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It’s the hug; that’s the moment when Buck’s senses start to tingle, somewhere in the back of his head—that maybe, perhaps, something is… changing.
The drive back to LA had been… relatively normal, very similar to the way their roadtrip had originally been going before everything went to hell, in fact, although, admittedly, perhaps they had both been… trying just a little bit harder this time. To pretend that everything is normal—that they’re shaken up, naturally—but simultaneously that they’ve been through a lot of things, that they’re fine, because they’re used to shaken up.
But things are not normal—not at all, and especially not between him and Eddie; Buck knows that the moment Christopher’s bedroom door clicks shut—he barely gets a second to blink before his entire body is overtaken by Eddie’s—curled around him; strong, and heavy, and comforting—yet utterly careful in all the places he knows he’s hurt.
“O-oh,” is all Buck manages to get out before he’s returning the embrace like a magnet—of course he does; it’s what they do, isn’t it? Gravitate? Yes, and each other? Unless they’re arguing, but even that is… it’s not real in the sense of it being scary, or risking them breaking… them. Not really. Never.
Still, one second passes, and then two, and five, and… they don’t do this. They have never done this. They hug often enough for such a close friendship—kind of, he thinks, or would assume anyway, although he doesn’t necessarily have a lot of data to contrast and compare—but they don’t do it like this. They don’t pass the three second mark, and there’s usually an open handed slap on each other’s backs, this is… Eddie’s just holding him. Not getting ready to loosen up, but rather growing heavier, tighter, with each beat that passes, the press of his chin heavy on Buck’s shoulder—or… maybe, no, no, it’s his cheek; the warmth of his breath is washing over the side of Buck’s tased neck, and he’s far more aware of it than he should be.
“Eddie…” he finally breathes—not sure if it’s a question, or a sigh of relief, or… anything outside of those two or in between them, it’s been such a long day—long week, really, is what it feels like—and Eddie is holding him like he’s never held him before.
“Don’t ask, Buck, just…” Buck thinks he’s able to make out of the mumble pressed into his neck as Eddie gives a nod—pressing closer—nuzzling. Somehow his hair still smells good, still soft as Buck folds helplessly into the vague request, taking advantage of their near-inch height-difference and the way Eddie is already kind of curling in on himself to bury his nose in the crown of his head, inhaling, one arm sliding tightly around the back of his shoulders, the other one fitting snugly around his waist. Too snugly. Too perfect.
Buck isn’t sure how long they stand there—holding each other in the dimly lit hallway of the house that was Eddie’s, and then Buck’s, and is now… well, now it’s back to Eddie’s, but it’s never really felt like it, has it? Not just Eddie’s.
They remain silent for a beat, perhaps even three—during which Buck feels Eddie nudge his head twice, the very tip of his nose finding the crease behind his earlobe as Buck gives up on trying to hide the depth of his inhales, face remaining buried in the locks of Eddie’s hair; gives up on trying to hide just how much he relishes in the weight of him in his arms; the press and weight around his own body right back.
Eddie’s usually the talker between the two of them—when it counts; he’s always the one settling a hand on Buck’s shoulder, chasing eye-contact until he gets it, at which point he’ll say something that will stick with Buck for years, and then some.
Evidently—that’s not the case tonight; Eddie’s not the talker, but Buck doesn’t much feel like taking on the role himself right now, either.
The past forty-eight hours have been hectic—insane, and traumatizing, but… they’ve been through a lot of those things. There’s no reason why this time should be different, but it is. It is. Buck can feel it in each and every pump of their hearts—in sync, the two pulled so tightly together, it’s tangible through the layers of their shirts; Buck can feel some pain coming on, his ribs, his neck—he doesn’t care. Can’t care. Not when he has Eddie just… holding him. His parted lips resting against the tender skin behind his ear in a way that is surely accidental, but… if Buck wanted it to feel a certain way, he could… he could convince himself that that’s what it is. Easily. Especially with the way Eddie keeps nudging. Closer. Closer. Closer.
