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It’s like breathing again after spending too long underwater.
Even the fact that he’s so damp with sweat makes it look like he really has been submerged.
Inhale, exhale, just like he’s been taught so many times, after so many collapses and after nearly choking himself twice because he forgot something as simple, as basic, as pulling air into his lungs and letting it out again after four seconds.
So he focuses on that before he can be sure of anything about his surroundings. Despite the feeling of pillows beneath his head and blankets warming him through what is a rare cold night in Austin, it could be an illusion. He could be anywhere, even outside the city. Being abducted a few times in the past taught him that people could be cruel. It doesn’t help much with his issues trusting people. His husband is, and always will be, the exception.
“Carlos?”
Ah. A voice. Familiar, even though it feels distant. His heart kicks hard inside his chest. What if T.K. is hurt? He doesn’t want to open his eyes. He doesn’t want to see. That would mean confirming his fears, seeing his husband’s body thrown onto the floor, bleeding. The mere thought of T.K. being in pain while he can’t help him terrifies him. But he can’t open his mouth or his eyes; all that escapes him is a pathetic whimper, like a nervous animal that doesn’t know where it is. His sense of smell must be failing him, because he can’t smell blood. Adrenaline must be coursing through his veins, since nothing hurts.
“Carlos.”
The voice again. Harder, firmer. Like an order he should never disobey. The feeling of dread stops him, though, making his breathing catch and choke in his throat until he has to cough.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay. I need to turn you onto your side, or you’re going to throw up.”
He feels hands touch his shoulders, and his breathing turns shorter, frightened as he is, which only makes him cough harder. He can already feel bitter bile at the back of his throat, along with whatever he had for dinner.
“Carlos. You need to breathe. Come on, slowly. In and out, like I taught you.”
His attempts are clumsy, his hands covering his own chest in a nervous effort to feel his heartbeat. T.K. taught him to find comfort in that.
“Your heart’s a little too fast, baby. You need to take a deep breath and relax. I’ve got you. You’re not in danger.”
“Tyler.” It’s all he manages to say. He needs to know his husband is okay. “Tyler.”
“I’m here, baby.” Carlos feels a gentle hand cradle his face. “You’re okay. Breathe, sweetheart.”
The words bring him safety. He pulls in a sharp breath. His brain seems to understand that everything is okay, and Carlos can feel his lungs expanding with the scent of clean sheets, lavender, and the cologne T.K. wore when they went out for dinner.
“Tyler.”
“I’m here.” Gentle lips against the skin of his face. A blessing. “Better now?”
“My head hurts. I can’t open my eyes. Why can’t I open my eyes?”
“Hey, relax. Your eyes are covered. That’s why you can’t see.”
Carlos feels his hand being guided until his fingers brush against the fabric of a blindfold. It calms him down a little more.
“What do you remember?”
And Carlos realizes, with a cold kind of horror, that he doesn’t really remember what happened after paying the restaurant bill and leaving, the chilly breeze messing up his hair. After that, nothing. A dark blur of voices and hands touching him in too many places.
All at once, he becomes aware of the smell of alcohol and the sound of a heart monitor. There’s something on his finger. He feels the agony of a needle piercing his vein. Hospital. His heart races again, and the machines complain, the beeping growing far too loud. Breathing becomes difficult again, and he wants to see, wants to understand why he is in a hospital. He needs T.K. He wants to go home.
“Sir, I’m going to need you to step back a little.”
“Tyler!”
It’s the last thing he screams before plunging headfirst into the darkness, his body once again thrown into the cold waters of unconsciousness.
“Carlos!”
Why is it so cold? He should be going home after taking his husband out to dinner after an exhausting day. He’s in pain. A sharp pain near his collarbone and in his head too, making everything dance in front of his eyes, turning his stomach.
“Carlos, stay with me, baby! Stay with me, Carlos, don’t close your eyes!”
“Carlos! Carlos!”
T.K.’s and Tommy Vega’s voices blur together, leaving him confused. He can’t move his neck, his hands, anything. But he can feel them. He’s not going to die. He can’t die. Not when they’re one week away from finally adopting Jonah, from making T.K.’s dream of being a father come true. He whimpers, feeling his head hit a cold surface. Everything hurts, and he trembles from head to toe.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” Tommy murmurs, settling his head back onto the gurney. “You’re in shock. You’re not going to die. You’re going to be okay.”
