himself. He used to envision himself as a father. As a child, he would sing nursery rhymes to the farm animals and cuddle every newborn addition to the barn who would allow it, or whose mother wouldn’t throw a raucous tantrum about it. As a teenager, he picked out baby names and thought about what his children might look like, who he might be able to help them become.
But as he grew older, as he became an adult, he realized that fatherhood in Chechnya meant settling down with a woman and forging a life as husband and wife. So Hank gave up on the idea. He grew content being single, being childless. He scoffed when Goran told him Oksana was pregnant. What business do they have raising children in their line of work, anyway? But as it turned out, Goran didn’t do much of the parenting, anyway. That also made Hank scoff. Why bring a child into the world if you’re not going to devote your time and your soul into their growth and wellbeing, anyway? Why have children if you won’t support them and help them reach as high and as far as they can for their hopes and dreams, anyway?
Oh well. Hank supposes he was never cut out to be a father, anyway.
His heart leaps when he hears Cristobal’s car pull up behind his own in the driveway. He checks the throw pillows on the couch one last time to make sure they’re perfectly fluffed, as if the kids haven’t been staying in this very house for the past five days already. It’s not every day that you meet your serious boyfriend’s children that you didn’t know existed until a month ago. Hank is extremely aware of how strange this whole situation is, but he needs these kids to like him so much that his stomach starts to hurt. Because why would Cristobal stay if Hank can’t even be good to his children?
The greeting in the foyer is sufficiently awkward. Mariela hides shyly behind Cristobal, contrasting the boisterous and exuberant personality she always exhibits in the photos and videos Cristobal sends of her. Emilio just kind of stands there.
“Emi, Ela,” Cristobal starts, “this is my friend Hank.”
It’s something Cristobal, Elena, and Hank agreed would be best for the first few days while the kids adjust. Cristobal had to pull Hank aside when they first brought it up. “I’m not hiding you, querido. Never. I would never do that. I am keeping every picture of us on every wall. Okay? You are nothing I would ever want to hide away,” Cristobal had assured him, and that was enough to make Hank cry like a lovesick fool, which – oh, yeah, that’s what he is and always has been ever since Cristobal caressed his jaw and softly kissed his lips for the first time in the stash house.
“He-ey!” Hank greets with a small, uncertain wave. He clasps his hands and bends a little at the waist. “Mariela, it is so nice to meet you. I see you go to American Girl store, no?” Hank knows her English isn’t as advanced as Emilio’s, but Ela looks down at her little shopping bag full of doll accessories – Cristobal holds the massive bag filled with two dolls and a mile of receipts – and smiles timidly. “And Emilio, big man on the campus!” Hank motions to him with both hands, like he’s showing him off to an invisible audience.
“Kids, say hi to Hank,” Cristobal encourages lightly. There’s a pause, then they both offer a weak “hi” before Hank turns and motions for them to follow him to the kitchen. Cristobal drops the shopping bags by the door and guides the children forward into the house.
“Emilio, Mariela,” Hank repeats their names with the proper accents as best he can, trying them out on his tongue as if he hasn’t been saying them over and over again in his spare time for nearly two weeks now. They arrive at the island in the kitchen, and Hank gets a better look at the kids in the well-lit room. His breath hitches when he takes a second to examine their features as they look at him expectantly.
He sees Cristobal in Mariela’s brows, her deep, almost-black eyes, her nose, oh my god that’s Cristobal’s nose! And Emilio may be mostly Elena, but Hank nearly chokes up at the sight of his curls and his jaw and the way his mouth twitches at the corners just like Cristobal’s during an awkward silence. Cristobal clears his throat.
“Uh, right! Do you guys want some…Capri Sun?!” Hank asks with a cheesy grin, showing off the two pouches of wild cherry he set out on the counter. His eyes flick between each of the kids, then to Cristobal, who gazes at Hank’s dopey smile so fondly that Hank doesn’t even care if he’s making a clown of himself.
“Qué es esto?” Emilio asks. Cristobal had told him in the car that it’s polite to respond to a question in whichever language it was asked, given that Emilio is incredibly bright and was fluent in English, French, and Quechua in addition to his native Spanish by the time he turned ten. But Cristobal won’t push it. And Hank knows enough Spanish now to get by.
“It’s, like, juice,” Hank responds. Cristobal reaches over to ruffle Emilio’s hair. “Jugo, even.”
“Jugo!” Ela squeals and surges forward to grab a pouch. She, somehow, instinctively knows how the drink works, and stabs the straw through the hole perfectly on the first try, a feat that is both impressive and concerning to everyone around her. Emi even snorts a laugh when Mariela downs half of the pouch in just a few gulps.
“Okay, mija, okay!” Cristobal chuckles deeply and grabs the drink from her hands. Ela gasps and pants exaggeratedly, having used all of her breath to get the drink down.
“Papá, ¿Puedo preguntarle?” she whispers loudly to Cristobal while tugging on his shirt (most likely as part of a ploy to get the Capri Sun back).
“Of course, honey,” Cristobal nods. Hank knows that Cristobal’s sweet, that he’s good, but seeing him interact with his children has him proverbially swooning in ways that Hank didn’t even know were possible. “You can ask him anything you want. Hank es muy amable.” He pats her back in encouragement.
“Uh, ¿Dónde están tus cejas?” Mariela asks sheepishly. Hank bends down a little to get closer to her eyeview, hands on his knees, but he’s not familiar with whatever Ela just asked him about. He smiles at Ela, then looks up at Cristobal with wide, questioning eyes. Cristobal raises a finger to his own lips to try to hold back his laughter.
