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A loud bang resounds through the house and Eddie knows it’s Buck on the other side of the door because the motherfucker likes to kick instead of knock, a bad habit Christopher’s picked up on, and he’d be considerably more pissed off if he wasn’t actively on his death bed but, as it is, he simply sighs and gets up off the couch anyway.
(It’s poison ivy. He has poison ivy. He’s not dying, but he feels like it. He itches everywhere—the tips of his fingers and between his toes and behind his ears and in the small part of his back where he can’t reach no matter how he screws his arm up. He’s not being very brave about it.)
He opens the door and there’s Buck, arms loaded with reusable bags and grinning toothily, ear to ear, like he’s in on a secret and he’s not sharing with anyone. The sun halos him from behind, painting him yellow and orange and bright white; his shirt’s inside out and his hair isn’t brushed, sitting on top of his head in big, loose curls. He looks cozy and comfortable and gorgeous.
Eddie kind of wants the world to swallow him whole because he’s in no mood to shove down how much he’s in love with Buck right now. His scalp itches, for fuck’s sake. He can’t handle much more before he starts crying.
“Hi, Buck.”
“Hey, man.” Buck smiles like the sun shines just because he asked. “You look like shit.”
Eddie guffaws and hangs his head. “Thanks,” he mumbles, stepping aside to give Buck plenty of room. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”
Buck just hums and beelines toward the kitchen, where he sets the bags down on the island. “Cap let us go early and I stopped at the store for some supplies,” he says, as if he didn’t hear Eddie—or he’s ignoring Eddie, which is more likely.
“That’s a lot of supplies.”
“Hen made a list of things that might help you and I went a little wild at the store.” Buck shrugs, like this isn’t one of the most romantic gestures in the whole wide world, and pulls out several bottles of calamine lotion and a large container of oats. “I brought stuff to cook, too. Figured I’d make us an early lunch while you take an oatmeal bath.”
Shivers crawl up Eddie’s spine and he scratches the rash on both of his hips absently. “I hate oatmeal baths,” he says, every bit the pitiful grown man he is.
“And then we can get you down to the walk-in for a steroid shot in the ass.”
“I hate steroid shots in the ass.”
Buck laughs as he continues to unpack the bags. “Yeah, well.” He throws Eddie a crooked grin, the one that never fails to remind Eddie how head over ass he is in love with his best friend. It’s times like this he’s reminded it’s worth loving somebody that doesn’t love him back as long as they’re like Buck. “Maybe don’t get poison ivy anymore, pal.”
Eddie frowns. “It’s not even my fault I got it,” he bitches, and he stands by that fact, too.
Buck took a day off work to spend with Maddie and Jee at the zoo since his niece has developed a sudden love for black bears and Eddie was paired off with one of the probies, which is fine, but he was too caught up explaining the procedures to the kid to pay attention to what kind of fuel was burning, and he was breaking out in blister-like hives before the end of his shift—a telltale sign the smoke he was working in was heavy with poison ivy. Bobby sent him home once he caught sight of Eddie’s face and he’s been here wallowing in misery for two days, waiting on the worst of his itching to subside before he takes himself for a steroid shot in the ass.
It’s the only way he can get over the rash and hives. Lotions and ointments and Benadryl work as well as they can, but his allergy is severe; he’s lucky he didn’t breathe much of the smoke in or else he’d be in the ICU.
Small mercies or whatever.
Eddie folds his arms across his chest. “Have some sympathy for me.”
Buck laughs, again, and it sounds better than Eddie’s favorite song. He wants to bottle it up and listen to it forever and ever. “I do,” he insists, grabbing handfuls of groceries and shoving them into Eddie’s icebox faster than Eddie can see what they are. “I swear I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I have the most sympathy.”
“Liar.”
Buck straightens up, turns on his heel, and comes to stand right in front of Eddie. Like this, the slight difference in their heights is more noticeable than ever—two inches at most, but Buck is so big he makes Eddie feel small sometimes, a wonderful feat few people have accomplished, and he could get lost in that if he isn’t careful.
(Who is he kidding? He’s already gotten lost in all that Buck is—big and bold and beautiful, and bright like a shard of the sun fell to earth. Eddie’s no slouch, sitting steady at 220lbs of functional muscle and a few layers of fat, but Buck’s so much bigger. It drives Eddie mad in the best way—especially because he knows he can throw Buck around just as much as Buck can him, too.)
Buck’s big blue eyes sparkle. “You’re so cute, did you know that?” he asks, leaning close enough Eddie can count the small red-brown-orange freckles all across his nose. “Even when you’re red from poison ivy.”
