Always Los Vatos Locos
summary: Paco never prioritizes you
notes: angst, not a happy ending?
An: this is probably more lore accurate to how Paco would be irl lol I’ve been writing him as caring and soft but that dude is rough around the edges
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The backyard buzzed with laughter and music, balloons tangled in the trees, half-deflated piñata hanging crooked from a branch. Your primas laughed over cups of cheap beer, kids tore through the grass with sticky fingers, and oldies played from a busted speaker near the grill. You stood under the strings of mismatched lights, plastic cup in one hand, eyes scanning the crowd.
The sun had already dipped behind the houses, leaving pink streaks smeared across the sky, and still—no Paco.
You tugged at the end of your jacket, biting the inside of your cheek. You had told yourself you wouldn’t get your hopes up this time. You had told yourself he was busy, he had things to do. But still you waited.
And finally, headlights cut through the dusk.
The Impala rolled up like it owned the street, low and slow, its engine purring as it came to a stop. Your chest ached, half in relief, half in resentment. The passenger door creaked open.
Paco stepped out. White dress shirt. Baggy black khakis. Hair sleeked back. He looked good. Too good for the way he made you feel lately.
“Mija,” he said with that slow grin that used to melt your anger before it ever settled. “Happy birthday.”
You didn’t smile.
“You’re three hours late.”
He scratched the back of his neck, walking toward you with arms open, finding their place around you, “Traffic was crazy. Had to make a stop.”
You didn’t hug him back.
“A stop?” you echoed, folding your arms. “You said you’d be here at seven, Paco. I’ve been here trying to give people an excuse as to why you weren’t here, you couldn’t even tell me in advance!?”
He reached out, resting a hand on your arm, voice soft like he knew he was guilty. “Chula, come on. I didn’t mean to flake. It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?” you shot back, eyes sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you picked your little Vatos again.” You said with exaggerated tone
The name hit like a slap. You rarely said it out loud. That was his world. A world you tried not to touch, not to look too closely at.
The laughter from the back of the party faded a bit as if the music turned down just for your pain to echo louder.
His jaw clenched. “It’s not like I was out partying. One of the homies got jumped. They called me in.
You stared at him. “During my birthday?”
He sighed, looked down at the dirt under his shoes. “You know I can’t walk away from that life. I don’t get to choose the timing. When shit pops off, I gotta be there.”
Your voice cracked, bitter and low. “And when it’s me that needs you?”
He went quiet.
You took a shaky breath. “I feel like I’m always waiting, Paco. For you to show up. For you to change. For you to pick me.”
“I am picking you,” he said, almost pleading. “But you knew who I was when you met me. You knew what this was gonna be like.”
“No,” you said firmly. “I thought I did. But I didn’t know it would feel like this. Like I’m loving a ghost, someone who’s here in body but never in spirit. Someone who’s got one foot out the door, always looking over his shoulder.”
He stepped in again, grabbing both your hands. “I ain’t a ghost, amor. I’m right here. Look at me.”
You looked. And you wanted to believe him.
But before you could speak, a car horn rang out and a voice came from the passenger seat
“Ey, Paco!” A shadow leaned out the passenger window of the Impala. “Vato’s bleeding out down by the tracks! We need to bounce now!”
Paco turned his head, then looked back at you.
Torn.
“Don’t,” you whispered.
His grip tightened around your hands. “I have to.”
You pulled your hands away. “You don’t. You choose to.”
“It’s not that simple,” he said, tone rising. Irritation slowly creeping into his voice.
“Yes, it is. You choose them. Every time. Over me. Over this.” You said pointing at both of you.
He shook his head. “You don’t understand. I owe them. They were there when I was nothing. They’re family.”
“And what am I?” you asked, voice rising, eyes stinging. “Some girl you fuck on the side? Some random who waits up at night hoping you come back in one piece?”
“You’re everything,” he said quickly. “But I can’t leave the homies hanging. Not when shit’s real. Not when lives are on the line.”
You stepped back. “So mine doesn’t count?”
His face fell in guilt, then quickly masked with anger,
“I don’t wanna do this right now,” he muttered.
“No,” you said, chest heavy, heart louder than the music. “You never do. That’s the problem.”
He looked at you like he wanted to say something more. Something that might save it. But the car honked again, louder this time. Urgent.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
You swallowed hard, tears threatening. “maybe I won’t be.”
This time, he didn’t answer. Just turned, jogged to the car, and slammed the door.
The engine roared to life. The Impala peeled away down the block.
And the music went on behind you.
People laughed. Someone called your name, asking where the cake was. Life kept moving.
But you just stood there.
Alone under the string lights, with a backyard full of people.
Wondering what it meant to love someone who always loved something else more.