“Ela, honey,” Cristobal giggles, “We’ve been over this. It is not a polite thing to ask.” He looks at Hank, then. “She asked where your eyebrows are.” Hank’s jaw drops a little in amusement, then he places his hands on his hips, feigning sass.
“Wow, okay. Well, you see, when I was young boy, a wicked witch come and steal my eyebrows away,” Hank explains. Emilio takes a seat at one of the barstools and swipes through his phone, disinterested. That’s okay. Hank focuses on Mariela. “Mis…cejas?” Cristobal nods his affirmation, eyeing Hank’s lips and slight dimples. He’s always mesmerized when Hank speaks Spanish. It comes out choppy and unnatural almost every time, but it fills Cristobal with something warm and fulfilling. “Her name was the Wicked Witch of the…Weast.”
“Hank,” Cristobal stops him from going on any longer. “She is old enough for the honest answer. But she might not be able to follow some of your…cultural references.” There’s a pause as Mariela looks between them a few times, then her gaze focuses on Hank.
“The Wizard of Oz!” she exclaims, and both Hank and Cristobal’s faces light up. Cristobal supposes he missed out on some development while he was away. Emilio groans from his seat.
“She made us watch it four weeks in a row for movie night,” he complains. Hank is just glad he’s contributing. Cristobal’s expression sours a little, though. He had forgotten about weekly movie night. Mariela jumps up and grabs the Capri Sun back from Cristobal.
“I’m melting!” she shouts in a shrill voice, then takes a sip and starts running away. “I’m melting!” Cristobal scurries after her to make sure she doesn’t spill on any nice furniture. Hank follows shortly after, but not before he catches Emilio reaching for the other Capri Sun when he thinks nobody is looking.
In a version of one of Cristobal’s wildest dreams coming true, Mariela warms up to Hank almost immediately. She’s not as fluent in English as Emilio, but Hank is no stranger to communication barriers. He explains alopecia to her at length while they do watercolor painting at the dining table. If she understands even half of what he’s saying, he’ll be overjoyed. When he’s done talking, Mariela looks over at him, smiles, and reaches over to gently pat him twice on top of his bald head.
The two of them play mermaids in the pool after sunset almost every night. Each time, Ela picks a new tattoo on Hank’s body and gives him a new superpower based off of it. Cristobal always looks on serenely, offering translation when needed, but they mostly make do. He thinks Hank makes a damn fine Chess Mermaid, or Lighthouse Mermaid, or Virgin Mary Mermaid. That last one was an interesting one, and Cristobal even saw Emilio’s eyes dart over to the pool every minute or two to keep up with the plot of their outrageous pretend play.
Hank climbs into bed once the kids go to sleep after a tearful night spent watching The Iron Giant. Hank reprised his role of Slithery Snake Mermaid earlier in the night, and he lies underneath soft, freshly-washed covers with what must be the world’s dreamiest smile on his face.
“Hi, handsome,” Cristobal murmurs as he, too, slides into bed. It’s early yet for them, and they’ll be up for a while longer, but it’s clear to Hank that taking care of kids is truly a full-time job. “Did you have a good day?”
“I had incredible day,” Hank sighs peacefully, sleepily. They assume their usual position, Hank cuddled up against Cristobal with his head on his chest and Cristobal’s arm around him. “What about you?”
“I still feel like I’m dreaming,” Cristobal admits through a yawn. Hank tilts his head up to get a better look at Cristobal, then lifts his head completely so he can kiss Cristobal a few times. “I can’t believe they’re here with us.” Hank rests his head back down on Cristobal’s pec and nods. “That you’re here with us.” Hank blushes and smiles, then turns his head to kiss Cristobal’s sternum.
“I like being part of your dreams,” Hank states simply, but Cristobal has to slip his eyes closed and just enjoy the moment with a small smile on his lips. He’s not perfect. They’re not perfect. Their lives will never, ever be perfect. All of this might go away in a few weeks, never to be recreated ever again. But right now, they’re all together. And that’s pretty perfect to him.
“You always are,” Cristobal responds gently, stroking Hank’s back, his shoulder, then the back of his head. “I am so lucky to have you, Hank. The kids are, too. Usually their summers are filled with school and skill classes for things they hate. Like, archery or equestrian training.”
“What? Archery is totally badass!” Hank protests. “Hello? Legolas? From The Lord and the Rings?” Cristobal hums tiredly. “He’s hot.”
“He is hot,” Cristobal agrees. “But Imelda, the archery teacher at the kids’ school, is scariest human being I’ve ever seen in my life.” Hank snorts, but Cristobal taps him on the head. “En serio, Enriquito.”
“Well, I could always teach them skill. I know many skill,” Hank offers. Cristobal hums in amusement. He knows Hank has many skills, but imagining Hank in a teaching role is… Well, Cristobal would never be mean about it, but neither of them have had exactly the best experiences with leading a team.
“Yeah? What would you teach them?” Cristobal asks dreamily. Hank gets comfier against Cristobal’s chest, rubbing his cheek against him and sighing deeply, relaxed. Their bed has become something of a sanctuary the past few months. Any night they’re able to end up here together, both in one piece, is a good night.
“Whatever they want,” Hank says. “How to make killer grilled cheese sandwich, perhaps. Or how to make friendship bracelet. Or I could teach them some gymnastics.” Cristobal perks up at that and laughs a little.
