#wtpo

“You can go,” Carlos tells the butler, who nods and scurries back inside. TK rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest, waiting for Carlos to sit down so he can once more climb into his lap and rest his cheek against Carlos’ chest, listening to the pounding beat of his heart but choosing not to comment on it. “TK, we have to talk.”

“Well, you’re not fired, so what is there to talk about?” TK looks up at him with a salacious grin. “Gonna fuck me, finally?”

He sighs. TK doesn’t take him seriously- maybe he never will. It’s impossible to tell for certain. There’s no use in being actually upset about it, but a sting of frustration still cords its way through his ribs before he squishes it down with the same ferocity one might use when killing a spider in a seldom swept corner of the house. 

“We have to take a step back.”

“Meaning?”

Carlos tries to find a place to set his hands that isn’t TK. It feels wrong to hold his waist, his thighs, his face when he’s trying to say this. Beyond that, he must account for the fact that TK shouldn’t be in his lap at all right now. Baby steps. He’s certain that by the end of this conversation, TK will have placed himself at the opposite end of the couch with the childlike hurt painted over his features that comes into play anytime his wants are questioned. 

“I’m not your boyfriend, or your lover, or your fuckbuddy. You do know that, right? I’m your employee-”

TK shakes his head. “No, you’re on my dad’s payroll, not mine. And I don’t get how that matters.”

“There’s rules about that sort of thing. It’s not right, and my job-”

“Fuck your job.” TK grabs Carlos’ face so he’s forced to look him in the eyes. The tiny hints of freckles spattered over his nose look so much more defined with less than an inch of space between them. Little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes crinkle deeper when TK smiles at him, though it’s not a real smile; it’s the grin of a shark that smells blood in the water. “You don’t even need a job. I’ll just buy you whatever you want, and we keep doing what we’re already doing.”

He tries to look away before he drowns in TK’s gaze, but the hands cupping his cheeks don’t allow it. “It’s not that simple. We can’t- I can’t- TK, I’m not going anywhere. I’m still going to be right here, protecting you, like I have been. We can still talk and everything. I just can’t kiss you or whatever else it is you have in mind behind locked doors.”

This, finally, sends TK jumping out of his lap and crossing his arms in front of Carlos, staring down his nose at him as though he’s deciding whether to have him executed. It would hardly be surprising if that’s the direction he wants to take with this, though Carlos prays he has more sense in his head than that. 

“Where’s this coming from? I thought you liked me,” TK accuses.

“I- I do like you. It’s just- you don’t understand what kind of world you live in. You’re safe, sure, but no one else is. If I step out of line, I’m dead.”

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

Carlos fights the urge to pull his hair until he rips the follicles straight from his scalp. “It’s not always up to you. You don’t own everyone.”

His eyes narrow. “Right. Yeah. I don’t own everyone, but I do own almost everyone, including you. I’m telling you now that you’re not backing off for some bullshit reason that you won’t actually explain to me.”

There’s nothing he can actually say to protect himself from TK’s wrath and Strand’s threats both, so he sinks back into the couch and shuts his eyes. He’s desperate to pretend that this isn’t the life he’s forced himself into. In truth, his end goal comes to settle somewhere around waking up in the cold twin bed of his former apartment, realizing these last few months were a fever dream, and continuing on like his life always had. A TK free existence would most certainly be a more peaceful one for him.

“Carlos, come on.”

He won’t look at TK again. It might be the thing that finally causes him to snap and either turn into something he’s not or find a nice place under his chin to point the barrel of the gun Strand gave him, because he already knows his death cannot belong to him. For someone who thought they’d live a long and at least somewhat satisfying life, he sure seems to be spending a lot of time grieving his own oncoming death and trying to figure out which snake will be the one to bite him in the throat. 

Then TK returns to his lap, legs bracketing Carlos’ and pinning him to his seat. People are watching. A cold sweat breaks out on his brow in fear of what Strand is going to do when he hears about this, one which TK notices and pretends not to be affronted by. He plays with Carlos’ collar, not fixing it, but feeling the starched fabric in his hands like it might be the last puzzle piece needed to figure Carlos out enough to dissect him until he’s nothing more than a pile of loose spare parts for TK to pick at. 

TK makes a pitiful sound to try and entice Carlos’ attention, squirming in his lap to pry a whimper from his lips  as he waits for an in. When it becomes clear that he won’t simply receive one, Carlos’ cheek suddenly stings, white hot agony across it before he hears the sound of skin on skin. By the time he gets his bearings enough to open his eyes, it’s faded to a sharp smart that he can’t ignore but can work through. TK’s chest heaves with each breath. Both of them stare at the pink surface of TK’s palm. 

“Really.”

Cornered, TK shrugs, and nestles his face under Carlos’ jaw to play at comfort. It’s not an apology, but it is a reminder that he’s not going anywhere, regardless of Carlos’ opinion on the matter. He takes shallow breaths until he’s given the space to clear his throat and breathe,

“Your father suggested that I need to… ‘be smart about this,’ his words, not mine. He threatened me. And my family. I can’t- TK, you know I have to listen.”

