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"I don't believe you."
Buck splutters as Eddie smirks around his sip of beer, indignant. "Wha- it's literally true! Maddie's seen the pictures!"
"And I've seen you slip and fall on pumpkin guts," Eddie retorts. "So forgive me for not having the most confidence in your...riding skills."
The way he says it is loose from the long day, the second beers in each of their hands. It's not for any other reason, Buck reminds himself.
Instead, he narrows his eyes. "I know what you're doing," he says. "You just want to goad me into doing it."
Eddie doesn't even try to argue. "I just want to film you falling on your ass in under five seconds," he agrees, taking another sip of his beer and leaning back. He looks -- unfairly good, in the light of the bar, the cowboy hat sitting on his head like it belongs there. Buck wants to touch it, Buck wishes it were his own hat, on him, in all the ways that means.
Buck wishes, and for once doesn't force the thought back into the pointless place where he puts impossible desires, like his parents' love or people who need him or a small face that looks like his own. It's Nashville, after all. Not the real world.
In Nashville, Buck leans forward into Eddie's space, a twinkle in his eye. "You're on," he smirks.
For a moment, he can catch something in Eddie's eye, some trace of apprehension, like he hadn't really expected Buck to take him up on his challenge. Then, he grins, boyish and sweet, and pulls out his wallet. He digs through it, and hands a crumpled five-dollar bill to Buck.
"It's on me, then," he says. "Wouldn't want you to waste your money falling on your ass. That'd be pretty embarrassing."
Buck bares his teeth, gets out of his seat. "Prepare to eat your words, Diaz."
On a Wednesday night, the line at the bull is modest, and Buck gets to the front fairly quickly. The person manning the bull gives Buck a look up and down, eyes going dubious when they catch on his glittery stetson.
"Two dollars a ride," she drawls, holding out a hand. He hands her Eddie's money, and she looks through for change. "Want me to hold on to this 'till you're done?"
The way she says it, it doesn't sound like she thinks it'll be all that long. Buck grins. "Sure," he tells her.
"You know how this works?"
Buck nods, and she raises an eyebrow at him like she wants to ask, but bites her tongue, gestures him to the bull. Buck gets on the platform, touches the dull plastic of the beast, the soft leather of the saddle. It feels familiar, nostalgic. It makes him smile.
He turns to look at the bar, meets Eddie's gaze under the soft lights. And because it's Nashville, not real life, he gives him a wink as he pushes himself up, swings himself over the bull with ease. Even from across the bar, he can see Eddie's lips fall open slightly. Got 'em.
Buck laughs a little, adjusts his hat, then nods to the girl by the platform, who also looks a little surprised, a little assessing. She nods back, and Buck takes ahold of the reins, clenches his hips, forces his body to go loose.
He remembers what the other ranch hands had told him when they'd first started doing this, a coltish twenty and barely able to situate himself on the saddle, let alone stay on for a ride. Loosen up your torso, move your hips, clench with your upper thighs, move with the thing, and above all else, learn how to land gracefully, you absolute noodle.
The bull begins to shake beneath him, and Buck forces himself not to tense, takes a few deep breaths. You've done this before. It's just like riding a-
The world jolts, and Buck barely manages to stay on, twisting his torso to go with the movement. It makes his whole upper body swing forward inelegantly, and he clenches his thighs even tighter as he swings himself straight again. He barely has time to do it, but he manages a glance at Eddie anyways, and sees that the motherfucker already has his phone out.
Fine. He wants a show? He'll get a show.
Buck tightens his grip and the hold of his thighs while letting his hips sway, rolling with the movements. It is like riding a horse, or a bike, or a motorcycle. Scary at first, after years away, but he gets back into the swing of it after a few beats, feels out the familiar rhythm. For a moment, he can almost imagine he's back in Montana.
The bull snaps forward, and Buck clenches down, holds on. He can feel the jolts getting harder, and he's pretty sure the girl has just turned the bull onto pro mode. Impressed by him, or annoyed? Another swing, and Buck's foot almost catches and trips him up. He rolls with it, manages to stay on. He tries to remember how long it's been. Ten seconds? Twenty? He's grinning, sweat beginning to bead on his brow. His hat has fallen to his back, hanging on the string around his neck. The crowd is cheering, and he smiles at them like he's onstage at the auction, reveling in the joy of it all.