“That’s right. You still haven’t shown me all your tricks, querido,” he murmurs. Hank grins and skims his hand up Cristobal’s side, then over to his pec, then back down his side again. “But good luck getting Emilio to do anything that isn’t on his phone.” Hank both feels and hears Cristobal deflate. He sits up and shifts to lounge next to Cristobal rather than lie on him.
“You are having concerns about Emilio?” Hank asks after a moment of watching Cristobal fiddle with the chain around his neck.
It’s funny. Back when they first met, when they were running stolen cargo operations and brainwashing gourmet chefs together, Hank could have never possibly guessed that he’d end up lying in bed with Cristobal, mulling over the broodiness of their – well, Cristobal’s eldest child.
Even though the revelation of Cristobal’s family was, of course, a rather recent and unpleasant event that Hank could have never seen coming, he supposes he never quite knew exactly how far they would make it. Hank knows there’s always something. There are always police. There are always feds. There are always elders and families. It’s part of why Hank is so optimistic. He’s made it this far without his life falling entirely to shit against all odds.
And, somehow, by the grace of… something (Hank thinks about Cristobal’s cross necklace now tucked neatly at the bottom of his sock drawer), Hank and Cristobal pulled through. Whether or not they deserve it is not for Hank to decide. In his eyes, Cristobal deserves the world. No matter the wrongdoing, no matter how rough things have been since Elena returned. Cristobal is good. It’s the only thing of which Hank is completely, utterly certain.
“I feel we are too different now,” Cristobal shrugs, looking somewhere past Hank. “I wasn’t there for him as he was becoming a man.” Hank pulls a face and furrows his brow.
“Um, okay, hold the phones. He is barely 13,” Hank reminds him. Cristobal sighs again, eyes closed, and nods in agreement. Hank rests his hand on Cristobal’s chest and gently strokes his freshly-moisturized skin. “You were not there for him, sure. But his life is not over.” Hank leans over to kiss Cristobal’s shoulder, then his collarbone. “And yours is not, either.” Cristobal’s smile is small and uncertain, but it’s all Hank needs.
“You are right, mi corazón.” Cristobal grabs Hank’s bicep firmly and pulls – not hard, but just enough for Hank to get the idea. Sometimes they’re not sure why they bother lying any other way when one of them is just inevitably going to end up on top of the other. “I actually think it is just beginning.”
Hank sees Emi smile – really smile – for the first time during a mid-week trip to Universal Studios with the kids. Cristobal has been trying harder with Emilio recently, in that he tries less. Hank had suggested “reverse Scientology” to Cristobal, who had been bombarding Emi and Ela with gifts and questions and hugs and kisses since they showed up at their doorstep. So Cristobal leaves Emi alone most of the time now.
It's difficult. Cristobal is the biggest champion of giving somebody space when they need it, but that’s his son. His shy, well-spoken son who used to beg to sit on his shoulders at the grocery store so he could reach his favorite juices and dulces on the top shelves. His son who would go to the barber with his dad just so he could get the same haircut. Now, it’s hard to get Emilio to look him in the eye. Cristobal gets it. Supposes he deserves it.
“Optimus Prime!” Emilio says in awe after a gasp. He points at the giant robot stationed outside of the Transformers ride, and Mariela joins in his excitement, even though Cristobal is certain she has never seen the movies. Emi turns around and beams at his father. “Can we do a picture, papá?!” Cristobal straightens up immediately, eyes locked on his son. He becomes aware of himself, though, and tries to relax his shoulders.
Cool dad. He’s a cool dad. No – he’s a good dad. He does good dad things.
“Claro, hijo!” Cristobal responds, doing his best to subdue his surprise. He starts to head toward one of the park employees near the robot, fishing his phone out of his pocket, but Hank stops him.
“I got it, honey,” Hank smiles politely with his own phone at the ready. Cristobal looks back at him a little forlornly. He wants Hank in the picture, too, but Hank’s already ushering them all together in front of Optimus Prime. Emilio stands proudly in the middle, with Ela holding his hand on one side and Cristobal resting his hand on his other shoulder. “Say ‘The Transformers!’”
I got it, honey.
Hank just called him “honey” in front of the kids.
“Transformers!” Emilio and Mariela yell in unison, grinning at the camera.
Hank just called him “honey” in front of the kids and they don’t care. They’re getting their picture taken with Optimus Prime and they’re smiling at Hank and they didn’t care. They probably didn’t even hear it. Cristobal knows they’re not dumb – Emilio has known from the start that they’re not just friends, and Mariela sees them come out of the same bedroom every morning. But he and Hank have still been taking it slow in terms of PDA.
“Transformers!” Cristobal joins in. Hank pauses in between shots to smile fondly at Cristobal over the phone.
Hank utilizes a few moments of silence during a water break later in the morning to change his lock screen wallpaper.
It’s Cristobal who takes a chance and grabs Hank’s hand while in line for the Mummy ride, mostly because Hank is terrified of rollercoasters and Emilio and Mariela won’t stop talking about precisely how fast they think the ride will go. So Hank jumps a little at the touch, but Cristobal squeezes his hand tight and nods at him reassuringly.
“Everything okay, love?” Cristobal murmurs at Hank’s persistent deer-in-headlights expression. Hank freezes, or maybe short circuits, for a second, then goes to answer.
“Papá! Hank!” Mariela interrupts. Hank’s eyes go even wider, and Cristobal holds his breath. She looks up at the two of them with her arms folded across her chest. “Emilio dijo que esta rollercoaster go so fast that I will turn into a mummy!” Cristobal clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes, then gives his best attempt at a stern look at Emilio, who has to suppress a smile. Hank nearly goes white beside them.
