Alejandro was fine.

He was fine with existing between your playful shoves, your hand on his arm and back with a silent you did good after every stop, spending every meal, every Christmas, every birthday since he met you, the obvious roll of your eyes when he dared suggested anything different (like he had anywhere else to or rather be).

He was fine with being your friend. You loved so openly and freely that, honestly, he'd take whatever you would give him.

That all changed with the fire and all illusions of okayness with you, of your relationship, came burning down around him and smothered in the flames as he dragged you out. He could've lost you, you were more than willing to die there and you would've died without ever knowing how much he burned for you- bad choice of words, but, fuck, he wasn't a poet.

Years of treading around eachother, side eyeing the odd girlfriend that never lasted the dreaded 'three month mark', ignoring the 'eyes to the floor' rule in the showers a little too often- it all felt like nothing. He almost lost you. He. Almost. Lost. You.

He pulled you out of the house and, thank Christ, you were breathing and you were fine. You were fine. To think that face that he was watching gasp to fill it's lungs with oxygen was about to burn along with everything else in there, it wasn't right. He set you down so you were sitting up against a bit of rock in hopes to help you breathe a bit better, him kneeling next to you to check for injuries and radioing for help frantically.

He put his hand on your arm, rubbing it hard enough so you knew he was there through your clothes but not enough to hurt you. "You're gonna be okay- Joder, te quiero mucho..." He told you with a shakey breath, it's not like you could hear him much anyway, but still. "If you die, I'm going to kill you."