Chapter Text
Eddie Diaz knows a thing or two about running.
People often say running is easy, staying is hard but he doesn’t find that to be entirely true.
Sometimes, it's hard to look the thing that scares you in the mouth and turn away, to take your eyes off of it knowing you’re turning your back on a monster that could unhinge its jaws and take hold of you while you’re exposed and unprotected.
See, when you run, you never quite come to know the entirety of what you leave behind. You return to stories, quips, quotes, and anecdotes; you return to find, sometimes, that people have changed when you weren’t there to see it happen, and you can never know exactly when and how they shifted from being one thing to the next.
Sometimes, you come back to find there’s nothing left for you there at all.
Sometimes, running feels like exposing your soft underbelly.
It’s saved him as many times as it’s failed him—running away from a family he was too young to have had thrust upon him, falling into it with no way out, and into the waiting arms of the American military. Away from the suffocating grasp of his parents and the Texan humidity, to the 118 and a family that he could let himself be taken in by.
Away from the danger, and sometimes, towards it.
There came a time when he realized that he’d gotten so used to leaving, he never really learned how to stay. It wasn’t until he moved to L.A. with his son, that he was even really sure he could do it. But sometimes, you have things—you have people—that are worth learning how to stay for.
Except old habits die hard, and when the one person he knows he’ll always, always stay for takes after his father and runs right to the very place Eddie feared and fled, he remembers all at once how it feels to be the one left.
Nothing new; it’s just been a while. The bitter taste of it had grown unfamiliar—the way it sticks behind his teeth and lingers.
Up until the moment he came right up to the precipice and decided bodily to hurl himself off the edge, he had managed to avoid straying too far off track. He had managed to stay in his fucking lane. Now, he’s left alone with more time and space than he’s maybe ever had, and he doesn’t know how to fill the silence with good things. So instead, he spirals.
Maybe not everyone would think so, but for Eddie, wanting things he shouldn’t want, letting himself get close enough to have them—then at the last second, before he can sink into it and just let himself take and have—is very, very dangerous. And this time, running is easier, maybe better; it feels, actually, like the only way out is away. Anything else seems too far out of his purview, too hot and bright terrifying, and when he gets too close, firefighter instincts be damned, he runs away from the danger.
And right now, the danger? The enemy raging war on the battlefield of his own mind? It’s the things he wants. The things he wants and how deeply he wants them.
This summer has had some subversive effects on his very definition of what it even means to want. He’s always been good at not wanting too much or too recklessly. But these days, it seems like he’s insatiable, wrought with hunger and pillaging to consume. Maybe, because this kind of wanting feels offensive—something he had thought he’d snuffed out decades ago, made benign. He’s always been so good at beating it down, down, down into submission whenever it reared its ugly head; he had a handle on it.
Now, it’s all gone to shit.
It’s Tuesday, and they’re at Eddie’s house after a shift, bodies slightly weary from a long day of work, slumped on the couch and a little tipsy from the six-pack of beers they’ve almost finished working their way through.
The TV isn’t on, and somewhere around the second beer, they stopped chatting and started talking—catching up because they haven’t seen each other properly, outside of work, in almost two weeks.
Despite Buck’s pointed suggestions otherwise, they weren’t not talking. But then, Eddie hasn’t really been talking to anyone; he’s been spending his days sitting in his empty house, using every spare moment to stock up on the energy it takes to go out into the world and be a normally functioning human.
It’s taking all of his energy to heave himself out of bed, to walk into work and be there, to be present, to focus on calls and laugh with his team in between.
It’s taking all of his energy to go to therapy and to not drown himself in a bottle or a lake or the goddamn ocean since he blew up his life and drove his son out of the state indefinitely.
It’s been almost a month. Each day passes slower than the last, like sinking into molasses—slowly, until you’re up to your neck, and then, suddenly, you only have a second to blink before your head is under and you can’t breathe.
And he knows—he knows Buck gets it. Buck hasn’t let him retreat entirely, but he hasn’t pushed. Buck knows him. He knows that when Eddie’s on the edge like this, even a push in the right direction will feel like a shove off a cliff—attempted murder—and will send Eddie running for the hills.
Today, though, in the locker room at the end of a long but not crushing 24-hour shift, Buck turned to him as he was grabbing his bag, ready to bid everyone goodnight and head home.
He pointed a finger at Eddie and said resolutely, “I’m coming over.”
And Eddie is having a good day, maybe he’ll allow himself a good evening. So he rolls his eyes at Buck's self-satisfied grin when he agrees, laughing as he drums his hands against the lockers in triumph. Eddie thinks it’s almost kind of cute that Buck looks like he thinks he’s gotten away with something.
Almost.
Now, sprawled and sated, mostly-empty takeout containers scattered on the coffee table in front of them, he’s glad he didn’t shutter himself away tonight. He’s been trying to stop counting quarters with his happiness, checking the scales and balances. He’s trying to remind himself that he doesn’t have to pay for a good day with a shitty evening, doesn’t have to feel guilty every second of the day, no matter how bad-good-bad it feels to self-flagellate.
So, they haven’t been not-talking, Eddie hasn’t been avoiding him, and Buck hasn’t been treading carefully around him with slow steps and outward-facing palms.
Eddie’s been working on shit and Buck has been wrapped up in the shining bisexual newness of his first boyfriend. Or, he was.
Eddie tells him about his stilted and infrequent phone calls with Chris, and the way he feels like he’s haunting his own halls, being alone in this house without his son. He’s trying and failing to fill the chasm that he gouged in his life, for which he's still trying to repent, stumbling over the fault lines and trying not to fall through.
“I think—he’s been saying that he might be ready to come home soon,” Eddie says. “And I’m happy about that, of course I am, but now I’m just kind of holding my breath. I’m just…I don’t know, waiting for the other shoe to drop or something. It’s like it’s almost harder to have hope than it was to feel hopeless.” He looks over at Buck. “You know?”
Buck is looking at him, eyes soft with understanding, when he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
And he knows it's doing him good to talk about it, that opening up to friends and letting them in is a good thing. But, truthfully, the whole thing is just fucking depressing. And the consequence of talking about it is that now he’s sad all over again, and he’s so sick of being sad and miserable and, actually, he really doesn’t want to talk about this anymore.
So before Buck can say anything else, he changes the subject. Casually though, he thinks, tries not to be too abrupt, too transparent.
“How are you feeling, y’know, post breakup?”
Buck scrunches up his face, running a hand over it, breath leaving his lungs in a huff. “I don’t know. Fine? I guess. Not heartbroken,” he insists, “just like, regular breakup sad.”
Eddie hums, nods at him to continue.
“Like…okay. I liked him, I really did,” Buck says, "but I think I just got a little caught up in having the relationship in stead of looking at what the relationship really was…or, I guess, wasn’t?”
It must show on his face that Eddie isn’t following. Buck huffs out a laugh before sitting up properly on the couch, tucking a leg underneath himself, turning to face Eddie more fully.
“We got along, and we had fun together, and the sex was great. It was like I had this big crush on him, but it never really went deeper than that. I think for either of us.” Buck takes a sip of his beer.
“I liked having a boyfriend, and he’s first guy—the only guy—I’ve ever been with, so I think I felt some sort of…attachment to him that had less to do with him, and more to do with the fact that he made me realize something so big about myself.” Buck pauses a second, trying to find the words.
“He just taught me things about myself, showed me things I never thought I would like—feel things I didn’t even know were possible.” He sort of mumbles the last part, ducking his head with a hint of a smile, cheeks a little pink.
And Eddie knows he’s probably talking about sex; Buck has never been reserved about it, not the way Eddie is. It’s kind of funny to see him now looking, honestly, a little shy. It’s not awkward, but for some reason, it makes Eddie squirm—the kinds of things he suspects Buck is talking about doing. It makes him feel warm down to his toes in a way that he thinks is mostly uncomfortable. He’s certainly not going to press for details.
“I was so giddy,” Buck continues, “like a schoolgirl or, I don’t know, a virgin on prom night.”
Eddie raises an eyebrow at that, the imagery it conjures fracturing his moment of silent contention. He’s trying not to laugh and mostly failing.
Buck puts his head in his hands, laughing, “Oh God, that’s so embarrassing.”
Eddie gives up trying not to laugh, both of them snickering. “You know, I’m totally picturing you in, like, an '80s-style prom dress, corsage and all, right now, man.”
Buck barks out a laugh before schooling his expression into mock seriousness. “Hey, I’d totally pull it off. I’d be the belle of the ball.”
When their laughter dies down, Eddie continues earnestly, “For real though, man, I get it. You weren’t exactly a blushing virgin, but he was still your first something. And hey, I never got the first girl I slept with. So, really, you’re ahead of the game.”
And sure, Buck's month-long tryst with Tommy isn’t exactly level with his very complicated, very heart-wrenching marriage with Shannon, but. The point stands.
“I mean,” Buck says, wryly, “she was the mother of your child, so I think you get a pass.”
They’re quiet for a moment before Buck continues, sinking back down into the cushions a little.
“So, yeah. Sad, but not heartbroken. The part that’s not new is giving away that little piece of your heart that you do when you start to fall for someone—not that I was falling in love with Tommy—but the failure? That part always kinda hurts.”
And, oh. Eddie frowns at that. Sometimes the way Buck sees himself and his relationships takes him aback. Reminds him how tender his heart really is.
This is probably, since that first time, the most they’ve talked about Tommy, ever. It’s not like they couldn’t; it was never a sore spot, or a no-go zone, but for the first time since he’d met him, Buck wasn’t chomping at the bit to offer up the details about his relationship.
Maybe it was just with Eddie, and he’d been talking Bobby’s or Hen’s or Chim’s or Maddie’s ears off about his crush and his newly discovered sexuality.
Maybe, he knew that when Eddie asked he was holding his breath, sort of secretly hoping Buck wouldn’t get into the nitty-gritty of it; maybe knew that no matter how much Eddie tried to pretend—promise—otherwise, there was something tangibly different about this relationship. And he feels bad about it, he does, but he’s had so much going on—in his life, in his head, and it’s all a fucking mess.
So, maybe he hasn’t been as attentive to his best friend as he should have been. Not following closely and plunging headfirst into supporting Buck in this new development in his life. It’s not lost on him that it’s kinda shitty.
Now, sitting here with him, Eddie spares a moment to feel guilty about it. No time like the present to try and right that wrong. “Buck, you’re not a failure.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to the long line people who’ve left me,” Buck fires back with a sarcastic upturn of his lips.
“Okay, not every breakup can just be boiled down to someone leaving,” Eddie quips, “like Natalia, you broke up with her!”
Buck hums, and lists on his fingers, “My parents, Maddie—and yeah, okay, she came back, but Ali, Taylor—“
“Well, you dodged a bullet with that one, bud,” Eddie mutters into the rim of his beer bottle. Taylor fucking Kelly. Good riddance.
Buck groans, “Oh come on, she wasn’t that bad. She was actually sweet once you got to know her. You,” he says, pointing accusatorially in Eddie's general direction, “just decided you hated her and were too stubborn to really try.”
And Eddie doesn’t mean to be bitchy, but c’mon. He did try, had her over for dinner and everything.
He nods, “Mhm, sweet as vinegar.” He pauses to take a sip of his beer, tipping the last of it into his mouth before leaning over to set the empty bottle on the table. “And I didn’t hate her, it wasn’t even about her. It’s just…you’re a golden retriever and she’s a shark. Match made in hell, man.”
“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Buck laughs lightly, acquiescing. “Asshole.”
For that, Eddie reaches over and smacks Buck lightly in the shoulder. So, Buck smacks him back.
Then, they’re shoving each other good-naturedly, laughter echoing as they play fight like a couple of teenagers. Somehow in their jostling, Buck loses his balance and falls into him, leaning over him slightly where he’s reclined into the cushions, one hand braced on the pillow beside Eddie to keep himself from leaning fully on top of him.
And the proximity suddenly feels a little jarring, because they don’t do this. Leaning in to each other's space for heavy, drawn-out moments, lingering, and it feels very distinctly different, charged.
They’re a firm hand on the shoulder, an elbow to the ribs, a bro hug that always lasts a very carefully appropriate amount of time. This, this is a little heady, Buck leaned up against him so near they’re practically sharing the same air.
Up close like this, he can see all of Buck's eyelashes, dark blond and feathering out to frame his eyes.
And how hasn’t Eddie ever noticed his eyes before? Were they always this blue and never-ending?
Eddie’s breath catches slightly when it's been a moment too long and neither of them moves, the frayed ends of earlier laugher dying on his lips. They both freeze for a second.
Buck doesn’t pull away; instead, he says softly, “Sorry.” Whispers it into the space between them.
Eddie blinks up at him slowly before he replies, just as softly, “It’s okay.” They’re definitely not laughing anymore, and now, this feels dangerous. Feels too close to something Eddie doesn’t think he can parse with Buck so near.
Then, quick as anything, Buck’s eyes flick down to Eddie's lips, so fleeting he almost misses it. It takes a herculean effort not to look down at Buck's mouth, but as soon as he thinks about not looking, like gravity, his eyes are drawn there for more than a second, talking it in, lips pink and plum and—Buck leans in.
Eddie’s eyes widen, and he knows what’s going to happen, knows what to do to stop it if he wants to. He should want to, but right now that part of him is locked away in a cellar screaming and banging on a soundproof door.
And in this moment, wanting to stop and needing to feel Buck's lips on his are worlds away from one another. Alarm bells are going off in his head, pulse racing but he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, lets his eyes start to close as Buck leans the rest of the way in and presses their lips together.
Buck kisses him. He kisses back.
They’re kissing, lips moving together, as he fists his hands in Buck’s shirt. Buck’s hand, the one not braced on the couch beside Eddie, comes up to cup his jaw.
Their mouths move together heatedly, lips dragging and stubble scratching, and it’s delicious, heady. Such a good kiss, Eddie is entirely consumed, can’t spare a second to pull away, breathing is last thing on his mind, suddenly very low on his list of priorities. And he didn’t know, didn’t know it could feel like this, intoxicating and heady.
