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“The trials and tribulations of Evan Buckley: a tragedy in ninety-seven acts.”
The words tumble out of Eddie’s mouth, spiteful, and dosed with a poison made specifically for Buck’s insecurities. He can't help it—he’s hurt, he’s a mess, he’s lonely, he’s conflicted, and he knows Buck’s there, waiting to pick up the pieces. But he doesn't want him to be.
He wants Bobby back. He wants to have never moved to El Paso in the first place. He wants to forget the look in Buck’s eyes when he drove away. He wants to forget about the swooping in his gut he’d get whenever Buck would pop up on his phone for a FaceTime.
But none of that’s possible. Instead, he’s standing in his old kitchen, where everything has been rearranged to Evan Buckley standards, and it feels a little like looking inside his own mind.
When the haze of anger and regret drifts from the edges of his sight, he’s left with Buck—standing there, hurt etched deep into the creases of his eyes, brow, mouth, like Eddie’s carved it there himself.
He might have hit a little too hard this time.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Feels guilt start to swallow up the anger and his words along with it. He tries to think of what to do next—apologize? Get angrier?
His eyes snap to Buck’s mouth when Buck’s tongue darts across his bottom lip.
Beg?
But Buck’s face twists, and then the hurt is gone. He’s moving—strutting forward, determined, gaze blazing—and Eddie stumbles backward, his back colliding with the counter.
The gasp Eddie sucks in as Buck moves into his space feels like his last breath. He’s—Eddie’s eyelids flutter, his fingers grip the edge of the counter tightly, and when he breathes in, all he can smell is Buck.
He’s so close. But Buck’s face sways even closer , eyes laser-focused on Eddie’s mouth, like he wants to ensure that what he whispers next make its way inside:
“The quiet, closeted catastrophe of Edmundo Diaz—performed nightly for an audience of none .”
Eddie flinches like the words hit skin. For a second, all the noise in his head goes silent, leaving gaping awareness and the awful, naked feeling of being seen.
“W-what—” Eddie’s voice cracks and he’s trying to frown, trying to be mad, but he feels exposed, so his words come out broken, quiet and confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He can’t take his eyes away from the parted mouth that’s panting angry breaths against his lips.
“You know what I’m talking about,” One of Buck’s hands comes up to grip the countertop next to Eddie’s, and their knees bump together. Eddie makes the mistake of looking up and Buck’s eyes are fixed on him, intense and unreadable. There’s something simmering in his expression, something almost hungry that makes Eddie’s stomach flip.
It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s like Buck is trying to hold something back.
Eddie’s heart is hammering, trying to claw its way out of the wreckage of a broken chest that Buck’s words left behind. He tells himself he doesn’t know what he means, that Buck’s clutching at straws, seeing whispers of things he might have seen in himself before Tommy.
But it’s a lie, because Buck’s nose brushes his, and he’s half-hard in his pants.
“I see you looking, sometimes. Took a while for me to get why—then before you left for El Paso, when I stayed here, I heard—” For the first time since Buck’s stepped into his space, he wavers. But Eddie watches his Adam’s apple shift when he swallows, teeth aching to bite, and Buck continues: “Thought you were having a nightmare so came to check on you.”
Eddie doesn’t know where this is going. Doesn’t know if he cares at this point—hot breath on his mouth, kneecaps to kneecaps, pinky finger brushing his, fire burning in Buck’s eyes. His senses are flooded, ears muffled like he’s underwater.
“I saw you.” Buck’s voice is low, barely a whisper. “On your stomach. Whimpering. Sweating. Fingers clenched so tight in your pillow I thought it would tear.” There’s a flush blooming across his cheeks, and Eddie wants to paint every wall of his house with it.
They’re breathing each other in—gasping, shared air—when Buck inches closer, top lip brushing Eddie’s with the barest, cruelest tease.
“You fucked the mattress,” he whispers. “And when you came, you sobbed my name.”
Eddie’s knees almost give out.
His breath fuses to his throat, entire body burning in a way that feels physical. His brain short-circuits—shame, embarrassment, shock. Want.
He remembers—remembers the dream with hard planes of skin, a rough face, a pink, splotchy birthmark. He remembers waking up to stained pants and sweat trickling down his forehead. But he hadn’t—he hadn’t connected the dots. Didn’t want to look too closely at it.
He should step back. Say something. Anything.
But he doesn’t.
He’s frozen, trembling at the thought of someone seeing what he’s pushed away, of having the thing he’s buried ripped out and laid bare between them.
And Buck—Buck just stands there .
Eddie sways. He doesn’t know if it’s from fear or the way his body is suddenly, undeniably, aching for more.
And then Buck moves away, the cold air of the kitchen rushing in between them, and it feels like a slap. Eddie slumps, the hands gripping the counter behind him the only thing keeping him on his feet. Everything feels so numb.
Buck’s firm gaze meets his then falls—to his neck, his chest, his arms, his waist, the bulge in his pants.
Eddie doesn’t even try to hide it.
He’s already been flayed in a kitchen that used to be his.
He stares back, unblinking, unmoving, sucking in breaths like the oxygen will absorb all of his shame.
He watches Buck’s throat bob.
“The trials and tribulations of Evan Buckley, right? A tragedy in ninety- eight acts,” Buck’s lips wobble as he delivers this, a forced, casual, trembling hand waved between them.
Then he walks away.
-x-
A week passes. Christopher’s packing things up in El Paso, Eddie’s still in LA.
They’re moving back. A part of Eddie knows there was never any question about it—even if Bobby had still been alive, he’d have ended up back here. It’s home now, for Christopher and for him.
But the living situation is sticky. After the confrontation in the kitchen, Buck’s been distant, but not angry. It’s almost like all of the fight has been pulled out of him, handed to Eddie in the kitchen a week ago, and Eddie’s left with a piece of Buck he doesn’t know what to do with.
A tragedy in ninety-eight acts.
What about Eddie made that number go up? What did Buck mean by it? How was Eddie’s unravelling even remotely related to it? He’s wandering about, molding and toying with the part of Buck he’s been given, but nothing he can think of seems to form a shape.
Eddie’s still staying with Buck and the unspoken agreement seems to be that Christopher is moving back too. Buck’s cleared up his old room, even brought a few new things as a surprise.
Eddie’s still sleeping on the couch.
The couch that he sprawls face-down on at night, cock hard in his fist, hips grinding into the cushions, his other hand clamped over his mouth to stifle the whimpers and Buck’s voice curling through his head like a curse: when you came, you said my name.
Buck’s cracked him open and everything’s spilling out now. He’s tried and tried and tried to keep it down but of course, Evan Buckley’s the spark that lit the fuse. It was always going to be.
This is what he is now: broken, horny, gay, and catastrophically in love with his best friend.
Eddie wakes up with a headache like he's been grinding his teeth all night. His mouth tastes stale, his body aches and the harsh daze of morning feels light until the grief hits him again.
He swallows it down, just like he has every day that week, and groans as he pushes himself up and off the sofa.
He starts his shift back at the 118 in an hour. With Hen as Captain—temporarily, or permanently—he’d gotten his job back. And that little gem pierces through the fog in his brain, bright and wonderful. For a second he forgets the grief and the yearning.
Until he heads to the bathroom, rubbing a hand over his face, trying to blink himself back into reality, and Buck steps out of it.
His damp hair is pushed back, one wet curl brushing his forehead, steam dancing around his shoulders. There's a towel slung low on his hips, droplets trailing lazy paths down his chest and over the ridges of his stomach. Eddie freezes mid-step.
“Hey,” Buck rasps, like he hasn’t used his voice yet this morning.
Eddie doesn’t answer. He can’t. His brain’s been wiped clean.
Buck doesn’t seem to notice. Doesn’t seem to care, more likely. He keeps going, tone neutral, distant but not unkind. “About yesterday—uh, that thing with Chris’s school, I looked into it. I think we can talk to the principal, get ahead of it.”
Eddie nods. Or tries to. His gaze keeps catching on the droplets clinging to Buck’s collarbone, the slope of his neck, the way the towel shifts when he moves. His fingers tingle, mouth aches, because Buck’s standing there and he can’t stop looking. Not when he knows now. Not when he knows that every cell in his body is vibrating at the chance to lay one finger on Evan Buckley.
