Work Text:
TK knows something is wrong as soon as he walks through the door.
It’s six-thirty on a humid Friday night in late August, just before the new school year starts, and TK has just gotten off a ten-hour shift with a rare two-day break scheduled over the weekend. He loves it when the stars align like this, when he gets to hang out with his kids in the dwindling days of the summer break and enjoy his husband’s company properly, with lazy mornings and pancake breakfasts and walks in the sunshine down to the local coffee place.
Tonight, however, he bristles.
Carlos is with Hugo at a training session for the youth football team he’s trying out. Neither TK, nor his husband are particularly big fans of Hugo playing football, predominantly because they’re both a little too intimately aware of the dangers of head injuries and concussions, but Hugo had begged them over the summer to let him try it out. In the end, they relented on the condition that one of them would go to the first three training sessions and watch, blending into the sea of Hugo’s friends’ parents and older siblings. TK thinks that he and Carlos are pretty good at avoiding the helicopter-parent stereotype most of the time, but in this case, they both want to make sure that non-contact means non-contact.
Isabel is supposed to be at her friend Joanna’s house, but there are signs of her everywhere as soon as TK steps over the threshold. The TV is on, even though no one is in front of it, and the cooling is set to something that makes the house feel as if it’s in the Arctic Circle instead of Austin. The sound of it is mixed with a cacophony of noise emanating from Isabel’s bedroom upstairs, and all of the lights have been left on, despite it not being dark.
There’s a black purse thrown on the sofa and a navy sweatshirt tossed on the floor, accompanied by a stray sock. Strangely, there’s also a trail of bunched up Kleenex littering the edge of the sofa, alongside an empty box.
Trying to ignore the way the combination of the incredibly loud music and the TV makes his eardrums want to bleed, TK kicks his shoes off at the door, slides his bag onto the counter and washes his hands, before picking up the tissues, the empty cardboard box and putting them in the trash, turning the TV off with the remote that he finds shoved down the side of the sofa. Then, he tucks Isabel’s purse and sweatshirt under his arm, knowing that Carlos will physically suffer if he sees them draped over the sofa, and heads upstairs to assess the patient.
When he pushes open the door to her bedroom, he finds sheets in the shape of a sixteen year old girl curled into the foetal position, with a ponytail of long, dark hair poking out of the top and spilling over one of her pillows. There’s a trail of Kleenex running from the door to the nightstand amongst an entire closet’s worth of clothes strewn all over the floor, and TK realises he hasn’t been in here for quite a while because he doesn’t recognise half of the pictures she’s stuck to the walls with mounting putty.
He now understands why Carlos keeps this door closed whenever Isa isn’t home.
There’s a little broken sob he can hear over the music – he thinks this song is called All Too Well, but he’s not one hundred percent confident – and as he drops himself onto the side of the bed, patting her shoulder softly, it shakes under his fingertips.
“Sweetheart,” he says, trying to be simultaneously quiet and also loud enough to be heard over the music. “Can we turn down Taylor Swift so you can tell me what’s wrong?”
Slowly, a long, gangly arm pokes out of the sheet and fumbles with the nightstand, snatching up the phone from on top of it and drawing it back into the shadowy depths of the bed. After a second, the music stops and TK takes a deep breath.
“Hey,” he calls, rubbing the sheet again encouragingly. “Can I see your face?”
“No,” comes the cracked, yet petulant reply. “It’s all puffy.”
“I’m sure it looks beautiful like always,” he replies, squinting at one of the pictures on the wall and wondering when Isa’s friend Kristy got so tall. He remembers her being about five-foot-nothing and dominating everyone at long jump anyway.
“It doesn’t, Dad,” Isa whines, her lips clearly pressed against the pillow because she sounds very muffled. “I look ugly. I feel ugly.”
“You want me to be the judge of that?” he goads, poking her in the shoulder. “Come on. Come out so I can see.”
There’s a frustrated little huff and the sheet is pulled back to reveal a set of red, irritated eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. Little strands of hair pulled from Isa’s ponytail are stuck to her face from the wetness, and as she rolls onto her back, she rubs her face with her right hand while TK pries the sheet from the fingers on her left, pulling it further away from her face.
“Go on,” she moans, dropping both hands onto the sheets dramatically. “Tell me I’m ugly.”
“You’re not ugly, sweetheart,” TK replies, batting one of her hands away softly to smooth back some of the hair on her forehead. “You’re upset, and being upset is very normal.”
