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It’s not quite raining. There’s something fitting about that, the way the mist wets his face for him without the dramatics of rain drops.
In the months without Christopher, the world has been a constant barrage of gray. Foggy. In-between, like now, where it’s not quite dry out but it’s not quite raining, either. Everything about Eddie Diaz has halted, gotten stuck, waiting to see his next move; it all hangs in the air, like the mist, waiting to see if the clouds will break or if rain will fall. With every decision he makes, he hopes for sunshine.
Eddie turns his face to the sky.
The actual drizzle will pick up into a downpour soon, but for now, the air settles low and heavy, matching his mood: it’s hot and gray and muggy, and it’s all sadness, tinged with determination. Acceptance. Dread. Regret, relief, guilt, anticipation, take your pick — they all swirl in the atmosphere, each feeling chasing the next in a whirlwind tornado, stirring in his chest and blowing his hair across his brow. The movement of them threatens to choke him, but he swallows it down.
He’s gotten good at that.
If Buck were acting like himself, he’d make a joke about the weather, about how Eddie’s last day in Los Angeles feels more like Texas than ever. If Eddie were acting like himself, he’d agree, scoffing loudly and challenging the world for the rotten send-off, asking, “Was it too much to ask for that California sun?”
But neither of them are. So they don’t.
“Thanks,” Eddie forces himself to say as Buck puts the last of the boxes in the truck.
Buck hums with a slight nod of his head, and then he steps away, putting space between them. He wrings his hands. He picks at the skin of his cuticles. He’s very resolutely not looking at him, and Eddie feels the flare of annoyance unstick his tongue — but he swallows that down, too.
He doesn’t want this to end with a fight.
Maybe he had wanted it before, earlier in the week. He had considered the ease of a clean break. Thought maybe that’s what Buck had wanted, too, when he pushed Eddie’s patience with the dog and the home tours and the Freddie Fakeman thing, but then — Buck had done it again. Saved him, in more ways than one. Eddie can’t fight him. He doesn’t want to.
The breeze picks up; trepidation, longing, the sweet smell of gratitude.
“I mean it, man. Thank you.”
Buck shrugs as he kicks a foot into the dirt. “It’s not like the boxes were heavy or anything. You’re leaving most of it.”
“I don’t just mean for the boxes.”
Eddie will never be able to repay him, never be able to even put into words the ways Buck has just been — there for him. Unequivocally. No hesitation. He parked himself at Eddie’s side and never left, never asking for much except for a spot on Eddie’s couch and a cold beer waiting in the fridge.
And now Eddie was leaving him behind.
Not leaving, he tells himself. I’m not leaving Buck. I’m going to Chris. There’s a difference, he knows. He’s been repeating it to himself all week like a mantra whenever he feels a shred of doubt.
He’s been trying not to do that too much, doubt, but it creeps in anyway, especially in moments like these, where he’s forced to face the consequences of his actions.
Eddie just can’t seem to stop hurting the people around him.
“Buck.”
Buck still isn’t looking at him. He’s not sure why it bugs him so much.
“I know this thing between us,” Eddie says as he points back and forth, “it’s been messy and hard, and both of us could’ve handled it a little bit better, but I hope you know — you do matter to me.”
It’s not enough. The words are too small, but they feel like a confession anyway.
He expects Buck to screw up his nose and argue but not enough to stay. He almost wishes Buck would grab Eddie’s face between his palms and whisper, you matter to me, too.
“Yeah, I know,” Buck says instead. His voice is soft. It almost gets lost in the winds of Eddie’s disappointment.
The drizzle grows a little heavier, as if it can tell Eddie’s stalling. It’s on its way to becoming proper rain. He should use it as an out, and get out of here before the roads get slick.
He claps his hands together, and watches Buck flinch. “I guess that’s it, then.”
“Guess so.” Buck stuffs his hands into his pockets and leans back on his heels. He’s the perfect picture of nonchalance, and Eddie sees right through him. A gust of wind, and with it a sense of urgency thrums in his veins. Desperation.
This is it.
“Nothing left to do but go.”
“Right.”
Neither of them move.
There really is nothing left to be done. The truck is packed, Buck is all moved in. He’s said his goodbyes to the 118, to his neighbors, to the baristas at his favorite coffee shop. He even swung by the church to say goodbye to Father Brian, who had looked at him with a frown when Eddie said he was moving back to Texas.
“Is this what you want?” he had asked.
“I want to be near my son. That’s the only thing that matters.”