He licks his dry lips, swallows again and again around the lump in his throat.
Buck steps closer. Not threateningly, just casually, like it doesn’t matter that Eddie’s about three seconds from losing the last shred of sanity he’s been pretending to have.
“And I called about getting more uniforms for you,” Buck adds. “They’ve gonna send some next week—Monday, eleven. You should—"
“Buck.” Eddie’s voice cracks, more breath than sound.
Buck stops.
Eddie closes his eyes. His hands curl into fists at his sides. “Please,” he says, jaw clenched tight. “You need to move. Just—please. Move away from me before I do something stupid.”
There’s a beat of silence. Eddie doesn’t look.
He doesn’t need to. He can feel the shift in the air between them—how Buck’s breath hitches, how his presence goes from casual to charged , like a dark thunder cloud has swallowed the room. Like Buck knows exactly what Eddie means and isn't sure if he wants to move at all.
Eddie’s hard. Has been since the second Buck spoke. It’s not subtle. It’s not comfortable. He clenches his teeth so hard it hurts.
Another second passes.
Then Buck steps back slowly. Not far. Just enough. Eddie doesn’t open his eyes until he hears the soft pat of bare feet retreating down the hall, the creak of the bedroom door.
He exhales, letting out a breath so big it could be solid. Then he goes into the bathroom, steps into the shower fully-clothed, and fists his dick so hard and fast it brings tears to his eyes.
-x-
Eddie thought going back to work would ground him. Shake whatever weird, overheated haze had settled over his body since that morning in the hallway. He thought putting the uniform on, falling into the rhythm of calls and procedures and routine, would make everything feel normal again.
It doesn't.
It just gives him a hundred more chances to stare at Buck. A hundred more chances to catch Buck already staring back.
It starts at the kitchen table, something stupid and small. Hen’s mid-story, waving a fork around, and Eddie’s only half-listening. Buck asks for the salt and Eddie passes it, but Buck brushes the tips of Eddie’s fingers and Eddie sucks in a harsh breath like he’s touched flames. The salt slips through his grip and clatters to the floor.
Everyone stops.
Eddie mumbles something and ducks to pick it up.
He doesn’t look at Buck, but he feels him. Watching.
Later, in the kitchen, Eddie tries to squeeze past Buck by the sink—barely even touches him, just the slide of his shoulder against Buck’s back—but Buck goes rigid, mid-motion. Eyes wide and blank. Hen has to snap at him, “Buck. Buck. The water?” before he blinks and grabs the pitcher from her hands.
Then there’s the truck.
Eddie hates the truck.
They’re crammed in, pressed together thigh-to-thigh, and it’s like his skin is humming. Every time the rig takes a turn, they shift closer. Every time Buck adjusts his position, his fingers brush the inside of Eddie’s leg.
Casual. Careless.
Except not.
Because each time it happens, Eddie feels his breath catch in his throat, feels heat crawl up his neck.
He doesn’t look.
But then Buck does it again—just resting his hand on his own knee, innocent enough—and his fingers graze the inside of Eddie’s thigh one more time. Linger there, light and barely-there, like he doesn’t even notice.
Eddie knows he does.
He turns his head, just enough to catch Buck’s eyes on him. Open, searching, like he’s daring Eddie to say something.
Chimney's in front, glancing back over his shoulder. “You two planning on speaking this shift or should I just start monologuing?”
Neither of them answer.
They’re too busy looking. Touching without touching. Waiting to break.
-x-
“So what’s up with you and Buck?” Hen says as she slides into a seat opposite Eddie. It’s late in the shift and the air in the station feels soft-edged, with a kind of bone-deep tired that settles into the walls. Eddie’s slouched over the table, shoulders curled in, trying to pretend he doesn’t hear the murmurs floating over from the couches. Buck’s sprawled out with Chimney, half-listening to whatever story he’s telling, quiet chuckles slipping between them.
At Hen’s words, Eddie’s head snaps toward them. Buck’s leaning back, long legs spread, grin stretched across his face. His neck’s flushed pink from the heat of the day and there’s a little wrinkle in his nose as he laughs.
“What makes you think anything’s going on?” Eddie says, his voice rough. He realizes he hasn’t spoken in a few hours.
Hen raises her eyebrows, chewing a mouthful of toast. “Because you’re not over there all up in his business,” she says.
Eddie’s heart jumps and when Buck’s eyes flick over to his for a second, he hurriedly looks away. He presses his fingernail into a scratch on the table and picks at it like it might save him from answering. He can still feel it—Buck’s gaze, like a weight at the side of his face.
“I’m gay,” he says finally, flat, quiet. Like he hasn’t had that phrase slamming against the walls of his mind for the past two weeks, screaming at him bloody.
He doesn’t look at Hen, but he sees her stiffen. Her chewing slows, her whole body going still for half a second.
“Oh,” she breathes. “Eddie, I’m so proud—”
“I love you, Hen, but I don’t need to hear all that,” he says, too fast, too cruel. The second it’s out, guilt punches through him. He exhales through his nose and leans back, scrubs a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Thank you.”
“—It’s okay. It’s fine, Eddie. It’s not… It’s not always a happy thing. Not at first,” she leans forwards and puts a hand over his gently. The softness and warmth of her hand immediately makes his eyes sting, makes a lump form in his throat. “But it can be.”
The kindness in her voice undoes something in his chest and he nods jerkily, ignoring the sting of tears prickling along his bottom lashes.
“Is that why you and Buck are…?” Hen trails off, leaving the question suspended in the air between them. Eddie blinks again. The sting vanishes and he’s back in the kitchen. Buck’s voice rising. The look on his face—hurt and hard, a wound pulled open.
“He found out I was leaving—before. Before Chris asked to come back. Things got a little heated,” Eddie shrugs one-shoulder, like the casualness of it will soften the hurt he’s feeling recounting it. “We both said things we shouldn’t. And Buck… Buck knew. About me. Before I’d even said anything.”
Surprisingly, Hen lets out a soft snort at this.
“He’s good at reading people, Buck, but especially good when it comes to you. Should have figured he’d work it out on his own.”
Eddie’s head jerks up at that, eyes narrowing at Hen.
“You say that like he could have had help.” Hen answers with a sheepish face and a shrug.
Hen shrugs, her smile turning sly. “You aren’t as subtle as you think, Diaz. Gay-to-gay.”
And just like that, Eddie laughs. One sharp, startled bark of it, and his cheeks feel strange when they stretch to accommodate his smile. Hen grins with him, then glances sideways.
“Your boy keeps looking over here,” she murmurs.
Eddie ignores the flutter in his stomach at your boy and follows Hen’s gaze. Buck’s still got a lingering smile on his face over something Chim’s said, fingers carefully ripping up a napkin into his lap. But his eyes are glued to Eddie, curious.
“Are you gonna tell him. Officially, I mean? Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for,” Hen asks softly, watching the two of them have a stare-off. Eddie’s whole body goes still. The idea of it—saying the words to Buck, making it real—makes something twist ugly in his gut. His jaw clenches and he tears his gaze away.
“No,” he says. “I don’t know.” He exhales hard through his nose. “I’m just angry, Hen. I’m angry all the time. At myself, for being this way. At the people who won’t accept it. At how much time I wasted shoving it down, pretending I didn’t—” His voice cracks. He bites it off. Swallows.
He glances at Buck again, who’s staring down into his lap with a deep frown etched into his forehead.
“And I’m angry at Buck,” Eddie says, quiet now. “For making me realize it.”
-x-
The mornings are the worst.
It’s when the haze of sleep burns off, and the grief creeps in like smoke. After the grief comes the guilt, then the ache of loss, deeper somehow, when he looks around the lounge that used to be his and sees Buck in everything.
He wants his best friend back.
The coffee machine is being a piece of shit. He grunts, smacks a few parts harder than necessary, and mutters under his breath until it finally spits out something drinkable. The whirring and clicking along with the smell of coffee soothes his mind for a moment.