“Tommy…” Carlos coughs. His mouth grows wet. “Tyler. He…”
“Carlos, don’t talk.” Tommy sounds stern. She isn’t angry, only nervous. “T.K. is going with you in the ambulance. You’re not going to be alone.”
“Mamá Mi madre…” Carlos coughs again, and he feels something slip down the corner of his mouth. He hears Tommy let out a breath and feels a tissue gently wipe his face.
“T.K.’s talking to her. Please, Carlos, relax.” Tommy strokes his hair. “We’re taking you to—”
Carlos goes deaf for one very long moment and chokes. He can feel blood running down his face, because the smell of iron is too strong in his nose.
And then, nothing.
Coming back up is gentler this time. He chose to surface on his own. What brings him back is a cramp-like pain. His breathing is slower. He still can’t see. But T.K.’s words reassure him. He isn’t blind.
“Tyler.”
“He stepped out a few minutes ago.”
A soft voice. Familiar. It brings tears to his eyes, dampening the fabric covering them.
“Mamá.”
“I’m here, chiquito.” Warm hands wrap around his. “Talk to me, mi hijo. How are you feeling now?”
“Tired.” Carlos swallows dryly. “Thirsty. And… confused.”
“How much do you remember?”
The same question. His heart races. His breath catches again.
“Carlos Reyes, how much do you remember?”
The grip on his hands tightens. He feels trapped and panics, yanking his hands upward, trying to bite at them.
“Let me go! I don’t know what you want from me, okay? Let me go!”
The memories are tangled. A strong smell of cookies hits him, making him dizzy, and the smell of blood grows stronger. A woman named Trudie is talking to her son. Carlos needs to get free, needs to get back to T.K., to his mother, to his—
“Dad!”
When he came back to the world after the Narcan, he found his father’s face.
Gabriel Reyes held him gently until he stopped trembling so hard, while T.K. talked to the ER. Gentle fingers kept his head steady so he wouldn’t get nauseous and throw up. The morphine still left him a little dizzy. Carlos doesn’t know what to say. He knows it was stupid and reckless to go off on an investigation without telling anyone. But his father didn’t scold him. He only held him carefully.
And he didn’t ask questions.
“Carlos! You’re hurting me!”
As if he’s been shocked, Carlos realizes where he is and who he is with. And he hears the door slam hard against the wall and too many hands touching him.
“Mamá!”
He was hurting his mother. He starts to cry. Everything is confused and blurred. He didn’t mean to hurt her. He…
Someone forces his head back under the cold water. He struggles, but his body sinks like a stone.
“You can’t do that.”
Carlos opens his eyes. He is home. Not at the loft. At his parents’ house. The smell of homemade food mingles with the sound of his sisters’ children laughing in the background. In front of him, his father. Carlos startles, shrinking back violently.
Gabriel Reyes is pale. There is an open bullet wound in his chest, bleeding without end.
“What are you talking about?”
“Not come back.” Gabriel smiles. It’s something bloody. Carlos wants to throw up. “You’re not in danger. You can’t act like it’s the end of the world because of a question.”
“Why are you here?” Tears form in his eyes and spill down like waterfalls. He could drown in them.
His father turns into a mirror. And Carlos sees the same gunshot wound in himself. That explains the pain. Explains his father’s presence. The same wound. One lives. One dies.
“Why don’t I remember this?” Carlos grows angry. His father appears again. “Why can’t I remember this?”
“Because you’re scared.” His father’s hand is too cold against his neck. Carlos didn’t even see him move. “Because you feel the guilt. I die, and you live. In your head, it’s unfair.”
“Why did you leave me?” Carlos screams. His tears are enough to form puddles beneath his feet. It’s too absurd to be real. “You… You missed my wedding.”
“So did T.K.’s mother.” Gabriel smiles, pitying him. “Not everything goes the way we want it to.”
“It’s not fair.” Carlos chokes. “I couldn’t even avenge you.”
“Some things are not meant to be avenged, mi hijo.”