Red. Red from the poison ivy. Yeah, yep, that’s exactly what he’s so red for. Absolutely.
Burning from the outside in, he scoffs and shoves Buck away from his space. “You’re gonna get it if you don’t back up,” he says, a half-hearted plea for space before he loses his shit.
And he will! He will so lose his shit.
“Don’t worry ‘bout me, doc. I’m not allergic.” Buck winks and hands Eddie the whole container of oats. “Go soak for a while, okay? You’ll feel a lot better after. I’ll make us something to eat for lunch and then we’ll head to the walk-in.”
Eddie makes a sour face, one that he knows has him looking a little silly, but takes the oats and heads toward the bathroom like a good boy anyway. He shuts the door, turns on the faucet, fills a clean rag up with two handfuls of oats, tosses it in, strips down, and waits until the tub is full before climbing in.
He shuts off the water when it’s as high as it can be without spilling over and then sinks below the surface until the only part sticking out is his head. The water smells dusty and grainy; a few of the oats have escaped the rag and feel odd against his skin, slimy and sticky, but the fiery itch beneath his skin soothes away quickly.
The battle between him and poison ivy has been waging since he was five years old and his abuelo washed his work clothes in with some of Eddie’s and he had to spend a few days in the hospital because of how badly he reacted. Since then, he was forced to keep an impressive amount of calamine lotion on hand and become an amateur botanist or else suffer immensely.
As a kid, his mother took care of him whenever he got into a rough patch, and then he got older and learned how to do it himself, and he’s good at it, decent at it, but he’ll be lying if he says it isn’t nice to let somebody think for him for a moment.
Christopher isn’t allergic but Shannon was, and it was difficult to be there for each other. She tried her best and Eddie did what he could, too, but sometimes it felt like they were better partners to each other from thousands of miles away than they were right next to each other.
(He’s gone to enough therapy that admitting the love he and Shannon had for one another wasn’t enough, thank you very much. He loved her with his whole heart, but it takes more than that to make a relationship work. She knew that before he did.)
And Buck’s good at it, you know. Taking care of Eddie when he needs somebody else to be in the lead, that is. Back when they first met, he was wary of growing closer with Buck because of what that might entail, but it’s been years since and now he can’t imagine not having Buck at his back.
He closes his eyes, inhales deep, and soaks in the tub a while, just as Buck asked him. His phone’s out of reach on the counter, but he slept so little last night he can’t find it in himself to care. The slight crepitating noise of the water as he breathes and Buck’s faint noises while he moves through the house serve as the perfect ambience to unwind.
It’s been a rough few days, suffering from blisters and hives and itching down to the bone. He hasn’t slept much, tossing and turning on sheets that brought no relief, and the only thing he’s been able to stomach is a few crackers he nibbled on yesterday evening. His skin is stiff, like it’s pulled as tight as possible across his skeleton; the bath is soothing, though, alleviating the itch and burn wonderfully.
There’s so much he has to do. Carla’s an angel, taking and picking Chris up from school, and Christopher’s making sure to get his chores and homework done before he logs on the game, which is all kinds of greats, but.
He needs to clean the house and disinfect the sofa. He needs to do several loads of laundry and go through their clothes to send some to the shelter down the road. He needs to organize the pantry and book flights to Texas for abuela’s birthday and change the bedding and—
—and all of it can wait till later. Right now, he’s soaking in the lukewarm oatmeal bath like Buck said and it’s exactly what he didn’t know he needed and he isn’t going to borrow anymore trouble.
For a while, he forgets his responsibilities and allows his mind to drift. The water’s cool on his skin, bringing out the itch, and there’s not a thing in the world that can interrupt this for him. Buck’s right out the door, shuffling around the house, and Eddie trusts Buck to take care of him.
He’s safe. He’s okay. Buck’s made sure of it.
Eventually, though, the water gets uncomfortably cold and his skin’s pruned so bad he feels like a raisin. He gets out, drains the tub, rinses off quickly, and wraps a big fluffy green towel around his waist; he’s wrinkled in the mirror but his hives are gone and the rashes are light pink instead of the dark red they were moments ago and feels better than he has in almost forty-eight hours.
Smiling, he opens the door and heads toward his bedroom. There’s some soft clothes laid out on his dresser—worn sweats and a cotton t-shirt—and he’s got his boxers on before he catches a whiff of Lysol.
He stops and looks around. The bed’s been stripped and redressed with a clean sheet and pillowcases; the dirty clothes he tossed in the corner are gone and the unfolded mess from the laundry room has been tidied up and put away. The smell of melting cheese permeates the air at the same time Buck’s footsteps sound from the hallway and Eddie kind of loses his shit.