He grabs his coffee, turns, and leans back against the counter, eyes half-shut over the rim of his mug to let the steam soothe their tired ache. Trying to breathe.
And then Buck walks into the kitchen.
He’s wearing one of Eddie’s old t-shirts—the gray one with the faded lettering from an academy run years ago. It’s shrunken from too many washes, clinging tight to Buck’s shoulders, biceps stretching the sleeves, and the hem barely hits his waistband. It should look ridiculous. It doesn’t.
It looks dangerous.
Eddie stares. He can’t help it. Can’t stop his eyes dragging down the curve of Buck’s hips, the snug cling of the cotton over his chest. He doesn’t even register that Buck’s moving—until he’s right there . Close. Too close.
Then Buck just takes the coffee from his hand.
“Thanks,” Buck says with a forced smile, perching his ass on the edge of the dining table and taking a sip. Eddie’s still holding air. His hands are cupped around nothing, fingers twitching. His brain is molten. His stomach spasms and his eyes flick— Diaz. Stretched across Buck’s chest, right over his heart.
Mine. Mine mine mine.
He catches Buck’s smirk around the mug out of the corner of his eye.
That’s when it hits him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Eddie asks, and he means for it to come out firmer than it does, but it’s weak and flat. Buck stares back at him, blinking, and places the coffee on the table behind him.
“Hm?” Buck tilts his head to the side in confusion but fuck , Eddie knows him. Knows every fucking inch of him.
Buck’s doing it on purpose.
“What are you trying to do?” The words are rough and hoarse, sliding out before Eddie can stop them. He steps forward. Buck’s mask wavers—he looks down, snorts softly, and shakes his head like he’s already won something.
Eddie moves again. Stops when Buck looks up through his lashes, lips curling just slightly.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck .
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Buck says, voice even, stripped of anything soft.
Then he stands. Slowly. No smile now, just eyes locked on Eddie like he’s daring him to do something.
Eddie tries to breathe in when the air around Buck starts to mingle with his, but he gets a noseful of fresh linen, Buck’s aftershave, coffee, and his breath stutters.
Buck leans in a little, not too close, just enough for Eddie to see each individual eyelash and feel the ghost of his breath on his face.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Buck murmurs. “It was good.” A pause. “Your future wife sure is a lucky woman.”
Buck scoops up the mug and leaves the room and Eddie—
The tension snaps like a taut wire inside his chest. His teeth grind, his hands twitch, like they’re trying to reach out and hold onto something that’s already walking out the door.
His blood is boiling—half rage, half want. His pulse is in his throat, behind his eyes, in his dick.
He wants to shout, wants to grab Buck by the shoulder and spin him around and demand to know what the hell that was. The shirt. The smirk. The line about a wife .
But he doesn’t move.
He watches the sway of Buck’s hips, the stupid fucking curve of his back in his shirt, and the image burns into his mind like a brand.
He’s so goddamn hard he could scream.
And he doesn’t even get his coffee.
-x-
The call is over. But Eddie’s still vibrating with it.
He’s pacing in the locker room, fists clenched at his sides, jaw locked tight enough to crack. He can still feel the fire they’d fought searing his skin, and the image of Buck being eaten up by smoke as he ran back into the building sends angry chills down his spine.
At a blazing house fire in a house for eight, lived in by three, a man had done nothing but spit venom at the team, lashing out at anything he could—skin color, sexuality, gender. He was furious, panicked, but most of all, terrified. Terrified they’d find his two kids locked in the basement.
He’d tried to beat them to it. Tried to run back inside and get the kids out himself before the 118 could reach them.
But dispatch had already confirmed it—two kids, trapped. Eddie and the others had gotten to them first. The man never made it. Maybe he got turned around in the smoke, maybe he fell, it didn’t matter.
The second the kids were safe, Buck took off. Ignored Gerrard’s shouts, getting swallowed by the smoke as he headed straight back into the house. Eddie went to go after him, but Gerrard caught his arm, Chimney grabbed the other.
Five minutes. That’s how long Eddie stood there, lungs locked, heartbeat hammering in his throat. Waiting. Straining to see through the smoke.
Then Buck reappeared. Covered in soot, dragging the asshole across his back. The asshole who, ten minutes before, had spat in Buck’s face.
But Buck’s alive. He’s fine. Fine. But Eddie’s heart hasn’t slowed down since the smoke curled around Buck’s form, and his brain won’t shut up. His skin feels like it’s been peeled back to the bone.
He vaguely registers a door opening through the haze of his anger, but he’s trying to take breaths to let the rage dissipate in the air.
Buck’s voice cuts through the static. “Eddie.”
Eddie doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look at him. Keeps pacing. Keeps muttering under his breath—something about how stupid it was, how close it came, how they could’ve lost him, how it’s all—
“ Eddie. ” Buck’s voice drops. Eddie stutters mid-step. His head jerks up.
Buck’s standing there, squared off, firm. His curls are damp with sweat against his forehead, soot smeared across his cheeks. His eyes are dark, mouth set. But he’s not angry, he looks—he looks worried. Stern.
Buck takes a cautious step forward. “Look at me. Breathe slower. Now.”
Eddie does. Not consciously. Not thoughtfully. Just obeys . His lungs drag in air like they’ve been waiting for permission.
Buck takes a step closer, tilts his head towards Eddie with a firm frown carved into his forehead.
“Sit. Hands where I can see them.”
And Eddie sits. Drops like gravity doubled and dragged him down. Hands spread on his knees, body snapping to attention without him meaning to. A flush rushes down from the top of his head to the base of his feet like a hot syrup and his skin prickles, thighs tense, stomach curls and burns.
Eddie swallows. His pulse is still wild, but it’s changed. Lower now. Heavy. Throbbing in a different place entirely.
Buck crouches in front of him. Eyes scanning his face.
“You good?” he asks, voice quiet and calm. Still commanding. Eddie’s mouth is dry, his head filled with an entirely different type of fuzz. It’s like a switch has flipped on in his brain, like he can’t— doesn’t want to speak until.
Until Buck tells him to.
He can’t answer. Can’t breathe without thinking of how Buck sounded .
Something in him twists.
Buck reaches out, hand brushing his shoulder. “Hey. Talk to me.”
Eddie jerks back a little. Not to get away—just to stop himself from lunging forward . From dragging Buck in and taking his mouth, from clinging to him and begging him to please, talk to me like that again.
He lets out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, like Buck had told him not to breathe , nods instead. Just a twitch.
“I’m fine,” he lies, like his body isn’t trying to tear itself apart from the inside out. Buck stays crouched for a second longer than necessary.
His eyes flicker over Eddie’s face. Studying. Calculating.
Eddie doesn’t move. He can’t. His hands are still right where Buck told him to keep them, fingers splayed stiffly on his thighs, his back straight like he’s under inspection.
He knows he must look wrecked. He feels wrecked. His chest rises in shallow breaths, trying to will away the gut-wrenching, twisting ache in his dick. It almost hurts . His skin’s flushed, heat crawling up his neck and flooding his ears and there’s pressure , because Buck’s watching him in complete silence and he feels like if he moves it’ll crumble.
It’s the kind of pressure he remembers from standing under a collapsing roof, that split-second before the weight gives out. When the air goes too still, and your instincts scream that something’s about to fall.
That’s what it feels like now—sitting perfectly still while Buck looks at him like that.
Then Buck’s expression changes. His brows draw together, and his mouth opens like he’s about to ask a question, but all he lets out is a breath.
And in that breath, Eddie sees it.
Realization.
Buck blinks once, slow, and his eyes drag down Eddie’s body like he’s only just put the pieces together. The tense posture, the flush, the way Eddie’s hips are making barely-there movements along the slippery wood of the bench.
“Fuck,” Buck whispers, more to himself than anything. It sounds awed. Horrified. Aroused.
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a half-full bottle of water. His movements are slower now, measured, like he’s seeing how far this will go if he leans into it.
He twists the cap off with one hand. The crack of the seal breaking sounds deafening in the silence between them.
Then, gently, like they’re in some kind of dream, Buck lifts the bottle and holds it just in front of Eddie’s mouth.
