#Tarlos Fanfiction One-shots

Unraveling Threads

TK knew the sound of the door shutting behind him would echo in his mind for a long time. Carlos had never walked out on him before—not like this. Not with that expression that cut through every layer of confidence and self-assuredness TK had built in their relationship. Anger, disbelief... and worst of all, disappointment. It left a crater in TK's chest, hollowing him out.

"You pushed her," Carlos had said, voice low and trembling, like he was holding on to a thread before it snapped. "We talked about this, TK. We said we'd wait."

Then the door closed.

As Carlos's absence swallowed the room, all TK could think was that he'd done irreparable damage. He dropped onto the couch, every nerve on edge. "It's my fault," he muttered to himself, pacing the living room as if it were a cage. "I should have waited." The gnawing guilt clawed at his chest. He hadn't meant to break any promises; he just needed clarity. Needed certainty. But Carlos hadn't seen it that way. He'd walked out, leaving nothing behind but silence and a whirlwind of doubts.

And that silence was deafening.

TK's overthinking spiraled into a storm of relentless questions. What if this was it? What if I pushed too far this time? Every beat of his heart was a hammer blow, every breath ragged. He was suffocating. The only escape he knew was one he'd fought so hard to stay away from. No. But the craving was there—sharp and persistent, gnawing at the edges of his control.

He found himself in the bathroom, standing in front of the cabinet. He reached for the emergency painkillers they'd stashed for moments of genuine crisis—never for this. The bottle was cool and unforgiving in his hand. "This is for emergencies," he whispered to himself, as if saying it aloud would change what it meant right now. The seal remained intact, but even just holding it felt dangerous, like a line he was standing too close to crossing.

The urge clawed at him. Just one. Just one to take the edge off. He gripped the bottle tighter, his knuckles whitening, every part of him screaming for relief. His mind played cruel tricks, conjuring the sensation of numbing warmth, the escape he'd once known. He closed his eyes, fighting back tears. You're stronger than this, TK. You have to be.

He set the bottle back in the cabinet and stumbled out of the bathroom, breathless, but the battle wasn't over. Minutes passed, maybe hours—time had lost all meaning. He found himself back in front of the cabinet again, picking up the bottle. His hands shook so badly he could barely hold it. He put it down, walked away, only to be drawn back moments later. Again and again, the cycle continued, a torturous dance with temptation.

By the time dawn began to break, TK was on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to his chest, clutching the sealed bottle. His breaths came in ragged gasps. Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, he hurled the bottle across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud before landing on the floor, seal unbroken. He let out a strangled sob. "You didn't win," he whispered to himself, voice raw and shaking. "Not today."

The day passed in a haze. He forced himself to work, answering calls, holding himself together by sheer willpower. But fate had a cruel sense of humor. During one of the calls, he saw Carlos. The scene was absurd—a "woman" reported thrown off a cliff turned out to be a discarded sex doll. TK almost laughed at the dark irony, but the sight of Carlos's cold, detached eyes stole any trace of humor. Carlos wouldn't even glance his way, moving with a rigid precision that made TK's chest ache.

"Carlos—" he wanted to say, but there was no room, no space. Just a wall.

TK got home later that day to an empty loft. The silence felt like a living thing, pressing down on him. He dropped his keys on the counter and stood in the center of what was supposed to be their sanctuary. He had convinced himself that Carlos wouldn't come back—that he had walked out for good. Every second stretched, a reminder of what he'd potentially lost.

Then the door opened, and for a heartbeat, hope sparked in his chest. Carlos stepped through without so much as a "hi." He moved like a stranger, crossing the room with a rigid detachment that made the space feel cold. TK's gaze followed him, every motion tearing at the raw wound in his chest. Carlos walked straight to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, and avoided even looking in TK's direction. It was as if the loft wasn't theirs anymore—just a place to exist separately.

TK sank onto the couch, feeling like the ground beneath him was crumbling. The walls closed in, the silence suffocating. It's my fault. I pushed too hard. I should have listened. His mind spiraled, every doubt and fear feeding off each other. His breathing quickened, his chest tightened. The weight of it all crushed him, making it impossible to draw a full breath. Not now. Please, not now.

He pressed his hands against his temples, desperate to fight off the panic. But the whirlwind of thoughts wouldn't slow. You broke him. He doesn't even want to look at you. You ruined this. His body shook, his heart pounding painfully fast. His vision blurred, and he felt like he was losing control of everything—his mind, his breath, his own body.

Carlos moved past him again, reaching for something on the coffee table. TK clutched at the edge of the couch, his voice a broken whisper, barely audible over the chaos in his mind. "Carlos, can we..." But the words never fully formed. His vision went dark, and his body gave out, collapsing as the world slipped away.

*****

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