This time, he rises back to the surface because he wants to.
There is an uncomfortable beeping disturbing him, forcing him upward, along with the thirst. The room is warm. He wonders if he is in the same place, but he still can’t see. This time, though, the panic doesn’t come on as strongly. His father’s voice still whispers in his ears. He isn’t in danger. There is no reason to panic.
He feels alone. An unhappy sigh slips out of him.
“Hi, Carlos.”
It’s Tommy. Carlos wonders how long it has been since then.
“Hi.” Carlos’s voice is very hoarse. “What day is it?”
“It’s been twenty-four hours since you were shot.”
Tommy is direct. No questions. It reminds him of his father, and it makes him whimper again.
“Why… Why can’t I remember it?”
“You went into shock, sweetheart.” Tommy strokes his hand. He doesn’t feel the urge to flinch this time. It makes him feel guilty. “Maybe it’s connected to what happened with your father. But… it’s in the past now. You’re not in danger.”
“Why can’t I see?”
“Ah.” Tommy laughs softly. He feels fingers at the back of his neck and shrinks back a little. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m just taking off the blindfold. You suffered a concussion when you fell, and the light was making you throw up. I think we can see how you do now.”
The darkness of the water gives way to the white light of the room. And to Tommy’s face. Carlos takes a deep breath, feeling free for the first time since it all happened. Only then does he allow himself to take in his surroundings. The first thing he sees is the bandage covering the place where he was wounded.
“This… This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot since my dad.” Carlos sighs. The room has been decorated. Andrea and T.K. know he hates hospitals.
“You're right, but it’s the first time it happened like this.” Tommy strokes his hair. “Your father opened the front door and was shot at point-blank range. You were leaving a restaurant with your husband and got hit by a stray bullet.”
“A stray bullet?”
Tommy only nods. Carlos sighs.
“A robbery was happening right as you two came out. The police were on the guy’s tail, but he kept firing the gun, everywhere, in every direction. Drunk, probably.” Tommy rolls her eyes. “One of the bullets hit you and lodged inside. But it wasn’t deep. The surgery only took a few hours.”
He thinks about how such a simple accident could have thrown his whole system into chaos. He knows he doesn’t have the healthiest mind in the world. All the trauma he has been through, whether from his friends’ homophobia or the misadventures of being a cop. Carlos remembers the times he woke up screaming in the hospital when he was younger, and Michelle’s hands holding him down so he wouldn’t hurt himself.
“I hurt my mother,” he mutters, looking down.
“Andrea?” Tommy smiles. “She’s okay. It was just a scare. It didn’t even bruise.”
“She said I was hurting her!” Carlos slams his hands against the bed. Tears fill his sensitive eyes. “I tried to bite her hands, I—”
“You were in shock, Carlos.” Tommy squeezes his hands carefully. It’s as if she knows the feeling of being restrained reminds him of that woman and her deranged son. “Your mother shouted because she was scared, but she knew you weren’t exactly here with us.”
“Is she here? I want to talk to her.” Carlos looks at an origami frog near his bedside table. Probably made by one of Tommy’s daughters. “I want to apologize.”
Tommy sighs again. He’s afraid he’s testing her patience.
“There’s nothing to apologize for when you’re sick. How many times have T.K. and I gotten hurt on calls because a patient was disoriented and hit us without meaning to?” Tommy stands. “She and T.K. went out to dinner. Owen practically had to drag them there. But I think there’s someone here who wants to see you.”
The door opens. A familiar face appears. One Carlos hasn’t seen in a long time.
“Michelle?”
“Hi, Carlos.” She smiles. She looks older. More tired. But infinitely happier. “Getting yourself into trouble while I’m away?”
Tommy laughs.
“I’ll leave you two alone for a while. I’m going to check on the girls and tell them you’re more awake now, Carlos.”
“Thank you.”
Not for promising to update the kids. Tommy knows that. It’s for being there. For answering his questions when he was lost and confused. He still is, really. But he doesn’t feel quite so alone anymore.
“Iris told me you were here, and that T.K. was freaking out a little.” Michelle’s smile is sad. “You’ve taken care of me so many times. It would be ungrateful of me to leave you alone.”