Father Brian had looked at him for a long time, long enough for the wind to clear away the invigoration he had felt. In its place, contempt and despair settled over his skin. It left him cold.
“Look, I didn’t come here for your permission or whatever, man, I came because I won’t be around anymore. I didn't want to just disappear.”
“I appreciate that.” Father Brian had paused, then, and Eddie stood to leave, ready to put this behind him. “Eddie, if I may—”
It had taken everything in him to keep from saying actually, you may not.
“I… I want to encourage you to keep digging. Doing this for your son, moving back to Texas, it’s commendable, don’t get me wrong. But don’t lose sight of what you’ve been working towards.” He had smiled, and Eddie had hated him for it. “You can still choose the juice, Eddie.”
“This is juice. I’m doing the right thing,” he spat. “This is what I want.”
“I hope you’re right,” Father Brian said, cryptic as ever, and Eddie left.
Want.
What does it matter what he wants?
He wants to stay in Los Angeles, in the life he’s made for himself. He wants to stay with the family he’s chosen, stay in the home he’s built.
And he wants his son here.
More than anything, he wants Christopher to want to be here.
But he doesn’t. So Eddie will go where Chris wants to be. He’s picked up and moved before, he can do it again. It’s all for Christopher. Always. Eddie’s wants took a backseat when he became a father.
It’s fine. He’s used to it. He’s making the right choice. He has to be.
His life in California ends with Eddie here, standing in front of his life packed up in a truck, in front of his best friend, with the winds blowing gusts of sorrow and yearning across his skin, and there’s nothing left to do but drive away and put this all behind him.
Buck still isn’t looking at him.
“Buck, look at me. Please.”
It takes a second, but then he does, and it takes Eddie’s breath away. Buck looks at him with his kicked puppy eyes again, but he’s trying to hide it, Eddie knows. That almost makes it worse.
“Come here, man.”
Buck moves like permission is all he’s been waiting for. He practically collapses on top of Eddie, and Eddie is left engulfed in his embrace. For a brief moment, he freezes, caught in the smell of Buck’s shampoo and the heat from Buck’s body and the strength of Buck’s arms squeezing tight, and then Eddie regains enough sense to hug him back.
The stirring in his gut tells him this was a mistake.
He should’ve just gone and left Buck standing on the curb without meeting his eyes, without touching him at all. At least it would’ve put them both out of their misery quickly. Instead, his final moments in LA are wrapped up in Buck’s skin, and Eddie isn’t sure how he’s ever going to leave.
There’s a puff of air against his temple.
Eddie’s hands clutch at Buck, wet with rainwater, because it’s raining properly now, falling around them steadily. Neither of them care. He tightens his fists in his shirt, holding on tight, and he tries to count to ten. He’ll let go at ten.
One.
Two.
At three, Buck turns his face into Eddie’s shoulder, cold wet nose brushing the sensitive skin of his neck, and Eddie can’t suppress the shiver that shudders down his spine when he feels him exhale. This is the closest they’ve ever been.
Four. They’ve hugged before. This is the first time Eddie’s let himself indulge in it. This is his last chance to– to—
Five.
The winds blow in the minimal space between them, whistling in his ears. In it, he hears grief and desire, clashing.
What does it even mean, to want something?
Six.
“I meant it,” Eddie says urgently. He tucks the words right into the shell of Buck’s ear. “This is as hard on me as it is on you, okay? This isn’t— We’re not— it’s not nothing.”
Seven.
Neither of them move.
This, he thinks. This is what it means to want something.
Eight.
Nine.
He pulls back in time to watch as Buck’s eyes grow red, his lip wobbly. His face is wet, and he’s thankful for the benefit of the doubt on how it got that way.
And Eddie —
Ten.
Eddie kisses him.
He thinks about blaming the wind, a gust so strong it pushes him forward. Or the rain, for making this goodbye as cinematic as can be. In front of his — Buck’s — house, in front of his U-Haul packed and ready to move, he thinks about blaming the fog, or Father Brian and his stupid juice metaphors, or the way Buck has been styling his hair recently, curly, free of gel. He could blame a million things, but it’ll never refute the fact that, whenever he’s in Buck’s presence, Eddie Diaz feels the warmth of the sun.
He sinks a hand into Buck’s hair and settles the other on his shoulder, and he kisses Buck, and he means it.