“Doesn’t feel normal,” she mumbles, sniffing and averting her eyes. “Feels like I’m dying.”
“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?” he prompts, stroking her hair. “Then I can assess how close you are to death.”
She rolls her eyes, which gives him some comfort. Somehow, he and Carlos have managed to raise a wonderfully independent, assertive and intelligent young woman, and he’s going to credit Carlos with most of that. As for TK’s contribution, well, she has a penchant for ignoring the laundry hamper and a double dose of sassiness, and he hates to admit how much he loves it.
He doesn’t know whether it’s the nature of being adoptive parents, or because they’ve always been fairly trusting of Isa and her judgement, but they’ve always had a very honest and open relationship with her. He feels as if they’ve somehow gamed the system and avoided the years that they’d always been warned about: the ones where kids start keeping secrets, shutting up like a clam at the scent of a difficult conversation, and avoiding interaction with their parents at all costs.
They definitely got a moody, hormonal teenager prone to stomping around the house and slamming doors and giving them the silent treatment for a few hours, but to TK’s knowledge, she doesn’t lie to them or sneak out or break the very few rules they give her. Either that, or she’s extremely good at it. Somehow he doubts it. A teenager might be able to fool him, but Carlos is a whole other kettle of fish.
“I don’t know if you can fix a broken heart, Dad,” she says glumly, sniffing again as her eyes cloud up with tears. “I feel so pathetic.”
“Isa,” he breathes, swallowing the aching feeling in his stomach that seems to be trying to dredge up the familiar, crushing feeling of being rejected and lonely. He knows exactly how that feels, and he wishes he could take it all on for her. He didn’t even know she had a crush on someone. He wonders whether Carlos did.
“Don’t do that thing where you try to make me laugh,” she pleads through another little sob. “I don’t feel like laughing.”
“Of course you don’t,” he soothes, getting off the double bed and walking around to the other side, sliding himself on top of the sheet, back against the wall with his legs outstretched, pulling her into his side. She comes easily, shuffling up into a half-sitting position, her head resting on his shoulder as she tugs the box of Kleenex along with her.
“I didn’t even know you were into someone,” he says softly, trying not to let it sound like an accusation. She’s sixteen and entitled to her privacy if she wants, but he won’t deny that it stings a little.
She sighs, a few of her tears slipping under the collar of his shirt. “That’s why this is so dumb. We weren’t even dating!”
TK hums, his head lolling to the side to rest on top of her own. Her ponytail digs into the side of his cheek and he frowns, tugging it very gently so that it lies a little flatter before sandwiching their heads again.
“Sometimes being into someone is painful enough,” he says, thinking of the first few months he knew Carlos and the sheer desperation of trying and failing to contain his rampant, unstoppable feelings. “Love sucks.”
She snorts. “Like you can talk. You and Papá are the most disgustingly in love people I know.”
“Disgusting? Really?” TK teases, poking her in the ribs. “I thought you didn’t want to laugh.”
“I don’t,” she insists, despite snickering softly as he yelps when she jabs him back.
“I’m too old for that,” he tells her seriously, staring at the open doors to her closet and wondering how there’s so many clothes in there, even though there are so many more on the floor. “So, are you gonna tell me about them?”
“Who?”
“The person who broke your heart? Maybe I can get them arrested for something. I know a guy—”
“Dad,” she whines, evidently no longer teary. “Be serious.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, turning his head slightly to kiss her forehead. “I’m being serious. Tell me.”
“What if I start crying again?” she asks, clearing her throat.
“Then I’ll pass you the two Kleenex you have left and help you throw them in the trash later,” he promises. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. But it might make you feel better if you do.”
She pauses for a moment, then sniffs. “How do you know that?”
He sighs, unsure how he could ever explain to Isa the depths of despair that heartbreak has led him to on occasion. He's not even necessarily thinking of the failed proposal and subsequent relapse. The real pain etched itself onto his skin and punched all the air out of his lungs during those long, unbearable winter months without Carlos. The stupid loft argument, TK’s panic leading to one of the biggest mistakes of his life. “Because, believe it or not, I’ve suffered my fair share of heartbreak.”
“Did Papá arrest them?” she asks. “The person who broke your heart?”
“I thought you wanted to be serious,” he tells her, arching an eyebrow, even though she can't see it.
