Disclaimer: I don't own BTR, obviously
Warning: Implied/non-graphic child molestation, dark themes.
A/N: This isn't a happy story. I had hoped my first fic for this fandom would be happier, lol. I just didn't buy that Carlos obsessively wears a helmet for the reason the show says. So yeah, I wrote my own fucked up take. BTW, IDK what type of Hispanic Carlos is supposed to be. I tried to make his Spanish a little more ambiguous. I used cuco instead of cucuy(what my family/other Mexican-Americans call it) and tried to avoid Spanish words that are specific to any dialect of Spanish.
When You Were Young
It's bright outside.
He can't fasten the straps like he's supposed to. They're too hard and his hands are too small. He can't press hard enough to make them click. He's too little. He can't do it.
Someone big stands in front of him. He's big enough to block out the sun.
"Hey there Carlos, you need some help with your skates, buddy?"
"Yes." He says, blinking real fast to get rid of his tears. He wasn't crying that much, he was just upset.
"There we go." Hands on his skates; the straps click into place. "You know, I like skating too, why don't we go together?"
Carlos smiles his very best, most excited grin.
When Carlos was young, his mamá would tell him stories about the cuco before he went to bed. Be good mijo, she would say after the story, and press a warm kiss to his forehead, smooth back strands of his hair. She'd leave him alone in the dark and he was afraid of the blackness and the shadows, all the places the cuco could hide while it watched for naughty children to carry away. He would crawl into his parents' bed some nights, when the terror made him half crazy, when he thought he could hear the cuco breathing in the wind.
He's too old to be afraid of the cuco now. He knows the cuco is just a scary story, something parents tell their kids to get them to behave. Nothing is going to come to eat him in the night, or drag him away screaming, off to that dark and secret place where bad children are left to rot, where they scream apologies and cry sobs that are never heard. He doesn't believe in monsters like that anymore; the real world is more full of monsters than most people know. He's seen them, and these monsters don't limit themselves to snatching the disobedient boys and girls in the dead of night. Real monsters don't have to be stick thin with sharp, drooling teeth and bloody claws. Real monsters are scary enough, even with normal faces and smiles that promise everything is going to be okay.
He has nightmares sometimes, dreams that leave him sweaty and shivery. The dreams float just out of reach, hovering around him like ghosts; haunting him without being seen. He's never quite sure what they're about, but he knows they're always different. If he thinks hard enough he can remember snatches of La Llorona wailing for her drowned children, only the body in the water is his own, and La Llorona sobs in his voice. Mis hijos, mis hijos. Dreams never make much sense; they're strange, otherworldly things, and he can be anyone or anything; a hundred thousand different Carlos'.
In his favorite dream he's seven years old and sitting on his front porch, cradling his bloody elbow close to his chest. He's kicked his brand new roller blades he's barely had a chance to use off his feet and he's watching blood dribble down his arm in a single, red as cherries line. His papá hears him crying and scoops him up, sits him up on the kitchen counter while he swabs his elbow with alcohol that stings until his papá blows it away. He's achy and miserable and he curls up on his papá's lap for the rest of the afternoon. The dream flashes forward years, through dozens and dozens of memories, through the intangible, phantom space dreams live, and he's here in LA with his friends, and his helmet isn't anywhere to be seen.
"So, Carlos." He doesn't like interviews. His mamá says he's not the type of boy that was ever intended to sit still. Every year he nearly ruined the family Christmas picture with his fidgeting, with his constant movements. He hates having to sit this way, beneath his skin his blood is itching for him to get up and move, and it makes him feel jumpy and excited, high on his own pent up buzz. "I know you've been asked this question a lot, but why are you always wearing that helmet?" He wishes people would stop asking him the question, because it has sweat forming at his temples, and his fingers curl in towards his palms until his nails are digging into his skin.
He thinks, and oh God, he doesn't want to see, but it's there, just like it always is, all wrapped up in the taste of salt and pennies left in the sun, the bitterness of alcohol and apples; his own personal cuco.
"Do you know the first rule of skating, champ?" Mr. Dover is the nicest neighbor ever. He's like Carlos' favorite grown up in the whole world, except for his mamá and papá and abuelita. Mr. Dover always has candy for him and Kendall and Logan and James to eat. He's always really nice, smiling and buying them ice cream when the truck comes by. He even has a really cool trampoline in his backyard that Carlos isn't allowed to go on yet. The trampoline is only for big kids, his mamá says, but he's gonna be big real soon, and then he's gonna do flips and jump higher than anybody ever jumped.
"No." He didn't know roller skating had rules, no one ever told him! He gets in trouble when he breaks the rules, like when he crossed the street without holding an adult's hand. Papá wouldn't let him go outside to play with his friends for a whole week.
"Always wear a helmet."
"I knew that rule!" He did! His papá told him so when he gave him the skates. He always has to wear a helmet or he isn't allowed to use them.