Best of all is Eddie, at the bar, jaw dropped as he keeps filming. Buck winks at him, and he can swear that Eddie goes red.
It's because of that, Buck swears, that he doesn't quite anticipate the next jolt, which sends him rolling off the bull and onto the cushioned ground. Thankfully, he remembers to roll with it, but fuck, knowing how to land only helps so much when you're in your thirties and have a fun plethora of chronic pain points. Yay.
He folds himself back up without a fuss, because he's long since used to not being obvious about it. The crowd cheers as he hops down from the platform, and he gives out high fives and accepts claps on the back freely as he makes his way back to the bar.
"How long was that?" he asks Eddie, sliding back into his stool. "Six seconds? Seven?"
"Uh," Eddie is staring at him, has been staring at him. He swallows, slowly lowers his phone. "Twenty-seven seconds."
Buck lets out a low whistle. "Not bad," he says. "Considering it's been a while. What'dya think?"
He cocks his head at Eddie, who jolts a little. "Um, yeah," he coughs. "I guess-- I guess it's decent."
Buck's mouth falls open in surprised outrage. "Wh- decent?"
His indignation seems to spark something in Eddie, who smirks. "It's twenty seconds, Buck."
"Oh- like you could do better," Buck snipes back, not thinking. His mind immediately catches up with his mouth, shouting consequences! What about the consequences! But Eddie's mouth is already flattening into a stubborn line, his shoulders bracing in that way they get when he's determined. Fuck.
"You're on, Buckley."
Buck chases after Eddie as he stalks towards the bull. "Eddie," he cajoles. "Have you even ridden one of these before?"
"I grew up in El Paso."
Which is, notably, not an answer. "Eddie."
But Eddie is already handing the girl a handful of bills, and Buck winces at her from behind his back as she gives him a questioning look.
Go easy on him, he mouths, and her lips quirk as she tilts her head slightly.
Eddie gives the bull an assessing glance.
"Just- push yourself up," Buck calls to him.
"I know," Eddie obviously lies. He swings himself into the seat with only a little clumsiness, which somehow still looks kind of graceful, in the way that Eddie makes everything look kind of graceful.
He grabs onto the reins. After a beat, the bull begins to rock. Thankfully, the girl obviously listened to Buck, and kept it on an easier setting. Eddie shudders for a beat, then inhales, and Buck can see him clicking into the kind of careful focus that he uses on calls. He tightens his grip, his body moving with the natural kind of rhythm that Buck has never had.
Consequences, Buck's brain informs him.
"Not bad, for a beginner," the girl comments, and Buck can't look away for long enough to agree. His eyes are glued onto the sway of Eddie's hips, the way he's biting his lip in concentration, the furrow of his brows. His arm is tense, a long line of golden muscle. His ass-- fuck. Buck forgot not to stare at his ass.
Eddie's entire (long) torso swings, and his shirt rides up a little, revealing a sliver of skin. Buck wants to bite. Buck shakes his head like a wet dog instead.
He regrets coming up with Eddie, because it means getting to see him from up close. He can see others looking, too, and he feels a surge of possessive pride, a burst of look at what my Eddie can do that is undeserved -- it's not his Eddie, he's not--
A thump, and Buck is moving before he can think, running up to Eddie sitting up on the cushioned pedestal.
Eddie waves him away. "I'm fine," he says, breathing a little heavier. "What-- what time did I get?"
Buck glances at the timer by the ring. "Thirty-one seconds," he reads, and it takes a moment of pause before he starts frowning.
Eddie begins to grin. "Huh," he says. "Not so good after all."
"Fuck you, Diaz, that was-- that was on easy mode!"
A glint in his eye. "I'd like to see you do better."
Buck looks at the girl, who looks slightly alarmed at whatever expression is on his face. "Oh, I will."
Buck's thighs are sore.
Normally, this would be a good thing, a fun thing, even. But right now--
"That last fall got to you, bud?"
He growls a little. "Not a chance."
