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Sleep evades Eddie when he finally lays down in bed after coming home from the club. He rests atop his covers and comforter in a simple tank top and sleep shorts, hands folded over his stomach as he looks up at the ceiling with tired eyes. His head swims with the remnants of the buzz from the beers he drank and all of the thoughts he wishes he could shove back in the vacuum-sealed bag they were once stored in.
He's seen people describe their repressed feelings as being in a box or under lock and key, but Eddie had flattened his down so much that they had slipped between the cracks of everything else until he started cleaning out the mess in his closet.
Unpacking every trauma, every mistake, every fumble in his life while Chris was gone has been a painful, eye-opening labor, and after finally coming to terms with the religious trauma, this remains one of the last things inside of that closet—his sexuality.
God, a part of him wishes he could seal it back up.
Remaining ignorant would have just led to him entering another disastrous relationship with another perfect woman he could never love or be fully attracted to. But if he could remain ignorant, he would still be in the dark and wouldn't have to find ways to dance around his apparent lack of interest in women. He wouldn’t have to tiptoe around questions that he now had real answers to but was too afraid to say out loud.
The version of himself before would have let Buck or Ravi set him up with some random woman at the club despite his protests, and he would have tried to do everything right. He would have let himself go with the flow in the relationship. He would have kissed her the right way. He would have had sex with her the right way. He would have taken her on the perfect dates around Los Angeles and gotten dressed up for her for family events and he wouldn't have complained about any of it.
…and then he might have ran his son off to the moon by fumbling the relationship horribly by meeting yet another doppelganger of his dead wife. With the way his life tended to go, there was absolutely a non-zero chance of that happening again.
So instead Eddie is stuck here in this moment, still absolutely closeted but very aware of how not straight he actually is. The seal on the compressed bag had been broken and everything inside has started to double in size, trying to expand larger than the closet itself.
Every single day it has been pushing him out more as the space gets too small for him to fit.
And every single day it becomes harder to hide this secret from the people he loves.
Hen already knows, of course.
Their hangout when they went to see that whale documentary with Ewan McGregor's narration was eye opening for both of them—Eddie because he didn’t realize just how much he liked the Scottish actor, and Hen because she was finally able to put all of the pieces together that she had been collecting about Eddie over the years.
While they shared a plate of mozzarella sticks at dinner after the film, Eddie couldn't shut his big mouth about Ewan McGregor. He'd blame it on Hen being too easy to talk to, but really he thinks a part of him knew he could talk to her about this even though he wasn't actually ready yet.
“Every documentary should be narrated by Ewan McGregor. I’d watch.” Eddie took a bite of a mozzarella stick and tugs, watching the cheese stretch out before snapping. If Buck had been there, they would have started a competition on who can make the longest cheese pull, but Hen was much classier than that when they are in public. So Eddie chose to behave and ate the stick like an adult.
Hen smirked and dipped one of the sticks into the marinara sauce the appetizer came with. “It’s the Scottish accent, right? I’m a lesbian and even I’m obsessed. He could read me the dictionary and I'd swoon.”
“It's not just his accent. Have you seen that man, Hen? He’s perfect. That scruffy beard, his bright blue eyes—us regular folk cannot compete.”
Hen raised an eyebrow at that. “You do know you're well above-average yourself, Eddie?"
“Sure, I guess, but with barely even a fraction of his charm. And again, those eyes?”
Hen leaned back into her chair and chewed her food carefully. Eddie was hardly paying attention to her expressions, though, so lost in his thoughts on the actor, but maybe he should have been paying attention because maybe he would have been able to anticipate her next words. “Seems like he's your type, then."
A rattling breath escaped Eddie, and he slammed his eyes shut as if that would have bottled that hidden part of himself away from her. “I…I don’t know what you mean.”
“Ed—"
“No, that’s. No.”
When Eddie open his eyes again, Hen was looking at him with that quiet, understanding look of hers that makes Eddie feel entirely too seen. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He'd been doing so well embracing joy, but this was a step too far for him to take right now. “Okay. I won’t push…but when you’re ready, I’m here.”
Eddie nodded.
Ready was a week after his Abuela’s passing, standing on her doorstep at two o'clock in the afternoon on the first of their three days off with a bottle of hers and Karen's favorite wine. He had spent all day thinking about what his Abuela said not too long before she passed—that thing about finding love. How he had been looking for it in the wrong place.