“I do, it’s just that—” she pauses. “Don’t take this the wrong way, okay?”
“What?” he asks, lifting his head and tilting her chin up with two fingers so that they’re looking at each other dead in the eye. The whites of her eyes are all red and look painful, but they don’t detract from the same soulful brown irises that remind him so clearly of his husband. He still has days where he wonders how it’s possible that the two of them aren’t biologically related and yet look so similar.
“I love you so much, Dad,” she says slowly, picking her words carefully. “But—”
“I’m not as good at Papá as these things, am I?” he interjects, finishing her train of thought. “I get it, and I completely agree. He gives superior hugs and life advice.”
She fixes him with a disbelieving look. “You’re not mad?” she asks hesitantly. “I just find it so hard to say all the serious stuff to you, because you’re so easy going and all I wanna do is eat junk food, talk shit and watch basketball on TV with you.”
“Don’t let Carlos hear you use that language,” TK snorts, sliding his phone out of his pocket. “And I’m gonna tell him that you think I’m the fun parent.”
“You wouldn’t,” she groans.
“We only do honesty in this house,” TK says, parroting the line Carlos loves to throw around every second of every day. “And on that note, I’m gonna call him.”
“Why?” she asks hotly, “I’m fine.”
TK lifts his head again, craning his neck a little awkwardly to fix her with a look. “You might not be ugly,” he says, “but you don’t look fine.”
She huffs but doesn’t complain as he keys in the familiar numbers. Carlos picks up on the second ring, his voice slightly tinny through the bluetooth car speaker.
“Hey,” he says. “I’m on my way home now, just dropped Hugo off at Jackson’s house. He’s going to stay over if that’s okay?”
“Perfect timing,” TK replies, turning on the loudspeaker so that Isa can listen in. “Is anyone else in the car?”
“Nope,” Carlos responds, the sound of the indicator clicking in the background. “Everything okay?”
“Not exactly,” TK says, shooting Isa a little smile. “Break up season has commenced, and we need your help.”
“What’s ‘break up season’?” Carlos asks, and TK can practically hear the adorable way his eyebrows furrow in confusion, the little crease between them working its way into his skin.
“Your daughter has run out of Kleenex and we need you to pick up more on your way home,” he tells Carlos seriously. “And offer some sage life advice, and maybe go and arrest someone later.”
Carlos makes a soft, understanding sound. “Do we need ice cream?” he asks, and when TK turns his head, Isa is shaking her own.
“Apparently not,” TK replies, “but we should order something for dinner. To be discussed when you arrive home.”
“See you in fifteen minutes,” Carlos replies. “I love you both.”
TK smiles to himself and ends the call, resting his head back against the wall with a deep sigh.
“Do you think I should cut my hair?” Isa asks, catching him off guard.
“Why would you do that?”
“I don’t know,” she replies, biting one of her fingernails and then slipping her hand under the sheets, presumably to stop herself from chewing them all off in the nervous habit that they share. “Isn’t that what people do when they go through a break up?”
“Do you like your hair how it is though?” he asks softly, running a hand through his own.
She sighs, her head feeling heavier against TK’s shoulder as she relaxes. “Yeah,” she admits. “I don’t really want to cut it.”
“Then don’t,” TK says, secretly grateful that he doesn’t have to explain to Carlos why their daughter wants to eviscerate the hair that they spent years arguing about head lice over. “You shouldn’t have to change yourself for any reason.”
She hums noncommittally. “What about a tattoo?”
“A tattoo?” he asks shortly, trying not to squawk. “You’re sixteen.”
“So what?” she retorts. “You have heaps of them.”
“Yeah, and I’m not sixteen, am I?” he replies incredulously.
“Oh yeah?” she says in the bratty, challenging tone which makes him wonder how on earth she manages to channel his sixteen year old self. “How old were you when you got your first one?”
“That’s not relevant,” he argues. “You can get one when you’re eighteen.”
“I thought we only did honesty in this household?”
“New rule,” he replies. “No tattoos before eighteen, and you know your papá is going to agree with me on this one.”
She groans. “Fine,” she concedes. “But how old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
“I knew it,” she says in a very satisfied tone. “Grandpa must have been so chill.”
“Mhm,” TK hums lightly, deciding not to mention how Owen was far more absent than chill. It didn’t matter, in the end. He’s around for his grandchildren now, and TK’s happy to let the past stay in the past as long as his own kids are getting the love and attention that they deserve.
