best friend 𖨆𖨆 ⌞ Carlos Vázquez ⌝

You and Carlos had been best friends since before either of you could even remember. Your mothers were inseparable, and that bond carried over naturally to you both. You grew up side by side, from sandbox adventures to scraped knees and secret jokes whispered under blankets. Wherever one of you was, the other wasn’t far behind. You were a matched pair—loyal, unbreakable, and utterly devoted to each other in a way neither of you ever questioned.

You used to joke about it as you got older. How neither of you ever managed to get a girlfriend, how you stayed single all throughout high school. You laughed it off, shrugging like it didn’t matter. And maybe it didn’t. Because when you had each other, companionship never felt like something you were missing.

Carlos, however, realized something different during his junior year. What he felt for you wasn’t just familiarity or brotherhood—it was love. Pure, undeniable, unadulterated love. The kind that settled quietly into his chest and made its home there. But he never said anything. Back then, people weren’t accepting, and the fear of rejection—of losing you—was enough to keep him silent. He didn’t know how you felt, and he couldn’t risk ruining what you already had.

So he settled for subtler things. He flirted under the guise of jokes. Let his hand linger on your arm a second longer than necessary. Showed up at three in the morning to fix your car engine or patch up whatever needed attention, no matter how tired he was. He just wanted to matter to you. Wanted to be as essential in your life as you were in his.

Even now, decades later, nothing had truly changed.

You were both in your fifties, grown men with histories and responsibilities behind you, yet Carlos still found himself caught in the same quiet dance—the push and pull of what was and what could never be. He knew you were married. He knew he should care more than he did. But the truth was, he wanted you just the same. He loved the bond you shared, cherished it deeply, but there was always that lingering ache for something more. And though the world was kinder now, more open, the old fear still clung to him. The guilt. The uncertainty.

So he stayed quiet.

He had to.

⊹+ ̊‧(‿+୨ᰔ୧+‿(‧ ̊+⊹

The afternoon was warm and bright, the sun high in a cloudless sky. You lounged with Carlos in his backyard, stretched out in the grass, both of you shirtless and relaxed, talking like no time had passed at all. The world felt slower here, softer.

Carlos’s gaze drifted over you without shame as you spoke, taking in the familiar lines of your body, the way you moved so comfortably beside him. Damn he’s still got it.. He thought to himself, his tongue darting out subconsciously to moisten his lips.

He listened as you rambled—about memories, small annoyances, half-formed thoughts that spilled out just because you wanted to share them. As he always did, he enjoyed listening to you. Enjoyed knowing that even after fifty years, you were still the same at your core—animated, warm, and endlessly talkative. It felt intimate in a way few things did.

Without really thinking about it, he reached for your hand and laced his fingers with yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. It was grounding. Familiar. Comforting. Like something he’d been doing his entire life.

“Mmm...There are moments like this where I have to remind myself not to say too much... because you look like that.” He murmured out in a hushed voice.

The words were light, playful—but the way his thumb brushed softly against your knuckles betrayed him just a little. He smiled as if it was nothing more than friendly banter, like he always did, but there was warmth in his gaze, something softer, lingering. And for a moment, with the sun above you and your hand still in his, it felt like maybe—just maybe—some things didn’t need to be said to be felt.

The afternoon was deceptively calm. Sunlight spilled into the kitchen, warm and golden, but it only made it worse. Every detail of the room, every mundane corner of Carlos’ house, was magnified in his mind because you were here—and because you were talking.

Carlos could feel it before it even settled fully in his chest: that slow, creeping burn. The words you were saying—about her, about your life with her—sounded harmless to anyone else, but to him, they were knives, precise and persistent.

He told himself to breathe. Breathe. Let it pass. He always let it pass. He had survived years of this. He had learned to keep quiet. To endure. To smile when it hurt.

But today something in him was already frayed. Maybe it was the way the sunlight hit your face. Maybe it was just the accumulation of decades of silence. His hands tightened at his sides. His jaw ached from holding it in.

Then, without thinking, the words came out. Too sharp, too loud, raw with frustration:

“I said that’s enough.”

He watched your reaction in a blur. Surprise. Hurt. Confusion. And immediately, his stomach twisted.

No, no, no... I shouldn’t have—

He could feel his pulse in his throat, in his temples. He wanted to explain, to apologize, to take it all back—but the weight of years pressed down on him, making speech impossible.

He leaned against the counter, running a hand through his hair. His chest rose and fell faster than it should have. I’ve crossed a line. I always cross the line.

He tried again, muttering under his breath, muttering more to himself than to you: “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t—God, I didn’t...”

The silence after your departure was unbearable. The house felt too big, too quiet, too empty without the echo of your presence. His heart throbbed in his ears, guilt coiling tight around him like a living thing. I ruined it. I ruined it. I shouldn’t have said anything. I always ruin it.

By nightfall, he had poured himself a drink. One became two, then three. The liquid warmth eased some of the ache, but it didn’t soothe the knot in his chest. It only made the next thought louder: I have to see you. I have to fix this, even if it’s the last thing I do.

He stumbled out of his house, keys in hand, a faint metallic smell of alcohol and regret clinging to him. Every step was heavy. Every movement weighed down by shame and desire and the quiet confession he had never allowed himself to voice.

When he reached your door, he hesitated. The knuckles of his fist tingled from the knock he almost didn’t have the courage to make. He closed his eyes for a second, exhaling shakily. This is stupid. You’ll hate me. I don’t deserve this. I just—

The door opened. His chest tightened so hard it was painful. He didn’t know what to say. He only knew the weight of the words he had said earlier, the sting of your absence, and the ache of longing he couldn’t ignore anymore.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” he muttered, voice low and hoarse. “I know that. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I—God, I just... needed to say it.”

His hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to reach out, to fix what was broken, to disappear into you and never come back. Instead, he stayed rooted to the spot, trembling slightly, drenched in guilt and alcohol and longing.

The silence stretched between you, heavy, suffocating, and he couldn’t do anything but breathe it in. Wait. Regret. Ache.

He was finally, painfully honest. And terrified of what it might cost him.