“You don’t owe me anything, chica.” Carlos lets himself sink back into the bed. Even though Michelle is his friend, he doesn’t feel happy. If it were Iris, maybe… “But I appreciate the company. You know I missed you.”
“Yeah, things got a little out of control after I left the ER.” Michelle shrugs. Carlos thinks she looks a little embarrassed. “I can’t stop helping people. It’s my life. And I ended up getting a little too involved.”
She laughs. He tries not to notice how fake it sounds.
“Well, good thing phones let us talk to our friends from anywhere.” Carlos laughs, but there is no humor in it. He is testing the waters, wanting to know what Michelle will say.
He doubts she knows about Iris’s kidnapping, about how he also went missing for almost a day and a half, tied to a sink with zip ties that left scars around his wrists. Carlos wonders if Michelle knows he nearly died from an overdose of morphine, injected by the hands of a mother who only wanted to be loved.
From the way she blushes and laughs awkwardly, Carlos knows she is completely unaware of all of it. They had been long months, after all. Iris barely remembers. On the other hand, he fears he will never be able to erase all the faces from his mind.
“Like I said, things got out of control.” Michelle sighs. “I’m so sorry about your father. You know how much Iris and I liked him.”
The words, said so long after the fact, make his stomach turn. He smiles, but his lips tremble. He wants so badly to hate Michelle for making him relive it. While she was out there doing what she loved, he found himself buried in funeral bureaucracy and trying to find out who killed his father, only for there to be no worthy revenge.
But he can’t. Not because it is easy, but because Michelle suffered for so long. She deserves the peace she fought for. Seeing her happy, without the lines of stress carved so deeply into her face, should make him feel better. But along with the relief comes envy. His only peace is when he is with his husband, and even that he hasn’t been able to hold on to lately. He knows his need to control everything has almost gotten in the way more than once.
Deep down, he is like Trudie, someone who only wants to be loved. Not by T.K., because he knows the magnitude of the other man’s love, but by the other people who have been and still are part of his life. And he wants the peace Michelle has, the kind that seems to permeate every moment of her life, whether through the expensive coffee she drinks or the way the beads of her bracelets click against each other when she shifts in the chair, distracting him with memories that are not his.
He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he is aware of is that the harsh light is off. Only a small blue emergency light faintly illuminates the room. And it is colder than before. Austin isn’t always cold in the winter, but sometimes, in the middle of the night, it is still possible to feel its icy embrace.
T.K. is asleep on a cot beside him. He looks relaxed. As if he knows everything is okay and still wants to stay. Carlos’s lovesick heart skips a beat.
“Tyler,” he mutters, strangely groggy. The needle is out of his arm. He can move it more easily now. Maybe his husband had something to do with that. “Ty-ler.”
Carlos sounds childish, but his thirst is stronger than his embarrassment. He always wakes up thirsty and gets water by himself. But this time, he is dependent on someone else. He doesn’t mind it so much, not when T.K. is the one there. His last hospital experience, after his father’s killer wounded both him and Sam, affected him more than he likes to think about. T.K. held him through the whole struggle after he was discharged. And he pretends not to notice the way Carlos’s breathing hurts when it gets colder. Like now.
“Baby?” T.K. answers, and Carlos feels like the safest person in the world. Like a lifeboat finally thrown out to him. His husband’s face appears in his field of vision, and he smiles.
“Hi, Tyler,” he whispers, far too hoarse. “I’m thirsty.”
T.K. laughs softly, and a bendy straw is soon pressed against Carlos’s lips. He drinks slowly, two sips at a time, just like he was taught. Any more than that and he chokes or throws up. Aftereffects of past problems that still make him shudder. They are only blurs now, more things his mind erased because of the shock, or so Michelle said the first time he screamed because he couldn’t remember.
“What do you remember, Carlos?” T.K. asks quietly, stroking his hair.
Carlos waits for the blind panic, the struggle to breathe.
“I got shot,” is all he says. “But I don’t remember it.”
“It’s okay. It’s normal. Tommy must have told you about the shock.”
“Yeah, she did.” Carlos laughs softly. “I would’ve rather heard it from you.”