Buck makes a small sound into his mouth, something between a gasp and a moan, and Eddie can at once feel the hot tendrils of arousal starting to coil in his belly and—Eddie breaks the kiss.
Snapping out of it, he scrambles backward abruptly, their mouths pulling apart with a slick sound, and places a hand on Buck’s chest to push lightly, hold him at bay.
It puts a foot of cold, heavy space between them, both breathing raggedly into it. Eddie’s eyes drop down to where his hand is still braced against Buck’s chest and yanks it back like he’s been burned by the very contact.
What the fuck just happened?
As they take a moment to stare at each other, panting, Eddie swallows the shock of what they just did, what he let himself give in to, and schools his face into something that he hopes resembles calm, cool, and collected. Buck seems frozen in place, eyes wide.
He only lets a beat pass before clearing his throat loudly, asking, “You, uh, you want another beer?” His voice sounds panicked even to his own ears.
And then he’s up off the couch, sliding gracelessly out from under Buck, moving with decidedly unnatural strides into the kitchen. And, honestly, he’s proud of himself for not flat out running.
Mind racing, he doesn’t even have time to open the fridge before he can hear Buck's footsteps behind him, advancing quickly, and he’s already talking, backpedalling.
“Eddie! Eddie I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—fuck, I shouldn’t have done that.” After a deep breath he continues, “Can we just please just pretend that never happened? Please.”
His voice is low and pleading and he sounds so serious. When Eddie turns around and looks at him, he can see the turmoil on his face.
He looks, well, he looks terrified. His eyes are shining, he’s flushed pink all the way down beneath the collar of his shirt, and he looks like he’s ready to run, or beg, or cry, and Eddie wants it to stop. Wants Buck to stop looking at him like that, like a child standing in front of a broken vase, awaiting punishment.
And Eddie knows he shouldn’t. Knows this is a dangerous path to go down, that if he stops now, pushes and pushes hard, he’ll be able to bury the desire he feels simmering in his veins, easing down his spine. He could tame it into submission.
But right now, with the sensory remnants of Buck’s lips fresh in his mind, whispering, yelling, screaming, begging, for another taste, he forgets what self control is and closes the gap between them, pulling him in and kissing him bodily. He swallows the surprised noise Buck makes into his mouth, licking inside and taking, taking, taking.
This time, Eddie’s hands are all over him, cupping the back of his neck, dragging down his arms, grabbing at his waist, circling his back, pushing into his hair as he pulls him impossibly closer.
Buck kisses him back just as eagerly, hands clinging to Eddie’s back, wrapped around him tightly so they’re pressed together from nose to toes as they make out heatedly. He crowds into Eddie’s space, walking him backwards until Eddie feels the countertop pressing into his lower back.
Buck's lips are all over, hot and insistent, as they lick into each other's mouths. The kiss lights him up, and he feels like there’s a fever running through him.
Eddie has never gotten so hard so fast in his life. Arousal is burning through him, making him dizzy with want, and he can’t think about it, how it took nothing but Buck's lips on his, bodies pressed close before Eddie is so hard he’s light-headed, straining against the front of his pants. And fuck, he can feel Buck against him, getting hard in his sweatpants, grinding their clothed cocks together and making these hot little sounds into his mouth.
Buck pulls away, panting, to kiss across his jaw, down his neck, not leaving any marks, just kissing and licking him there, getting him so hot and riled up that he’s pushing his hips into Buck, practically humping him.
He twists his fingers into Buck’s hair, pulling him roughly back up to look at him, and Buck just goes. His mouth drops open on a moan, eyelids drooping half-closed, and fuck, that’s so hot, just from Eddie pulling his hair.
Buck looks into his eyes, both of them breathing hard.
Then, before his lust-addled brain can catch up to what’s happening, Buck starts moving downwards, not breaking eye contact for a second as he sinks to his knees. And right there in Eddie’s kitchen, Buck looks up at him through his lashes and Eddie, maybe, thinks he actually does believe in God. Has to believe in God, or the divine or something—because fuck if this man isn’t an angel.
Eddie’s dick is tenting the front of his pants obscenely, and he sucks in a harsh breath when Buck leans forward to mouth at it through the fabric.
There’s something about Buck looking up at him like this, the way he can see the lust in his eyes, and Eddie now can’t tell if he’s looking at an angel or a siren, but he knows he needs to feel him right now or he’ll actually, genuinely die.
Eddie takes a deep breath, mutters a harsh and quiet, “Fuck,” before he starts unbuckling his belt, fingers working as quickly as he can for the way they’re shaking. After a moment, Buck takes over, undoing the button of his jeans and pushing them down just enough to get Eddie’s cock out. It’s so hard it springs up and hits Buck in the chin. Eddie hisses as the cool air and the feeling of the light stubble on Buck's face brush up against his erection.
Wrapping a large hand around the base, he guides it into his mouth without pretence, swirling his tongue around the head once before taking him right down. Eddie thinks he might die anyway.
Slowly, Buck pushes himself down until he’s almost taking the whole thing, breathing harshly through his nose as he struggles to fit it all in his mouth, down his throat.
Eddie swears, overwhelmed at the feeling of Buck’s hot, wet mouth sliding down around him, can’t help but grab the back of Buck’s head, fisting a hand in his hair. Not moving him, just holding tightly as he watches—feels—Buck swallow convulsively around his cock. When Buck looks up at him through his lashes, Eddie chokes out a moan into the quiet of the kitchen.
This is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him. Point blank, period.
Buck starts sucking him off properly now, and the sound is fucking obscene. One hand fisting the base, tight suction bobbing up and down, swirling his tongue around the head. Eddie has to take his hand out of Buck's hair to grip the counter with both hands, feels like he’s going to fall over, or pass out, or die. He can’t concentrate on anything other than the hot mouth around his aching cock and the hazy look in Buck’s eyes.
Then Buck does something with his tongue that has Eddie seeing stars, accidentally fucking his hips up into his mouth, gagging him.
And he knows it's bad blowjob etiquette, but when he looks back down at him to apologize, Buck meets his gaze with wet eyes, not pulling away, just moaning around Eddie’s cock like he loves it, Eddie doesn’t say sorry. Can’t even find it in himself to be sorry, not when Buck is giving him the best blowjob of his goddamn life.
And seriously, what the fuck? How is he so good at this? Then it hits him, the somehow sudden realization that Buck has done this before. That he’s been on his knees gagging around a cock, that he’s this good at it because he’s practised. And that has Eddie moaning and bucking up into his mouth again, watching him close his eyes and take it.
Eddie already knows this is going to be over embarrassingly quickly, that there’s no way he’ll be able to last much longer with Buck working him over like this. He digs his nails into the damp skin of his palms and just lets himself revel in sucking wetness of Buck’s perfect mouth.
He sees one of Buck's hands move down to reach into his own pants, doesn’t even take his cock out, and he’s moaning and humping into his own fist, jacking himself off quickly.
Then he brings the other hand, the hand that had been holding the base of Eddie’s cock, to cup his balls, massaging them lightly, before pressing a knuckle up into the space just behind, and Eddie is done. Doesn’t even get a chance to warn Buck before he’s coming hard down his throat, moaning through the most intense orgasm he’s had in decades, maybe ever.
Buck sputters, choking a little but doing his best to swallow around him as best he can, letting Eddie hold him still as he shoots his load, before pulling off, licking at the sensitive head of his cock as it jerks against his mouth, the last spurts of cum landing on his reddened lips.
Once he’s spent, Buck lets go of him, licks his lips and uses his thumb to swipe the last of Eddie's cum off the corner of his mouth before sucking his finger clean as Eddie stands there, leaning against the counter for support, watching him in awe.
Eddie is frozen, slumped boneless against the counter, wide-eyed and panting, his head tilted back, legs still shaking a little from the force of his orgasm. As he comes down, he thinks that no girl has ever sucked his dick like that, never seen someone seem to like sucking dick like that.
Then it hits him.
Painfully, harshly, all at once. What just happened, what he got so caught up in it almost hurts when it comes crashing down. Buck just gave him a blowjob. His best friend—a man sucked his dick and made him come so hard he nearly saw God.
The hot prickle of shame pours through him so fast it makes his head spin, his hands are shaking as he tucks himself away quickly, buttoning his pants, not bothering with the belt. He feels a little sick to even have been thinking God’s name while he came down his best friend's throat.
Buck is still on his knees, large wet spot staining where he must have come in his pants. He hadn’t even seen him do it. His face is wet, chin and jaw slick with spit, his lips red and puffy. He stands up, using a sleeve to wipe the mess on his face.
He starts to say something that might be Eddie's name, reaching a hand towards him, and Eddie jerks away before he has the chance to make contact, arm frozen between them.
Eddie shakes his head, slightly at first, then with full force. He doesn’t meet Buck’s eyes, not ready to see what he might find there.
He steps to the side, no longer caged between Buck and the counter, but he still feels hot all over, his breath coming faster as his brain turns back online, and he tries not to panic. He takes a step back, turning away because he can’t look at him right now—can’t breathe with his eyes on him. He runs his hands roughly through his hair.
“Fuck. Fuck.”
When he speaks, Buck’s voice is rough and fucked out, gravelly, and it makes Eddie’s ears burn thinking about why.
“Hey,” he says slowly and cautiously, “hey, Eddie, it’s okay, it’s—”
Eddie cuts him off. “I’m not gay.”
He doesn’t turn around to look at him; doesn’t want to see the look on Buck’s face, doesn’t want Buck to see the look on his. He grips the counter, leaning on it and putting his head down between his shoulders. “I’m not—I’m not gay, okay? I’m not.”
Buck is silent for a moment, the air crackling with tension—what they did, what Eddie just said.
What a cliché: the straight guy who fools around with another guy and insists he’s not gay. Eddie always thought they were full of shit, even in the army.
But in this moment, unable to meet Buck’s eyes after he just had Eddie’s dick in his mouth, he thinks he understands them. Maybe it’s more complicated than black and white; maybe biology will let things slide without reason.
“Okay,” Buck says lowly from behind him, still in that slow cautious voice. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut tightly for a second, then turns around. This is fine.
Buck says again, “Eddie, it’s okay.”
Eddie can’t stop the words bubbling out of him.
“It didn’t mean anything—doesn’t mean anything,” he utters, desperately trying not to sound defensive, because defensive means guilty, “we were just drunk a-a-and lonely and it was…it was an accident.”
And he knows it’s the wrong thing to say, knows it's borderline mean, but his head is buzzing so loud and he’s trying not to freak the fuck out right now, so. He realizes Buck could call him on it, knows they only had three beers, barely tipsy, and they know how recently single they both are, too recent for the kind of loneliness that would have you doing reckless, insane things like this.
There are plot holes the size of Texas in his bumbling attempt at explaining this away, and he doesn’t think he could take it if Buck pointed that out right now.
Buck's expression closes off, eyes dark and blank as he presses his lips together, nodding, and whispers, “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Eddie nods. Thinks, desperately, that Buck must feel the same, just as despairingly overwhelmed with the need for this to go away, to pretend it never happened. They’re on the same page, then, they have to be.
And Eddie’s not an asshole, okay? No matter how much he wants to tell Buck to leave, to be able to crawl into bed right the fuck now and never, ever think of this again, he’s still Buck, still Eddie’s best friend, so he doesn’t. He won’t. But he also can’t fathom where to go from here without fucking things up more than he already has.
When it’s clear Eddie isn’t going to say anything else, Buck nods once more. Clearing his throat before motioning behind him with the same thumb that wiped Eddie’s cum off his mouth just minutes ago.
“I’m gonna—I’m gonna…”
Eddie lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Yeah, yeah, you should probably…”
Buck looks at him for one more charged moment, eyes searching, and it takes everything in him for Eddie to meet his eyes, hold his gaze. God, he sounds so defeated when he whispers into the space between them, “‘Night, Eddie.”
And yeah, okay, maybe he is an asshole.
Eddie stands there, staring at nothing until he hears the front door open, then close. He thinks he can physically feel Buck’s presence leaving the house, taking his heat with him, leaving something cold and bitter in his wake. Eddie steels himself, raking a hand through his hair, before pushing off the counter and walking into the living room.
He very carefully thinks about nothing as he gathers the discarded beer bottles and takeout containers scattered across the coffee table, taking them back to the kitchen.
He keeps his mind blank as he methodically separates the garbage from the recycling, putting the forks in the dishwasher, wiping down the counters. He looks around for something else to do, begging absolutely no one for another mindless task to not-focus on, but there’s nothing.
He sighs, turning off the lights and leaving the room.
In the shower, he scrubs himself down three times, trying to wash the night off his skin and down the drain to disappear for good before the prickling thoughts—just scratching the surface now—can burrow deeper. If he can do that, maybe they won’t haunt him, won’t change him.
And maybe, he thinks, maybe this wasn’t a big deal to Buck. Maybe sucking Eddie's dick in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, with his perfect mouth, his wet eyes, and his big fucking hands, looking up at Eddie as he let him come down his throat, isn’t damning. And if it’s not a big deal to Buck, maybe it doesn’t have to be a big deal to Eddie either.
Finally, when the water has started to go cold, his fingers pruning and skin scrubbed raw, he leans his head against the tiles and lets himself cry.
At work, things are mostly normal. They’re mostly normal because Eddie makes sure they are. He’s got this shit under control.
He walks into the station on Thursday, the first shift back after what he’s neatly labelled in his head The Incident, with an iron-strong resolve to make it through the shift without blowing up, breaking down, or spending every second looking like he’s ready to flee the scene. His skin feels too tight, hairs at the back of his neck perpetually raised, palms sweaty no matter how many times he wipes them on his uniform pants.
He’s so hyper-aware of his own caustic thoughts that he thinks they must be—have to be—perceptible to everyone around him, like at any moment, someone could just look at him and know.