The body in Carlos’ arms goes from relaxed like a content cat to a solid metal structure, a wire frame tiled with iron sheets, hollow beneath the stiff skin. He can’t see TK’s face, but he can imagine the parade of emotions bubbling up in him at this very moment. Carlos opens his mouth to say something to defuse the bomb he just lit, but no words come. This is a mess he made. He’ll have to lie in it. 

Before he gets up, TK bites Carlos’ throat, but the action is so quick that it’s an instant of sharp pain followed by a dull ache, leaving him to figure out if it even happened while TK stands up and adjusts his cuffs. 

“Give me your gun, Carlos.”

“Why?”

“Because I fucking told you to. Hand it over, now.”

Carlos hesitates still, so TK reaches over and yanks it out of its holster. Carlos has other guns and weapons on him, and he knows that TK is aware of this, but it seems as though only one weapon was needed. As he starts off toward the patio door, Carlos falls into step behind him. This isn’t going to end well, TK must know that. Every single guard they pass jumps to alert, a handful even leaving their posts to trail behind, uncertain if their backup will be needed. When the door to Strand’s office stares TK down, all of them frozen in place, he realizes.

This is going to be an execution. 

TK swings open the door without knocking and takes seven measured steps into the center of the room, Carlos practically in lockstep behind him to stay close enough to protect him when this inevitably goes south. The staff that had followed them now flood into the room, at attention along with those already at their stations, creating a hostile perimeter of a bull’s eye, and TK, Carlos, and Owen Strand make up the center. Owen Strand looks at them both and offers a thin-lipped smile as he steps out from behind his desk. 

“What’s this about, TK?” Strand asks, voice going smooth with a butter-like quality. “What’s got you upset?”

“Did you fucking tell him not to love me?”

Strand scoffs. “Why would I say that? And, for the record, those words never came out of my mouth. If someone normal and boring and useless like Carlos doesn’t love you, that’s not my fault. Look in the mirror.”

The light of the chandelier plays over every surface in the room. Carlos has spent the last few seconds entranced by the reflection of the tiny lights gleaming off the barrel of the gun, but now, when he looks at TK’s face once more, he can see them play on a wet line down TK’s cheek. The sole tear seems more wrought with despair than if TK broke down sobbing, 

“Me? No, you look in the mirror, Dad. What’s- what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me.”

TK shakes his head and raises the gun to point at his father’s head. “Bullshit! Something had to be, to make me this way.”

Strand doesn’t respond to that, just nods, dripping in condescension. Carlos’s hand twitches to his side, as if to retrieve his weapon in case things get messy, but he immediately remembers that his gun is currently in TK’s lightly shaking hands. It’s then that Strand flicks his own gaze to Carlos, just long enough to get caught. It’s a challenge: pick a side, but make sure it’s the right one. 

“TK,” Carlos says.

At first, he gets no response. TK stays stock still, one eye shut, staring down the barrel of the gun at his sole surviving family member. The moment could be memorialized in a movie, with the symphony playing so loud it rattles Carlos’ eardrums, all extreme close-ups and dynamic lighting. Not a soul in the room breathes. The other bodyguards are all frozen, unsure what to do. Their job is to protect the boss at all costs, but they know better than to lift a finger towards TK.

“TK, look at me.”

“No,” TK replies. 

“Listen to me, then. You don’t wanna do this.”

TK’s arm is beginning to waver from holding the gun still for so long. The seconds drip by, each its own eternity, while the whole room holds its breath in wait for the conclusion of such a confrontation. Carlos feels the eyes on him, above the Strand men. He’s the one who has to throw his weight around here. Carlos is the only one who can stop TK. 

“How do you know, Carlos? You just got here. You’re not the first thing he’s done to me.”

TK may as well have struck him again. “I’m not a thing, TK.”

“Yeah, you’re a person, right. You’re a person he used to hurt me.”

“Don’t kill him over it,” Carlos insists. “Don’t do this. You’re going to regret being the one to kill your father.”

“More than I’ll regret it if I don’t?”

“Take it from me, son,” Strand says slowly. He looks relaxed to the casual observer, but Carlos catches the bead of sweat on his upper lip. “You won’t survive killing me.”

TK’s bottom lip wobbles. He looks between his father and Carlos, not sure where to go now that he’s here, not sure how he even got here in the first place. Holding a gun, struggling for control, finally standing up properly to his father, and he looks like a kindergartener playing dress up with Daddy’s things. 

“TK,” Carlos says again.”

He takes a step forward, slowly moving his hand so TK has time to safely evade before his fingers close around the gun. He eases it from TK’s grip before quickly restoring it to safety and putting it back in its holster. 

Owen gives him a nod of approval and straightens his suit.