(Just a little bit.)
“Eddie? You out?”
Eddie lays the towel out on the floor and sits down. “Yeah,” he says, softly, and then clears his throat before repeating, “Yeah. I’m in my room.”
Buck turns the corner and strides into the room with absolutely no care in the world. “I made some subs and sweet tea, and I started a load of laundry since you had a mountain, and—and you’re on the floor.” He frowns and blinks. “You’re on the floor and you’re crying. Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay,” Eddie replies, sniffling, and wipes the tears off his cheeks. He didn’t even know he was crying, too caught up on the emotions swelling inside his chest. “The bath really helped. You were right.”
Buck steps closer, slow and cautious, with his hands out. “You know I love it when you say that, man.” He gives Eddie a timid, small smile. “But why are you crying?”
“You changed my sheets.”
Buck balks. If asked about this moment in the future, he will definitely say he does not balk at Eddie’s answer, but he does, in fact, hesitate to accept the response and furrows his brows adorably.
He opens his mouth and gapes like a fish out of water for all of two seconds before shaking his head. “Well—I mean—not all the way,” he begins, placatingly, like he’s talking to somebody panicking on a call, “but I figured you’d like a clean bed after the doctor.” He laughs, brokenly, and smears a hand down his face. “I also sprayed the couch and wiped down the counters and—and put a casserole in the oven for you and Chris.”
More tears well up and spill over before Eddie can catch them or get hold of himself. He pouts and laughs and wipes his eyes, but Buck’s image is fluid like there’s a thin veil of water between them and it just makes Eddie giggle all the more.
“Oh, Buck.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe you.”
“Should I not have?”
Eddie makes a sharp noise in the back of his throat that has Buck rushing close. “No, no. You should have. I’m glad you did.” He grins up at Buck, wonderfully unashamed of the picture he’s painting while crying on the floor in nothing but his dinosaur boxers. “Nobody’s taken care of me like this in a long time, is all.”
Buck’s face does a funny thing where his nose puckers and his eyes widen; he gets to his knees and crawls near until he can touch Eddie with his fingers. The touch burns in the best way possible.
“You know you deserve that, right?” he says, slowly, and squeezes Eddie’s kneecap. “Somebody to take care of you when you feel like shit, I mean. You deserve that and so much more, Eddie.”
He knows this. Of course he knows this—it’s something he learned himself, something his son and his family have reinforced in his mind since he got to LA, and it took him a while but he got there eventually. He knows he deserves to have someone take care of him the way he yearns to take care of somebody in return.
“I know, Buck.” He puts his hand over Buck’s and laces their fingers together as best as he can. “I just want you to be the one that does it for the rest of our lives.”
The left side of Buck’s face twitches. “Huh?”
Eddie laughs. “I love you,” he says, reaching for Buck’s elbow with his other hand, and, yeah, having Buck like this for the rest of his life sounds really fucking good. “I love you so much, Buck.”
The left side of Buck’s face twitches again. “What?” he asks, but his tone’s mystified instead of disgusted and Eddie knows he’s done the right thing confessing his heart. He rolls to sit on his ass, pillared between Eddie’s spread legs, and blinks stupidly. “You love me?”
“Mhm. I do love you. And I know you love me, too, so don’t even try to hide it.” Eddie scoots in so there’s less than a foot between them. Buck’s warm and he smells like vanilla and honey and Eddie wants to stuff his face between Buck’s chest and stay there forever. “You’re mine and I’m yours.”
“Eddie—”
“And I really wish I could kiss you right now ‘cause I know you’d be great at it but I have poison ivy and—”
Buck’s laugh startles him into silence. “I’m not allergic.”
This time, Eddie blinks stupidly. “Huh?”
Buck scurries forward till their chests touch, cotton and bare skin, and raises his hands to cradle Eddie’s face. He smiles, big and bright, as if he’s holding the most precious thing in the world in his hands and, you know what, maybe he is. Maybe Eddie is the most precious thing in Buck’s world because Buck sure is in Eddie’s.
“I’m not allergic to poison ivy, Eddie,” he repeats for the third time since he arrived, and it’s just now registering in Eddie’s mind what Buck is saying. “You can kiss me all you want.”
Excitement bubbles up high in Eddie’s chest, making it fat with emotion, and he shoots forward to wrap his arms around Buck’s neck. They fall over, knocking against the floor, and he kisses Buck’s I love you right off his lips.
Two days later, they find out that Buck is, in fact, allergic to poison ivy. Chim makes a colorful joke about scratching an itch and Hen laughs so hard she starts to cry.