“Drink,” he says, low and even.
Eddie’s body reacts before his mind can catch up. A tremor surges down his spine and he feels a stab in his gut, visceral. His lips part instantly, a hitch in his breath.
He doesn’t—He doesn’t know what’s happening, what Buck’s doing, what—why that one word, in that voice, folds him open. He should stop. Whatever this is, he needs to stop it.
But he doesn’t.
His throat bobs. He leans forward, barely conscious of the movement, and lets Buck tip the bottle. The water is cool, but it does nothing to soothe the slow burn under his skin. A thin stream trickles past the corner of his mouth, slipping down his jaw, and he swallows thickly.
Buck watches it. Watches him .
Eddie’s heart beats so loud he can hear it in his ears. His throat moves with every swallow, and Buck’s eyes follow each one. It feels obscene—like something private that’s become a performance. A secret Buck’s coaxing out of him.
The silence is so fucking heavy. The moment stretches.
Then Buck pulls the bottle away, caps it without breaking eye contact, and slowly, without a word, stands.
He looks at Eddie for a second longer. Something unreadable flickers in his eyes.
And then he turns and walks away, leaving Eddie sitting there, hands still obediently flat on his thighs, trembling from the effort of not chasing after him.
-x-
There’s a siren.
One long, shrill note that never ends, drilling through his skull. Then fire, blinding, pulsing, everywhere, lunging out into the air.
Eddie’s running. He doesn’t know where from, only that Buck is ahead of him, just out of reach, helmet askew, back turned, walking straight into the collapse like he doesn’t hear Eddie shouting.
“Buck!” His voice gets swallowed. He tries again, louder, hoarser. “Buck, wait!”
But Buck keeps going, a figure in the smoke, fading. The building groans around them like it’s alive, like it’s screaming Buck’s name too.
A beam crashes down and Eddie leaps forward. It’s muscle memory—the kind trained in over a decade—but this time he’s too slow. The flash is molten, embers spitting up from the ground when it collides. Buck disappears under it.
There’s a single beat where Eddie thinks my world has ended, before he’s collapsing to his knees. He claws through rubble with bare hands, smoke winding up his arms. His lungs ache, there’s blood on the floor—he doesn’t know whose. Then the air shifts, bends, and he swears he can hear Buck breathing under the wreckage, ragged and wet.
Then it stops.
Everything stops.
And Eddie’s left kneeling in the wreckage with his hands full of ash.
He wakes up choking on a breath that’s not there.
His body jerks upright, elbows connecting with the back of the couch and furthering his confusion. It takes a few deep breaths for the disorientation to subside, the darkness leaking away to reveal the vague shapes of the living room. His blanket is still tangled around his legs, sweat cold on the back of his neck, his heart threatening to punch a hole through his chest.
He scrubs both hands over his face, then grips the blanket until his knuckles go white. He’s shaking. His whole body is buzzing like it's still in the fire.
His mind keeps replaying it—the sound of Buck going quiet, the way the smoke suffocated his name.
He doesn’t stop to think about the last few weeks and how he and Buck are playing a game neither of them knows how to win. How it’s been a lazy, aching dance with no rhythm and no end.
None of that matters right now.
Right now, he just wants to be close to his best friend, and the man he’s stupidly in love with.
So he moves without thinking. Grabs his blanket with one hand, rubs the heel of the other across his bleary eyes, then pushes it back through his already-mussed hair. The house is quiet, heavy, as if the night itself is holding its breath.
He pads softly down the hall, bare feet making no sound on the cool floor, and pauses in front of the bedroom door.
It creaks gently open, letting a sliver of honeyed hallway light slip inside and stretch across the floor, across Buck, curled on his side, face half-buried in his pillow.
Eddie walks in, the corner of his blanket trailing behind him. He doesn’t hesitate, just goes to the empty side of the bed, peels back the covers, lets his own blanket fall in a quiet heap, and slides beneath the sheets. The warmth is immediate, humming up his legs, into his chest.
Buck stirs with a soft inhale, body shifting toward the change in weight. His movements are slow and sleepy, limbs heavy with rest as Eddie inches closer under the covers, watching him with tired, swollen eyes.
Buck turns toward him instinctively. His lashes lift. Their gazes meet through the silver crack of light spilling in from the open door.
He doesn’t say anything right away, just looks. Takes in Eddie’s face like he’s making sure it’s really him.
“Nightmare?” Buck whispers, voice scratchy, thick with sleep.
Eddie nods once.
Buck nods too, then his eyes fall closed again as he reaches out and curls an arm around Eddie’s waist. No hesitation. No words.
Eddie exhales, pressing his face into the soft cotton of Buck’s sleep shirt, breathing in the faint scent of detergent and warmth and safety. Buck’s fingers move lazily along his spine, soft and sure, and the last fragile remnants of fear still clinging to Eddie finally melt away.
He drifts off like that—held close, held quiet, held safe.
-x-
Eddie’s shoulder starts throbbing before he even opens his eyes. A dull, familiar ache radiates from the scar tissue, the kind that makes his whole arm feel off.
It’s one of those days.
He shifts in bed, tries to stretch it out, but the pain just flares hot. With a sigh, he gets out of bed with slow, careful movements, each shift of his shoulder sending strips of lightning through the muscles there. He pushes it aside, tries to ignore it.
Buck’s already in the kitchen when he walks in. They don’t mention sharing a bed the night before, they don’t acknowledge each other. Eddie’s still caught in his own head, the pulsing in his shoulder whipping up all the thoughts in his head.
Eddie pours himself a cup of coffee in silence, sliding into the seat opposite Buck. He tries to focus on the steam creeping from his mug, on the scrape of Buck’s fork. On the way his own shoulder pulls when he lifts his arm to take a sip.
Buck keeps looking at him. Not saying anything. Just… looking. Analysing.
Eddie can feel it, every time he moves. He thinks of himself as someone who’s pretty hard to read, who can hide what he’s feeling, and especially hide when he’s in pain. Years of practice to stop Christopher worrying about him. But when Buck looks at him, he feels like all of his problems are stamped on his forehead.
“You okay?” Buck asks softly. Eddie doesn’t answer, just takes a sip of his coffee and meets Buck’s gaze. “Want some eggs?”
Eddie shakes his head. “Not hungry.”
More silence. More watching.
Eddie doesn't last five minutes before he gets up and walks out, mug still in his hand. He can feel Buck’s gaze on his back the whole way to the bathroom.
The light is too bright there. He sets the mug on the edge of the sink and pulls his shirt off with a hiss, rotating his arm forward and back. The pain makes his jaw clench. He opens the cabinet and digs out the gel, flips the cap with one hand, and starts to rub it into the scar just below his shoulder.
The door creaks behind him.
He freezes.
Then— click .
The sound of the door latching is louder than it has any right to be.
Eddie doesn’t turn around but he drops his hand. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” Buck says. His voice is quiet, barely bouncing off of the tiles.
Eddie stares at himself in the mirror. His eyes are tired, forehead crumpled in a permanent scowl, eyebrows twitching with every minute movement of his shoulder.
Buck steps closer, moves in behind Eddie and meets his eyes in the mirror.
Eddie can feel the heat of him even before he touches him. His body’s reacting before his brain can catch up, every muscle drawn tight. The gel burns cold on his shoulder and still— still —it’s not as intense as the heat pouring off Buck just standing behind him. Buck reaches up, his arm coming past Eddie’s waist, and his fingers reach out, hesitate, then land gently just below the scar, brushing over the skin like it might split apart if he isn’t careful.
Eddie flinches. Not from the pain.
“Can I?”
Eddie can’t speak. Just nods.
Buck’s touch replaces his own, heavy but gentle, rubbing the gel into his skin with deliberate care. His fingers are warm. His breath is closer now, hitting the side of Eddie’s neck and when Eddie exhales, it’s shaky.
He wants to step forward. He wants to run.
He does neither.
Buck finishes rubbing the gel in with practiced care, fingertips smoothing over Eddie’s shoulder until the chill of it fades, leaving only heat in its place. Then he pulls away just slightly, grabbing the towel off the rail beside them. He wipes his hands off methodically, slow like he’s got all the time in the world.