He kisses him, and he tastes like rainwater and the burn of his Blistex. He’s warm and solid beneath his hands, and after a heartstopping few seconds, Buck kisses him back, surging forward with a noise in the back of his throat. One of Buck’s hands come up to cradle his jaw, and then his mouth is opening and, oh, there’s his tongue, and Eddie has been kissed before, okay, he’s hooked up and he’s fucked and he’s had sex, the whole shebang, but he doesn’t think he’s ever been kissed like this, so thoroughly, so brazenly.
Buck kisses like it’s a substitute for breathing. He keeps going and going, alternating between the gentle glide of his tongue and the sting of his teeth on Eddie’s bottom lip. He breathes in through his nose without separating their lips, like he’s an expert, until Eddie is dizzy with it, weak in the knees but refusing to quiver, giving as good as he’s taking.
There’s a rumble of thunder overhead, but Eddie can’t hear it over the rushing in his ears and the little groans Buck keeps releasing. When Buck tilts his head, he can feel the rain pelting down on them, everything growing slick.
They slot together like they were made for this, and Eddie has the delirious thought that maybe they were; maybe everything — every bad decision, every ruined plan, every wrench thrown his way — was all in service of getting him here, in a downpour, kissing Evan Buckley. It’s been years since Eddie believed in any type of higher power, but there’s still a little boy inside him who once heard ‘God has a plan for everyone,’ and now, that little boy is cocking his head and going, ‘huh, who’d’ve thought this was I was made for?’
Buck pushes forward like he wants to walk Eddie backwards, and, fuck, now that he’s thinking of it, he wants — wants Buck to push him against a wall, wants Buck to sink to his knees and swallow him down, wants Buck to grab him by the belt loops and drag him inside. He wants, and he wants all of it, but—
But it’s raining, and Eddie has to go. Because Christopher is waiting, and Eddie doesn’t get to have what he wants. He knows better.
He locks his knees so he stays in place, even as Buck continues to push forward, their teeth clacking.
He shouldn’t have hugged him. He should’ve just left when he had the chance, while Buck kicked his feet in the dirt. It would’ve been easier than this, pulling himself away from Bucks’ lips. It takes a monumental effort to carve distance between them.
Buck chases him as he steps back. He’s always been braver than Eddie, going after what he wants.
Another roll of thunder, and it sounds like devastation.
He opens his eyes before Buck and is rewarded with the sight of him, cheeks flushed, birthmark dark, curls plastered to his forehead. He's so beautiful. He’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and Eddie wants to keep him, just like this, but he can’t. He has to go.
Buck has to blink a few times to clear the rain from his eyes when they eventually open. His eyelashes clump together. His hands hang in the air where Eddie’s body once was, before Eddie put space between them. His fists clench, and Eddie tracks the vein in his arms.
“Why did you do that?” Buck finally asks, voice low. “Eddie. Why did you kiss me?”
“I don’t know.”
He sets his jaw. “Eddie—”
“I wanted to,” he says. Because this might be my last chance to, he doesn’t. “I kissed you because I wanted to.”
He lets the words sit in the air. They balance on vulnerability and faith before blowing away in the wind when Buck frowns.
“You—” He sucks in a breath, and then Eddie watches in real time as his face crumbles. “You have the worst fucking timing.”
“I know, ” he says through the ache in his chest. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to apologize.”
There it is again. Doubt. It sits like a stone in his gut.
“I just needed you to know,” Eddie speaks over Buck sniffling wetly. “This isn’t easy, okay? There’s no right answer for me here, I don’t— I can’t—"
Buck runs a hand over his face, like he’s exhausted. He watches Buck struggle, indecision written all over his face, but he waits him out, slick roads be damned. He comes to a decision, and hope swells in Eddie’s chest up until Buck opens his mouth.
“Call me when you get there, alright?”
Despite the hot California rain, Eddie’s skin goes cold. “Buck.”
“You should get out of here, the roads are getting slippery,” he says as he takes a step back, away from Eddie, onto the curb. His clothes are wet and his hair drips rain onto his face and he hunches his shoulders, making himself smaller, and the little boy in Eddie’s chest kicks a tantrum at the sight.
“No, Buck, c’mon.”
“You’re gonna get caught in rush-hour traffic—”
“This isn’t fair, you’ve gotta—”
“You’re right, this isn’t fair, you shouldn’t have kissed me.”
“I needed you to know—”
“Why?” Buck’s eyes snap to his, blazing. “What difference does it make? You still have to go, Eddie.”
“I know that.” He repeats his mantra. I’m not leaving Buck, I’m going to Christopher. There’s a difference.
“So,” Buck shrugs. “Go. Leave.”
“I am.”