“Emi, what did we say about scaring your sister out of new experiences?” Cristobal asks in earnest.
“No, no tengo miedo,” Ela replies immediately and matter-of-factly. “He is just Мудак.” Cristobal’s jaw drops. Emilio bursts out laughing. Hank feels like he’s going to pass out all over again. Cristobal looks at Hank and gives his hand a firm squeeze that asks, “Why does my eight year-old daughter know how to say ‘asshole’ in Russian?”
“Oh my god, no, so like, okay,” Hank tries to explain despite his rapidly hammering heartbeat. “Okay, the word of the day is: context!”
Hank grabs a few more photos of the family throughout the day and admires them casually while they sit down for an ice cream break. Emilio and Mariela debate whether it’s better to lick or to bite their ice cream cones as Hank and Cristobal share a cup of mint chocolate chip between them. Cristobal seems more relaxed than when he woke up this morning, than he has been the last few weeks.
Maybe it has something to do with the children actively enjoying their childhood right in front of Cristobal’s eyes. It’s been years since he was around for moments like this – even the few months before he left for Los Angeles were full of tense meetings and preparation that took him away from dance recitals and fútbol matches.
Cristobal mentions to Hank that he wants him in the next photo they take, but Hank just shrugs in response. Today isn’t for him, even though he did make a fuss about everyone waving hi to “the man upstairs” (the giant minion at Universal that’s visible from the 101 freeway).
After Hank nearly drops about twelve more Russian expletives when asked if he’d like to go on the Mummy roller coaster again, he finds peace in the nearby gift shop while the other three endure that back-breaking torture yet again. He peruses shelves and racks of mugs, keychains, pajamas, toys, and finally settles on raiding a shirt rack after sternly talking himself out of buying matching dinosaur slippers for himself and Cristobal.
Emilio looks at Hank, then the shirt, then back at Hank. Hank raises his brows and takes another step forward as if to say, “Here, take it,” which Emilio does.
“Thanks,” Emi murmurs, making fleeting eye contact with Hank. Cristobal offers Hank an apologetic glance for his son’s lackluster response, but Hank is over the moon.
That night, Hank finds himself in the kitchen making overnight oats in his robe, silk pants, and slippers while Cristobal checks on the kids, who both passed out within a half hour of returning home for the night. They’ve been asleep for about an hour, and Hank hears a series of doors opening and closing with pauses in between. Cristobal walks almost on tiptoe after closing Emilio’s door down the hall, as if he didn’t raise two of the heaviest sleepers he’s ever known.
“Smells good,” he remarks with a hushed tone. He happens upon Hank measuring out vanilla extract, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth the way it always does when he’s trying to be as precise as possible. Cristobal used to tell him that it’s okay to add a little more than the recipe calls for, but ever since Hank mixed up a teaspoon and a tablespoon when adding cayenne to their smoothies, Cristobal doesn’t pass judgment.
“I’m doing vanilla honey,” Hank explains, and Cristobal gets closer to see four small mason jars, the contents perfectly equal in each one so far. Cristobal draws in another breath through his nose as Hank carefully adds a little splash of vanilla to each jar. Their little, ceramic pot of honey sits not too far away.
“Mm,” Cristobal hums. He slides behind Hank and places his hands on his hips, teasing the belt that’s pulled tight around his body. He noses at Hank’s ear, then places a kiss right beneath it. “I love vanilla, my honey.” Hank leans back into Cristobal’s touch and finishes up the jars before placing a lid on each.
“They do not tell you that it is, like, so easy to make food for 4 people,” Hank muses. Cristobal doesn’t take his hands off of him as he transports the jars to the fridge. “Because all of my favorite saved recipes on the Pinterest serve 4. And now I have 4 people to serve.” Cristobal grins at that. Once Hank is done with the fridge, he turns around in Cristobal’s arms and embraces him, but keeps some distance between their bodies so he can just look at him.
“You want to know something?”
“Always, Cristobal.”
“I just checked on Emilio,” Cristobal tells him, “And guess what he wore to bed?” Hank quirks a brow in intrigue, but his face softens when Cristobal just stares at him fondly instead of responding right away. The shirt.
“He…?”
“Sí, cariño,” Cristobal nods, then stands on tiptoe briefly to plant a kiss on Hank’s forehead. “He loves it. He loves you.” Hank shrugs one shoulder, but the wet in his eyes betrays him.
“It is…just souvenir,” he scoffs. Cristobal’s thumbs find his cheeks and stroke Hank there calmly, tenderly, waiting to catch any tears that may fall. Cristobal shakes his head, brows pinched and a small smile on his lips.
“They adore you, Hank,” Cristobal replies with a nonchalant shrug. “I mean, it is easy to see with Mariela, no?” Hank squirms and shrugs back at Cristobal.
Hank’s not quite sure what that looks like from a child. He hasn’t been around anyone much younger than him since his last family reunion when he was ten. Regardless, it’s only been about a month. And sure, Mariela laughs at every one of his jokes, helps him with breakfast almost every morning, refuses to leave his side during movie night, holds his hand at the grocery store, sits in his lap and puts eyeshadow on him so gently during princess dress-up, speaks as much Russian as she does Eng- oh. Oh. Okay.
“You know what she said to me the other day?”
“Hm?” Hank hums, eyes glossing over with tears that he only tried momentarily to will away.
“She said, ‘Papá, if you are my papá, then what is my Hank?’” Cristobal recounts.