“Did you get one when you got your heart broken?” she prods, curling her fingertips around the sheet and pulling it up further around her waist, the part TK is sitting on top of bunching weirdly.
“Which time?” he asks, shuffling down the sheet to give her more room.
“Ugh,” she groans. “Don’t tell me this happens more than once.”
He laughs softly at her unimpressed expression. “Never know,” he says, slinging his arm around her shoulder and pulling her in again. “You might get lucky.”
“I’m never liking anyone again,” she grumbles. “Freddie Heiman has scarred me for life.”
“Freddie, huh?” TK says, latching onto the name like a particularly persistent dog with a bone. “And where did Freddie come from?”
“School,” she mumbles. “He was my lab partner last year in chem.”
“You got a good grade in chemistry last year,” TK says, thinking of the report card and trying to remember which kid scored what in which subjects. “Didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Isa agrees shortly, “because Freddie is really smart, and really hot. I mean, Dad, every girl at school is into him.”
“Sounds like—”
“If you’re gonna say something about yourself, I’ll scream,” she interrupts.
“Okay, okay,” he laughs. “Go on.”
“We started hanging out over summer, just as friends. At first, it was with a bunch of other people – you know, when we were hanging out at Eleni’s pool a lot, and then having pizza at that place on San Jacinto Boulevard?”
“I love that place,” TK quips. “Where was my invite?”
“You’re like, fifty,” Isa replies flatly, and TK can hear the little frown in her voice.
“Excuse you,” he exclaims. “Forty-five!”
“Whatever,” she says, waving a hand. “Anyway, Freddie started texting me to hang out separately. I didn’t think anything of it, because we just got ice cream and went to the park, or stopped by that taco food truck that Papá really likes—”
TK refrains from protesting that he also likes the taco food truck. He wonders how much money she’s been spending on all these expeditions, and whether she’s going to have any leftover savings from her summer job at the local grocery store.
“—but then…do you remember that party Milly had a few weeks back?”
“The one where you cheated by wearing one of my old turnout jackets so you could call yourself a firefighter, while wearing a crop top and shorts?”
“It was like, ninety degrees out, Dad.”
“Shouldn’t have gone as a firefighter if you couldn’t handle the heat,” he snickers, anticipating the poke in the ribs he gets. “Anyway, did you kiss?”
“Dad!”
“What?”
“Yeah, okay we kissed,” she mutters. “But you ruined the suspense.”
“Was it good?” he asks. “Did he use too much tongue? Was it like a washing machine?”
Isabel groans and rolls off him, curling into her pillow. “I give up,” she mumbles resolutely. “I’m waiting for Papá.”
When Carlos turns up in the doorway to Isabel’s room, a new box of Kleenex and stray sock in hand and wearing a mildly horrified expression, TK fixes him with a look that very strongly discourages him from making any comment about the mess on the floor. He can tell it’s making his husband’s skin crawl, but there are more pressing matters to deal with right now.
“Hey mija,” Carlos says softly, giving TK an almost imperceptible nod before turning to Isabel. “What happened?”
“I’m sad,” she says matter-of-factly into the pillow she’s now clutching to her chest, TK rubbing her back. “A boy from my stupid chem lab was nice to me, hung out with me all summer, kissed me at a party and then decided he liked another girl better.”
Carlos sighs, uncharacteristically dropping the sock onto the floor and crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the doorframe. “Okay, firstly,” he says, “chem is not stupid.”
Isabel groans and presses her face further into the pillow. “You’re just as bad as Dad,” she moans. “Except you focus on things like school, while Dad asks me about kissing.”
Carlos arches an eyebrow, his gaze shifting from his daughter to TK. “Did he just?”
“Yes,” Isa mumbles. “He asked me if Freddie kissed like a washing machine.”
Carlos coughs, uncrossing his arms slightly to cover his mouth with two fingers. “Really?” he asks, trying and failing to bite back a smile.
“Yes,” Isa snipes. “I was hoping you would be less gross but if you’re here to talk about school work—”
“I said firstly,” Carlos continues, biting his lip and crossing the room. “Shove over, please.”
Isa sighs loudly and hauls herself up onto the pillows, pushing her back against the wall again. “You can’t both fit on here,” she complains.