But he walks into work, and everything is as it should be. No one says anything, no one looks at him funny, no one stomps up to him and demands he answer for his crimes.
So, when he comes up the stairs of the loft to see Buck, Bobby, and Hen already sat at the table, drinking coffee and trying to look alive for 8 a.m., he pours himself a cup, sits right across from Buck and bids them all a good morning.
“Chim running late?” he asks, craning his neck to glance around the room, as if he’d be able to spot the man hiding in a potted plant or something.
“L.A. traffic,” Hen singsongs, “where’s Taylor Kelly when you need her, huh?”
Eddie refuses to react to that. Taylor Kelly is exactly where she needs to be: literally anywhere else.
Stirring his coffee, he chats with them, making sure to maintain an absolutely normal amount of eye contact with Buck, as he asks him about his morning.
And it’s fine. It's normal. He only has to work a little hard to keep the events of that night from replaying loudly and vibrantly in his head whenever Buck so much as sighs or clears his throat.
Eddie realizes he’s pulling off some next-level compartmentalization here, and spares a second to be proud of himself; a little self-congratulation never hurt anyone.
Buck, for his part, is only a little off.
It takes a few more hours of carefully crafted normalcy before he seems to accept that Eddie isn’t going to freak out, ignore him, or have any number of other reactions Buck could possibly be conjuring up scenarios for in his head, before he’s relaxing into normalcy.
So they ease into the swing of things, and they have a good day—banter and friendly smiles in the truck, working seamlessly together on calls. He’s damn proud of himself, surprised at how absolutely, totally fine it all feels. Maybe he’ll even be able to take a rain check on the panic attack he’d anticipated while on his way to work. He was right; nothing has to change.
There is one part—and this part he might feel a little bad about. Because even though they’d kind of, sort of agreed to pretend it never happened, when Buck, sweet as ever, approaches him in a quiet moment to earnestly ask if they’re okay, Eddie makes an exaggeratedly confused face, tilting his head.
Then, as casual as ever, he responds, “Yeah, ‘course we are. Why wouldn’t we be? Everything okay, man?”
Buck makes a face, not appeased. “Should we like…I don’t know, talk about it?” He asks, voice dropping low, hesitant and a little shaky.
Without missing a beat, Eddie schools his features back into that mask of confusion.
“Talk about what?” He asks. And he’s not trying to make Buck feel like he’s the crazy one for asking, but…he maybe definitely is.
He doesn’t wait for Buck to respond, flashing him a quick smile before clapping him heartily on the shoulder and walking away.
It’s fine. It’s just—while he’s putting in double time trying to maintain his tenuous grasp on normalcy, inside, his mind is raging war against him.
He’s got this frantic inner monologue, ceaseless repetition consisting only of: BuckBuckBuckBuckBuckBuckBuckBuck. No structured or cohesive thoughts, just the man’s name repeated over and over in his head, so that every moment he’s not otherwise actively engaged, Buck is there raging war on his psyche.
By the time they’re nearing the end of the shift, he feels worn out. His can-do attitude from this morning is sitting tarnished in a corner while he hunkers down and tries to get through the last couple of hours.
As he drives home, drained, he thinks to himself that he’d meant it when he said it was an accident. He had a moment of weakness, it happens. He thinks that given a little time and a little patience, he can even learn to forgive himself. He may not be able to take it back, but he can do his best not to let it ruin him.
He takes a moment to mourn his near-perfect track record. The way he was perfectly happily unhappy trudging through life, only diverting off the beaten path by inches or feet, not miles. Always close enough that he could see through the foliage to where he was meant to be, always close enough to pull himself back to safety.
This thing—The Incident—is not an inch, it's not a foot, it's not even a mile. It’s a chasm oceans wide, and he’d flung himself so far into its abyss, so far away from where he’s meant to be, where he needs to be.
So, he’ll take his time, and he’ll get back to his path; walk, or run, or climb, or swim, if he has to. Will trudge through fire, choke and gasp against roiling ocean waves, grasp at sturdy branches, find footholds in cliff sides, anything to be able to look up ahead and know he’s safe. Held by the certainty of what lies ahead.
Then, he’ll hold fast and never let go.
And he won’t let anyone, not himself, not the devil, certainly not infuriatingly pretty, blue-eyed boys with sly smiles carved out of lips of sin, stop him. He was weak, then, but he won’t be now.
Won’t ever be again.
He makes it six days before he breaks.
For a while, everything is alright. He’s been good—hasn’t said or done or thought anything to be ashamed of, not in days.
And he likes feeling normal, likes walking out into the world not lugging around the impossible weight of his shame, not fighting for his life against his own mind. But, after those first few days, it all comes crashing down. Just as things seem to be settled, his traitorous mind starts rattling his careful compartmentalization, like boxes tumbling off shelves in an earthquake.
And now, at least he can make it through days—the mornings and afternoons; the times when the sun hangs in the sky are usually relatively peaceful enough to wade through.
And work, work is doable too, because after the first day, things settled back into mostly non-forced normalcy between him and Buck. No one can lie and say there’s nothing to be said for good old-fashioned force of will.
During the day, he absolutely doesn’t freak out, panic, or stare at Buck just a little too long as he changes in and out of his uniform. He would have thought being in a room with him would be the hard part; that seeing him live and up close would make it impossible to curb the intrusive thoughts that rattle him, shake him down to the core.
But, as it turns out, his best friend is still his best friend, and thank fuck for that.
But the nights? They’re aching and endless, where he lies alone in his bed, unable to quell the thoughts that bubble up, pressing against the insides of his skull from all sides, trying to escape, screaming until he gives in. Nights mostly leave him feeling raw and hollowed out.
Sometimes, he stares at the wall or the ceiling, thinking forcefully about Shannon, Ana, Marisol. How much he liked them—loved Shannon—how beautiful they were, how he was definitely, absolutely attracted to them. He thinks about it, and he believes it, but he doesn’t burn with it. He can’t make himself feel that incessant fire in his gut that only seems to rear its ugly head when he thinks about Buck. See, the problem with the night is that he can only lie to himself in the unerring darkness for so long before the silence betrays him.
So he caves. He caves and he thinks about Buck; the way he looked with his lips stretched around Eddie's cock. Thinks about the way he’d jerked himself off, coming in his pants just from being on his knees. Can’t stop himself from thinking about the sounds Buck made, the wanton look on his face when Eddie pulled his hair, thinking about what kind of noises Buck would make if Eddie tugged on it like that while he was fucking him.
And alone, with no one but the sliver of the moon barely visible from his bed as a witness, he can’t pretend it doesn’t turn him on—not the first night, not the fourth night, and not tonight. It gets him so hard he barely has to get a hand on himself before he’s shooting off. Always, always, to thoughts of his best friend—on his knees or splayed out on his back or bent over literally any of the vast lexicon of surfaces his mind can conjure at a moment’s notice.
Afterwards, Eddie hates himself. Hates that he’s getting himself off to things like this.
But biology is weird, right? People can fantasize about things they don’t actually want. Sometimes you can’t control the things your body craves, and as long as it doesn’t leave his head, doesn’t leave this room, the house of cards can’t come skittering down.
The hard part—the part that makes him want to take himself to church and ask for forgiveness—is the fantasies he has afterwards. After he comes, cleans himself up perfunctorily, and settles back into bed, he thinks about him softly.
After the sex, kissing him slow, both of them still sticky and sweaty and pressed so, so close. Thinks about running his hands over the vast planes of his body, touch achingly soft, pressing kisses into the skin of his face, neck, chest, his fucking adorable little tummy. Wants to press so close he won’t know where he ends and Buck begins. Wants to see him smile, wants to go to sleep with him, wake up with him, be with him.
That’s the part that keeps him up at night. Every night.
So tonight, on the sixth day after The Incident, he's rolling around sleeplessly, awake at 1 a.m., with the beginnings of a headache starting to creep in and pound at his temples. He’s picturing Buck lying in his own bed, and in his mind’s feverish eye, he’s half naked, touching himself. Can’t stop thinking about Buck with a hand between his thighs, chest rising and falling as he strokes himself, the way he’d throw his head back as he moaned, the way he’d look as he came all over himself.
And Eddie aches—to touch him, to be near him, even just to watch. He doesn’t even know if Buck wants him that way, if The Incident was just a blip in Buck's otherwise platonic feelings for him.
But he can’t do this anymore, can’t sit here and wonder, desire burning like a fire in his chest.
He pats the blankets around himself for his phone, fishing it out from where it had gotten lost in the sheets. Heart racing, he opens his chat with Buck, and before he can second-guess himself, he takes a breath and does the single dumbest thing he thinks he’s ever done: he texts him.
Hey, you awake?
He can’t tell if it’s seconds, minutes, or hours that pass while he waits for Buck to respond—if he’ll even respond—but it feels like some sort of eternity.
He locks and unlocks his phone several times before putting it down beside him. He’s an adult, albeit an adult who just sent the very transparent, very embarrassing "u up?" text.
Now, he waits with bated breath for something to happen, resolutely not looking at his phone, even as he picks it up again, turning it over and over in his hands. He’s starting to consider getting in his car and driving off the closest bridge when it finally buzzes against his palm.
Yeah what’s up
And Eddie knew what he wanted when he sent that text, doesn’t even bother trying to wait a cursory minute before tapping out a reply.
Are you alone?
Yeah
He takes a deep breath before typing out:
Can I come over?
He watches as the little typing bubbles appear and disappear on his screen several times before they stop. He lets thirty seconds go by before he starts to panic, face burning and regretting every life choice he’s ever made that has led him up to this moment.
He just showed his hand, and the only way this ends is with him losing big. Just as he’s about to truly go off the deep end, a message pops up in the still-open chat.
Yeah
Once again, with absolutely no decorum, he responds within seconds.
Okay, be there soon
He throws on some clothes, scrambling to get out the door, almost forgetting to grab his keys on the way out.
Desperation makes fools of us all.
On the drive over to Buck’s place, he promises himself that this will be the last time. He just needs to get it out of his system, just needs to do it once, to satisfy the hunger that’s been gnawing at him, leaving him hollow and starving for days on end. The stomach ache that never goes away. Just this once, then he can finally move on. Get back to living his life without this casting a shadow over his every waking thought.
Buck pulls the door to his loft open 25 minutes later, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, looking soft and sweet with his socked feet and only slightly messy hair. Even though he sees him almost every day, something about the way he looks right now—sleep-soft and partly illuminated by the dim light—grips Eddie, making him lose his breath for just a half-second.
He can hear it in his own voice when he says, “Hey.”
“Hey,” Buck replies, pulling the door open wider, stepping aside to let Eddie in.
While Eddie toes his shoes off by the door, Buck walks into the kitchen, leaning his hip against the kitchen island, crossing his arms across his chest. His body language is sort of guarded, Eddie’s starting to think he’d put space between them on purpose.
There’s a tension in the air, the quiet between them feels loaded in a way it hadn’t since that night in Eddie’s kitchen.
It’s almost as if just by being here in this context, all the pretending that they’d been doing that nothing had ever happened between them, falls away. Like they’re picking up where they left off with Eddie panicking and Buck looking at him for answers he didn’t have.
“So.” Buck says it like something between a question and a statement, eyebrows raised, waiting for Eddie to say something, do something. He’s the one who asked to come over in the middle of the night after all. They both know why he sent that text, why he’s here.
And Eddie freezes.
A few seconds pass, tension crackling in the air, silence hanging heavy as neither of them says anything.
It’s strikingly clear they’re both waiting on Eddie, and he’s kind of dropping the ball. He’d lost his nerve somewhere in the moments between stepping out of his car and across Buck’s threshold.
Buck huffs something that sounds like a laugh void of amusement. Eddie walks forward, slow to close the space Buck had put between them, only a handful of steps really. He stops in front of him, not close but not far, definitely leaving room for Jesus. It’s so quiet, he can practically hear his own heartbeat, wills himself to say something.
“I-I um,” Eddie starts, opens and closes his mouth a few times, stuttering, searching for words he doesn’t have, before lapsing back into silence.
From across the room, Buck had looked self-assured, relaxed, and maybe even a little bored. Up close, Eddie can see that he’s nervous. His breathing isn’t quite even, lips twitching in what looks like an effort to keep from biting them, and his eyes are darting around Eddie's face, the same searching look he had that night in Eddie's kitchen, right after he’d told him it was all a drunken accident.
“What do you want, Eddie?” Buck says with a sigh. His eyes are soft, but his voice is measured, carefully unreadable.
“You.”
The word sends a jolt through him, tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop it. He realizes with a start just how true it is—he does want him, has been wanting him, fiercely, no matter how hard he’s tried to stop.
Buck crumbles, just a little, arms dropping to his sides, lips parting around an inhale so feather light, and he watches as Buck softens right before his eyes.
He looks at Eddie, holds his gaze, intense and unwavering, and whispers, voice soft and pleading, like it’s that simple, “Then have me.”
And just like that, it is that simple. Dam broken, Eddie surges forward, hands fitting immediately around Buck’s waist to pull him in close as he kisses him deeply. And he gets lost in it, the feeling of Buck's lips on his, kissing him back hungrily.
They’re not gentle about it, kissing rough and dirty, licking into each other’s mouths, all biting lips and clashing teeth, trying to get impossibly closer. Eddie didn’t think anything could taste so good, wants to spend the rest of his life chasing Buck's taste on his tongue.
Eddie pushes Buck more firmly back up against the island. Crowding against him, feeling down his body, he pries his mouth away to kiss across Buck's jaw to his neck, reaching down to grab his knee, hiking it up around his own waist and revelling in the moan in pushes out of Buck. Taking his mouth again, Eddie grinds their hips together, and fuck, he’s so hot like his, flushed and starting to get hard where he’s rubbing up against Eddie.
And this? This he feels down to his bones, burning with it. His skin is thrumming, tingling, flames catching everywhere Buck’s hands touch. There’s a desperation building in him, and he needs more, needs to be closer, needs to be all over him, in him, to crawl beneath his skin and live there forever.