Oh.
Cristobal’s hands slide down Hank’s neck and arms until he can comfortably wrap them around Hank’s waist. Hank leans forward and buries his face against Cristobal’s neck, his chin nuzzling against the soft fabric of Cristobal’s plain white sleep shirt. He doesn’t cry – well, okay, technically he does, but he mostly just draws in big, steadying breaths.
It really shouldn’t be that big of a deal. This is what Hank wanted out of these few months, after all. He wanted Cristobal’s kids to like him. He wanted them to think he’s funny and smart and confident and good for their dad and just good, oh, god, he wanted them to think he’s good. He wanted a little one on his lap in front of the fire on an unusually chilly night. He wanted to pack a picnic for three or four or five or six and spend a day in the sun with people he could, if they’ll let him, call his family. He wanted the full, loving home that he never had growing up.
Oh.
Maybe this is just what Hank has always wanted.
“I told her that you can just be Hank,” Cristobal goes on, “until she comes up with something better.” Hank snorts against Cristobal’s skin and shudders out a laugh.
“Great,” Hank grins. “She is going to start calling me Princípe Sparkle Unicorn.” Cristobal chuckles in response and rubs his hands up and down Hank’s back.
“Sounds pretty good to me,” he shrugs. “And I know things are not always easy with Emi. Some days I think you’re getting through to him better than I am.” Now it’s Hank’s turn to take Cristobal’s face in his hands, holding it with just a few fingers as if he’s intending to examine his jaw, his soft but weathered skin.
“He loves you,” Hank reminds him. “I was the same way when I was his age.” Cristobal hums.
“And how is your relationship with your father, querido?”
“Okay,” Hank says in a small voice, “Point has been taken.” Cristobal smiles weakly. “But you are here for him now. And he had amazing day with his papá today.” Cristobal nods, leans forward to kiss the tip of Hank’s nose. “And he is wearing insanely cool shirt that some friend of his dad’s got him.” Hank curls his fingers and looks at his nails, feigning disinterest with a sigh. Cristobal gasps in false surprise.
“Ooh, a friend, eh?” Cristobal asks, and Hank nods with his lips pursed so as not to give way to a silly grin. “I must say, mi vida, the way you woke me up this morning was not very friendly of you.” Hank’s eyes go wide, then narrow with a knowing smirk.
Things are a bit smoother after that. A bit. Their weeks are filled with beach days, movie nights, two trips to Disneyland, a spa day with Ela, farmers markets, bike rides around the neighborhood, and an impromptu trip to a monster truck rally that turns out to be a highlight of the summer.
Hank and Cristobal hold hands more often. They don’t hide their kisses anymore. Usually Hank is the one to brazenly initiate PDA, but something about Cristobal taking his hand and kissing the back of it in front of the kids as they wait for their burgers at a food truck has the tips of Hanks ears going hot and pink.
Ela can regularly be found on Hank’s back around noon for her daily piggyback ride. Cristobal starts to say something to Hank one night about “kindred spirits” and he uses a kiss to force Cristobal to stop talking so that Hank doesn’t start crying. She starts requesting that Hank read her a bedtime story instead of Cristobal, but a scorned Cristobal persuades her to compromise and let the two of them trade off reading each page.
“That was the best one ever!” Ela remarks one night after the three of them finish a chapter of James and the Giant Peach. This time, Mariela suggested that her papá do the voices and her Hank read the narration. And, as always, Hank and Cristobal obliged.
“Good stuff, eh?” Hank grins as Cristobal puts the book back in the nightstand drawer. “That Ron Doll really knows how to write!” Ela beams at him. Hank sticks his fist out for their nightly fist bump, but Ela shakes her head.
“No. Un abrazo,” she instructs. Mariela extends both arms to the side and Hank’s brows raise in surprise. Cristobal puts a supportive hand on Hank’s back as he leans down to, once again, oblige Mariela’s request. Hank has held Ela in his arms while faring the deeper part of the pool, and she’s no stranger to clinging onto his body for jaunts around the house or across the yard, but this is a hug. Hank embraces Mariela for perhaps a second too long, and pats her head twice (one of Mariela’s classic moves on his own head) before he stands up straight.
“Goodnight, Mariela,” Hank whispers with a smile.
“Goodnight, my Hank!” she replies, “I can’t wait to show you all my bedtime books at my house.”
Hank holds his breath, eyes wide and a pleasant, panicked smile on his lips. Cristobal kneels down to her bedside and takes her hand gently in his own.
“Mariela, honey, what do you mean?”
Mariela looks up at him strangely.
“Cuando we all go back to Bolivia,” she answers simply. Cristobal takes a breath and smooths some hair out of her face.
“Mija,” he starts. Hank takes a step back. He can read body language. This is where it all ends. This is where the bubble bursts. “Hank and I… We’re not going back to Bolivia. Remember?” Mariela’s breathing speeds up a little, but she still looks at Cristobal with intrigue. “You and Emilio will go back with your mamá.”
“What?” her little voice cracks. Hank looks down at his slippers, picks a piece of lint off of the bottom of his shirt.
This is where I took you away from them.
“Hank and I live here,” Cristobal clarifies. He strokes her face with the back of one finger, then taps her on the nose. “In Los Angeles.” Hank nods, but doesn’t dare look at Mariela.
“Why you can’t come back home, papá?”
Hank fights to stand his ground, to keep his footing. He feels dizzy. He feels hot.