“Why else did we buy you a double bed?” Carlos teases, returning TK’s grin from over her head as she curls into his chest. “And don’t worry, mija. All boys kiss like washing machines at the start.”
“Even Dad?” she asks, “actually, don’t answer that—”
“Especially your dad,” Carlos lies, as TK squawks in a very undignified way. “You just have to train them.”
“We’ll be talking about this later—”
“Anyway,” Carlos says, cutting TK off and winking at him slyly while mouthing ‘talk?’, before continuing. “I’m sure it wasn’t the kiss that upset you, so why don’t you tell me what you’re sad about?”
Isa sniffs and rolls her head backwards towards TK. “Why did you stop rubbing my back?” she pouts. “More please.”
“Demanding,” TK huffs, laying his palm on the back of her track T-shirt obediently. His daughter has them both wrapped around her little finger, and she doesn’t need to be lying in the double bed that she begged them for last Christmas with both of her parents comforting her to make that obvious.
“Isa?” Carlos prompts, reaching a hand around her shoulders to gently release her ponytail, stroking her hair.
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “One minute Freddie was asking me to go and get tacos with him and kissing me against a pool fence, and the next day he was asking Eleni on a proper date and ignoring my DMs. I think he got bored of me.”
“Well,” Carlos says quietly, “anyone who thinks that you’re boring is wrong, and that’s a fact.”
“I don’t know,” Isabel sniffles, reaching an arm across him for one of the remaining Kleenex. “Maybe I need to do something more exciting.”
“It’s never a good idea to try to change for someone else,” Carlos replies, kissing her forehead. “You’ll just end up falling out of love with yourself.”
Isa is quiet for a minute, before she tilts her head up to look at him. “Did you know that Dad got a tattoo when he was fifteen?”
Carlos frowns and gives TK an unimpressed look. “Yes I did know that,” he says flatly, “and if you think I’m impressed by it, I’m not.”
TK grimaces. “It was a very bad idea,” he parrots, deciding against mentioning that the little crescent moon in heavy shading is one of his favourites.
Carlos rolls his eyes, knowing that TK’s lying through his teeth, but doesn’t say anything else. Apparently, honesty only lives in this house if it doesn’t contradict good life lessons, or it relates to TK’s kissing technique. TK has always been a good kisser, and Carlos knows it.
“I feel so stupid for liking him so much,” Isa mumbles, completely unaware of the unspoken conversation going on above her head. “He wasn’t even my boyfriend, but I really liked him.”
Carlos makes a soft sound that sounds almost hurt, and hugs her closer. “You’re a teenager, mija,” he murmurs. “It’s your job to be a little reckless with your feelings.”
“You don’t think I’m stupid?” she asks.
“No,” he sighs. “I think you’re an intelligent, capable and talented person with a big heart, and if Freddie can’t see that, then he’s missing out.”
“Love you,” she replies, draping her arm over his stomach. “And I love Dad, even though he’s annoying.”
“Hey,” TK protests. “I thought you said I was funny.”
“Sometimes,” she sighs dramatically, then changes tack, apparently done with moping. “Can we order some food? I’m starving.”
“I think that might be a good idea,” Carlos agrees, kissing her head again. “Anything you want. I’m surprised you didn’t bite on the ice cream for dinner.”
She grapples with the Kleenex box, extracting the last one and wiping her cheeks with it. “I’m too old for ice cream for dinner,” she announces, like TK doesn’t sneak into the kitchen and eat ice cream at two in the morning at least twice a week.
“Really?” Carlos asks, biting his lip and exchanging a wry smile with TK. Half the time there’s a midnight ice cream run, Carlos is right there with him. “What do you want then?”
“I feel like Japanese,” she declares, throwing the used Kleenex on the bed and then, probably feeling Carlos stiffen next to her, picks it back up and shoves it in the empty box. “You know that fancy sashimi place that Grandpa always takes me to? Can we get that? They started doing takeout two weeks ago.”
“Did they?” Carlos asks tightly, “and how do you know that?”
“Grandpa told me,” she replies, crawling out of the sheets, her long, sweatpant-covered legs getting caught as she wrestles with them. “Shove over,” she tells Carlos in the same breath.
“Where did my well-behaved daughter and her manners go, huh?” Carlos asks, arching an eyebrow as TK snickers. He slides off the bed obediently anyway.
“I’m being well-behaved and polite by picking up all my trash,” she retorts, shoving the used Kleenex on the floor in the cardboard box with a flourish. “Just how you like it.”