“You tired?” Eddie finally mumbles, not moving an inch; lips firmly pressed to his skin now—not moving in any suggestive way, but pressed there, nonetheless. Breathing him in. Eddie is breathing him in.
“Mhm,” Buck confirms into his hair, as he tightens his hold further. They’re both bruised already, what’s a few more—these ones would be good, he thinks. “Doesn’t mean I wanna move. This is… we should do this more,” he mumbles, arms wrapped so securely around Eddie now that his hands are nearly brushing his own shoulder and waist—if they weren’t so tightly clamped down onto Eddie’s body, knuckles probably growing white with it. Eddie’s can’t look much different—the way they’re clinging to each other would probably look a lot more at home in a little dingy on a stormy sea—not in a perfectly safe, cozy hallway.
“Hm,” is what he gets back. “Does feel good. Smell good,” he adds, at which Buck gives an exhale that is just a couple degrees away from a snort.
“So do you, somehow. Think we just might be sleep deprived.”
“Probably right,” Eddie mumbles, matter-of-factly, as he nuzzles even deeper—so deep, in fact, that the inside of his lower lip must catch on Buck’s skin; it’s clearly not purposeful—in fact, it’s barely there at all, but it is there, and Buck’s next deep breath is for an entirely different reason. “But you smell alive,” he adds, then, voice slipping into something that… Buck hasn’t quite heard from him before—as his nose nuzzles deeper in behind his ear. Buck should say something back—stop him, or return the sentiment, or… something—but he can’t; not when the next second Eddie is shifting just slightly further down, and so very clearly deliberately dragging his parted lips over his skin—not necessarily in a sexual way, just… soft. Loving. “…can feel your pulse right here,” he mumbles, so quietly Buck isn’t even sure he’s meant to catch it.
Eddie hovers—he asks—not with words, but with the way he stills; lips brushing the skin, but not pressing down. Not truly. Not yet. He’s asking—as if they have ever had to ask each other for anything; as if they haven’t always been on the exact same page.
A part of Buck is happy for the sleep deprivation, and the faint amount of painkillers still in his system; in any other situation he might have had too many voices and concerns in his head—is he misinterpreting this? Will Eddie regret this tomorrow? Isn’t Eddie straight? And even if he’s not, are they truly willing to risk Buck and Eddie for BuckandEddie?
There’s none of that—not right now. Buck’s doesn’t think he’s ever known his brain to be quite as quiet—quite as at peace—as it is when he slides a hand up to the back of Eddie’s neck, the pad of his thumb brushing over his hairline as he gives a gentle nudge.
Kiss me. Right there. I’m alive. We’re both alive. I promise.
“Oh,” Buck sighs—it’s not even a moan; just a sigh of relief, brought on by the feeling of Eddie’s lips finally making contact with his skin—mouth open, yet not a tongue in sight; not filthy, not needy, just… warm. Deeply, deeply romantic. Fuck.
Eddie doesn’t move for a while after that, his lips remain where they are, nose slightly squished into Buck’s skin; in return, Buck shifts the hand at the back of his neck, sliding his thumb further along his jaw until the pad of it finds Eddie’s pulse right back.
“If you ever actually go and die on me, I am gonna kill you, you hear me?” Eddie mumbles, words barely decipherable.
Buck could joke—could mention all or some of his close calls—some far more than simply a close call; but it’s not the time. They’re sleep deprived, just slightly soft around their emotional edges from painkillers—not enough to have made them a danger on the road home, but enough to feel… relaxed, in this context. Not to mention the new dose of trauma for both of them, as if they didn’t have enough—individually and put together.
“I hear you,” Buck nods instead; he doesn’t promise that he won’t—the same way Eddie could never promise the same thing back. But he knows. He knows. “Me too,” he nuzzles his hair some more, before finally shifting his head down to Eddie’s neck in return, both of them a little bit curled in on themselves—curled into each other—knuckles remaining white as they cling. “You too,” he corrects, at which he gets a faint exhale of amusement, the air washing over the shell of his ear now in a way that has him shuddering. “Wait, can you, uh…” When Eddie makes a move to shift away from his neck, Buck’s words come out unsteady and a little bit drunk—drunk on this moment, on Eddie, on the warm light, and his warm embrace—drunk on everything—as slides his hand away from the back of his neck, and into his hair instead—not tugging, just… massaging his scalp, adding a slight weight, steering him to where he was—and Eddie goes like smooth rocking waves on a still lake, following easily, and without a question. Can you separate one wave from the other? Truly? Or are two close-by waves moving together, shifting together, existing together—simply a single wave?