“Mi ángel…” Cristobal wishes he had a perfect thing to say. It’s rare for Hank to see him without the right words. They’ve been over this with her multiple times – Cristobal and Elena both – but Mariela’s been having so much fun that Cristobal knows it’s natural for her to be upset. “I am so glad you want to spend more time with us.” Cristobal reaches back with the hand that was on Mariela’s in order to grab Hank’s instead. He touches her shoulder with his other hand. “And maybe I come visit sometime, hija, but I live here now. Hank and I live here. Juntos.”
“Yo sé,” Mariela states firmly, but then Hank sees her exterior crumble. “But… But… No!”
She shoves the heels of her hands against her eyes in an attempt to stop the crying, but it’s too late.
Hank doesn’t know how long he makes it before he leaves the room, but Cristobal gives his hand a squeeze and lets him go. He walks out to the sound of Ela crying and Cristobal doing his best to comfort her in a hushed tone, the same one he uses to talk to Hank when Hank can’t seem to stop crying, either.
Hank waits up in bed, clenching and unclenching his fingers around the top of the covers as he sits stoically beneath them.
Did he do something wrong? Is this because of him? Did he say something to Mariela to make her believe something far from the truth? Did he get too close to her? Did he make her think he’s better than he really is?
When Cristobal comes to bed, Hank can still hear gentle sobs floating down the hall. They don’t talk much. Their kiss goodnight is quick and off-center. Cristobal lies in bed on his back and tries to breathe. Hank does the same, worrying his lip between teeth.
“I’m sorry,” Cristobal murmurs after a few minutes of terse silence. Hank has really grown to hate when he says those words, but then Cristobal rolls onto his side and places a hand on Hank’s belly. “She’ll be okay. Come here.” Cristobal leans back in and gives Hank a proper kiss, his beard and mustache scratching Hank’s face exactly the way he likes it.
“I love you, Cristobal,” Hank whispers into the dark once Cristobal retreats to his side of the bed and turns the other way. Hank is quick to scoot over and curl up behind him, spooning him exactly the way he knows Cristobal needs it.
“I love you, Hank.”
Hank wakes when it’s still dark outside and the house is completely still and silent, save for an antique clock or two ticking away in the hallway. It’s a subconscious habit. He often finds himself waking out of a bad dream and having to check that Cristobal is still in bed with him at four or five in the morning.
When Hank is conscious enough to be aware of his surroundings, he notices that Cristobal is further away from him than when they fell asleep. There’s something against Hank’s shin that makes him furrow his brow, though.
The something stirs. Cristobal usually doesn’t move in his sleep. Hank hears a small grunt. He reaches for his nightstand to grab his phone and shine a light on the bed.
There’s a mass of hair peeking out from under the covers, and Cristobal lies on the other side of it. Hank lifts the covers to investigate underneath, and he finds Mariela completely splayed out underneath. She has one foot up against Cristobal’s calf, the other against Hank’s shin, and as Hank looks at her, she lifts her arms and throws them haphazardly up over her head, one hand landing near Cristobal’s hair.
Hank smiles breathlessly and turns his phone flashlight off. He doesn’t dare touch her, doesn’t get some of her wild, now-tangled hair out of face. He just turns onto his side to face her, eyes darting from Mariela to Cristobal and back again. He drifts back off with a dreamy grin on his face.
Hank sleeps so hard that he misses his alarm. Cristobal gives Ela special permission to jump directly on top of him to wake him up at eight in the morning. She prepares her best, most highest-pitched shriek and gladly obliges.
They don’t mean to end up home alone together, but it works out that way a few days later when Cristobal takes Mariela out for a daddy-daughter day (and a haircut). It’s supposed to be a papá-niños day, but Emilio firmly refuses to leave the house when he hears that a haircut is involved. Elena calls Emilio and begs for him to just get a trim, then calls Cristobal and sternly urges him to make Emilio get his hair cut.
“This is his decision,” Cristobal casually shrugs over FaceTime. Hank can practically hear her glare from across the room. “He likes it this way. I am letting him explore the things he likes.” Elena starts to talk again, but Cristobal cuts her off with a pleasant goodbye and hangs up the phone. Hank has to stifle a laugh. It’s not funny, but it’s something that Cristobal definitely picked up from Hank, and Hank has to chuckle.
Hank’s nervous after Cristobal and Mariela leave for the day, but he gives Emilio space until his gardening takes him a mere few feet away from where Emilio lounges in the hammock outside. It’s not that Emilio has been cold or rude to him, but they haven’t really bonded, and Hank knows it’s been difficult for Emi and Cristobal to find even footing most of the time. Hank prunes some plants and small bushes and waits until he draws in the perfect inhale before speaking.
“So, like, what’s your whole deal, man?” he blurts, and he sees Emi startle out of the corner of his eye. Hank winces, but stays strong. Emi clears his throat.
“My whole… deal?” Emilio asks uncertainly, and the slight attitude in his voice reminds Hank of the phone call with Elena this morning. Hank clips a jutting stem off of a small, thorny bush, thinking to himself how glad he is he invested in these extra thick gardening gloves with tiny yellow bumble bees dotting the white fabric.
“Yeah,” Hank shrugs. “Like, what are you all about, you know?” Instead of cringing at his sustained inability to communicate with the youth, Hank just rolls with it. He’s basically a savant when it comes to improv, anyway. “How are you feeling? What are your hopes and dreams? That sort of thing.” Hank continues tending to the greenery and checking some of their edible plants a few feet to the right. There’s a palpable silence for half a minute.