"You are a smart little guy, Carlos." Mr. Dover holds up his hand for a high five. Carlos slaps his hand as hard as he can, smiling so big it almost hurts his face. He wishes Kendall and James and Logan were home to watch him do this. They would be so jealous he's learning to use inline skates before them. They're gonna think he's so cool. "You ready to go?" His helmet is on tight and his skates are too, he's ready to go.
He falls the first time he tries, right onto his hands. He scrapes them up some and he sniffles while Mr. Dover picks little pieces of dirt and gravel off them. "The trick is to pretend you have a bottle of coke in each of your hands. It helps you balance." Mr. Dover shows him, holds his hands out in c-shapes, just like he's holding two bottles of coke. Carlos tries and then it goes better. He can skate without falling down!
"I'm doing it, look Mr. Dover, I'm doing it." He can't go fast yet, he'll definitely fall if does, but he's skating all on his own without tipping.
"That's really great Carlos."Mr. Dover smiles at him with very nice, white teeth. Carlos wants his teeth to look like Mr. Dover's someday, once he has all his grown up teeth. Right now he's missing his front tooth. He got a dollar from the tooth fairy for it. He's going to use his dollar to buy candy from the grocery store.
He gets even better at skating, way better than he was when he started. He's practically an expert at it. Kendall and James and Logan are all gonna want him to teach them how to do it. "You thirsty, kiddo?" His mouth is dry as the cotton balls in the bathroom mamá uses to clean his owies.
"Uh huh."
"I have some apple juice in my fridge. You wanna come in for a glass?" He really does, but he's not allowed to go into anyone's house without asking his parents first. It's a rule.
"I'm not 'llowed to go into your house without asking."
"Aw, it's okay Carlos, I'm a grownup, I promise you won't get in trouble." He wants to have apple juice more than anything.
"I can't."
"Come on, your parents aren't going to mind." Mr. Dover grabs his arm, squeezes it tight. "Just get inside." Mr. Dover is squeezing his arm harder and it hurts.
"You're hurting my arm." He can't pull away, he's too small and Mr. Dover's hand is too big around his wrist.
"Sorry." Mr. Dover lets him go, smiling. Mr. Dover is always smiling. "How about we drink it in the backyard? That way you don't come inside my house."
"Yeah, okay." His arm still hurts but Mr. Dover said sorry and that means it was just an accident. He didn't mean it. Mr. Dover would never really hurt him, he's too nice.
"Take off your helmet, Carlos, sit down." There are beanbags in Mr. Dover's backyard. Carlos loves beanbags, they're so soft and squishy, like giant clouds. His brand new helmet is black with a Batman sticker on the front. He wanted a Superman one, but the store was out, so he got Batman instead. Batman is almost as cool as Superman, even if he isn't an alien and can't fly faster than airplanes. "Here's your juice." The apple juice is in a grown up cup with a curly straw. Curly straws are his favorite kind of straws, especially the blue ones, and Mr. Dover brought him blue.
The juice tastes funny, like it's rotten. He had rotten juice once after papá threw the wrong juice out and gave him the bad one.
"I don't like this juice." His throat burns and it smells so gross it makes his eyes water. "I think it's ex-ex-…bad."
"It's not bad, it's just…it's special juice. It'll make you feel good."
"I don't want it." He wants regular apple juice, not special apple juice.
"Drink it." Mr. Dover sounds angry but he's smiling so he can't be mad. Grownups don't smile when they're mad, they frown and yell.
"No." He's scared and he drops the glass. It breaks on the ground, juice and glass all over. He's not allowed to walk on the ground if there is broken glass, not even if he's wearing shoes. His mamá says he could get hurt and need stitches. He doesn't what stitches are but Kendall got them one time after he fell of the swings and he said he cried a lot. "I'm sorry."
"Hey, it's alright, it's no problem." He doesn't know why he was afraid of Mr. Dover. He's nice, he's not even a little bit angry that Carlos broke his glass. "Accidents happen. Let's get you away from the broken glass." Mr. Dover picks him up, holds him close, holding him like a baby. One of his hands is under his butt and Carlos doesn't think he likes it. Mr. Dover's other hand is touching the button on his pants, unzipping them, and that is a big no-no. He learned in class not to let anyone touch him there, 'cause it's wrong. That is his private area. Hands are supposed to stay out of other people's pants.
"Put me down, I want to go home." He wriggles around in Mr. Dover's arm until he drops him. Mr. Dover crouches down, probably to help him up, since he didn't mean to drop him, it was all Carlos' fault.
"You can't go home yet, buddy." Mr. Dover tells him, pressing a hand to his chest. Mr. Dover is so much bigger and stronger and Carlos wants his mamá. Mr. Dover leans down so close he smells the sour yuck of coffee on his breath and he head butts him just like he's seen in wrestling on TV. It hurts his head, makes him want to cry. Mr. Dover's head is hard as a rock and pain shoots from his forehead to all over. Everything goes real slow for a second, like when he pauses a movie, and then it goes dark and quiet as his room when it's time to go to sleep.