T.K. smiles too, and it makes Carlos relax a lot more. He knows he is still a little drugged from the pain medication, but that doesn’t scare him. Not anymore. Because his husband is there. He will never truly be alone.
“How’s Mom?”
“She’s okay, sweetheart. The first visiting slot tomorrow is hers. She’s dying to talk to you.”
“Even—” Carlos sighs, and his throat closes. “Even after everything that happened?”
“Carlos, Andrea’s love for you isn’t going to disappear because you were disoriented.” T.K.’s fingers drift down to gently stroke his arm. “Cooper used to remind me that my mom never hated me because of my relapses. The worry, even the fear, is a sign of love.”
“It’s just that I’ve never hurt her before.” Carlos sniffles and tries to focus on the green of his husband’s eyes. “A lot of my childhood friends were violent. Raised in homes where their fathers hit their mothers. Papá never hit her. And I was raised knowing you should never hit a woman. I may not be proud of never learning how to express myself properly, but… but I never raised my hand to my mother.”
“And now, even though it was an accident, that scares you.”
Carlos nods. Things slipping out of control will always scare him. He hates being compared to a controlling maniac, but he knows he’ll lose it if anything slips through his fingers. Some people say it’s because he was too spoiled as a child. T.K. says it’s because he has anxiety, and maybe a little PTSD, like Judd.
Carlos doesn’t know how to tell. So he swallows the criticism along with the explanations and tries to keep himself under control so he doesn’t ruin everything.
“Well…” T.K. rests his head on Carlos’s pillow. Carlos doesn’t want him kneeling on the floor and tries to complain, but a finger presses against his lips. “She doesn’t hate you. In fact, she looked really happy when Tommy told us you were conscious and didn’t have the blindfold on anymore.”
Carlos wants to believe it, but he is scared. T.K. will believe it for both of them.
“Carlitos, my love! It’s so good to see your eyes, my baby!”
When Andrea hugs him, T.K. is laughing because she’s talking to him as if he were six years old. To Carlos, it is the greatest proof that his fears might finally be allowed to stop existing. Like ice cream in the heat, he melts, letting his mother’s love cover him like a blanket and chase away the old monsters only mothers know how to chase away. The air comes easier now that guilt isn’t acting as if he has swallowed a tennis ball.
“Hi, Mom.” He doesn’t even try to hide that he is crying. It is more restrained than his other breakdowns, but relieved. “I’m sorry I tried to bite you.”
“Don’t worry about that, mi hijo. It’s okay.” Andrea kisses his forehead, one cheek, and then the other. That was how she taught him to pray the rosary. The Father is the forehead, the Son is one side, and the Spirit is the other, forming the perfect triangle.
He still thinks about it every time he kisses T.K. like that after they have sex, tired and sated. Like a thank-you for being allowed to stay and for having someone who stays.
“How is the wound, my angel?” Andrea asks, stroking his hair and settling T.K. beside her with her free arm.
“Well, the nurses said it’s healing well. I barely need pain medication anymore. Only when the cold gets worse. Then T.K. helps me with the pills.”
“Nothing through the IV?”
Carlos doesn’t know how to tell her that he developed an aversion to needles after Trudie.
“Only during the first few hours. After he got more stable, just pills.” T.K. jumps in, as if he has always known about the problem, and hadn’t seen Carlos panic several times. “His body absorbs them better. Needles make the process more painful and slower, you know?”
“Well, if it’s helping my son not be in pain, then that’s better.” Andrea gives him a wide smile. Carlos truly notices how much his father’s death has affected her. She kisses his face for five long seconds. “I love you, Carlitos.”
Sunlight shines across his face through the gap in the curtain, warming him completely. Maybe he will never get his memories back. Maybe the physical aftereffects will join the others that have made being thirty more challenging. But he is not alone. His fears will still exist, he knows that. Anxiety and PTSD, even mild, run too deep to be solved by an “I love you.” He knows he needs help, more than the couples therapy he and T.K. went through a year ago. The idea of opening up to a stranger scares him. But he knows he can’t let fear beat him. Not now.
So he takes a deep breath, holds his husband’s hand, and tells him and his mother that he can’t keep facing this on his own.