If so, that’s what Buck feels them to be like at this moment—or perhaps they always have been—a single wave, rocking, dancing together. No matter what.
Eddie easily ducks back in, lips parted over the damp area, right at Buck’s pulse-point.
“More, Eddie, can you, uh…” Fuck, these kinds of things roll off the tongue far easier when he’s actually in bed, or grinding up against a wall, but they’re still just… holding. Hugging. Clinging.
“You want a bruise?” Eddie mumbles—and it’s by sheer magic that Buck doesn’t drop to his knees and propose right there. Eddie doesn’t give him a joke about asking for a hickey at thirty-five. Nor a joke about asking for a hickey before they’ve even kissed, much less had a mere two minute conversation about what this is no—Eddie just… gets it. Because Buck isn’t asking for a hickey, or a love-bite, not in traditional terms. He wants a bruise. He’s already bruised all over from horrible, abusive people, he has fucking taser marks on the other side of his neck that are still tender.
Buck looks like he’s been through the ringer, because he has been through the ringer—they both have—and if he has to see them each and every day in the mirror for the next few weeks as they fade from red, to purple, to blue, to yellow, to gone—he wants to know that at least one of them wasn’t born out of cruelty. Not an injury, but rather a piece of art—one carefully painted out of this—out of them—with Eddie holding the paintbrush in the form of his beautiful mouth; his intoxicating, safe, undivided, irreplaceable attention.
Buck doesn’t have to voice any of that. None of it. Eddie just hums and gets to work, sucking gently at first, then a swipe of his tongue, a barely scratch of teeth—turning the warm, pleasant sensation into a throbbing one—not too much throbbing, not too much pain. Just enough. Eddie’s mark.
Little by little, Buck feels his head lift and tip back without his own permission, one hand falling out of Eddie’s hair, clamping back down around his waist, keeping them close, close—his remaining fingers still massaging his scalp, as Eddie’s mouth seems to grow more insistent with each soft sigh that leaves Buck’s mouth—not moan, they’re still not moans—it doesn’t feel sexual; it’s certainly on the edge, but it’s not… it’s difficult to explain. Even if Buck happened to have the brain capacity to even attempt it—or care to attempt it at the moment—which he absolutely doesn’t. All that matters is them. Touching. Holding. Kissing. Holy shit. Eddie is kissing him. Not on the mouth, but it’s fairly clear that Eddie… that he…
Finally, after what feels like an eternity—a beautiful, heavenly eternity—Eddie suddenly pulls back, the loss of the suction giving a subtle pop; but he doesn’t pull back all the way, rather Buck feels those warm lips brush their way up over his jawline, his chin, his nose—not quite kissing, just… caressing; cherishing.
Buck lets his eyes remain closed—a part of him thinks he’s forgotten how to open them; maybe he’ll just live here now, just like this, following nothing but Eddie’s touch, and the faint sound of his breath. Buck would be just fine with that, he thinks—it would even be easy.
Eddie’s lips brush over Buck’s cheekbone, and he revels in the soft feeling as he tilts his chin back down, just a little bit—maybe he’s searching for his lips, maybe he’s not—regardless, the movement has Eddie’s lips landing right above his eyebrow, exactly where he knows the most saturated blotches decorate his skin. This time, it is a kiss. Soft, slow, chaste—and Buck thinks he feels his entire spine melt bit by bit, much like the wax of a long since lit candle—drip, drip, drip, to the flame that is Eddie’s touch.