He's not wearing his pants anymore. He must be in the bathroom; he doesn't have to wear pants when he's in the bathroom. "You gotta be more careful, Carlos." Mr. Dover puts something cold on his head, cold as ice. He's not wearing pants or his skates and he's sitting in Mr. Dover's lap. He doesn't want to be in Mr. Dover's lap, he wants to go home.
"I want my papá." He whines, trying not to cry, tasting the saltiness of his tears.
"Shhh." Mr. Dover whispers, kissing him. Mr. Dover doesn't kiss him like his mamá does. Mr. Dover kisses him like his papá kisses his mamá, like boys are supposed to kiss girls. Grownups aren't supposed to kiss little boys like that. "Don't cry, I'm gonna make you feel good."
It doesn't make him feel good. It feels weird and Mr. Dover touches him down there, where he's now allowed. He doesn't like it. He'll never like it, no matter what Mr. Dover says. He gets sleepy and everything is slow again. When the world goes fast again Mr. Dover is tugging his pants back up, buckling his skates, placing his helmet on his head.
"I want to go home." He doesn't feel good. There is a sour as medicine flavor in the back of his throat.
"I'm taking you home right now." Mr. Dover carries him. Carlos doesn't mind this time because he's not sure he can walk. His legs feel like Jell-O and his head hurts. "But you know, you can't tell your parents about what happened, Carlos. You don't want to get in trouble do you? You were in my house. They'll get mad."
Mr. Dover is right. He broke the rules and he'll get in lots of trouble for it. He drank strange juice and went in Mr. Dover's house without asking and he'll never be allowed to use the trampoline if his mamá finds out.
"I won't tell." He mumbles, clutching a fistful of Mr. Dover's shirt.
"Carlos? What happened?" Mamá grabs him as soon as she opens the front door.
"He was skating outside and fell. I think he hit his head, he should be fine. I think he's more stunned than anything else." Mr. Dover pats him gently on the helmet, like they're still friends. Carlos doesn't know if he wants to be Mr. Dover's friend anymore. He hopes he can use the trampoline even if they aren't friends.
"Shh, mijo." Mamá kisses his cheek when his lower lip trembles. His head hurts and he just wants to go hide under his Spiderman blankets. "Did you hurt yourself?" She reaches down to unbuckle his helmet. She can't unbuckle his helmet, she can't. If she does he could get hurt again and he could wake up without pants in someone's lap.
"No!" He claps his hands down over his helmet. No one but him is ever gonna take if off his head. Mamá laughs softly and gently rubs her palm over his helmet while she sings 'Sana sana colita de rana, si no sansas hoy, sansarás mañana'. Mamá kisses his lips and she doesn't taste bad like Mr. Dover. "Better?"
"Yes mamá."
He doesn't think it'll ever be better again.
In Carlos' second favorite dream, a dream that is more fantasy than a part of his own subconscious; the product of a furious, aching, yearning want that no one can understand; he's seven and lying on his back on the pavement, the summer sun bright in his eyes.
"You can't go home yet, buddy." Mr. Dover tells him, pressing a hand into his chest. Mr. Dover is so much bigger and stronger and Carlos wants his mamá. Mr. Dover leans down so close he smells the sour yuck of coffee on his breath and he head butts him just like he's seen in wrestling on TV. He's wearing his helmet and all he feels is a thud somewhere that doesn't hurt him. Mr. Dover stumbles back, though, yelling bad words, clutching his nose that is gushing blood. He didn't mean to hurt him that bad; no one ever bleeds like that on TV.
Carlos skates faster than he ever has. He doesn't know how to stop yet because Mr. Dover didn't teach him but he just wants to get away. He skates 'till he trips, tumbling onto the grass where his papá sees and runs out to get him. He's crying and crying, 'cause Mr. Dover scared him and hurt him; tried to touch him where he's not supposed to. Papá gives him to mamá and he's never looked this angry, not even when Carlos broke the pretty blue vase.
"Shh, mijito." His mamá holds him close to her chest, rocks him in the rocking chair like he's a baby. "Shhh, Carlito, no llores mijo, no llores." She says to him over and over, only he isn't crying anymore; she is. She's crying tears that drip down onto him like rain. Their tears mix together on his cheeks and he buries his face into her blouse, breathes in her scent. Mamá always smells like food from breakfast and flowers and soap. She smells pretty and he feels safer in her arms, safe like nothing can ever get him, not the cuco or La Llorona or Mr. Dover or anybody.
She unbuckles his helmet, so she can run her fingers through her hair, and he lets her, nuzzling in closer to listen to her heart.
"Why do I wear my helmet?" His spit burns with something bitter, a pain he's held crushed in his chest too long. He knows the reason, it's the reason everyone wears helmets. He took the old saying to heart, and deep down inside he knows, surer than he knows anything in the world. Things could be different; a simple thing like a helmet can change a person's life forever. He's back there in an instant, sorting through all the possibilities, every alternative scenario, the what if's that buzz around him, angry as disturbed bees. He could have been different. "To keep me safe, protect me, you never know what's going to happen."
Need some help, buddy?
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