Buck nods with an air of finality, and then he’s taking another step back.
“Buck—” Eddie’s not sure why he’s desperate to keep them both here in this moment, only that there's electricity buzzing in the air, fervor making his hands shake. “This isn't goodbye. We’re going to talk every day, seriously, you’re gonna be sick of me and that stupid song you made my ringtone. This isn’t— this can’t be—”
Their story doesn’t end like this.
“Eddie, don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I mean it.”
“Sure you do.”
“I’m serious,” Eddie takes a step forward, only freezing when Buck takes another step back, white sneakers squelching in the grass. “This isn’t goodbye, okay? I’m coming back.” He says it, and he means it. “I–I don’t know when, two weeks, two months, two years, I just— I have to do this first, okay? I can’t be here without Christopher, I need to be with him.”
“I know, Eddie, of course I know that.”
“But this isn’t the end, okay?” It’s not. He knows it’s not. It can’t be. “I just needed you to know—”
“Eddie.”
“—I love you, okay? I love you, and I’m not leaving you, not for good. This isn’t goodbye.”
He won’t ask — can’t ask for Buck to wait for him, not like this, not when Buck is staying in his house. He won’t be Abby. At the very least, it’s five years until Chris is in college and Eddie’ll have more freedom, less reason to be where he’s unwanted, but he hopes it doesn’t take that long. Maybe Chris misses home, too. Maybe they can talk and be back here within the week.
Or maybe it won’t. It likely won’t. Maybe Christopher fell in love with El Paso the way Eddie fell in love with Los Angeles. Maybe he feels at home there in a way Eddie never did. If Chris feels for Texas the way Eddie feels for California, there’s no way he can make him leave. Not even for Buck.
Maybe Buck can visit. Maybe Eddie could, he would drive the 12-hour distance as many times as he needs to. Maybe they could do a long-distance thing. He’s not sure what he’s asking for, only that he’s desperate to get Buck to understand, to know —
“I’m coming back,” he promises, and he hopes the universe doesn’t make a liar out of him.
Buck isn’t looking at him. These are Eddie’s last moments in Los Angeles, and Buck turns his face up to the sky. He can’t tell what’s tears and what’s rain, but the droplets stream down his face anyway.
“Buck. Look at me.”
Buck shakes his head softly. “I don’t think I can.” He takes one shuddering breath after another, and when he drops his head, he looks at his feet. His sneakers are muddy. Eddie watches him shift his weight. “Drive safe, okay?”
That’s it, then.
Eddie’s whole body is numb. “Okay.”
“Call me when you get there.”
“Sure.”
His body moves on its own accord, moment over. He makes sure all his furniture is squared away, secured, and he checks the latches on the truck. He has to try the handle twice before the driver’s side door opens, wet metal slipping from his fingers the first time.
“You’ll pick up, right? When I call?” He throws the words over his shoulder, like they’re casual, like it doesn't hurt that he even has to ask.
He almost misses Buck’s response in the roar of rain. “Yeah, Eddie. I’ll always pick up.”
He ignores the way his wet clothes scratch against his skin as he sits in the driver's seat. He pulls the door shut, and the world gets quiet, save for the quiet patter of rain against his window and his own harsh breathing.
He’s not crying. Won’t, until he’s fourteen hours away and tucked in his new bedroom, surrounded by boxes and dust mites. He’ll reach for the box labeled ‘clothes’ and start unpacking, and come across an old hoodie, worn and soft with age, that he stole years ago back during quarantine when their wardrobes mixed. He’ll move without realizing, clutching it close, but it won’t smell like him, no, because it’s been in Eddie’s possession for years, and that’ll be the thing that does it. He’ll sob with his whole body until he aches with it, and when he stops he won’t reach for his phone, because there’s nothing he can say to make this better.
But that’s later. For now, he swallows his sorrows down. His hands shake. He grips the steering wheel.
He told Buck he loved him. Buck didn’t say it back.
That’s — fine. It’s fine. There’s nothing he can do about it now.
He kissed Buck. Buck kissed him back.
It has to be fine. He has no other choice. There’s no turning back.
The engine purrs beneath his seat. The gearshift clicks into place. The air conditioner clicks on, blowing anguish and resignation across his skin, until he’s shivering with it.
He glances at the window. He meets Buck’s eye as he pulls away from the curb.
He keeps him in his sights for as long as he can, refusing to turn even when his GPS tells him to. He goes straight, watching Buck get smaller and smaller in the mirror, until he can't see him anymore.
Until Eddie leaves him behind.