Eddie doesn’t move.
Buck doesn’t either. He stays behind him, close. Too close. Eddie can feel the warmth of his body against his bare skin, even though they’re not quite touching anymore.
Buck’s eyes lift in the mirror again. They lock on Eddie’s, and stay there.
Eddie feels naked. Not just because he’s shirtless, but because Buck is still fully clothed, his body relaxed, composed, soft. But Eddie’s flushed and tense and bare to the bone.
It’s disorienting. Unbalanced.
His skin feels too tight. He keeps his arms by his sides, rigid, trying not to let the need crawling under his skin show, but it’s there. It’s all there. He’s pleading in his head: Touch me. Please. I can’t take this.
Buck must see it.
Because suddenly, one of Buck’s hands returns, pressing flat against Eddie’s stomach. The heat of it makes Eddie jerk and the hand is firm, fingertips splayed out. Then it—then it slides up.
Fuck, it’s like someone’s pouring hot honey across his skin. Buck’s hand is a little rough, calloused, and there’s a faint swish noise coming from the skin-on-skin contact, loud in the otherwise silent bathroom.
Eddie holds his breath and doesn’t look away from the mirror. From Buck. He can’t.
Buck leans in slightly, his lips almost brushing Eddie’s ear. “This okay?” he whispers. And god the sound of Buck’s voice, hoarse and hushed into his ear, it sends a thousand needles across Eddie’s skin.
Eddie’s nod is so small it barely counts, but Buck sees it. His hand climbs higher, dragging over warm skin, until it grazes one of Eddie’s nipples.
Eddie gasps, his gut clenches, so hard he almost feels sick, and he closes his eyes, letting his head fall back the tiniest bit, the strands of hair at the back of his neck brushing against Buck.
His shoulder doesn’t hurt anymore.
Buck’s mouth stays near his ear. “How does it feel?”
Eddie shakes his head, not because it doesn’t feel good, but because he can’t speak. If he speaks, he’ll fall apart, if he speaks, he’ll spit fire, because he’s hot, his veins are made of liquid gold now—
Buck’s hand travels up further. His thumb presses into the hollow of Eddie’s throat, fingers curling around the base of his neck, loose but possessive. Like a necklace. Like a leash. Like a claim.
“Eddie,” Buck whispers, gravelly and strong , “ answer .”
Eddie opens his eyes, lungs freezing.
Buck’s irises are blown wide, pupils devouring blue. And Eddie—Eddie looks ruined. Open, wanting, begging.
No defense left.
“Feels good,” he breathes out, voice breaking in the middle.
Buck shifts even closer, until Eddie feels the unmistakable press of a hardness against his hips. Eddie can’t control the noise that leaves his throat, it slices out of him, and he hopes to God Buck didn’t hear it.
Buck hears it.
He doesn’t say anything, though. Just digs his thumbnail gently into Eddie’s jugular, then leans in, presses one hot, open-mouthed kiss to the side of Eddie’s neck.
Eddie’s spirit leaves his body.
But then—Buck pulls back.
The chill is so sudden, so quick. Eddie doesn’t even have time to react before Buck is dragging one hand down the back of his hair, almost affectionate , and then—
He walks out.
Just like that.
The bathroom door clicks open and then shuts again, and Eddie’s left gripping the edge of the sink, panting, heart hammering against Buck’s invisible hand still wrapped around his neck.
He stares at himself in the mirror.
What the fuck.
-x-
Ignoring their little rendevous where Buck had very obviously pressed his erection into Eddie— Buck wanted him, fuck, god, for sex? Forever? —the night they shared a bed doesn’t change anything—nothing of importance, anyway.
Buck and Eddie, they’re still on uneven footing, cautious and unsure of each other. It feels a little lighter, somehow, like a bit of the weight has been lifted, but that underlying tension and the fiery, harsh words from the kitchen still sit between them, a weight they can't shift.
Nothing has changed and yet every night, Eddie wordlessly follows Buck to the bedroom, climbs in next to him, and they fall asleep together without a breath between them.
The couch stays empty and Eddie starts sleeping in a bedroom that used to be his.
But their unspoken agreement to cool it dies the night before Christopher’s due back.
It’s supposed to be lowkey—just Hen, Chim, Ravi, and the two of them. Post-shift drinks, a soft celebration of the Diazes finally being back under one roof. The buzz in the bar is mellow, familiar. Hen’s teasing Chim over his drink order. Ravi’s halfway through a story Eddie’s not totally following. Chim’s trying to convince Hen that mango beer is better than it sounds.
Eddie’s got one elbow on the table, face resting in his hand, shoulders loose, and he almost forgets what it feels like to be on edge. Until he glances toward Buck’s seat.
It’s empty. He frowns, slowly pulling his cheek away from his palm, blinking dazedly at the empty chair he could have sworn was filled a few minutes ago. His eyes dart around the rest of the table, but no one else seems to notice. Hen’s rolling her eyes at Chim, Ravi’s laughing, and Buck’s gone.
He straightens completely, taking a deep swig of his beer, gaze flitting about the rest of the bar in almost-panic.
It doesn’t take long to find him. He’s by the bar and he’s not alone.
There’s a guy standing next to him, close enough for Eddie to know it’s not a friendly, casual conversation. Stylish jacket, fitted jeans, that kind of high-maintenance, I-work-in-PR-once-a-week kind of look. Taller than Eddie, broader too, maybe, a build so familiar to Tommy’s it makes Eddie’s stomach turn.
The beer Eddie’s just glugged feels like acid burning down his throat.
The guy’s hand brushes along Buck’s forearm, light and casual, and Buck smiles at him like he’s just handed him a pot of gold. Around Eddie, the banter fizzles into static, white noise behind the thrum in his ears. He watches them laugh, hands pressing into skin, fingers digging in.
Something deep and ugly unfurls in Eddie’s gut. It coils, thick and sour. He grinds his teeth, tries to chew the feeling back down where it came from, because it’s not his place. Buck’s not his. Not really.
But his eyes can’t move. They track the guy’s hand, still resting on Buck’s arm like it belongs there, like it’s earned that spot. Eddie stares at it like if he focuses hard enough, it’ll evaporate.
A hot prickle crawls up the back of his neck. His eyes flick up.
Buck is watching him.
Still laughing, still talking—but his eyes haven’t moved. They’re locked on Eddie’s.
And then, without breaking that stare, Buck leans in. His lips skim the guy’s ear, a whisper shared in shadow, and Eddie feels the snap of something deep in his chest.
Eddie can’t even see the guy’s face. Just the angle of Buck’s neck, the soft pink curve of his smile. He grinds his molars together, jaw flexing.
The guy says something back, mouth too close to Buck’s cheek, and Buck—fucking Buck—never once looks away.
Then he leans forward and presses a kiss, featherlight, to the guy’s neck.
Eddie’s hand crushes the neck of his beer bottle.
“You good?” Ravi’s voice is casual but his eyes are tracking Eddie’s clenched fists. “You, uh. Standing up for a reason?”
Eddie blinks and realizes he’s on his feet.
“Yeah. I—yeah.” He drops back into the chair too fast. Takes a long drag of beer that tastes like ash in his mouth. Doesn’t look over. Won’t look.
He looks.
Now it’s the guy kissing Buck’s neck, lingering, like he’s staking a claim. Buck’s gaze slides across the room and lands on Eddie again. His lips curve.
He smirks.
Something breaks.
Eddie’s up and moving before he even thinks about it. Shoving through the bodies, catching Buck’s elbow just as the guy starts to murmur something else against his throat.
“Hey—” the guy starts, but Eddie doesn’t even acknowledge him. Just plants an arm between them and pulls Buck away.
Buck doesn’t fight it. Just laughs under his breath and lets himself be dragged out of the bar like he was waiting for it. The door slams shut behind them, and the night air slaps Eddie in the face.
They don’t speak.
Eddie flags down a taxi with a wave and shoves Buck inside first. Climbs in after. It’s silent, Buck’s thigh pressed to his, Eddie’s hand still wrapped tight around Buck’s wrist like he forgot to let go. Buck shifts.