Eddie is lost in it, doesn’t even think his brain has caught up with his mouth as he hears himself pant into Buck’s ear, “I want to be inside you.”
Buck whines at that, hips bucking up forcefully, leg wrapping tighter around Eddie’s waist. “Yes. Fuck, you can. Anything. Eddie,” he pants, “fuck—want you. I want you inside me.”
And Eddie has never wanted anything this badly, this viscerally. Hearing Buck say those words unlocks something in him, pries open a door he doesn’t ever think he’ll be able to close.
“Eddie, bed,” Buck urges, still grinding their hips together, “c’mon lets—want you to fuck me.”
Eddie nods, grunting, “Yeah,” he reaches down to grab Buck’s ass over his sweatpants, dragging him closer, “Fuck, c’mon.” Then he manages to pull himself away, nodding his head towards the loft stairs.
Eddie doesn’t know what happens in the minutes it must have taken them to get upstairs and get their clothes off, but the next thing he knows they’re rolling around on the sheets, bed messy and unmade from where Buck must have been lying in it earlier.
They’re down to their boxers, both so hard and desperate they can’t stop rubbing against each other long enough to get fully naked.
It’s not until Buck breaks away to roll over and grab the lube and condom out of the nightstand, that Eddie takes a moment to remove his boxers, giving himself a few strokes once they’re off and kicked somewhere near the end of the bed.
When Buck is back in his space, dropping the items he’d retrieved somewhere near the pillows, Eddie drags his hands down Buck's body, squeezes at his chest, noting the way Buck moans softly when he stops to toy with a nipple. Buck is squirming as Eddie tucks two fingers into his underwear, taking his time peeling them down to reveal Buck's cock.
Eddie can’t look away, sounds reverent when he murmurs, “Fuck, look at you.” Because Buck is big, rock hard and twitching, red at the tip and already starting to get wet. Eddie wraps a hand around him, stroking lightly, teasingly, gathering precum to slick the way.
Not stopping his movements, Eddie shifts to wind his other hand through Buck’s hair and tugs hard while he runs his fingers over the head of his cock.
Buck cries out, and more precum oozes out and Eddie can’t help but moan with him, “Oh God, you’re so fucking wet. That’s so hot.”
Buck brings a hand up to grip Eddie’s shoulder tightly, as he gets his hands all over him, anywhere he can reach. Eddie drags his hands down to squeeze Buck’s ass harshly, spreading him open, touching at his hole. Buck jolts under his fingers.
This is such uncharted territory for him, he’s honestly never really touched anyone here; not like this, with intent.
“Fuck. Fuck, we need—” Buck swears and lifts his flings his hand out to grope around in the bedding for the bottle of lube he’d dropped there. He hands it to Eddie once he finds it. Eddie curls a hand around Buck’s thigh, pushing his legs open and settling between as he kisses him, deep and slow.
As he lies between Buck's spread legs, kissing him within an inch of his life, he thinks about how he almost didn’t let himself have this, tried to not even let himself want this. But he does he wants this, wants Buck, and so he tells him. Whispering it into his skin, holding fast, because he has to know, he has to know how Eddie burns for him.
Eddie uncaps the lube, coating his fingers before he brings his hand up to spread it all over Buck’s hole, rubbing once firmly, then again when it makes Buck moan.
Then he pauses, hesitating, realizing he’s unsure what to do. “Um…” He mumbles, cringing at himself a little.
“Put your fingers in me,” Buck instructs without missing a beat, “start with one.”
The sound Buck makes when he presses his finger into him has Eddie grasping him tightly with his free hand, fingers digging into his hip, likely leaving bruises on Buck's pale skin.
He’s so tight, tighter than a pussy, and he breathes out unevenly, thinking about how he’s going to get to put his cock there. He pushes one in, slowly, carefully feeling the way his hole relaxes and lets him in when he applies pressure. Buck tells him to add another one, so he does, thrusting shallowly. By the time he gets a third one in, Buck is rocking back against his hand.
“Curl your fingers, like this,” Buck demonstrates, lifting a hand to show Eddie, curling his fingers up slightly towards his palm. So Eddie does, and feels his fingers brush up against something that has Buck crying out and bucking his hips erratically.
Then, Eddie remembers—right, prostate.
He tries to keep his composure as he continues pressing his fingers into Buck, fucking him on them until he’s grinding back against his hand, working his fingers in and out. Eddie keeps at it, pressing in deep and curling them again and again, transfixed, as he watches Buck get lost in it. He reaches his other hand up, curling his fingers into the soft hair at the back of Buck’s head and pulling hard, watches as his cock twitches and more precum slides down the shaft and pools on his belly.
It’s addictive, playing with him like this, forcing moans and whines out of him, and he needs.
He needs to see him come. He thinks maybe he’ll die if he doesn’t, can’t even wait until he gets inside him, has to push him over the edge now.
Buck cries out when Eddie pulls his hair at the same time as he curls his fingers up into that spot.
“Eddie. Oh my god, that feels—fuck.” He gasps as he humps down into Eddie’s hand.
Eddie realizes Buck hasn’t made a move to touch himself, his cock twitching against his stomach, so red it looks like it hurts. Eddie would do it himself, but his hands are otherwise occupied.
“Touch yourself,” Eddie says, it comes out rough and demanding and he fucks his fingers in hard as he says it.
Buck is panting, fingers fisted hard in the sheets, and shakes his head, “I-I can’t. I’ll come if I do.”
Eddie doesn’t care, single-minded in needing to see Buck come all over himself, can’t think about anything else.
He leans in, pulling Buck by the hair again to force him to look at him, and oh, his eyes are so big and wet, and Eddie leans in to say in a tone that leaves no room for argument, “Touch. Yourself.” Feels Buck’s hole clench down hard around his fingers at the order.
He looks down to see Buck curl his fingers around his aching cock and start to stroke.
And Buck only has to work his fist up and down over his cock a handful of times before he's coming, shooting all over his belly as he works himself between his hand on his cock and Eddie’s fingers inside him. It’s so hot, Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything this hot.
Buck is covered in it, all on his fist, his stomach, all the way up to his chest. Eddie keeps his fingers moving over his prostate, working him through it until he’s done, panting and oversensitive, kissing him as he comes down.
Eddie pulls his fingers out, then runs them over the mess on Buck's stomach, gathering up some of his cum on his fingers, getting them messy, before bringing them back down to Buck’s hole, and pushing his fingers, and Buck's own cum back into him, revelling in the feeling of Buck's hole clenching down as he hears him gasp out his name from above him.
When Eddie looks up at him, he’s shaking slightly, still catching his breath.
“Thought you said you were gonna fuck me.” Buck quips, taunting, and Eddie nods. “Then fuck me.”
That spurs him into action, reaching down to his own neglected cock and giving it a few strokes.
“Fuck, okay. Turn over.”
And Buck does, barely taking a second before he’s rolling over onto his front, spreading his legs, and tilting his hips up.
Eddie has pictured Buck like this, exactly like this, so many times, and if he can only have him for one night, he needs to see him like this, on his hands and knees, back bowed and arched, muscles flexing. He spares a moment to mourn all the other ways he’ll never get to have him.
He sucks in a breath, hands grabbing at Buck's ass to pull the cheeks apart and look at where his wet hole is clenching around nothing. He rubs at it with his thumb, pulling slightly on the rim to watch it flutter around his finger.
“Eddie, c’mon,” Buck urges from where his face is pressed against the sheets.
Eddie sits back for a second, rolling the condom on, squeezing his cock at the base and taking a deep breath to get himself under control before slicking himself up generously with lube, wiping his hands on the sheets and shuffling forward to run his hands over Buck's back and sides.
He fits his hands around his hips, pulling them up so he’s up on his knees with his face still pressed into the sheets. Eddie almost moans just from the way he looks like this, wanton and slutty, hips twitching back to where Eddie’s cock is resting against his hole.
“Eddie, please, come on. I want it.”
Eddie grabs his cock, guiding the head to Buck's hole and pushing. It takes him a minute to get fully seated. Buck is tight even after his fingers, only able to relax enough for him to slide in a couple inches at a time, the way Buck is shaking slightly in his grasp, wincing as he gets used to the stretch, gives him pause.
“Does it hurt?” Eddie asks tentatively. “Do you…do you want me to stop?”
Buck shakes his head, “No, no, I just need a minute,” he shudders, “’s been a while.”
Eddie nods his head, even though Buck can’t see him from this position. He’s so hot around his cock, hole squeezing at him, and it takes everything in him to stay still. He slides his hands all over Buck’s body, rubbing calming circles into his hips, whispering encouragements of ‘there you go, there you go’ before his body starts to give, opening up to let him sink all the way inside and holy fuck.
They both breathe harshly for a moment, then Eddie can’t help grinding his hips in little circles, not pulling out but not able to stay still.
Slowly, Buck's hips start to work back against his, grinding on his cock and making these hot little mewling noises into the bedding. He can tell when it starts to get good for Buck, his moans getting louder, asking for it harder, then begging for it.
Before long, Buck is working himself back onto him properly, as Eddie grabs his hips and pounds him.
They’re both moaning so loudly, sweat beading then dripping down Eddie's forehead, Buck fisting the sheets hard, and Eddie leans forward to grab Buck's hair, pulling so his face is just off the bed, his back bowing.
The change in angle must do something good because Buck is clenching up around him vice tight and crying out so loud he’s sure the neighbours will complain. Eddie just pulls his hair harder, nailing him in that spot over and over.
Buck sounds like he’s trying to speak, stuttering, but not able to get any words out. His moans sound desperate and high pitched, and it’s so hot, feels so good and right and Eddie can feel himself getting close.
Eddie leans back slightly, looks down at where he’s driving his cock into Buck, his hole stretched tight around Eddie's cock and—fuck. He has to look away, starts mentally counting backwards from ten to stop himself from coming too soon. He can’t remember the last time he felt like he was on such a hair trigger, a live wire ready to catch spark at any moment.
Like this, he can see all the muscles in Buck’s back, his arms flexing as he grips desperately at the bedding under him.
For once, he just lets himself look. Doesn’t think he’s ever been able to just look at him like this; unobserved, unmoderated, made all the hotter because it's him that’s causing the sweat to bead on Buck’s skin, his cock driving those hot, fucked out noises out of him. He lets Buck’s head drop back down into the bed in favour of running his hands all over him, across his shoulders, down his back, nails dragging up his thighs, squeezing the meat of his ass, before sliding one back into his hair, tugging harshly. Just like before, Buck moans for it, head going where Eddie guides it, trying to fuck himself back harder onto his cock.
Eddie groans, using his other hand to pull him up so Eddie can whisper filthily in his ear. He slides his hand around his throat, squeezing lightly, not enough to cut off his air, just enough for him to feel it, cataloging the way Buck's already thundering pulse jumps under his hand, before moving it down to his chest to play with his nipples.
And Eddie is overwhelmed, but knows he needs to have this, to stay buried deep inside, holding on for dear life. And if he’s going to let himself have this, just for tonight, just this once, he’s going to make the most of it, draw it out as long as he can, because here, there’s no room for shame or self-doubt or panic, when they’re moving together like this, suspended in the moment.
It’s all worth it, he thinks, for the way Buck arches and moans, “Oh fuck, right there! Right there, Eddie, don’t stop. Fuck it feels so fucking good. Please, please, I’m—”
Eddie slows his thrusts, pushing as deep inside as he can, and grinding his hips in tight little circles. Buck throws his head back onto Eddie’s shoulder, panting and whining, and reaching back to cling to whatever part of Eddie he can reach, body shaking, and says Eddie’s name like a prayer.
Eddie just drags his lips over the curve of his cheek, kisses the side of his face and whispers, “You look so good taking it, taking my cock. You’re so fucking tight. God, Buck, I’m gonna come inside you.”
Then starts up his brutal pace again, and Buck is so fucking hot, so responsive, moaning loud and louder, urging Eddie to fuck him harder, faster, just like that, Eddie is going to come.
He snaps his hips into him hard, nailing him over and over again right where he wants him—and then with a wail, Buck is coming, untouched, shooting off into the sheets as Eddie works his cock against his prostate, milking it out of him. His hole clamps down tight, squeezing Eddie's cock, and that’s it—with a noise he’s never heard himself make before, Eddie is coming hard into the condom, crying out and thrusting in tight little spasms of his hips as he empties himself, holding Buck tight in his arms, where he’s slumped, boneless, against his chest.
Nothing has ever felt like this before. He didn’t know sex could feel like this: all-encompassing, overwhelming—fucking biblical.
He knows he should pull out before the condom gets gross, but he kind of doesn’t ever want to leave Buck's body.
He’s panting so hard he’s a little dizzy, kisses the side of Buck's face once more before releasing him, and following him down to where he’s splayed out flat on the bed. He drags his hand down slowly over Buck's flank down to his hip, patting him lightly.
“Fuck."
Once they’ve caught their breath, Eddie does pull out, with a wince, tying the condom off and holding it gingerly between two fingers. He looks down at the condom, and it’s not like he doesn’t know where the garbage is, so he walks over to the bathroom, throwing out the condom.
He looks at himself in the mirror, barely able to see his reflection in the dark of the bathroom. He doesn’t know what he’s hoping to see. Like last time, once the afterglow has faded, the panic starts to creep in.
What does this mean? Once is an accident but twice…looking at himself, he tries to think the word gay at his reflection, see how it feels.
And immediately, he wants to throw up, cringes down to his toes. So no, still not gay, he’s just a straight guy who apparently has an affinity for fucking his best friend in the kitchen. And the bedroom.
He realizes, then, that he’s been just standing in the dark bathroom for a while, and rakes a hand through his hair as he makes his way out, back to where Buck is sitting up on the bed now, sheets pulled up around his waist.
He’s fiddling with his hands in his lap, looking at Eddie with an unreadable expression as Eddie pulls his clothes on.
And for a second, Eddie thinks he can be normal about this. But he quickly realizes that he doesn’t know what constitutes as normal in this situation.
