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The tendrils of his dream are murky, like light refracting off smudged glass.
TK still feels trapped in its embrace, unable to fight his way out of it. He's stuck in his five-year-old self's body, feeling small and inconsequential and unheard. He's in the itchy wool sweater that was always pulled over his head for fancy events, the one that was too long in the sleeves and, when untucked from his waistband, threatened to fall down past his knees. He's standing on a rocky beach, the white-hot shock of any icy December breeze in Manhattan whipping around him as snowflakes stick to his eyelashes. His throat is dry—he's been screaming: for help, maybe out of frustration, he can't tell. The tide laps at his ankles, spilling over the nice oxford-style shoes his mom fawned over in the department store. It comes impossibly closer, freezing water that inches up his legs; he can scoop his fingers through it, and it burns.
When he turns to run away, it becomes clear he isn’t on a beach. Well, he is, but there are three opaque walls around him, containing the heavy tide. He’s going to drown. He can feel it filling his lungs. All at once, he is five, he is nine, he is thirteen, and it is always December, and there is nowhere to escape the cold. The icy water. The grey skies. He blinks through blurry vision and there are three hands reaching out to him. He can never make a decision in time.
He wakes up unsettled. He wakes up, half-certain he can taste salt water on his tongue; feel sand between his toes. He spares a glance at the clock across the room, the nice analog one they thrifted before the wedding, and realizes that he wakes up early.
It’s 5:47.
It’s 5:47, and a silvery streak of morning light splits the room in two.
It’s 5:47, and something is off.
Unhappy dreams aside, he can’t quite place it. Usually when he stirs before the loud trill of his alarm on a work day, he does so to the muffled sounds of his husband getting ready for his own shift. Carlos has perfected his routine—they both have, with years of being shift-workers living together under their belts—but sometimes TK’s subconscious is still pulled into awareness despite Carlos’ attempts at quietness. He’ll hear the white noise of the shower sputtering to life or the gentle thud of a mug being placed down on the kitchen counter as the coffee machine whirs. His eyelids always grow heavy within moments, and he’ll end up flipping over; planting his face in his husband’s pillow and that’ll be that until his phone buzzes and forces him to get his own day started.
But today, there’s none of that.
Today, there’s no bustling in the kitchen or light on in the bathroom. There’s only this: arms wrapped tightly around him, the love of his life’s face pressed into the crook of his neck, like he’s chasing his scent even in his dreams. When TK ends up like this—with Carlos spooned up along the curve of his spine, knees tucked behind his own—he always feels so overwhelmed by the promise of safety. Here is this person— his person, his husband—holding him so securely, close enough that their heartbeats could be mistaken as one. He loves how Carlos somehow always ends up with his hand up and under the soft shirt TK sleeps in, palm resting protectively over TK’s stomach or pressed into the middle of his back, and he’s soothed by its presence now; his husband’s long fingers spread over his heart, the tip of his middle finger nearly breaching the top of his ribcage. It still takes his breath away, and he’s pretty sure it always will, this act of being held.
And so it’s 5:47, and things aren’t necessarily off, but they’re out of the ordinary. Especially on a day where they both have to start work before nine. Especially on a day where—
Carlos shifts behind him, and squeezes him tighter in his arms. He stirs, and presses a kiss to the gentle thrum of his pulsepoint, and murmurs, “Morning, birthday boy.”
Oh. Somewhere in his sleep-addled brain, he forgot the date. He wonders if that speaks to his psyche at large, that he so greatly suppressed that it’s his thirtieth birthday. It isn’t that he’s ashamed of his age; he’d joked around with Nancy earlier this week when she claimed he had a grey spot in his stubble and it’d actually filled him with unbridled joy, the mere fact that he was getting older. It terrifies him, a little, but more so it fills him with wonder. With an ache, for the younger versions of himself that live deep inside his soul.
It isn't a secret to those he trusts the most that he never thought he’d make it this far.
“Y’okay?” Carlos asks, still sluggish with sleep but always so in tune with TK’s thoughts.
TK hums, shifting backward. “Just a…a bad dream. I’m better now.”
Carlos kisses his pulsepoint again, and drops another to the top of his ear. As he grows more awake by the second, Carlos continues on his path: pressing wet, barely-there pecks to his temple and the middle of his forehead and over the lines etched into the corners of his eyes; to the bridge of his nose and each of his cheeks. It's like he's on a mission to kiss away the nightmare; of any part of it that might linger. TK’s laughing with pure delight by the time Carlos maneuvers them around so he’s hovering over TK and they can seal their mouths together.
His hand curves along the nape of Carlos’ neck as he spreads his legs and makes room for his husband, his mouth dropping open with practiced ease once Carlos traces his tongue along TK’s bottom lip. Heat pools in his belly, but there’s no rush to anything today; this moment suspended in time, syrupy slow with light dancing around them as the rest of the world catches up to the fact that it’s TK Strand’s birthday and a celebration is already afoot.