Hen didn't hesitate at all. She pulled Eddie into a long hug right there on her porch, then guided him inside where they spent the next few hours drinking down the wine he brought alongside two other bottles in her stash.
There may have been some tears, a lot of good-natured ribbing on Hen's part, and a very unnecessary but thorough sex talk by the almost-doctor herself. If it were anybody else, he would have never allowed it. He would have allowed it from Buck. But it was Hen, and he knew she meant well, so he took notes and rummaged in her cabinet for anything stronger than the wine they were drinking because there was only so much he could handle.
Hen decided to ask this after they were sitting on her couch with the TV playing some random episode of a murder mystery show Hen likes but Eddie couldn't remember the name of. He was a bit too past buzzed at that point to pay attention. “So, is Ewan the peak specimen for you or do you have other things you like about men?”
Eddie didn't have to think hard about it.
Meaty biceps. Tattoos littering pale skin. A bright, brilliant smile. Legs for days. Strong thighs. “Curly hair. I definitely like curly hair.”
It shouldn't be a tell at all. Shannon had wavy hair. Ana had curly hair. It's consistent for him, except that wasn't the hair he was thinking of when he said it. Their curls and waves hadn't made Eddie want to brush his fingers through their hair with the hope it made them feel loved. He hadn't wanted to tug on their curls to bring their mouths close to his.
He never cared about the way their hair fell in their faces, or how it made them look youthful and energized.
Eddie knew Hen’s heard everything else he didn't say out loud. Hen just gave Eddie a pointed look before topping their glasses off with the tequila he'd found in her alcohol cabinet. "I'd say come back to me when you're ready to unpack that, but honestly I don't think I want to know."
And now Ravi knows. It's not like he actually said anything to the man, but he saw the look Ravi gave him in the club. It wasn't too dissimilar to the way Hen looked at Eddie months ago.
After that look, Ravi didn't point out any other women to him—he left all of that to Buck—and any jokes and questions about Eddie's lack of skill at picking up women stopped. There were a few more pointed, sympathetic looks from Ravi as Buck made it his goal to be the greatest wing-man ever as he directed Eddie's attention to what felt like every woman in the club as they danced and Eddie dropped whatever weak excuse he could pull from his dwindling arsenal.
Eddie bore it all if only because Buck stayed true to his word and stuck close to him for the rest of the night.
Eddie shouldn't feel so pleased over that fact. He shouldn't want for Buck's eyes to stay on him all night long. Eddie shouldn't like how Buck had to lean in close to Eddie's ear and shout over the music just so Eddie could hear him. And he definitely shouldn't have enjoyed the heat of Buck's body every time Buck did lean in, or the way the heat of Buck's breath brushed against Eddie's ears, sending a tingling sensation down his spine.
But he did—he does.
He's only willing to admit it in the darkness of his own bedroom, away from Ravi's perceptive looks. Away from all of the women he'll never be attracted to. Away from Buck's glittering blue eyes that seem to always linger on Eddie's a beat too long. Away from it all.
Being in love with Buck isn't new. It's always been there.
He didn't have to unpack that feeling.
What he's been unpacking is the attraction—the thing between them that has always drawn him closer to Buck. How before he didn't let his heart pound in his chest when Buck would look at him as if he were something special. How before he didn't let himself react to Buck's careful touches. How he never let the warmth of Buck's body soothe and warm him down to his core.
He let it all get sucked into that tightly-sealed bag instead. Hid behind Chris. Hid behind his messy, broken relationships. Hid behind the veil of friendship.
He's unpacking the way he wishes he had been brave enough tonight to step in closer to Buck as they danced at the club. The way it would have felt to run his hands along Buck's waist and turn those awkward dance moves into something flowing and rhythmic. Feel the heat of their bodies pressed against each other.
He wonders what Buck would have thought if he said his secret out loud—told Buck he didn't want any of the women. That he didn't even really want the men there, either.
He only wants one person.
Eddie closes his eyes.
He slides a hand down his stomach, then further down to the front of his sleep shorts, palm pressing against the firm outline of his groin.
Sleep continues to evade Eddie, too busy unpacking a lot of the things he never allowed himself until now.