There are a million things he could say, or do, and he’s honestly starting to get a little overwhelmed, so when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “I’m not gay.”
Fuck. He immediately curses himself; that’s not what he’d meant to say.
Buck looks at him a moment, sighs deeply and closes his eyes for a second, then concedes quietly, “Okay, yeah Eddie, you’re not gay.”
And for some reason, the sigh, the way he says it, grates at him, even though it wasn’t really snide enough to be properly sarcastic. It puts him on edge a little, hackles rising as he tries, tries not to get defensive, but there’s that familiar feeling crawling up his throat, threatening to choke him unless he chokes it first.
Eddie frowns at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Buck shrugs a shoulder, pursing his lips. “I get it. You’re not gay, I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
“Why do you keep saying it like that?”
Buck huffs a laugh, eyes widening slightly in disbelief. “Like what? Like you just came to my apartment at 1:30 in the morning and fucked me?”
Eddie's ears burn, and he winces at the way Buck enunciates each word. The worst part is that he isn’t even really being all that mean about it, he’s not saying it with vitriol, he’s not going for the jugular. The words just sound so much more vulgar, more damning said out loud than they ever do in his head. Because Eddie did do that. He did that and now he’s immediately regretting it as he defiantly avoids dealing with the consequences.
“I should go,” he says, walking over to where his shirt sits, discarded and crumpled on the floor, and pulls it on.
“Yeah.”
“And we…” Eddie stammers, “We shouldn’t—this can’t happen again.”
“‘Kay.” Buck’s head is turned away from him as he says it.
Eddie turns to leave, gets one hand railing leading down the stairs, before stilling, and turns back to look at Buck.
“Are we…are we okay?”
It’s a stupid question, because nothing about this feels okay. But he needs to not have ruined this, needs to know that they’ll bounce back.
Buck looks up at him now, in the eye, and his jaw ticks as he says the very thing Eddie had said to him a week ago when Buck had asked that very same question, “Yeah, of course we are, why wouldn’t we be?”
And yeah, he probably deserves that. Eddie nods, not feeling reassured in the slightest.
When he climbs into his truck in the parking lot, he puts his head against the steering wheel, feels the stiff vinyl dig into his forehead and thinks, what the fuck have I done?
His eyes burn, but he doesn’t let himself cry this time. Because this time, it wasn’t an accident, he knew what he was doing, he was weak and gave in, and now he has no one to blame but himself.
The problem now, is that Eddie has taken a match and burned down right to the quick, his relationship with both of the most important people in his life.
When Eddie shows up at Buck’s door several nights later, neither of them even says anything. Eddie knows he’s weak, has long since given up trying to pretend otherwise. The price of pretending is not getting to have Buck like this, and sometimes, he just—sometimes he just needs.
So when Eddie pulls into a parking spot in front of Buck’s building, it’s nearing midnight. He sits in his car a moment, head tipped back, eyes closed.
He knows he shouldn’t do this. That going up there right now is such a bad idea, but whatever beastly thing exists inside him—pulling him back to this, back to Buck—is stronger than him, and he’s so sick of fighting it.
Buck opens the door wearing a hoodie, loose shorts, and socks. Always socks. And Eddie doesn’t know why it endears him the way that it does, that Buck is always shuffling around in perpetually socked feet because they get cold, even in the summer.
Buck looks surprised, clearly not expecting him, and quirks his head to the side as he takes in Eddie standing there, probably looking some terrible shade of desperate, and knows what he’s there for.
Eddie’s voice is low when he asks, “Can I come in?” And for a heart-stopping moment, he thinks Buck might say no. That he might laugh or slam the door in his face without another word. He wouldn’t be wrong to do it.
He sees the moment Buck makes his decision, gives in and pulls Eddie inside by his shirt front, pushing him back up against the door to close it, and doesn’t say a word, pressing their lips together.
It’s as addictive as it always is, kissing Buck. The way he tastes, smells, feels—against his lips, under his hands, like everything Eddie’s ever wanted all wrapped up in one man. They kiss fast and deep against the door, Eddie letting Buck crowd him up against it while his hands roam. He moves a hand down to grab at Buck's ass.
Kisses down his neck and asks, “Buck. Buck, can I? Can we—?”
And Buck knows what he’s asking for, and pressing their foreheads together, nods and says, “Yeah, yeah, we can,” clutching at him, breath fanning out across Eddie’s face.
And Eddie feels almost as bad having this as he feels not having it. Feels bad, because this feels so dangerously good. He can’t stop, can’t take his hands off of Buck long enough to get a sane thought in edgewise.
His heart is squeezing painfully in his chest knowing that in the morning he’ll hate himself all over again, that he’ll probably spend the hours after it's over trying to school his thoughts into something that resembles sensibility. But right now, up against Buck’s front door, rationale is the furthest thing from his mind.
So he lets Buck lead him upstairs, gets them undressed, presses Buck face down ass up into the sheets, and fucks him right into the mattress.
Later, after he’d fucked Buck until he came loudly and messily into the sheets, Eddie didn’t pull out, didn’t stop. He worked his hips inside, grinding deep, until Buck got hard again, then flipping him over, holding him down by his wrists, fucked a second orgasm out of him.
After, Buck watches from the bed, still covered in cum, as Eddie gets dressed silently. He doesn’t even react when Eddie says the same thing he’d said the last time they did this.
They both know the words don’t mean anything anymore, if they ever did. They both know that Eddie says them only to make himself feel better, as if claiming he isn't gay somehow undoes the very gay sex they just had, acts as some sort of loophole.
As if saying they can't do this again actually means it’s the last time.
Eddie looks over at him, knowing that what he’s doing is fucked up—that he’s fucked up. He wants to reach out, fall back into the circle of Buck’s arms and be held by him. Wants to fall asleep and wake up with him, see him sprawled in the morning glow. He wants and wants and wants. But for all his wanting, he still doesn’t know how to stay.
He knows how to run, though, so he does. Buck lets him do his sad little song and dance, his undersold theatre act for two, nods once at him before he rolls over. Eddie walks down the stairs and out the door.
He can tell himself all he wants that he’s never, ever going to touch Buck like that again, but it doesn’t mean anything.
They both know he’s going to come back.
They keep fucking.
There’s little pretence when Eddie shows up at Buck’s late at night, or when Buck follows him home after a shift, barely making it to the bedroom before they’re on each other. And they don’t talk about it. Not with words—or at least not ones that count for anything.
Instead, they talk to each other through moans and sighs and grunts of pleasure. Whispered encouragements—Buck’s voice hot in his ear as he goads Eddie into fucking him harder, the incoherent babble Eddie can never quite contain whenever Buck goes down on him.
And Eddie knows it’s reckless to keep doing this with no discernible conversation about it, but he’s powerless to do anything other than get swept up in it, keeping the words at bay the only way he knows how.
So, they keep fucking.
They keep not talking about it.
Buck keeps pulling Eddie into his orbit, into his bed.
Eddie keeps going.
He knows they shouldn’t keep doing this, but when Buck's sleep-warm and rubbing up against him, whispering hotly in his ear, he finds it impossible to do anything but give in. And, really, he’s just a man.
There used a time when Eddie thought he knew what kind of man he was, or at the very least, knew what kind of man he wanted to be. He always had something to strive for, didn’t even have to decide what that was, because his father sat him down, young as he was, and laid it out point-blank. Saved him the trouble of having to decide for himself what he wanted or who he wanted to be.
There used to be a time, but there hasn’t been for a while.
So he can keep on being this man. He can keep everything neatly squared away, they both can. The boxes they fill all well-defined. Work, friendship—and then this, forever undefined and undisclosed. He’s given up all pretence that wanting Buck will go away, he can admit to himself in the privacy of his own head that the lust he feels runs deep and relentless.
He’s still unable to come to grips with what it means for him, what it makes him. The way he feels for Buck outside of the sex is throwing a wrench into things, threatening to rip through the seal of this vacuum that they exist in together, open, a hole big enough for everything to come spilling out, sticking to everything, cloying.
So they keep it isolated. As if the Buck and Eddie who are friends and co-workers are different from the Buck and Eddie who kiss and touch and fuck each other senseless. Eddie feels like there are two versions of himself inhabiting his life—the one that fights fires, laughs with his friends, misses his son, and the one that exists in Buck’s bed, the one who lets himself have what he wants.
Because both Eddies want him. Both Eddies crave his touch and attention and affection. It’s just that he’s too fractured, pieces just a little too scattered to fit them all together. So, for now, he’ll exist in fragments and hope no one notices that when they get too close, they come away with shards embedded deep.
Both Eddies are spiralling, caught in a tornado, desperately struggling for purchase.
They’re having celebratory drinks at one of the bars the team frequents for post-shift outings.
Hen and Karen just got news that their foster licence will be reinstated, so they’re all celebrating. There’s joy on their faces, and Hen looks more at peace than she has in months, finally able to be at ease now that she’s getting her family back together. They’re all in high spirits, Hen and Karen’s relief and elation seemingly contagious amongst the members of the 118.
They’re just wrapping up for the evening, everyone tipsy and amiable, energy waning after their long day, when Eddie catches Buck’s eye across the room.
Once he has his attention, Eddie can’t look away. He’s been in his orbit all night, watching him drink and laugh; ganging up with Hen to antagonize Chimney, catching up with Athena, playing pool and shooting the shit with Ravi. Watching him move amongst his team—his family—is always a sight to behold.
He’s happy and settled even as he bounces around the room like a ball of energy, practically glowing. Eddie’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, chest going tight because there are few things in this world he loves to witness more than a happy Buck.
He hates that it makes his stomach do a little flip.
Because he can handle the wanting now—he can. He doesn’t know if he can handle the feeling that has started to ease over him—although, ease isn’t right, it doesn’t feel like it’s easing. It feels like pinpricks on the back of his neck and hand squeezing his throat—whenever he watches Buck work, catches him tripping over his own feet, or sees him stuff food into his mouth an at ungodly rate—because he just wants to pull him close, spend all moments of the day with Buck tucked into his shirt pocket.
And that’s not lust, that is something else entirely, something Eddie can’t come to grips with right now because. Because—he can have this without letting it consume him.
He doesn’t want to hurt Buck, he can delude himself into thinking that the razor sharp air that hangs between them afterwards really does exist separate from them. Because their friendship is still good and strong and true.
So one day, Buck will find a nice man or woman to settle down with, fall deeply in love, probably have a thousand kids. And Eddie will find a woman to marry. Someone that he loves, someone that fits; a wife for himself and a mother for Christopher, and he can finally be happy.
The thought, for him, is a comforting one. Settles over him like a blanket, washed and worn but comfortable. Right, correct.
The thought of Buck doing the same settles over him like a noose.
And now, Buck is looking at him like he can see right down to his core. His gaze hollows him out, makes his breath abandon his lungs, stopping in his throat just short of choking him, like he needs to reach out and grasp the nearest thing in his reach to tether him to the earth before he falls right through it. And right now, that thing happens to be Buck.
So, they don’t talk about it. Instead, Buck ends up riding Eddie’s cock in the backseat of his Jeep, bouncing himself hard and fast on it, basically using him like a toy, and Eddie can’t keep quiet.
The thrill of being caught has Eddie in a tailspin, and somehow the fear and anxiety are mixing with the lust and pleasure and it’s driving him crazy, moaning loud and bucking his hips up wildly. Buck has to put a hand over his mouth to shut him up as he works himself up and down, head thrown back and eyes closed to the feeling.
Eddie can’t see much in the car except the pale line of Buck's throat where he’s just barely illuminated by the slice of moonlight shining in through the sunroof.
Can’t see, but can feel the hard line of Buck's erection where it rubs against his stomach, his shirt pulled up just enough so it doesn’t stain the fabric. He looks about as desperate as Eddie feels.
Eddie brings a hand up to tug on his hair and the other down to jerk him off as he rides, Buck letting out a whine when Eddie’s fist slides over the head, so he does it again, and again, and again until Eddie has to put a hand over Buck’s mouth as he comes all over both of them.
Eddie moves his hands down to Buck's hips, holding him still so he can fuck up into him a handful of times before he’s coming too, breathing hard through his nose because Buck still has a hand over his mouth.
After they finish riding out their orgasms, Eddie’s just barely pulled his pants back up when Buck swings the back door open, climbing out and stretching his arms over his head.
He turns to Eddie where he’s still sitting half sprawled in the backseat, and, before he can say anything, Buck is asking, “You good to drive?”
For a second, Eddie’s sex-stupid brain thinks he’s asking him to drive Buck’s car. “Uh, yeah,” he mutters, still breathless.
“Cool,” he says with small smile, leaving the back door open for Eddie to climb out as he gets into the front and starts the car.
“’Night, then.” It feels abrupt, but it definitely doesn’t leave him guessing at what’s happening here. Eddie closes the door and watches him drive off with a little wave, feeling slightly dumbfounded.
They have a bad call.
A bad call at the end of a shitty day and Eddie can feel the ache of it all the way down to his toes. It's quiet in the rig as they make their way back to the station. Hair matted, blood and ash on their turnouts. In the silence, thoughts and images from the wreckage threaten to bubble up, but he swallows them down.
Buck’s hands are shaking where they’re clasped in his lap. Eddie sees Hen reach over and place a hand on top of his, not looking at him, still staring steadfastly out the window, where she seems lost in her own thoughts, just being there, steadying him.
They’re all rattled, but Buck seems to have a harder time shaking it off sometimes, especially today, when he was the one who had a child die in his arms.
He’s not looking anyone in the eye, and Eddie thinks it's because he might not be able to hold himself together if he does.
Back at the station, he showers quickly, wanting to be rid of the day, but knowing he’ll shower again when he gets home anyway.
He’s halfway to his car when he realizes that he doesn’t even have his bag with him. Tired and barely thinking straight, he must have left it in the locker room. He sighs heavily but ends up doubling back to grab it. Buck is the only one still in the locker room when he gets there, sitting on the bench and fiddling with his phone.