“Happy birthday, TK,” Carlos says, once they’ve pulled away from their kiss. His voice drips with so much emotion it makes TK’s eyes sting. Staring down at him like this, he’s something like an angel; light from the slowly rising sun glinting against the cross on his sternum and twinkling in his eyes. His curls are still loose and his smile comes easy and TK loves him. He loves him so much he could burst. Carlos gently strokes his thumb over TK’s jaw. “How’s it feel?”
“Dunno,” TK replies, turning his face into Carlos’ touch. “How’s it feel to be married to an older man?”
Carlos rolls his eyes but smiles regardless, ducking in for another kiss. It’s been a long-standing joke, their barely-there age difference of a little under a year. TK’s lips are still a little pursed when Carlos pulls away, nearly lulled back to sleep as Carlos settles along his side and cards his fingers through TK’s hair. “I’m so proud of you, you know.”
TK swallows, and cranes his neck to scan his husband’s face. Carlos’ eyes are nothing but pools of warmth, even though they’re edged with the seriousness that comes whenever he discusses TK—the love he has, the pride he feels, the support that runs deep into his veins.
“I know it hasn’t been easy,” Carlos continues, stroking down over his earlobe. “But you’re here. We’re here. And I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” TK whispers, dangerously close to breaking. Carlos knows, better than anyone, what it means for him to celebrate getting older. He's heard the stories. He was there for his first birthday after his mom passed, and everything felt like a blur. He’s here for him now, and will be for every year hereafter. He smooths his hand down Carlos’ forearm. “Wish we could just stay here forever.”
“I know,” Carlos says, sounding genuinely mournful. He squeezes TK in another long hug, nuzzling his face into TK’s neck, his stubble itching and making TK huff out a laugh. Before he knows it, Carlos is pressing a smacking kiss to his cheek; murmuring love you into the hinge of his jaw. In another life, they’d have no responsibilities waiting for them outside their bedroom—they’d be free to lay here forever. But they’ll find other fractions of time together before they have to leave. “How about some breakfast? I can whip up some omelettes quick.”
“Yeah,” TK smiles, pulling Carlos’ hand up so he can kiss over his wedding band. “That sounds good, baby.”
He watches as Carlos slowly leaves the room—the pressed pieces of his uniform are resting out by the dresser, and he stays in his sweatpants as he moves toward the kitchen. TK licks his lips and presses both hands over his face, letting out a small, overwhelmed squeak—something torn between a laugh and a strangled cry—over the love he feels. He follows Carlos’ lead and slips out of bed, stumbling a little into the bathroom to relieve himself and claim the first shower. He’s working on autopilot, scrubbing his skin and washing his hair and afterwards, moisturizing his skin and spritzing on his everyday cologne, smiling at the sweetness; the vanilla and citrus melding together, already thinking of Carlos pulling him close and tucking his face into the crook of his neck to inhale sharply, like he always does.
It’s when he finally stops and really takes a look at himself in the mirror that he feels it all sink in. TK wipes away some of the fog from the glass and his breath catches a little in his throat. The thing is that he sometimes thinks he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the curtain to fall. He stares at his reflection and sees the fragments of who he once was—who he’ll forever be—and he can’t ever imagine that this, this loft, this ring on his finger, this man spending the time to make him breakfast before work, is really his. He stares himself in his own eyes, a mirror image of his mother, of his father, of everyone who came before him. He smiles, and thinks with wonder: you’re thirty—you made it.
TK nods at himself. At thirteen, he didn’t think he’d make it to twenty. At twenty, he didn’t think he’d make it to twenty-five. And here he is, looking down the barrel of a wonderful, bright life. He longs for every year he has coming. He longs for it at Carlos’ side.
Thinking of his husband spurs him into action, and he’s drawn in by the smell of onions and mushrooms and sweet peppers cooking slowly. TK changes into jeans and his AFD tee, planning on changing into uniform at the firehouse later, and he grins when he steps out into the living room, instantly spotting the bouquet of flowers on the dining table. TK’d been in bed when Carlos’ shift was wrapping up last night, and the sight of the blooms—bright roses and lilies, standing tall and strong in the antique vase they both love—makes his heart squeeze in his chest.
“It’s not much,” Carlos tells him, as he whisks eggs in a big bowl and watches TK lean over the table to smell the flowers. "But they made me think of you."
“Baby,” TK says, waving between them. There’s breakfast, there’s flowers, there’s the party they have planned for this weekend, which he’s sure his husband has gone overboard on. “It’s everything.”
Carlos flushes, barely biting back his smile, as he turns back to the pan on the stove. Within moments, he’s got two omelettes served up, with the rich smell of the nice coffee beans from the specialty store uptown filling the air.