“Did my dad make you talk to me?” Emi responds suspiciously. Hank snorts a laugh and turns around to face him, still on one knee near the plants, his comically large gardening hat billowing in the breeze.
“What? No,” Hank answers. “Why are you always so negative Nancy about everything?”
It’s a risk. His interactions with Emilio haven’t necessarily been unsuccessful, and Hank’s no stranger to less-than-thrilled reactions to his relentless positivity, but Hank’s still terrified of disappointing Emilio. However, he had read some forums online before the kids arrived, and Hank gathered that kids his age respond well to being talked to like an adult rather than a small child. Considering Hank has absolutely no idea how to talk to anyone older than 10 and younger than 25, maybe he can succeed at this.
“Are you just going to tell my dad everything I say?” Emilio questions. He closes his manga and squints at Hank. Hank knows there’s no outright animosity. He’s seen the Transformers shirt come through the wash enough times to know that Emilio is grateful for something about Hank, even if it’s the most material part. Hank scoffs.
“Really? Again with this? No. I promise this is just us. Okay?”
A pause.
“You promise?” Emilio asks softly but firmly. Hank drops his gardening tools and turns around fully on his knees. He sticks out a glove-clad pinky.
“Pinky promise,” Hank nods. Emilio eyes Hank’s hand warily, but sighs and meets Hank’s pinky with his own. They curl their fingers around one another before dropping their hands. Emilio looks like he wants to speak, but doesn’t know how to get the words out. It reminds Hank of how Cristobal would look, would hold himself before the truth came out. It also reminds Hank of all of the awkward teenage boys he knew in school who would rather die than experience direct attention. So Hank turns back around and pretends to be invested in the flowers.
“When I got here…” Emilio finally starts. Hank’s hairless brows shoot up. It’s that easy? That’s all he had to do? “I was mad about being here. I did not want to come.” Hank freezes. He supposes it’s easier to be honest with Hank than it is with his father. Hank respects Emilio for that. There’s part of him that wants to spare Cristobal any pain. That’s just nice. “But now I am mad about going home.”
Hank’s chest tightens, and he grips his trowel a little tighter. There are so many things he could say. “You will always have a home here, Emi.” “It is not goodbye – it is just ‘until the next time.’” Or even, “In case I do not see you – good afternoon, good evening, and goodbye!” Shit, no. That last one is too familiar. Did Cristobal already say that one?
“You still have two more weeks,” Hank offers with his best attempt at enthusiasm despite the chill of an impending goodbye settling in his bones. There used to be part of him that thought twelve weeks was a bit excessive for the kids’ first summer in California. Now, he has a lump in his throat thinking about watching the two of them leaving in a car to the airport.
“Yes,” Emilio agrees, “and then I go back home.” He speaks slowly, methodically. Purposefully. Equal parts Cristobal and Elena. Hank honestly can’t tell if he’s angry, scared, scheming, or all of the above. “I know what my parents do for a living, Hank.”
Hank’s eyes go wide. He pushes around soil without aim. Maybe this is too big of a conversation for Hank to have. He’s not even Emilio’s stepdad. He’s just some guy in Emilio’s life that makes really good chocolate chip waffles and kisses his dad a lot.
“I know what they want me to do,” Emilio goes on, dejected. Hank’s shoulders slump. It’s a feeling Hank knows all too well. He was 13 and facing a life of inescapable misery once, too. Hank’s parents weren’t in the mob, but Hank was the last of the teenage boys in the village to be recruited. But it can be different for Emilio, right? His parents can protect him? Hank knows that Cristobal would give life and limb to protect Emilio from this kind of life. But when it’s your family, sometimes there’s no escaping.
“Your dad doesn’t-”
“Just stop,” Emilio sighs. He picks his manga back up and fiddles with the pages, not even attempting to go back to reading. “My grandfather was Fernando Sagredo. I know what they want me to do.” Hank swallows around the lump in his throat. Pulls a weed out of the ground. Takes a steadying breath.
“Sometimes you have to find ways to do things you are not supposed to,” Hank offers. It’s vague, but it reminds Hank of the advice Cristobal used to give him back when they were newly-acquainted and learning how to exist around one another.
More silence. A bird tweets sweetly on top of the fence not too far away.
“You weren’t supposed to fall in love with my dad,” Emilio retorts. It’s not charged with hurt like Hank might have expected. It’s not an accusation. It’s not laced with venom. It’s just a fact.
Hank wasn’t supposed to fall in love with Cristobal. But he did. And he keeps doing it. He can’t stop. He’s even falling in love with the parts that Cristobal hid from him for far too long.
“No,” Hank agrees, “but things work out okay for us in the end.” Emilio studies Hank’s tattoos that are visible through the thin, white fabric of his gardening blouse. Hank turns his head again to cast a side-eyed glance at Emilio. “I think you make it work, too. However you want. The world is your clamshell.” Emilio wrinkles his nose, brow pinched, but there’s a smile playing at his lips, too. He sways gently in the hammock and goes back to his manga. Hank goes back to his flowers.
“Do you want this?” Emilio asks suddenly. Hank turns around to find Emilio holding out one of his AirPods. Hank hesitates only out of shock. He takes it, though, inserting it into his left ear.
They listen to the Red Hot Chili Peppers together (a god-awful band, if you ask Hank) as Hank finishes the gardening and Emilio finishes his comic. Hank hears Emilio hum along to “Californication” (one of their worst songs, if you ask Hank. “Like, we get it. You are from California. Tell me something I don’t know.”).