Their eyes meet.
The cab turns a corner. Streetlight slices across Buck’s face in flashes. He’s still got that look—like he’s daring Eddie to do something, to say something. His lips are pink.
Eddie’s hand is shaking where it’s gripped around Buck’s arm. Not from fear, not even anger—from whatever the hell this thing is boiling in him. It’s green and ugly and terrifying.
Buck looks down at their joined hands, looks back up. Raises one brow.
And Eddie tightens his grip.
They don’t speak.
-x-
The front door slams harder than Eddie means it to, rattling in its frame as he storms inside. His footsteps echo too loud in the hallway, but he doesn’t slow down, doesn’t look back to see if Buck’s following. He knows he is. He can feel the weight of his stare like a spotlight on the back of his neck.
Eddie shrugs off his jacket with a sharp flick of his shoulders, lets it fall somewhere near the hooks but doesn’t bother to hang it. His shoes come off with heavy kicks, one scuffing against the wall, and he swears under his breath when it knocks the photo frame by the door askew. Still, he doesn’t stop. Just marches through the living room, teeth grinding, hands flexing at his sides like he’s trying to wring the feeling out of them.
Buck says nothing.
He’s just there , quiet, watching.
Eddie swings into the kitchen. The fridge door yanks open hard enough to jolt the magnet loose. He grabs the first beer he sees, doesn’t care whose it is or if it’s even cold, just needs something in his hand. The cap is twisted off with a snap and then he’s hurling it across the room.
It pings off the tile wall and clatters into the sink, forgotten.
He drinks. Long, too fast, the bitter edge of it scalding down his throat like it might burn the heat in his chest away.
But it doesn’t.
Because the anger is still there—rising, boiling, scraping at his insides like glass shards. And beneath it, the guilt. The knowledge that it was nothing. Just a kiss, a look, a game. And still it lodges itself under his ribs like shrapnel.
Because someday, it won’t be a game.
One day, Buck will come home smiling with someone else’s hand in his. He’ll press a kiss to their cheek, laugh at their jokes. Maybe Eddie will be standing right there in the kitchen, in this same goddamn spot, forced to swallow it all down with a nod and a smile and a beer that suddenly tastes like metal.
He leans forwards against the counter with his wrists, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight, beer still tight in his hand.
Buck’s voice is soft, and close.
“Why are you angry?”
Eddie spins. The movement is quick, reflexive, but he’s startled to find Buck right there , barely a foot away. He must’ve crept in.
And then they’re in the same spot they were a few weeks ago like the universe keeps shoving them into the same space, waiting for something to happen.
Eddie’s breath punches out of him. “I’m not angry.” His voice comes out too fast, too hollow. He doesn’t even believe it himself.
Buck doesn’t move back. He leans in.
His eyes narrow slightly, chin tilting, and then he looks up through those infuriating lashes, pupils blown wide.
“Then why do you look like you wanna punch me… or fuck me?”
Eddie drops the beer. It doesn’t shatter—it rolls away, glugging beer out onto the tiles beneath them, but Eddie can’t move. Buck doesn’t either.
Buck’s still watching him, steady as ever, the faintest flush on his cheeks, the shadow of a smirk on his lips, like he knows exactly what he just did—and exactly what it did to Eddie.
Eddie’s rooted, cornered by his own silence. There’s a buzz in his ears.
His eyes stay stuck to Buck’s, flick left-to-right, left-to-right.
“Fuck it,” Eddie whispers, barely audible, and then he’s diving forwards, pushing his hands into Buck’s hair, and crashing their mouths together.
It’s not a kiss, it’s contact. Desperate, messy contact. Their teeth clack, Buck’s breath hitches, and then they’re moving, hands clawing, dragging each other forward. Buck grunts like the impact hits something deep and yanks Eddie in like he wants to swallow him.
They spin. Buck slams him into the cupboard and it jars the wood. Something metal clatters. Eddie’s shoulder jolts hard, and pain flares bright, but it fucking works for him and he gasps into Buck’s mouth and Buck bites his lip in response, fingers already sliding under his shirt, dragging blunt nails across the skin.
Eddie fists Buck’s hoodie and pulls, tight enough the fabric strains between them. He leans in, bites at the curve of Buck’s jaw, feels the rasp of stubble burn against his lips. Buck hisses through his teeth, and it shoots straight to Eddie’s spine. Buck retaliates with teeth and tongue at Eddie’s throat, biting along the tendon, wet, hard .
Eddie lets out a coughed groan at the ceiling. Helpless.
Clothes shift, stretch, bunch. A button pops, skin brushes skin, nails rake down his back and it makes his hips jerk forward. He can’t stop grinding into the heat of Buck’s body, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. His hand finds Buck’s leg, wraps around it, drags him closer. Buck gasps and shoves back, their mouths colliding again, teeth clashing.
The air is thick, the air is quiet, just the rustle of clothes and whimpers and kisses.
Eddie feels Buck’s teeth scrape his jaw, and he’s so fucking hard, it hurts . All he can do is move, push, bite, grab. He shoves Buck harder against the wall and devours his mouth again, open-mouthed and panting. Buck moans his name, hot and wrecked between their lips.
And it’s good. It’s so fucking good he can’t breathe.
Too good.
Too much.
Eddie jerks back like he’s been burned, chest rising and falling like a beating heart. Buck stays where he is, mouth red and wet, shirt hiked up around his ribs, skin flushed and glowing. His eyes—dark and dilated—lock on Eddie, unmoving, heaving in breaths too.
The kitchen is silent. Except for the sound of their breathing, the whirr of the fridge, and the distant hum of traffic outside.
They stare at each other. The silence is heavy now, but not empty. Filled with things they still haven’t said.
Buck is looking at him with a strange expression—like he’s won, like he’s finally gotten something he’s waited for. But there’s sadness there, too, a quiet thread of grief Eddie doesn’t understand yet. And it guts him.
He steps forward slowly, warily, hands half-raised like he’s approaching something fragile. And maybe he is.
Buck’s breath hitches. His body tenses, like Eddie’s gentleness is more terrifying than the weeks-long fight they’ve been having. Like kindness is too much.
But Eddie just cups his face. Lets his thumbs brush along Buck’s cheekbones, rough from stubble, soft from the look in his eyes. He leans in again—presses their lips together in something slower this time, tender in a way that makes his throat close.
When he pulls back, Buck’s eyes are glassy.
So are his.
And Eddie doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing—doesn’t know what this means, or how to hold it without breaking it. But something inside him is cracking wide open.
So he speaks.
“I’m gay.”
Buck blinks, once. And then a smile breaks over his face, slow and bright and devastating. It hits Eddie, washes over him in a wave of love.
“I know,” Buck whispers, forehead pressing to his. “You’re still Eddie.”
That sentence cleaves something open in him. And then Buck kisses him again.
But this time, it’s different, he’s not waiting. He takes. His mouth moves with purpose, tongue slick and teasing, and Eddie doesn’t think—just matches the energy, trying to fight back.
Buck licks into his mouth, hands finding Eddie’s hips and dragging them forward until their bodies are flush. Every line, every hard angle presses against him, and Eddie shudders. The stubble on Buck’s jaw scrapes along the underside of his chin and it hits him so hard he gasps—because no one’s ever done that. No one’s ever felt like that.
The burn of it. The firm planes of a chest and the prickly, strong jaw—the masculinity of it all makes a little voice in head say “ Yeah. This is how it’s supposed to be.”
He digs his fingers into Buck’s sides, needs to touch, to hold, to feel this in his bones. Their hips rock together messily, and when they get lucky and their cocks rub together, Eddie groans into Buck’s mouth and the friction sparks bright behind his eyes.
Buck bites at his lower lip and Eddie’s limbs go loose. He clutches at Buck’s back like he’s drowning, fingers slipping under fabric, dragging it up, needing more. The heat of Buck’s skin under his hands is staggering. Alive.
They stumble again, Buck’s dragging him out of the kitchen, back hitting the wall in the lounge, and Eddie presses in, chasing the contact. Buck’s hands slide beneath Eddie’s shirt, nails skimming the planes of his back, scratching just enough to make him hiss.