Laura, who he'd learned the name of after his second run, stares at him. "Again?"
Buck hands over a wad of cash. She counts it. "I'm pretty sure this is against some sort of health code."
"Don't worry, I'm a firefighter. And he's a paramedic."
"And you're...still going again?"
Well, yeah. Eddie had gotten a full thirty-four seconds last time. Buck had only managed thirty-two. It's not fair, how quickly he'd gotten good at this.
Buck grips on harder this time, rolling his hips into every movement. Every time the bull swings him towards the bar, he makes direct eye contact with Eddie.
Every time, Eddie stares directly back.
"Forty seconds," he says triumphantly, afterwards. Eddie frowns. Buck leans in. "Tired yet, cowboy?"
Eddie swings out of his seat.
The bull is bucking (ha!) wildly, and Eddie is staying on. Eddie looks at Buck, a spark of challenge in his eyes, as he twists his waist. His shirt has long since become untucked, and every movement draws it upwards, showing denim against the dips of his skin and bones.
A corresponding spark runs through Buck, and he grins back. For a moment, it feels like it's just the two of them.
It's starting to feel less and less like a competition, and more like...something else.
"Too...sore?" Eddie sways forward in his seat, grinning at Buck. "It's fine, I only stayed on for a second more this time. You're only a little worse than me."
The bartender is staring at them. So is most of the rest of the bar, now that Buck is noticing. It's thrilling. He loves being at the center of attention, he loves being good at things, and he loves bickering with Eddie. It's like his fucking birthday.
"Never," he snaps back, smiling just as wide. As he slips back out of his seat, though, a hand falls on his shoulder.
"'m afraid I'm gonna have to cut you boys off."
Both Buck and Eddie blink at the new voice. A man in flannel and a cowboy hat is looking at them, a sheriff's badge on his shirt and consternation on his face. A manager of some kind. "Y'all have been overusing the bull, and nobody's been able to take a turn on it. And," he looks meaningfully at them. "Being first responders and all, I don't have to tell you the dangers of ridin' too long."
Buck winces, well aware of the soreness along his thighs, how bad it'll feel tomorrow. Beside him, Eddie shifts.
"Sorry, sir," Eddie murmurs, suddenly all doe eyes. "We'll be finishing up."
"Feel free to stay for drinks, just...take it easy on the ridin'."
Buck nods. "You got it, man," he promises. "Sorry, we got...carried away."
A nod. "Happens to the best of us," he says, before walking away. Buck and Eddie look at each other for a moment, two.
Buck is the one that starts giggling first.
"Buck," Eddie admonishes, already grinning himself. He pulls Buck out of his seat, towards the exit, as everyone watches. Buck waves at Laura, and Eddie pulls his arm down as she waves back, drags him out the door as they both snicker.
Eddie speaks when the night air hits their faces. "I can't believe--"
"We got kicked out," Buck cackles, pulling Eddie down the street, away from prying eyes. "For riding a bull too much."
Their hotel is only steps away, and the receptionist stares as they stumble in, still laughing. They make their way into their room, and Buck flops onto their bed.
"Buck," Eddie half-sighs, half-laughs. "You're sweaty as hell, that's disgusting."
"Oh shut up," Buck says. "You made me ride the bull like, four times."
Eddie, the hypocrite, sits beside him on the bed. "I made you?"
"You goaded me into it! Saying that I couldn't do it, and then that you could stay on for longer--"
"Well," Eddie's smirking again, insufferable. "I could, couldn't I?"
"That's only because we got kicked out before I could try again."
"Sounds like justification to me."
And, well, it's a day for bad decisions, so Buck's body moves before he can catch up, swinging a leg over Eddie until he's bracketing him, arms on his shoulders. The shadow from the hat that's still somehow on his head makes a shadow fall over Eddie, his eyes dark and wide on Buck's.
"What, you want me to keep riding?" It's a provocation, a joke, something that Buck pretends can be taken back later. But he can feel Eddie growing hard in his jeans, the way Eddie glances at his lips.
And maybe Eddie knows that this is a place for impossible things, too, because he looks at Buck, a familiar challenge in his eyes. "You're on, cowboy."