Mariela gives them both hugs when she returns with freshly shorn hair. Cristobal gives Emi a kiss on the head, then Hank a kiss on the cheek – but not before Hank utters a relieved, “Oh, thank god!” upon seeing that Cristobal didn’t have too much length taken off.
Hank stays true to his word, or, rather, his pinky promise. He doesn’t bring up the conversation he had with Emilio to Cristobal. Maybe he’ll come back to it in a roundabout way, but for now, Emilio can be a kid for a little while longer.
They make their own pizzas for dinner. Emilio and Cristobal throw their heads back and laugh as they chase each other around the kitchen with flour as Mariela demands “order in the court,” a product of watching entirely too much Judge Judy with Hank.
They play a game of Candyland while they eat ice cream sundaes as a family. Well, as the closest thing to a family as Hank’s ever known. Cristobal, too, really. A family that he feels he can finally be a dedicated part of. A family with the man who showed him what life can be like when you feel whole.
Hank doesn’t sleep the night before the kids are due back to Bolivia. They had spent the day at a the beach and made all of the kids’ favorite American food for dinner before Mariela fell asleep on Cristobal and Emilio fell asleep on Hank while watching Spirited Away. He can’t sleep, and it’s not just because of the sugar from the s’mores they made in the backyard before the movie.
So Hank forces a tired smile as he helps Ela finish packing her little backpack, and straightens the sparkly pink clip in her hair while Cristobal helps Emilio search for a missing headphone. The car Elena sent for them is due before noon, and Hank sneaks a turkey and cheese sandwich into Mariela’s backpack – cut into fourths, of course, just how she likes it. Because what if she gets hungry on the drive there? What if the food in the airport on the plane doesn’t look good to her? What if she misses the way Hank layers the turkey and the cheese and does four dollops of mayonnaise instead of spreading it on the whole piece of bread?
That is called “projecting,” Hank. It’s Cristobal’s voice that echoes in his head. The only thing that could make Cristobal sexier is if he wasn’t so goddamn right all the time, even inside of Hank’s conscience.
He loses it, though, when he sees Emilio heading for the door, his suitcase in tow and his too-big Transformers t-shirt hanging awkwardly off of his gangly, growing frame. He has to partially hide himself behind an already-emotional Cristobal when they open the front door and hear the purr of an SUV engine up the walkway.
The goodbyes are a blur. Cristobal embraces Emilio, who hugs back at first, but then grows bored when Cristobal keeps hanging on after twenty seconds. Some exchanges in Spanish that Hank barely hears. Hank doesn’t fully register the situation until Emilio has his arms around him unprompted.
Hank hugs back and inhales so forcefully that one may think he had been about to suffocate.
Mariela insists on hugging them together, and both Cristobal and Hank all but fall to the ground to embrace her sweetly and whisper their goodbyes through obvious, unabashed tears. Mariela clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes when they pull away.
“We will be back en Diciembre, papá,” she reminds Cristobal. Hank blanches.
“What?!” Hank tries not to yell. Emilio snickers as he heads outside.
“I-I know,” Cristobal sniffles, “But it is so hard. I love you so much, mijos.” Hank turns and grabs Cristobal – lovingly – by the lapels.
“They’re coming back in December?!”
“He didn’t tell you?” Emilio grins wolfishly. Hank had heard a lengthy conversation occurring on the phone between Elena and Cristobal in another room about a week prior, but Hank tuned out immediately when Ela asked if Hank could paint her and Emi’s nails.
“No, he didn’t fu-huuh-” Hank saves himself from swearing when Cristobal gives him a severe look. “Huh!” They stare at each other with raised brows. “Fun! That is so fun! I am so glad he keep it a surprise!” He lets go of Cristobal. “Not at all upset that he blind side me like Sandra Day O’Bullock!”
Emilio covers his face with his hand as Hank and Cristobal fake-chuckle at each other.
It’s still not easy, but seeing the kids off goes a bit smoother after that. Mariela nearly breaks an ankle flying back down the path to the house to give them one last hug, but Hank laughs instead of cries. They tell her they’ll see her again soon. It’s the truth. It feels good to tell.
Their home seems too quiet now, but Hank can’t help but melt when Cristobal puts on an Ella Fitzgerald record and cooks him dinner. Real dinner. No more mac and cheese. Instead, a beautiful cut of beef with colorful veggies and a big pour of red wine. They dance together in the kitchen and kiss freely, brazenly. They kiss in a way that would make Ela wrinkle her nose and stick out her tongue.
“I kind of miss them,” Hank murmurs as they sit side by side at the dining table, sipping on their red wine and not making a move to clean up their empty plates. Cristobal snorts.
“I would hope so,” he teases. He nudges Hank with his elbow and smiles softly with him. “They’re family, after all.” Hank nods, purses his lips in agreement.
“Yes, well…your family is… you know…”
Cristobal furrows his brow.
“But they are our family,” Cristobal reiterates. He taps hank gently on the cheek. Hank’s not quite sure why he does that, who he picked it up from, or why his daughter does the same, but it’s always comforting. Like a little pick-me-up or pep talk communicated through touch. “They have their papá and their Hank.” Hank smiles softly. “Their padrasto.”
Hank just about shatters his wine glass with how tight he clutches it.
“Padrasto?” Hank asks breathlessly. “Stepfather? But we are not-”
Cristobal waves away Hank’s train of thought. Puts it on another track entirely.
“They know you are in my life to stay, Hank. They know we love each other. They love you. They know you’re good.”
They know you’re good.
Good… It’s all Hank’s ever wanted, really.