“Hey,” Eddie probes quietly, “you okay?”
Buck looks up, eyes a little wide; he must not have heard Eddie come in.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m…” He winces, “I’ll be okay.” At least he’s not shaking anymore. Eddie nods.
“You headed home?” He thinks maybe if Buck doesn’t want to be alone tonight, they could both use someone to find solace in. After a day like this, all he wants is to wrap Buck up in his arms, let him soothe away the pain of their day.
Buck shifts against the bench, looking down at his phone, biting his lip, then back up again at Eddie. “Uh, no,” he says, “I actually, uh…Tommy’s picking me up.”
Eddie does a double-take.
“Tommy?” He doesn’t hide his surprise. Or his frown.
Buck stands up, closes his locker with a little more force than necessary, and bites out, “Yep,” his tone clipped.
“Why?” He asks, maybe a little more forceful than necessary, then tries to recover. “I-I mean, uh, I didn’t realize you still saw Tommy.” He winces at how it comes out, flustered.
Buck looks at him with a raised brow, and doesn’t say anything. Eddie feels the temperature in the room drop several degrees, Buck’s face blank and guarded.
“Why Tommy?” And, God, he sounds indignant now, pleading, like a child.
“Why do you care?” Buck fires back.
Eddie blinks, taken aback at Buck’s tone. Why does he care? “Because you’re my friend, Buck, of course I care.”
“Yeah, well, Tommy is my friend too.”
The look Buck gives him is challenging. Like he knows what Eddie wants; to ask what kind of friend? Ask why are you going home with him and not me? Ask things that aren’t his right to ask, and aren’t his business, not really, not anymore, when it’s not really about Buck’s happiness and wellbeing, just Eddie’s petty, possessive jealousy.
They both know it. It’s honestly kind of embarrassing.
“Buck…” He wants to ask him not to go, to ask him to come home with Eddie instead.
“Don’t, Eddie, okay? Just…not tonight. Please.” And Buck's eyes are shining, just a little, and Eddie wants to reach out, hug him, place a hand on his shoulder, something, but he stops himself, letting his hands hang limply by his sides.
He nods, whispers back, “Yeah, yeah okay.”
Buck’s phone buzzes in his hand, and he looks down at it mumbling, “Tommy’s here, I gotta go,” before pocketing it and grabbing his bag off the bench.
He watches Buck leave, and sits there on the locker room bench for another ten minutes so he doesn’t have to watch him get into Tommy’s car.
Eddie can’t sleep.
He’s laying in bed, staring out the window at nothing, jaw clenched so tight it's starting to hurt. The horror of today has, by now, been eclipsed by a one Tommy Kinard’s sudden reappearance out of seemingly thin air.
He thinks about when Buck first came out to him, told him about his date with Tommy, how nervous he was, standing in his kitchen, how he’d said the words slowly. How he hadn’t quite been placated when Eddie had said it didn’t change a thing between them.
At the time, Eddie had brushed it off, swallowed down his shock that Buck—Buck—was into men. That there was one that he couldn’t stop thinking about, and he remembers his own voice, encouraging Buck to call Tommy. Maybe if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be lying here boohoo-ing over it.
He flops onto his back, replaying the conversation in the locker room with Buck over again in his head.
Why did Buck really call Tommy? Do they actually still see each other as friends? Buck hadn’t mentioned, the only time they’d ever properly talked about him, that they were even interested in staying friends. Had Buck just not mentioned it at the time, or was this a recent development?
It’s been a long day and he doesn’t want to be thinking about this, he wants to succumb to the warm embrace of sleep, get some relief for his gritty eyes and pounding head. He knows it’s unfair of him, knows this jealousy is childish and petty and stupid. That it’s so revealing, leaving him feeling exposed in a way that has him wanting to sink into the floor, embed himself in the wood, and be trampled repeatedly by passersby like a piece of gum on the sidewalk until he’s flat and barely visible.
He doesn’t have any sort of claim on Buck; he knows Buck can see, talk to, be friends with anyone he wants—fuck whoever he wants, even Tommy.
He could be fucking Tommy right now, a voice in his head whispers, cruelly. The thought tears through him, vicious and ugly.
Eddie has a lump in his throat. Now he can’t stop thinking about Tommy fucking Buck. He doesn’t want to be, okay? His brain just won’t let him have a moment of fucking respite from thinking about Buck on his hands and knees, Tommy pulling his hair as he pounds into him from behind, hips snapping as he grinds in deep. Buck moaning, asking for it harder, deeper.
Or worse, them fucking face to face, Buck’s long legs wrapped around Tommy’s hips, Tommy whispering sweetly in Buck’s ear as he takes him apart, pushing into him again and again—because he knows those moans, knows what it feels like to have Buck wrapped tight around him, moaning and begging, the heady rush of being the reason for his pleasure.
An immature, juvenile part of him wishes for a moment that he had superpowers just so he can blow Tommy Kinard to smithereens with laser beams that shoot out of his eyes. That would certainly make him feel better.
Eddie’s never been a jealous person, but right now? Right now, there’s a green-eyed monster clawing at him from the inside, and it’s all he can do to not let it out.
Would it be the first time since they broke up? Have they been hooking up the entire time Buck and Eddie have been? The idea gnaws at him. It’s not like he can ask Buck outright, but he has to know. Has to know if Buck is still sleeping with him, getting something from Tommy that he can’t get from Eddie.
And his eyes burn at the thought. It’s not like Eddie is offering him much, anyway.
Buck shows up for their shift the next day with bright eyes; all that heaviness from the night before has seemingly melted off of him. It’s like he has a spring in his step, ready to face the day. Eddie rolls in to work exhausted and miserable, bags under his eyes.
And yeah, he has a fucking attitude. Carpe fucking Diem.
It takes several cups of coffee and a few hours of everyone giving him a wide berth, sensing the bad mood radiating off him in waves, and opting to get the fuck out of dodge.
By midday, he feels almost normal again, sitting down to lunch with the rest of the team, tightness in his chest and that simmer of irritation mostly gone.
He doesn’t even notice that Buck is glued to his phone until Chim points it out, elbowing Buck.
“Okay, who are you texting?” He asks, “You’ve barely looked up from your phone all day.”
Buck smiles, that cheesy fake-innocent grin. He opens his mouth to answer, but Eddie knows what he’s about to say and he just… simply can’t today. Doesn’t want to hear all about Buck’s magical night with Tommy.
He very unceremoniously stands up from the table, the scrape of his chair cutting Buck off, and swiftly exits the room.
Before he’s out of earshot he hears Ravi mutter, “What’s up with him today?”
They have a moment alone when they’re cleaning the engine, the only ones currently on the task. Everyone else is either already finished their chores or has fucked off to snack or take a nap.
It’s nearing the end of their shift, and he’s finally stopped being an asshole to everyone, got his emotions in check like the goddamn adult he is.
They’re working in what could most likely be considered a comfortable silence, but Eddie is anything but at ease. He’s got that low-grade anxiety that comes with prolonged tension, the kind that’s near-impossible to break, dying to say the thing at the tip of his tongue, needing to swallow the words before they can escape.
Buck seems none the wiser, happy as a clam as he works the polishing cloth over the smooth metal of the engine. Eddie doesn’t know how long he makes it before he cracks; minutes that feel like hours.
He doesn’t look up from where he’s buffing out a scuff in the metal, eyes trained on his task.
“So, how was your night?” He asks, going for casual and missing spectacularly. Buck doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t even pause, like he knows Eddie had been standing there, brewing, itching to break the silence, and was ready for it.
“It was good,” he replies cordially, “feeling a lot better today.”
“You, uh, you seem good,” Eddie manages.
“Mhm,” Buck hums noncommittally, not stopping his movements with the cloth.
Eddie scratches the back of his neck. He knows it's a bad idea, but he can’t help himself.
“So you, uh, you spent the night, then? With Tommy?”
He is once again missing casual by a mile. And really, Eddie doesn’t want to know the answer, doesn’t want to hear about any of it. But the not knowing is driving him mad in a way that overshadows everything else, so he has to ask. Has to know.
Buck finally stops to look up at him, expression unreadable. Eddie dodges his eyes, brushes some invisible lint off his shirtsleeve.
Buck stands to face him fully, “You got something you need to say? Go ahead, I’m all ears.”
Eddie puts his hands up in defence. “What, I can’t ask about your night? Just wanted to know if you’re feeling better after yesterday, if you got a good night's sleep.” He should stop there. He doesn’t. “How’s Tommy?” It feels weak, transparent.
Buck rolls his eyes. “Oh my God, Eddie, you’re… I didn’t have sex with him if that’s what you’re just absolutely dying to know—“
“—I am not dying to know anything, I was just asking about your ni—“
“—And yeah, I spent the night at his place. I had a shitty fucking day and I needed a friend. Is that alright with you?”
Eddie stops and stares, blinks at him twice. “I’m your friend, you could’ve co—“
“Yeah, well, maybe I needed the kind of friend who wasn’t gonna fuck me and then run away,” Buck says, straight-faced, tone too casual for the harsh words coming out of his mouth.
And oh. That shuts him up fast.
Eddie is stunned to silence for a second before remembering where they are, looking around frantically before leaning in and hissing, “Jesus, Buck, what the fuck?”
And this is, somehow, the closest they’ve ever come to talking about it outside the confines of their silent harbour.
“You were the one who ran out last time,” Eddie exclaims, whisper-shouting, because it’s true—the last time Buck had been the one to hightail it out of there, that night in the parking lot.
He knows he’s grasping at straws, that they both know exactly what Buck means. Eddie doesn’t know why he’s playing at semantics, they aren’t doing him any favours, not going to get him anywhere, but he can’t stop himself.
Buck smiling now, downright sarcastic, lowering his voice to say, “Oh, I’m sorry, were you planning on sticking around to cuddle in the backseat of my car? Or are you just upset I didn’t give you a chance to say your favourite line?”
Eddie freezes, his hands are trembling, he’s bitten off more than he can chew, and they’re at work and Buck can see right through him. “Buck…”
“Why don’t you say it now, then?” Buck spreads his hands, gesturing mock-magnanimously, “Since you didn’t get a chance last time.”
When Eddie remains silent, Buck takes a step towards him, presses on. “What? You don’t wanna tell me that you’re not gay? Or does it just not hit the same without the gay sex first?” He mocks, words dripping with vitriol.
His heart is pounding, and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. Eddie doesn’t say anything. Hearing Buck spit those words back at him feels like a slap in the face, or as if he’s being crushed by an anvil like in a Sunday morning cartoon; as if Buck is betraying their silent, mutually agreed-upon arrangement of Eddie lying while Buck lets him get away with it. It hits him, then, what he’s been doing, that lying to himself hasn’t been a victimless crime.
The seal is broken on the vacuum. And everything is spilling out, all over him, all over Buck, dripping down to pool on the floor at their feet. If he’s not careful, nowhere will be safe—it’ll leak all over everything.
Eddie feels a little sick. Buck isn’t mean or cruel, he only ever lashes out when he’s hurt. And he is hurt. Eddie hurt him. Because Eddie is selfish, selfish for even wanting; wanting men, wanting Buck, wanting happiness. He doesn’t know where to go from here.
The bell rings then, loud and jarring, and Buck pushes past him to get ready to go.
Eddie watches, at a distance, Buck talk to an injured woman at a scene—a shop owner, relatively unscathed even amongst the broken glass, standing off to the side while Buck assesses her.
He’s too far away to hear the words, but it doesn’t matter, because the sun is catching his face, lighting it up. He watches his lips move and remembers what they taste like. Watches him pull a glove off to root around in the pocket of his turnouts, and remembers what his hands feel like.
Buck smiles with his whole face, still soaked in sun, sweat beading on his forehead, his hair curling slightly, haloed.
Then, all of a sudden—cellular fusion. Like a jolt of electricity, sparking against his fingers, and prickling all the way up his arms, he can feel the two Eddies are merging, starting to talk amongst themselves, bringing opposite ends of his life together like points on a map converging.
Why now? He thinks in a frenzy. He had a system worked out perfectly—buried this part of himself, separated entirely. And Eddie feels his heart constrict, or maybe expand, he doesn’t know what’s happening, but suddenly it’s the wrong size for his chest.
He looks away, knowing he’s absolutely fucked.
Roughly thirty-six hours into their ninety-six, off finds Eddie at Buck’s front door. It's late, the middle of the night, nearing 3 a.m., but Eddie needs to see him. The way they left things is still sitting heavy in his chest, ribs straining under the pressure. Eddie had tried to talk to him at the end of their shift, but Buck brushed him off, shouldering past him without a word.
He fucked up. He knows he fucked up. That his questions about Tommy weren’t even the worst of it.
It’s like now that Buck said it, or at least some of it, out loud, it finally rips the covers off it all, pulls into the light everything that’s been happening between them. The way Eddie has been—has been disregarding Buck's feelings. He just thought, maybe, that if Buck had a problem with any of it he would say. He’s not really one to hold back, by any means.
Except when he’s hurt. Hurt and feeling like shit about himself. He carries it like a torch burning down to the quick, letting it burn him time and time again. Eddie swallows, eyes stinging. They can’t keep going like this—he can’t keep going like this.
He’s pretty sure that Buck is asleep right now, so he does something he rarely ever does, and uses his key to let himself in.
The loft is dark and quiet when he gets inside. He can make out the shape of Buck’s work duffle sitting by the door, clothes spilling out, the loft barely illuminated by the city lights shining through the large windows.
Eddie toes off his shoes quietly before making his way over to the stairs leading up to Buck’s bedroom. Even from he bottom, he can hear the sounds of Buck snoring softly.
Definitely sleeping, then.
Eddie keeps his steps light as he ascends the stairs, feeling a bit like a creep, sneaking around Buck’s loft while he sleeps.
It’s dark, but not pitch. In bed, Buck is lying on his side, face lax in his sleep, only his head peeking from under the duvet. Eddie takes a moment to drink him in.