If Buck would have ever pictured this moment between them—which he hasn’t, it’s as if it’s been… blocked; secure behind lock and key, just in case he wouldn’t be able to come back from it, but if he had—he thinks he would have pictured it with some more hesitation, some more talking, or perhaps even arguing leading up to it—either one. Either a careful, and discussed decision to try this, or just… breaking, colliding together, giving into them like a bridge collapsing after years and years of slight, silent creaking. Regardless, he, never in a million would have been able to predict the way he’s somehow able to fit Eddie’s face between his hands as if it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done—because he thinks it is; nor the way he simply has to tilt his chin up just a little bit, and barely at all.
The way Eddie moves just as softly, just as easily, lips brushing their way down his cheek, the slope of his nose, before their lips finally—finally—brush.
It’s achingly soft—the softest press of lips Buck has ever received in his entire life, he thinks; not just romantic ones, not just ones to his lips, but including the ones Eddie has given him in the past few minutes, including any kiss Maddie has ever pressed to his birthmark in comfort—none of those have been anywhere near as careful, as tender, as the one Buck meets at the seam of Eddie’s mouth.
Yet it doesn’t feel as if it’s a question—it doesn’t feel like a test; it doesn’t feel like they’re asking themselves or each other: ‘Does this work too? Is this what we’re meant to be? Is this how we’re meant to fit after all?’
No, it’s not a question—they know; rather, it’s just… a welcome home, it’s a warm cup of tea on a winter’s day, it’s the embrace of a blanket halfway through a nap on the couch, it’s… it’s a soft kiss shared with the love of their lives. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.
It lingers—they linger; resting there, foreheads together, sides of their noses brushing, hands holding each other tenderly. Drinking it in—this feeling of home. It should feel new—but it doesn’t; not really.
When they finally part—they don’t, not really—their faces remain where they are, lips parting just barely enough for them both to get a breath in. An exhale in unison. An exhale that says everything; huh, and thank god, and welcome home, all at the same time.
Buck doesn’t know how long they stay there—everything just feels floaty; good. At some point they lean back, foreheads parting just enough that they’re able to open their eyes, take each other in.
“H…” Buck starts, but he’s not exactly sure how he means to continue. If it’s ‘how did this take us so long,’ or ‘how do we move forward from here,’ or—
“Hey,” Eddie says, the corners of lips twitching up, eyes so earnestly warm, so tender—so incredibly loving that it nearly breaks Buck’s heart. In a good way. The best way. The ache inside of his chest, it’s physically painful, but… it feels good—as if his feelings are just far too big to be contained inside of his ribcage.
“H-hey,” Buck manages back, his own smile curling onto his lips—before long, they match each other once again, smiles growing twitch by twitch, until they’re finally laughing—chuckling, giggling, even, trying to stay as quiet as they possibly can as they melt into another kiss—slightly deeper this time, but still simple, still somewhat chaste—and then a third, and a fourth.
There’s no tongue, still—no rush to it; they have time.
They part for the third or fourth time, and Buck can’t resist wrapping his arms around Eddie once again, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Eddie holds him right back; they always hold each other right back.
“You wanna grab a shower? Get some sleep?” Eddie mumbles an undetermined amount of time later.
“In a minute,” Buck hums, and Eddie nods his way deeper into the crook of his neck right back.
At some point, they do manage to pull themselves away from each other; they don’t shower—they brush their teeth in comfortable silence, wash their armpits, change into some clean shirts and briefs, and then they climb in under the sheets, finding each other in the middle of the mattress, Buck taking his turn now, tucking his nose in behind Eddie’s ear, breathing him in.
“You’re the love of my life, you know that?” one of them mumbles—Buck’s halfway to sleep, he’s not even sure which one of them the voice belongs to; and does it really matter? It feels as if they’re one and the same regardless.
“I know. Love of my life, too,” the other one sighs right back.
Buck thinks he might fall asleep with a smile on his lips—a similar curl of Eddie’s lips where they’re tucked into the crown of his curls.
Tomorrow, they’ll wake up, and they’ll kiss—make breakfast, share more words, start to craft their life together, their future. Their beautiful future.
Tonight, they sleep—and they sleep with their hearts beating in sync. Then again, perhaps that part isn’t all that new; perhaps their hearts have always been beating in sync. Always.