Eddie doesn’t know if he’s ever felt this good. This alive . Like every nerve ending in his body is sparking to attention, feeding him a slow, dizzying high.
It’s the stubble again, when Buck leans in to mouth at his throat. The scrape of it is coarse and inescapable and real , and Eddie’s never been kissed like this—never wanted like this. His breath stutters out of him, hips grinding forward on instinct.
He wants it rough, wants it hard, wants to feel every damn inch of Buck against him.
Buck pulls away enough to tug Eddie further, into the hallway, his fingers digging into the crease of Eddie’s ass and Eddie whines, grips the back of Buck’s neck like it’ll stop him from slipping under.
“Please,” Eddie croaks, and he doesn’t know what he’s begging for, doesn’t know what he means, but Buck seems to. Buck breaks them apart, pushes open the bedroom door with a crash, and then they’re colliding together again, like the ten seconds they’d spent apart had been ten years.
He rips Eddie’s shirt off, the seams of it creaking in protest, tosses it on the floor. And then he bends, Eddie’s hands clutching his hair, and puts his mouth over Eddie’s nipple.
“Oh fuck,” Eddie spits out, his eyes pointing wide and unseeing at the ceiling. He could come from this. He could—he almost chokes on his own breath when Buck flicks it with his tongue, hips thrusting into air. “ Buck, Buck, I can’t—Just get on with it,” He growls, tugging at Buck’s hair.
Buck pulls away and looks up at him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his wet, open mouth. A decision flickers behind his eyes and he straightens, fingers clambering for the buttons of Eddie’s slacks. He pulls them down, and his gaze leaves a burning trail all along Eddie’s skin.
Buck still hasn’t taken off any of his clothes.
And god Eddie has a thing for that—for being the one with nothing hidden, everything there for Buck to see, while Buck stays clothed. Eddie sits on the edge of the bed, keeps his eyes locked on Buck, and lies down slowly, his cock sitting strong against his belly, hands spread on the sheets.
“Keep your hands where they are,” Buck growls.
It slams into Eddie, sends a gush of something warm and oozing over his body. He nods without thinking, barely aware he’s doing it, and curls his fists tight into the sheets at either side of his hips. The cotton feels too rough under his fingers.
Buck shifts lower, eyes locked on him, and he presses a knee into the bed.
Just the simple act of the bed’s weight being slightly off-balance makes Eddie squeeze his eyes shut and his breathing stop.
He’s still trying to come to terms with what’s happening, that Buck’s leaning towards his naked body, Buck is , when a hand touches the inside of his thigh. It’s so soft, barely there, and then it moves around, to his hip bone, to his stomach. It’s like Buck’s feeling out every inch of him, cataloging what’s his now.
And isn’t that a thought. Eddie being Buck’s.
Eddie’s muscles twitch beneath his palm, stomach fluttering under the firmness of it. Every pass of Buck’s fingers turns the tension tighter, drags his skin closer to the edge of being hypersensitive.
Then a wet, hot heat closes over his dick and Eddie almost lifts off the bed.
The sound that climbs up his throat is embarrassing, a half gasp, half plea, but he bites it back, jaw clenched tight, eyes suddenly burst wide. His whole body wants to move, his hands want to grab, to suddenly rush to the end.
He keeps his hands in place. Barely.
And Buck doesn't let up. His mouth glides up and down Eddie’s dick, sucking on the heat of him, almost hungry, and Eddie’s panting, his eyes fluttering between open and closed, his mouth letting out a cacophony of whimpers, groans, gasps.
And it feels so fucking good, it does, but he wants. He wants. Because it’s been weeks—it’s been weeks of feeling so far from Buck, from loving him and having a chasm between them, he wants to be so close, close enough to crawl under his skin.
“Buck, more, ” Eddie croaks out and his hand clenches with the effort to not pull Buck’s mouth off of him, to get him to see.
Buck relents, pulls off of him and gazes along Eddie’s body with a smile so wide, lips so swollen, Eddie takes a mental picture and locks it away.
“Yeah?” Buck asks, and scrambles towards the bedside table. He has to lean over Eddie to reach it, and Eddie dares to lift a hand to grind the heel of his palm against the bulge in Buck’s jeans—it would have been a missed opportunity if he hadn’t.
Buck stutters, hand slipping along the knob of the drawer, and he lets his head fall down between his shoulders with a gasp, gaze colliding with Eddie’s. He looks stunned, pleased, but then a teasing smile breaks across his pink lips.
Buck leans forwards, even though the angle is tough, and dances his lips across Eddie’s.
“Thought I told you to keep your hands still,” he whispers, and Eddie smirks back, squeezes the bulge still in his hands, eyes dancing around Buck’s face when it contorts, eyelashes fluttering.
“What are you gonna do about it, Buckley?”
Buck’s eyes widen and a startled laugh bursts out of him. He ignores Eddie for a moment, collecting things from the drawer before closing it with a click. When he returns to the end of the bed, where Eddie’s legs are still splayed open, waiting, he brushes a teasing finger along Eddie’s dick and watches as Eddie’s body shudders in response.
“Now you have to keep your hands still and close your eyes,” Buck states, clicking open a cap of something. He meets Eddie’s gaze, serious, firm. “Do it.”
The sticky, slow burn washes over Eddie again and he feels his cock twitch against his stomach. With a whispered moan he closes his eyes, lets his fingers twist back into the sheets.
He waits. He waits. He waits.
Then he feels it—the press of Buck’s finger, tentative against him. It’s not pain, not really, but a jolt ike a thousand tiny lightning bolts lighting up the whole bottom half of his body. His whole body seizes around the feeling and a sound tears loose from his throat.
He didn’t know he could be this sensitive, didn’t realize this part of him could feel so alive .
His eyes are clamped shut, the darkness behind his lids swimming with heat and fractured light.
“Stay still. Let me take it slow,” Buck’s voice comes to him muddled around the edges, but the command in it is unmistakable. It curls around Eddie’s frayed nerves like a tether.
The finger begins to push in.
It’s slow, so slow, like Buck is trying to map every millimeter, and Eddie feels every bit of it. It burns, not sharply, but deep, like his body’s learning how to stretch and yield in real time. But it’s not enough.
It’s not nearly enough.
“Don’t take it slow,” Eddie breathes out, the words trickling out into the air. His fingers twitch against the sheets. “Do it.”
He hears Buck’s breath hitch, sharp inhale through clenched teeth, grounding himself, deciding something.
Then the hesitation vanishes. Buck’s finger slides in all the way, smooth but unrelenting, and Eddie’s whole spine bows, tension snapping through him like a bowstring. His gasp cuts through the thick, humid air around them, too loud and not loud enough, like it echoes inside him more than out.
Buck moves it in a steady rhythm, and it feels so good, but it’s still not enough.
“More,” Eddie whines, spreading his legs wider. He hears Buck swear under his breath.
“Shit, you’re so good at taking this,” It’s an offhand comment, just an observation from Buck, but the words you’re so good hit him somewhere, light’s something up in him, and the desperate whimper he lets out must sound different from the others, because Buck stops.
“Interesting,” Buck says simply, and then he pushes another finger inside.
“Oh fuck,” Eddie curses and it takes everything not to open his eyes, to see how Buck is looking at him. “Buck, I need you not to stop. Keep—” Buck crooks his fingers and Eddie sees stars, what sounds like a squeal ripping from his chest. Fuck, that’s embarrassing. “Keep going, please. ”
Buck does, but the bed shifts, weight moves, and then Buck’s mouth is back on his aching, sore dick. Eddie’s eyes fly open, no longer able to stay tethered, the combined sensations too much and bringing tears to his eyes.
“ Shit, shit, shit,” Eddie scrambles, curls his body up, lifts his hands off the bed to grab at Buck’s hair, takes in everything he’s been missing for the past five minutes with his eyes. Something’s building, too fast, too harsh.
The moment Buck feels the fingers twists into his hair, he freezes, dick in mouth, fingers deep inside, and lifts his gaze to Eddie.
Then it’s gone.