He always looks so young when he’s asleep. Face smushed into the pillow, lips slightly parted, and so, so pretty.
Eddie slips his sweater off, easing out of his jeans, careful to not let the belt buckle hit the floor when he drops them on a pile at the foot of the bed, leaving him in just his t-shirt and boxers.
He lifts the covers to crawl in, he sees that Buck has an arm outstretched across the mattress, but he’s otherwise curled in on himself. Eddie sits, then places a hand softly on top of Buck's, palm sliding up his arm softly.
He’s careful to keep his face out of hitting range, not trying to scare Buck, but he did sneak into his bed in the middle of the night, so there’s no accounting for his reaction.
He whispers his name quietly into the dark once. Then again when he gets no response, squeezing his arm lightly.
He can see and feel Buck come awake under his hand, just barely. Blinking and squinting, confused and sleep-bleary, up at Eddie.
“Eddie? What…what are you?” He whispers, voice rough, eyes still blinking as he tries to see through the darkness. Buck starts to sit up, reaching over to, Eddie assumes, turn on the bedside lamp.
Eddie stops him, reaching out
“Shh, c’mere,” he murmurs, pulling Buck into him, urging him through his sleep-addled confusion to lie down so he’s wrapped in Eddie’s arms.
Now that his eyes have adjusted, if he squints, he can see the pillow lines on Buck’s face, hardly visible in the dark, and the adorably bewildered expression he’s currently sporting, still not fully awake.
Buck is sleep-soft and warm, lying on his back with Eddie pressed close against his side, half on top of him. Eddie cups Buck’s cheek in his palm, thumb smoothing across the skin.
“Hey,” he whispers, leaning in, “I’m sorry.” He presses a kiss to Buck’s forehead, his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Eddie I—” Buck starts, before Eddie shushes him again, smoothing a hand over his hair, his neck, over his shoulder.
He leans down to kiss across his jaw, tucking his face into his neck, pressing small kisses there while he whispers his apologies into his skin.
When Eddie pulls back, Buck surges up to press their mouths together, hand coming up to the back of Eddie’s neck, keeping him there, keeping him grounded. Eddie lets out a sigh at the feeling of Buck’s lips on his, pressing in more firmly, deepening the kiss without letting it turn dirty.
They lie in Buck’s bed and kiss until their lips are chapped, bodies pressed together, hands gripping and holding fast. Kiss until they’re breathless, until they finally let it peter off slowly, pulling back to stare at each other, blinking against the dark.
Buck’s eyes are drooping, lips red and swollen from kissing, and Eddie can’t resist leaning in and pressing one more to his lips, then to the birthmark above his eye. He can feel Buck’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek when he leans in.
They don’t say anything else, not now. Hopefully, Eddie still has the courage in the light of day to give Buck something—anything. That his chest doesn’t cave in on itself, locking up to protect the vital organs living inside.
He pulls back and lies down, pulling Buck into him, urging him to lay his head on Eddie’s chest. Buck does, and nuzzles into the fabric of his shirt, breathing deep. Stroking his hair as he falls asleep, Eddie thinks that this man is going to be his undoing.
When Eddie wakes up, it’s to sunlight in his eyes, harsh rays practically blinding him. He blinks against them, trying to get his eyes to adjust. Looking around, he realizes that he’s alone in the bed, the sheets beside him cool when he flings an arm out to feel them.
He looks over to the bathroom door, sees light spilling out from under the closed edge of the door, can faintly hear the sounds of Buck puttering around inside.
A few minutes later, Eddie can’t tell how many, still sleep-weary, drifting in and out, Buck emerges from the bathroom in a plume of steam, a towel around his waist, looking like a goddamn Old Spice commercial. He’s still damp, hair dripping, rivulets beading on his skin, running down and down before they’re absorbed by the plush towel. Eddie wants to lick him, chase the drops across Buck’s skin with his tongue.
A beat passes before Buck speaks. “You gonna stay?” He asks evenly, eyebrows raised, picking at a string on his towel absentmindedly—or nervously.
Eddie looks at him for a long moment. Then nods. He doesn’t ask if it’s okay or if Buck wants him to go. He wants to stay.
Buck’s face breaks into a grin. His whole face stretching with it, before he schools his face back into a neutral expression, or tries to. Still in just his towel, he kneels on the bed, crawling up to where Eddie lies against the pillows and flops down half on top of him.
“Good,” he says succinctly.
Then, with a mischievous smirk, he tips his head forward and shakes it back and forth, splattering Eddie with drops of water from his wet hair.
“Ugh, Buck, cmon,” he chastises, but he’s laughing anyway, wiping at the water on his face, trying to lean out of the splash zone. God, he really is like a golden retriever.
Buck stops, leaning close to press a smiling kiss to Eddie’s cheek. “Go shower then, you stink,” he teases, rolling away to the other side of the bed.
Eddie shakes his head and huffs out a laugh. Yeah, that’s probably true. Buck keeps his place a little warmer than Eddie prefers, and he’d definitely sweat during the night, buried under the heat of the duvet and Buck’s body.
He heaves himself out of bed, grabbing a pair of boxers from the drawer he knows Buck keeps them in, before heading into he bathroom.
After last night, Eddie feels a little raw, a little apprehensive, but a little hopeful, too.
He showers quickly, smiling to himself as he uses Buck’s fancy shampoo and conditioner.
When he gets out of the bathroom, Buck is still in bed. He’d kind of thought he’d find him knocking around downstairs, probably in the kitchen.
When he wanders closer, his mouth dries at the sight, breath caught in his throat.
Buck is sprawled out across the covers, naked, cock fully hard, curved up towards his stomach. He’d clearly been touching himself.
He looks at Eddie, unselfconscious as he lies there, ripe for the taking. Eddie’s cock twitches, stirring in his—Buck’s—boxers, and he can’t do anything but stand there and watch, frozen in place.
With his head splayed out on the pillow, still-damp curls lit up in the glow of the late morning sun, he looks like…like the first time Eddie saw him on his knees and thought he was an angel.
He drags his eyes from Buck’s face, down his chest, to his stomach, looking soft and biteable. His legs are so long, spread slightly, feet bare in a rare occurrence, he hadn’t put anything on after his shower. He watches the toned muscles in Buck’s arm flex as he reaches down between his legs, wraps a hand around his cock, huge and hard and pink at the tip, already wet, and gives himself a slow stroke.
Eddie watches, transfixed, and Buck strokes himself again, tantalizingly slowly, biting his lip, and—how is he fucking real?
Buck huffs out a laugh, blushing endearingly pink, and Eddie he realizes he said it out loud. Eddie himself is still standing at the foot of the bed, unable to bring himself—entirely transfixed—to move, to tear his eyes away from Buck for even a second.
His breath catches in his throat when he sees Buck release himself to trail both hands up his body, hands roaming over his skin to his chest. He runs his fingers over both his nipples, then pinches them, pushing his chest up and gasping at his own touch.
He keeps playing with his nipples, pinching and pulling, flicking, and his hips push up into the air, cock bobbing obscenely, moaning softly. Buck bites his lip around a sigh when he takes himself in his hand again, spreading the wetness at the head all down the shaft.
Eddie almost chokes on his own tongue when Buck moves the hand not sliding up and down his cock down to cup his balls, squeezing at them lightly before spreading his legs further, bending a knee slightly so he can reach further down between his legs, moaning as he strokes over his hole. Eddie squeezes himself through the fabric of the underwear, throbbing in his own hand.
Buck is looking at him through half-lidded eyes, an impish smile playing at his lips, and he knows what he’s doing to Eddie, can see how hard he is, tenting the front of his underwear obscenely.
Eddie has to remind himself, then, that when it comes to Buck, the line between angel and siren is very, very thin.
If they weren’t so juxtaposed, Eddie would be inclined to think he was both. The way he can go from sweet and gorgeous to sexy and alluring between one breath and the next is so heady he can hardly make sense of it.
For a moment, Eddie wishes he could record this, save it so he can have an endless loop of this, Buck touching himself—touching himself while he looks at Eddie—seared into his brain.
Buck doesn’t stop; stroking his cock, playing with his hole, spreading his legs so Eddie can see what’s he’s doing to himself, his cock getting redder and wetter in his grip, moaning at his own touch around bitten lips, and Eddie—Eddie can’t be this far away from him anymore, has to touch him. He strips himself out of his underwear with no finesse, before essentially nose diving onto the bed between Buck's legs, batting his hands away.
“Oh my God,” he gasps, “you’re so—fuck, you’re so hot. Look at you.”
Eddie replaces Buck's hand on his cock with his own, feeling it twitch in his palm. He takes Buck’s mouth, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, before making his way down his body, leaving a train of kisses and licks and bites in his wake.
Now, he’s basically at eye level with Buck’s cock. For some reason, this is something he hasn’t done before. He's not sure why it scared him, felt like crossing a line he couldn’t uncross, a step he couldn’t un-take. He doesn’t think about what it means when his mouth waters, now.
Saliva is pooling on his tongue, and suddenly, he wants this so badly, needs to get his mouth on him.
So he does.
Doesn’t give Buck any warning, or a cursory lick, just holds his hips down and puts it right in his mouth, seals his lips over the head, and sucks.
Fuck. The feeling of it on his tongue, the weight, the taste, the headiness of something big and phallic filling his mouth is so hot he has to grind his hips into the sheets. He barely registers Buck whining and moaning above him, looks up to find him looking right at Eddie, brows pinched, mouth open, panting.
“Fucking hell, Eddie,” he moans, breathless.
Eddie fits more of him in his mouth, can feel his lips stretching to accommodate Buck’s girth, and gets a little carried away pushing down too far, choking and gagging, and has to pull off to cough. Next time, he’ll learn how to do this properly, take Buck down into his throat. But for now, he goes back to just swirling his tongue over the head, only sucking what he can fit into his mouth, jerking what he can’t.
He’s never done this before, and he’s shocked that it feels so natural, so right. He gets it now, the way Buck looks so lost in it when it’s him on his knees, because Eddie fucking loves this. He pulls off with a pop, dragging his tongue from base to tip, then leaning back slightly, spits harshly onto his fingers, and brings them down to Buck’s hole.
He doesn’t press inside right away, just plays with it, getting him wet, and Buck is chanting his name.
“Eddie, Eddie, please, fuck, you gotta—please Eddie.” So he spits on his fingers again and pushes in, one, then two at Buck’s insistence.
Working his two fingers in and out of him, he goes back to mouthing at his cock, licking at it, sucking at the head, then pulling back, over and over.
Buck is going absolutely wild above him, moaning loudly, trying to push his hips down onto Eddie's fingers and up into his mouth like he can’t decide which he wants to feel more.
Eddie keeps at it, playing with his body, drawing gasps and moans and whines out of him. Slides a third finger inside him, curling them and rubbing against his prostate as he drools all over his cock.
It’s barely five minutes before Buck cries out, voice getting higher, “Eddie, Eddie fuck I’m gonna come. Fuck, I’m gonna—”
“Shh, be good,” he says, pulling off and slowing his fingers down, “not yet.” Before resuming his task.
Buck drops his head back against the sheets.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be—I’ll be good. Fuck.”
Eddie can see him struggling—biting his lip, swallowing his noises in an effort not to come. He’s so good, the hottest fucking thing Eddie’s ever seen. After a moment, he starts to beg again.
“Please, please Eddie I—I need it, please.” He can feel how tense Buck’s body is, holding himself taut, trying so hard to be good, and how can Eddie not give him what he wants? He pulls his mouth away to start stroking him slick and fast, fingers relentless against his prostate.
“Alright, baby, come on, you can come now, you can come.” He barely gets the words out before Buck is clamping down hard on his fingers and shooting off all over himself.
He always comes so much, especially when he has something inside him, and it's everywhere. All over Eddie's fist, his own chest and stomach, and—fuck—a spurt getting all the way up to his chin.
Eddie works him through it, milking his prostate and using a thumb to massage under the head of his twitching cock. He’s whispering kisses into the skin on Buck’s hips, “Good boy, there you go. Good boy,” as he continues wringing his orgasm out of him.
The words seem to make Buck come harder, hips coming up off the bed with a whine, drawing out his orgasm. So like a dog with a bone, Eddie says it over and over as he works him through his orgasm.
Eddie’s honestly not sure how he even has this much cum. He’s absolutely covered in it. And Buck’s whole body is twitching now, must be oversensitive, but he doesn’t tell Eddie to stop, so he doesn’t. He keeps fucking him with his fingers, not pressing into his prostate, just rubbing lightly over it. Keeps working his cock in his fist.
His erection had flagged a little just after he’d come, but after a few minutes he’s already fully hard again. His hips are working, grinding down onto Eddie’s fingers.
“Eddie, I can’t, I don’t think I can come again yet, it’s—oh god.” And he’s letting out these choked little moans, almost-hurt sounds, as he squeezes his eyes shut, even as he lets Eddie continue.
Eddie catches sight of the half-empty bottle of lube discarded a few feet away from them, Buck must have gotten it out earlier while Eddie was in the shower.
He reaches for it, flicking the cap open with the hand not currently inside Buck, pulling his fingers out just enough to coat them, before pressing them back in, making a squelching sound when he does.
Buck moans at the feeling, slicker now, hole dripping wet with it. He’s rock hard, and so, so wet, spit and precum shining on his swollen cock head, so Eddie says, voice deep and sure, “You can. You’re gonna be a good boy and you’re gonna come for me again.”
He keeps going, starts working him harder, faster, thrusting firmly against his prostate, and before long, Buck gasps out, “Oh! Oh I’m—Eddie, Eddie I’m gonna, fuck I’m gonna come again, I’m gonna—please can I? I—” He sounds surprised, like the speed of his second orgasm snuck up on him.
“There you go, good boy, come on. Let go.”
“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he cries out as he comes again. He’s so loud, the sound echoing through the loft as he shoots off, going boneless as Eddie works him through it.