“I’d like it if you cleaned your room once in a millennium,” Carlos says drily. “I can’t see the floor. When was the last time you vacuumed?”
Isabel scowls at him. “When was the last time you vacuumed?” she snipes, well aware that TK does most of the cleaning in the house in exchange for Carlos keeping him alive and their kitchen from burning down.
“Your dad does my vacuuming because I put my laundry in the laundry hamper,” Carlos sighs. “Maybe you could try it.”
Isabel huffs. “If I clean my room tomorrow, can we get sashimi?” she bargains, a hopeful little grin etching its way across her face as she addresses TK.
“Why are you looking at me?” he asks, raising his hands in mock surrender. “This negotiation doesn't involve me.”
“Because you’re the one who always says yes,” Carlos tells him, leaning against the doorframe again.
“I don’t—”
“Actually,” Isa adds, pursing her lips, “you do. Hey, if you suffer heartbreak are you allowed to eat dinner on the sofa and be in charge of the remote?”
“Definitely,” Carlos soothes, ruffling her hair as she heads towards the stairs. “I think a movie is a good idea. You should go and see what’s on the streaming services.”
“Oh, and I’m the one who says yes too much,” TK hisses, sidling up behind him and kissing him on the neck as they watch Isa jump down the stairs, two at a time, in the manner Carlos always warns her not to. “You’re a dirty hypocrite.”
“Sashimi from the fancy place?” Carlos whispers, melting into TK’s embrace as he winds his arms around his middle, Carlos’ head tilting back to rest on TK’s shoulder. “You need to talk to your dad about setting realistic expectations of takeout.”
TK snorts. “We're in Austin,” he says drily, “nowhere near the ocean. No one should be eating sashimi here.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Carlos murmurs, his lips grazing the underside of TK’s jaw. “So which one of us is going to go and pick it up, huh?”
“Can you?” TK pleads. “I worked ten hours, I can’t be bothered dealing with more people today.”
Carlos groans softly and slips out of TK’s arms, turning to face him and pulling him instead, dropping a few soft kisses on TK’s neck. “I had to deal with all the football moms and Jackson’s hardcore Republican parents,” he bargains. “I think you wanna get the sashimi.”
TK shivers at the feeling of his husband’s lips migrating across the sensitive skin, the slightest shadow of his teeth raking across the tendon he knows drives TK crazy. They’ve been doing this for so long – teasing each other, bargaining with each other, loving each other – that Carlos' body feels like an extension of his own. Beautiful, complementary, combined skin and muscle and sounds and touches that TK would be completely lost without. Carlos is so intertwined into his very existence it sometimes feels like he’s the lens through which TK sees the rest of the world; the reason he exists, like he was put on the earth to love this one perfectly imperfect person.
He knows all of Carlos’ pressure points, his likes and dislikes and exactly how to convince him to get sashimi when he doesn’t want to.
“Please, baby,” he murmurs, gasping softly at the soft bite he gets on his neck. “I’ll reward you later.”
Carlos presses his nose into the crook of TK’s shoulder and groans quietly. “TK, don’t start something we can't finish.”
“Why?” TK prompts, turning his head into Carlos’ curls and raking his teeth across the top of his ear before whispering into the shell of it. “You can make me work for it, if you want.”
“Babe,” Carlos whines, lifting his head and capturing TK’s lips in a rough kiss that he’s very glad their daughter isn’t here to witness. She’d see how much of a liar Carlos is, for a start. Carlos’ hands are cupping the back of his neck, dragging him in closer, and it’s abundantly clear that there are no washing machine kissers anywhere in sight.
“You can have me any way you like,” TK murmurs in between kisses, licking softly into Carlos’ mouth and sucking his bottom lip through his teeth in the way Carlos has loved since they very first hooked up, so many years ago. “You can be rough with me, or you can take your sweet time and make me cry, you can open me up or use one of our toys and come all over my—”
“Fine,” Carlos huffs, drawing back and fixing him with a hungry look that looks adorable on his flushed face. “I’ll get the damn sashimi.”
A little pleased sound works its way out of TK’s throat. “You’re the best,” he says, pressing a chaste, sweet kiss against his husband’s lips.
“We’re gonna talk about this later,” Carlos replies, his expression morphing into a conspiratorial grin.