All of it.
Buck moves back and the high Eddie had been chasing crashes instantly, a wave collapsing mid-crest, leaving him gasping, strung-out and aching. He drops flat onto the bed, chest heaving, every nerve still sparking from pleasure denied. It feels like his body has been wrung out, tight and trembling, the ache of a stolen release thrumming in his bones.
He forces his eyes open. It takes effort.
Buck is kneeling at the end of him, shedding his shirt, fingers already working the button of his jeans.
Eddie watches, transfixed. Every movement is in his focus, saturated, too bright, like his whole world has narrowed to the sight of Buck undressing. His own skin feels lit from within, humming at a frequency too high to stand.
Then Buck speaks, deep and level.
“I said no touching. Close your eyes. Hands on the bed.”
The shirt is flung somewhere out of view, and Eddie scrambles to obey, eyes squeezing shut so fast the motion startles even himself. His fingers find the mattress again, dig into it like he’ll fall if he lets go. He waits.
The silence stretches. Buck isn’t moving—or at least it feels like he isn’t. The anticipation claws at Eddie’s insides, bends time around it.
And then—
And then there’s something hotter, smoother, pressing into his hole and fuck, fuck it’s Buck, pushing in, further, further and finally , Eddie starts to feel full.
It’s different than before, not fingers, not teasing. The stretch of it punches the breath from Eddie’s lungs. His spine arches, eyes still closed tight, and a choked, helpless sound claws its way out of him.
He tears at the sheets with both hands. A tear slips from the corner of his eye, slides toward his temple unnoticed.
“You feel so good,” Buck’s voice says, closer now, right above him, and it breaks something inside Eddie.
Not just the words, but the breath of them, ghosting across his face, warm and near, while his eyes are closed and he can only feel and hear and burn .
The newness of it, the fact it’s Buck , the helpless surrender of not being able to see—it’s overwhelming.
Eddie thinks he could shatter from this.
He can feel it—all of it.
Buck’s thighs, strong and solid, their coarse hair brushing against the soft, sensitive skin of Eddie’s inner legs. Buck’s forearms, braced on either side of his torso, shielding him. The heat of Buck’s stomach skimming his own, Eddie’s dick trapped between them, skin sliding against skin in the most achingly human way.
For the first time in weeks—maybe years—Eddie feels whole.
Buck starts to move, pulls out achingly slow, then moves back in. Presses against something deep inside Eddie that makes him whine, but his body is still strung out, the effort to keep his eyes closed and hands still too much.
“Please. Let me touch you,” Eddie gasps into Buck’s mouth, their top lips brushing. “Please.”
Buck thrusts, fucks him gently through his pleads. Then the weight of Buck is off of him, and the change in angle sends sparks across Eddie’s skin.
“Okay,” Buck says finally, and Eddie opens his eyes. Buck’s kneeled, chest flushed and heaving, skin slick with sweat. His curls are damp, clinging to his forehead in unruly rings, and his jaw is tight, like he’s hanging on by a thread. There’s a wildness in his eyes, like Eddie is the only thing keeping him together. His muscles are flexed, body strung taut with restraint, and like this—flushed, disheveled, wrecked—he looks so so beautiful.
Eddie can barely breathe with the sight of him. Buck’s slowed to let Eddie take it all in, but after a minute he starts to move again, and it becomes less of a slide and more of a punch, hips jerking one, two, three, and Eddie’s losing it—he can see now, but Buck’s still too far away to touch.
It’s like Buck knows because he collapses his weight on top of Eddie, leaving enough space to wrap one hand around Eddie’s cock between them, albeit a bit awkwardly, and he grips the back of Eddie’s hair tight.
He tugs Eddie’s head back, looks in his eyes, left-right, left-right.
“I love you,” he confesses, and a flower blooms, a sun rises and two tears roll down Eddie’s cheeks. Buck crushes their mouths together before Eddie can reply, and Eddie kisses back like he’s starving for it, like he can force his love into Buck’s mouth, into his skin, into the trembling space between them. His body aches with it, his nails dig into skin, nearly sobbing from the feeling of Buck's hand on him, Buck buried deep inside him, every thrust a thread pulling Eddie tighter, higher.
And then Buck pulls back just enough to look at him.
His face is undone, broken open, mouth slack, eyes burning through Eddie like they’ll never look away. He stutters, jerks inside him, breath loud and uneven. Buck watches him, can’t take his eyes away, like Eddie’s the only thing that exists in the world right now.
Eddie can’t take it. Can’t hold it.
That look. That look in Buck’s eyes, like love and devastation all tangled together. The words echo in his skull— I love you, I love you, I love you —and Eddie shudders, caught on the edge of something.
“Please, Buck,” he chokes, voice shredded, broken wide open.
And Buck takes one look at his face, one look at his open, begging eyes and whispers;
“Come.”
The command detonates something in Eddie. He breaks .
He tumbles over the edge, a cliff collapsing beneath him, all light and heat and shuddering muscle. His whole body goes taut, breath punched out of him, vision white at the edges. The world narrows to a ringing in his ears and the fire rushing through his veins. He hears Buck moan, violent, and feels him thrust deep, one last time, and it pushes another jolt through Eddie’s spent, trembling body.
Buck falls against him, breathing hard, mouthing desperate, broken sounds into Eddie’s neck.
And Eddie lies there beneath him, trying to remember how to breathe, heart still echoing I love you, I love you, I love you with every fading tremor.
-x-
The room is quiet in the silver lull after everything—moonlight pushing lazy fingers through the blinds, the sheets tangled around their legs, their skin still warm from a shower and each other.
Eddie’s lying his head on Buck’s chest, the slow thud of a heartbeat under his ear. His fingers move aimlessly over the smooth plane of Buck’s skin, like they don’t want to stop touching, because he can do this now .
“I love you,” Eddie murmurs, voice soft, almost startled by its own clarity.
Buck’s breath catches. His hand, resting lightly on Eddie’s spine, stills.
“I mean it,” Eddie says, lifting his head just enough to glance up at him. “I’ve known for a while now. I just—”
He swallows, eyes flicking away for a moment before locking back on Buck’s. “I was angry at you for a long time. Not out loud, but… inside. Because being near you made it impossible to keep lying to myself. You didn’t do anything, but you were always there. And it hurt. Realizing I wanted something I didn’t think I could ever have—realizing what that said about me.”
Buck’s gaze is open and kind. But his mouth is tight, like he’s holding something back.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie says. “I was scared. And I blamed you for the truth.”
Buck exhales, long and slow, brushing his fingers through Eddie’s damp hair. “I’m sorry too,” he says, voice hoarse. “I pushed when I should’ve waited. I thought if I just kept showing up , you’d finally see it. But I should’ve let you come to me on your own.”
“You don’t get it,” Eddie shakes his head, burying his face back into Buck’s skin. “I needed the push. You were patient and kind and infuriating and exactly what I needed. I’m so fucking grateful.”
A beat of silence.
Then Eddie tilts his face up again, a smile tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth. “So what did you mean by ninety-eight acts? I couldn’t figure it out,” he whispers, voice muffled against Buck’s chest.
Buck exhales through his nose, one hand brushing over the nape of Eddie’s neck. “You,” he says simply. “You’re the ninety-eighth.”
Eddie’s finger pauses.
“Being hopelessly in love with your straight—” Buck’s voice falters a little, and then he glances down, meets Eddie’s eyes, “—or closeted, best friend is definitely a tragedy.”
Eddie sniffs a quiet laugh, one that sounds too much like relief. He presses a soft kiss to Buck’s shoulder, lips warm and lingering.
“Guess you’re back down to ninety-seven now,” he murmurs.
Buck goes still. Then he laughs, breath shaky, curling his arm tighter around Eddie like he can pull him into the space where the ache used to be.
“Yeah,” he whispers into Eddie’s hair. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
They’ve got a while before they need to sleep, ready for Christopher in the morning, another hour in the soft moonlight leaking across a bedroom that used to be Eddie’s.
Eddie lets himself drift, wrapped in Buck’s arms, finally feeling like he’s exactly where he belongs—in a house that’s theirs.