Before Buck can catch his breath, Eddie sinks his mouth back down onto his cock, sucking and swallowing the cum still clinging to the flushed head. Buck practically yells, grabbing Eddie's hair and holding on tight.
A final wave spurts into Eddie’s mouth, he gives one final rub against his prostate before going back to fingering him lightly.
When he looks up, he can see Buck’s face is wet.
“F-fuck,” he chokes out, voice thick with tears, body twitching in Eddie's grasp.
Eddie flicks his tongue back and forth just under the head of his cock, before pulling off, letting the spit that’d gathered in his mouth run down the length of Buck’s cock. He pulls his fingers out for a second to spit on them again, before pushing them back in, making Buck groan.
“You gonna be a good boy and give me another one?” Eddie asks, pressing a sucking kiss against he side of his dick. “I know you can do it.”
Buck shivers, and his cock twitches in front of Eddie’s face.
“Are you—are you gonna fuck me now?” He asks shakily, he’s grinding his hips down onto Eddie’s hand, distractedly, like he’s not even aware that he’s doing it.
Eddie hums, pretending to think; his own cock, still trapped against the sheets, twitches painfully at the thought, but he ignores it.
“No, you’re gonna come like this, on my fingers.”
Buck tosses his head back against the bed, barely coherent.
“C’mon, Eddie just—” he starts. Eddie curls his fingers up against his prostate again, effectively shutting him up.
“I’m not gonna fuck you,” Eddie says, “and you’re gonna be a good boy for me. Right? You gonna be my good boy?”
Buck hips come off the bed, cock brushing against Eddie’s chin, and Eddie can hear it in his voice that he’s crying.
“Yeah. I’m gonna—I’ll be good, I’ll come like this.”
“Good,” Eddie says succinctly, pressing his fingers in deep, curling and massaging Buck from the inside. “Now touch yourself,” he instructs.
Buck unclenches one hand from the bedsheets, reaching for his red, swollen cock.
“Uh uh, not there,” Eddie tuts, shaking his head.
Buck looks at him for a second, confused, before he gets it, swallowing audibly as he brings both hands up to his chest, squeezing at his pecs, circling his fingers over his nipples.
“There you go,” Eddie urges, “I know they’re sensitive. Think you can come just from that and my fingers?” Eddie doesn’t wait for Buck to respond. “I think you can.”
“Want your cock,” Buck slurs out. And God does Eddie want to fuck him. Thinks about how good it would feel to ease his cock into the tight heat currently engulfing his fingers.
But he thinks he wants this more, just making Buck come over and over again with just his hands and mouth.
So he shakes his head, not entirely sure that Buck can even see him right now, fucking his fingers into him harder.
He’s still playing with his nipples, pulling and pinching them, chest pushing up into his fingers, ass pushing down onto Eddie’s fingers.
He sounds so overwhelmed, saying little besides ‘please’ and Eddie’s name over and over dazedly, not quite sure what he’s begging for.
Eddie kneels up, leaning more fully over Buck, still fucking him with his fingers, straddling his thigh, rutting into it a little to take the edge off. He reaches his hand up to Buck’s hair and pulls hard, and he reacts the way he always does, with a gasp and a moan, mouth dropping open.
“Yeah, yeah, please,” he whines, “Eddie, please.”
“You ready to come for me now, baby?” Eddie asks.
“Can I?” Buck pleads wetly, hips pushing up in to the air, cock twitching, looking for friction that isn’t there.
Eddie tugs his head by his hair, at the same time using his fingers to rub relentlessly at his prostate, leans in and whispers, “No.”
He sees instantly the effect it has on him, he pinches his nipples hard, moaning loud, tears springing to his eyes again, as he looks at Eddie, squirming in his grasp.
He looks so desperate, crying out like this.
“I know, I know, baby. It’s okay, you’re so good,” Eddie murmurs to him,
He’s babbling now, begging. “Please, please. I need to, Eddie, I’m gonna—you have to let me—”
“No, I don’t,” Eddie says, with a tug of his hair.
Buck doesn’t even say anything, just cries out for it, tears running down his face, and it shouldn’t be so hot, but it really, really, fucking is.
“Good boy,” Eddie praises, “you’re being such a good boy.”
“Eddie, please.”
“Not yet.”
His breathing is uneven, like he’s struggling to take a lungful of air.
“Breathe, baby,” Eddie says. And Buck does, like he just needed a reminder.
He looks at him, wet eyes and flushed face and whispers, desperately, “Please.”
Eddie shakes his head, tightening his fist in Buck’s hair.
“Please.”
“Not. Yet.” He punctuates each word with a thrust of his fingers.
“Eddie,” he pleads with wide eyes, “I don’t think I can—I don’t think I can stop.”
“You can. I know you can."
He can feel Buck holding his orgasm back through sheer force of will, hole clenched so right around Eddie’s fingers he can barely move them.
He waits until the last moment, holding Buck suspended like this, then finally lets him go.
“Come.”
The moment the words leave his lips, Buck is coming, untouched, and Eddie takes his hand out of his hair to work him through it, stroking his cock as his orgasm tears through him. It’s his third, a few spurts shooting weakly across Eddie's fist, the rest dripping from the slit. He can feel Buck’s hole spasming around his fingers as he milks him dry.
When he’s done, Buck slumps into the bed, like a puppet with its strings cut. Eddie releases his cock, probably sore by now, and pulls his fingers gently out of him, wiping the mess on his hands on the sheets.
Buck looks a mess, face flushed red, torso covered in three loads of his cum, nipples red and puffy, legs still twitching.
He looks at Eddie and his lip wobbles, reaches out towards him and Eddie goes.
He blankets Buck with his body as best he can, taking him in his arms, kissing his face.
“Oh, baby, hey. You’re okay. It’s okay.” He cards his fingers through his hair and shushes him as he comes down, until he stops trembling. Eddie realizes, belatedly, that he himself is still hard, erection dragging through the mess on Buck's stomach. Doesn’t know what it says about him that it hasn’t flagged even a little even while Buck’s been crying. He can’t look at that too closely right now.
He looks so out of it, eyes glazed over, not focused on anything. He looks almost drunk, intoxicated.
So Eddie pets his hair, pressing kisses anywhere he can reach until he hears Buck let out a shuddery breath, and pulls back to look at him.
“Hey. You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sorry fuck,” Buck mumbles, voice scratchy, slurring his words a bit. He clears this throat before he continues. “Sometimes I just get a little…overwhelmed. That was…”
“A lot?” Eddie supplies.
“Yeah.”
“Too much?”
Buck shakes his head, but he still looks a little out of it, curling into Eddie, rubbing their faces together. Both of their stubble catches on the other's, scratching lightly. Eddie smiles, knows Buck can feel the rasp it against the side of his own face.
Eddie moves slightly then, Buck’s cum getting tacky between them, and Buck looks down, can probably feel when Eddie’s erection is pressing against him. Eddie winces, trying to pull away.
“Sorry,” he mutters, half-sheepish with a half-shrug, pulling back, because Buck is obviously done for the day, fucked out and drowsy.
Buck blinks at him. “You didn’t come.”
Then without warning, he’s reaching down and wrapping a hand around Eddie. Eddie hisses, the most friction he’s gotten all morning. He feels like he’s been hard for hours.
“Buck, you don’t have to—”
“I wanted you to fuck me,” he says. Is he pouting? He’s literally pouting right now.
Eddie laughs, leaning down to kiss him once. “Yeah, well, I got a little distracted.”
Buck looks at him through his lashes. “You can, still. If you—if you want.”
And lying there, all fucked out, tear tracks dried on his cheeks, Buck is still asking Eddie to fuck him, even though there’s no way he could get hard again so soon.
He’s so desperate to come he honestly considers it for a second, but Buck has got to be sore, and Eddie thinks if they did that right now, Buck would honestly fall apart, and not in a good way.
“Nuh uh,” Eddie grunts with a shake of his head, fucking up into Buck's fist once, “just like this.”
Eddie settles in, still lying half on top of Buck. Buck adjusts his grip on him, stoking properly now.
“Not gonna last,” Eddie moans, “you were so fucking hot.”
Buck looks at him, eyes focused again, like he’s got his faculties back, and he starts talking.
“You made me come so hard,” he breathes, eyes wide and sincere as anything. “Fuck, your mouth felt so fucking good, your fingers. You—you made me feel so good, Eddie.” He runs his fist from base to tip, stopping to rub circles over the slick head with his thumb.
“Yeah?”
Buck nods. “I love it when you put your fingers in me. Loved it when you sucked my dick, got me so wet.”
And this, Buck telling him all the ways Eddie made him feel good, is turning him on more than anything, making him fuck up into Buck’s fist. He doesn’t know if it's some sort of narcissistic ego boost, or like a glowing performance review, maybe he just likes making Buck come that much.
Buck whispers, like a secret. “I liked it when you told me I couldn’t come. When you—when you told me I could. When you—fuck,” He’s moving his hand faster now, jerking Eddie hard and rough. “I liked it when you told me I was a good boy.”
“God, Buck. You are, you are a good boy. You’re such a good boy.” Eddie kisses him, moaning into his mouth when he works his thumb over the slit.
When they break away, Buck looks him in the eye, his cheeks are flushed pink and he’s biting his lip.
“Next time, I want you to tie me up. Want you to—want you to hold me down and make me take it. I’ll let you do whatever you want to me, want you to tell me when I can come, want you to—fuck—Eddie I want you to make me beg for it.”
Jesus fucking Christ, that visual is so hot, he can see it clearly in his head. He’ll go to sleep tonight and dream of Buck naked and tied up and begging for his cock. He’s moaning deep and loud as he fucks up into Buck’s tight fist.
“Fuck baby, you’re gonna make me come.”
“Do it," he gasps, "fuck—come all over me.” Buck leans in closer, lips brushing against his ear, breath hot against Eddie’s skin, and whispers, “I’ll be such a good boy for you.”
And that’s it. Eddie screws his eyes shut, toes curling and cock jerking as he moans and starts to shoot ropes of thick cum. After being on the edge for so long, he feels like a puppet with his strings cut. He shakes through his orgasm, feels like it’s being ripped out of him, his release coating both of them. Buck wrings him dry, fist working up and down until Eddie starts to go soft.
Eddie drops his head down to Buck’s shoulder.
“Fuck,” he pants.
He hears Buck let out a soft huff of a laugh, before reaching over to wipe the cum on his hand off somewhere on the duvet, seemingly unconcerned with the way it smears everywhere.
When he catches his breath, he tilts his head up and kisses Buck, softly on one cheek, then on the other one. Presses kisses to his forehead, chin, jaw, between his eyebrows, over his birthmark. Kisses the tip of his nose, whispering, “You’re so beautiful,” hearing Buck’s breath catch slightly. Moves to kiss him on the mouth, but Buck is smiling so wide he mostly just kisses his teeth.
Buck wraps his arms around him and rolls them so he’s on top, his weight a pleasant warmth above him, and kisses him slow and deep for a moment, their lips moving together slickly.
Then, he tucks his head into the crook of Eddie’s neck, sighing deeply, and promptly falls asleep.
He’s making these cute little soft-snuffling-almost-snoring sounds right into Eddie’s ear. They’re both still absolutely filthy, covered in the dried and drying cum growing tacky between them, and Buck’s kind of heavy on top of him, their combined body heat starting to make Eddie sweat.
But he can’t feel anything other than bone-deep contentment as he strokes his hands up and down Buck’s back, relishing in the feeling of soft skin beneath his fingertips, holding and being held, and in this bed with Buck, he lets himself drift off.
They wake up again sometime in the late evening, and Eddie stays; stays while they order takeout and eat it in bed, Eddie smiling as Buck chastises him for getting crumbs everywhere when he’d just changed the sheets, Eddie, come on.
Eddie shuts him up with a kiss and stays.
Stays until it’s dark outside and Buck ends up riding him, Eddie looking up at him dazedly while Buck bounces and grinds his hips, working himself up and down on Eddie’s cock.
Eddie’s hands are everywhere, can’t stop touching skin, knows all the places that make Buck go shuddery and boneless. It’s a sight to behold—Buck, six foot two and built—bouncing himself on Eddie’s cock like he’s made for it, head thrown back, muscles rippling as he fills himself over and over.
Eddie fucking loves the way Buck rides him, legs spread wide around Eddie’s hips, eyes screwed shut and just taking what he needs, controlling the pace, making himself feel good. Just using Eddie’s cock to get himself off. It’s so fucking hot Eddie can hardly stand it, and all he can do is hold on tightly and try not to come too soon.
Hours later, Eddie takes a turn, sinking down onto Buck’s cock with a sigh, breathing deeply as the huge length of it fills him, splitting him open. They don’t do it like this often, but tonight, Eddie wants to feel him.
Buck is propped up on the pillows, flushed and gorgeous, with Eddie’s hand fisted tight in his hair, pulling, using it as purchase to ride him harder. Buck’s can’t keep still, squirming underneath him and clutching the sheets, Eddie’s thighs, Eddie's hips, fingers digging in. It doesn’t take long before he’s whining and gasping into Eddie’s mouth.
Eddie ends up pinning Buck's wrists to the bed, and Buck offers himself up willingly, so desperate to be good, he just lies there and takes it.
Eddie presses him into the sheets, fucking himself on his cock while Buck moans and begs him to let him come, muscles flexing as he strains in Eddie’s tight grip. It's all Eddie can do to tell him, over and over again, what a good boy he is, whispering it into the space between them, until Buck is unable to hold back, thrusting wildly up into him until they both come, Eddie’s hole squeezing tight around him as he spills all over Bucks stomach and chest.
They fall asleep together, sore and sated and wrung dry, and Eddie stays.
He stays until he has to go, and it takes hours for him to get out the door, Buck clinging to him like a koala the way he has been all day, unwilling to let him get too far, dragging him in for one more cuddle, one more kiss, one more fuck.
By the time he gets into the elevator, leaning heavily against the cold metal wall as he descends, giddy and sex-stupid, he smiles to himself, and for a moment, can’t remember why he ever denied himself this.