“Talk,” TK snickers, wagging his eyebrows suggestively and smacking Carlos on the ass playfully as he steps past TK towards the stairs.
“Dad, Papá,” Isabel yells from the kitchen, just as they get to the bottom of the stairs, Carlos dropping TK’s hand when he turns the corner and grabs his keys out of the dish on the hallway table. “You’re supposed to be comforting me! Stop canoodling on the landing, I know you’re doing it and you’re both gross.”
“And what if we were having an adult discussion about the state of your room?” TK asks, flicking off the upstairs lights as he crosses the living room.
“You were not,” Isabel says, frowning from behind a muesli bar. “Only honesty in this house, remember?”
“You can't handle the truth,” TK points out. “And you’re gonna ruin your sashimi appetite.”
“Where’s Papá?” she asks, ignoring his jab and looking over his shoulder as he steals a bite of her muesli bar.
“Getting your fancy dinner,” he replies, licking his fingers.
She fixes him with a wry smile as she takes another bite. “Are you sure that your washing machine technique didn’t scare him off?”
“So,” Carlos says, laying the sashimi out on the coffee table in front of the sofa, “are we watching that remake of Legally Blonde?”
Their dinner is all perfectly plated, held out of reach of both Isa and TK’s prying fingers until it was on proper plates, soy sauce and wasabi decanted into little serving bowls, with chopsticks laid out neatly next to them. There’s an array of salmon, prawn, tuna and vegetarian options, both sashimi style and in miniature California rolls, and TK doesn’t want to ask how much it cost because there’s enough to feed a small army. Isa’s track training gives her a voracious appetite, but Carlos is a chronic over-caterer and TK has to admit, he’s second guessing his insistence that his husband do the ordering.
“I don’t feel like those,” Isa says, wrinkling her nose.
“Not in the mood for a girlboss movie?” TK asks, stealing a little slice of salmon while Carlos gets the napkins.
“Dad,” Isa groans. “No one says ‘girlboss’ unless they work for an MLM.”
Carlos snorts. “You don’t want to entertain your law school dreams today, mija?”
“Not really,” Isa says, eyeing TK slyly and swiping a slice of tuna with a grin. “I feel like crying my eyes out.”
“Right,” Carlos hums, tucking himself into the corner of the L-shaped sofa. TK adores how they all have their little regular spots – Isa and Hugo in the middle, Carlos on the long bit and TK on the far side, a little ottoman at his feet.
“Titanic?” TK suggests, biting his lip and trying not to laugh as he watches his very stubborn daughter struggle with the chopsticks. “Do you need a fork, Isa?”
“No,” she says shortly, squeezing the wood so hard her knuckles are white and watching the little sliver of pink fish caught in them with suspicion. “And Titanic is so old, Dad.”
“You got any suggestions then?” Carlos prompts, ducking his head into his hands as the salmon falls from the chopsticks into her lap. She swears under her breath and he rolls his eyes. “Language.”
“I said ‘fruitcake’,” she protests.
“Only honesty in—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, waving a hand as she lifts herself off the sofa and trudges to the kitchen to get a fork. “Papá, can you eat with a fork too so I don’t feel left out?”
“Why doesn’t your dad have to do it?”
“Because he’s Mr. I’m-from-Manhattan, and he’s gonna show off anyway.”
Carlos snorts. “Be nice, chica.”
She sighs and drops a kiss on TK’s head from over the sofa before handing Carlos a fork. “Just kidding, Dad,” she says, dropping herself onto the sofa again and opening her mouth as TK lifts a piece of tuna off a plate with impeccable chopstick technique. “Love you.”
She’s right, TK thinks. He would be inclined to show off more, but his husband has an incurable thing for competency that does not need to be exposed in front of their offspring.
Instead, he pops the tuna in her mouth obediently. “Love you,” he replies, watching her chew happily. “What are we going to watch?”
“The Notebook,” she says, without hesitation. “Because I know you’re gonna cry, and Papá will probably cry too.”
“You know The Notebook is only like, seven years younger than Titanic, right?” TK asks, wincing as he collects a bit too much wasabi on a cucumber California roll and then reconsiders, popping it in his mouth anyway. He wrinkles his nose as the spicy sensation rushes through it, and when he opens his eyes, Carlos is watching him with an amused smile on his face.
“I don’t want to watch a movie about boats,” Isa scoffs. “There’s too much marine life going on in front of me already.”