They eat and kick at each other’s feet under the table, until Carlos’ warning alarm goes off from his phone and he swears under his breath. Even though it’s TK’s birthday, it doesn’t change the fact that Carlos has to be at the office forty-five minutes before TK needs to be at the firehouse. There’s a little added dance to their routine today, though; TK washes the dishes while Carlos runs off to get ready, leaving himself time to lean up against the doorframe between the bedroom and bathroom and wait for when Carlos finishes. He pouts, eyeing his husband up and down, and Carlos smiles and cups TK’s face between his hands and kisses him stupid. They pull apart with a laugh and TK whistles lowly as Carlos changes into his uniform, which means they only last a few more minutes before they’re kissing again.
At ten-to-seven, Carlos really has to go. TK grumbles when his husband pulls away, even if he strokes his fingers through his hair; even if he trails a hand down lower, and squeezes his ass playfully before stepping backward.
“I’ll see you later,” Carlos promises, pressing one last kiss to the corner of TK’s mouth. He’s got his hat tucked under his arm and his bag dangling from his shoulder, but there’s a twinkle in his eye that TK would clock a mile away.
TK squints at him. “What’re you hiding?”
“Nothing!” Carlos says—too quickly. “Just…be safe, and I’ll see you later on.”
He’s too slow, though. TK’s quick and nimble, and grips his husband’s forearm. He steers Carlos back onto their bed, nudging him into being seated on the edge of the mattress. Carlos laughs incredulously as TK plops down on top of him, using his body weight to keep his husband planted. “Tell me. You aren’t allowed to lie to someone on their birthday.”
“No?”
“Nope, not when they’re the love of your life and you’ve vowed to communicate.”
“Well, you’re always gonna be the love of my life, baby, but can’t there be exceptions?”
“Like what?”
“Like surprises.”
TK frowns, sticking out his bottom lip. Carlos grins, knowing he has him caught. TK is a little bit of a self-diagnosed menace when it comes to birthdays and holidays, sniffing out clues about his presents like he did when he was a kid, but there’s nothing he loves more than the promise of a surprise.
“You didn’t have to—baby, we’re already doing the party on the weekend, I don’t—”
“You’ll like it,” Carlos says, cupping the back of his husband’s head and planting a kiss to TK’s mouth. “But that’s all I’m telling you.”
TK cocks his head to the side, and plants his hands on his husband's shoulders before sliding them up to his neck, playing with the fine curls at the back of his head. “I feel like you should tell me everything, and I can just play up my excitement when whatever happens happens. Like—”
TK widens his eyes and opens his mouth in a smile, playing up what he hopes is the pinnacle of a surprised expression. Carlos snickers, and smooshes TK’s cheeks together, kissing the tip of TK’s nose.
“Nice try, but nope,” Carlos says, popping the p. “Come on, I know you need to finish getting ready. And I should get on the road.”
“Betrayed by my own husband,” TK jokes, planting a hand over his own chest as he complies and gets to his feet. “I can’t believe—mph. ”
He’s cut off mid-sentence by the kiss of his life. The toe-curling, heart-stopping kind, that makes light dance behind his eyes. He feels Carlos’ hand pressed low to the small of his back and the other tilting his chin upward, and TK’s so in love with him, it feels like something unworldly.
“I love you,” Carlos tells him, eyes dark and unblinking, adoration brimming in his irises. “Drive safe, okay?”
“I love you too,” TK brushes their noses together, and squeezes his husband's fingers in his own. “I’m looking forward to later. Whatever it is.”
Carlos smiles, and comes in close to kiss him again, their eyes closing as they savour the moment. Then he pats TK’s hip, and bids him goodbye, grabbing his coffee thermos and his keys before sparing one final glance.
TK lingers by the couch, eyeing his backpack and mentally itemizing what he’ll have to get together before he makes his own trek down to the garage, momentarily stuck wondering if he should make another coffee at home or splurge on one at the coffee shop down the road, and he makes another small sound of surprise as Carlos crosses the room in three large strides and kisses him once more. He's knocked back against the table by the couch, the edge digging into his tailbone, but he doesn't care as his husband's lips move against his own.
“You’re gonna be late,” TK laughs, lightly smacking Carlos’ chest but holding him close to savour the kiss.
“I know,” Carlos murmurs, tugging lightly at TK’s bottom lip with his teeth, a teasing promise for later. “I’m going. Happy birthday, baby.”
TK holds onto Carlos’ hand and keeps them in each other’s space for an extra breath, before he lets his husband go. His stomach feels flipped completely over; butterflies have erupted and made a home in his chest.
The orange glow of the sun slinks up over the horizon at last, spilling bright and unfiltered into the loft. TK glows with it, with the love he feels, and the knowledge that it’s already his favourite birthday yet.