Carlos chokes on a piece of sushi. “Isa, that marine life isn’t—”
“What about Brokeback Mountain?” she quips, giving TK a sly look. “You say you always cry at Brokeback Mountain.”
“We are not watching Brokeback Mountain,” Carlos says. “And your dad cries at everything, so—”
“Why not?” TK and Isa ask in harmonic, outraged tones.
“Because,” Carlos replies emphatically, “it’s got very adult themes!”
“It’s literally fifteen plus,” Isa protests. “I’m sixteen! ”
“Almost old enough for a tattoo!” TK jokes, and then snickers as Carlos gives him a very unimpressed look.
Isa turns and grins at him gleefully as he holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I said almost.”
“It’s R,” Carlos argues, flipping his phone around to prove the rating on IMDB. “And as your parent, I say no Brokeback Mountain.”
Isa scowls. “You know they have sex in the Notebook too, right?” she points out. “It’s just not gay sex.”
“You think it’s the gay sex that bothers me?” Carlos asks mildly, a bemused smile on his face. “That would be very hypocritical.”
“What then?” she says, a challenging curve to her lips.
“Well, there’s a lot of violence,” he says, “and a few pretty gory deaths, and the sex scene isn’t the most…caring.”
“Carlos,” TK frowns. “It’s in a tent, you make do. Doesn’t mean it’s not caring, or that they didn’t enjoy it.”
“Okay!” Isa says loudly, flicking on the TV with the remote and scrolling through Netflix. “The Notebook it is.”
Carlos rolls his eyes and drops his chopsticks on his empty plate, leaning back onto the long part of the sofa. “Good choice.”
“You know what?” TK says, as the movie starts and Isa leans back against his shoulder. “Freddie’s really missed out on doing this.” He fakes a yawn and throws his arm over her shoulders, pulling her into his side as she laughs.
“Oh my god, Dad,” she protests half-heartedly, “you’re so lame.”
“I think dads are supposed to be lame,” he tells her, squeezing her shoulder. “If I’m not embarrassing you, I’m not doing my job.”
He catches Carlos’ gaze over the top of her head and melts a little at the very fond look he finds. He’s missing Hugo tonight, but it is nice to just focus all his attention on one kid for once, and it’s so rare that Isa needs him for anything anymore. She’s sixteen going on twenty-six, and he’s going to really miss it when he can’t walk down the hall and poke his head into her atrociously messy bedroom. He tries not to think too hard about it, because fuck The Notebook, that’s what makes him teary.
In the meantime, he tries to enjoy every minute of having his daughter next to him, curled up on the sofa and leaning into his shoulder, and his husband shooting him little contented smiles over the top of her head every so often. He loves the way Carlos tries to reach over and cover her eyes during the sex scene as a joke, the way they bicker in English, then in Spanish, and it all washes over TK like the warmth of a much-needed shower, the love between them as evident as the little rivulets of water on his skin.
He adores the way Isa eventually slips down onto his chest, before falling asleep in his lap before the movie is even finished. Carlos shakes his head and laughs softly at her sleeping form, shutting off the TV and wrapping up the mammoth amount of sashimi before sliding it into the fridge. They’re going to be eating raw fish for days, or as long as it takes for Carlos to start worrying about food poisoning, but TK couldn’t care less.
Instead, he brushes Isa’s hair off her face and rouses her gently, coaxing her back up the stairs and into her bed, smiling as she flops face-down onto it before waging war on her sheets as she tries to get underneath them.
There’s the sound of lights being turned off in the kitchen and Carlos making his way up the stairs, and TK waits patiently, sitting on the edge of their bed. When his husband finally appears in the doorway, TK’s stomach swoops like a pendulum, and he lets himself be pulled into the undeniable, omnipresent attraction that has always existed between them, drawing them closer like two opposing poles in a magnetic field.
Carlos smiles into the gentle kiss they share, pushing TK back onto the mattress, his warm body a familiar, pleasant weight as his hands bunch TK’s shirt up around his waist and slip underneath. His touches are perfect, achingly sure and remind TK of the version of himself that was twenty years younger, like he’s just as beautiful and wanted and precious as Carlos has always made him feel. As he surges up to meet Carlos’ lips again, drowning in the next sweeping, intoxicating kiss, TK realises that there’s an undeniable truth about heartbreak.
It might hurt like hell, but it always makes way for better things.