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“What the hell is this ?” Buck sounds so incredulous that Eddie assumes he must have stumbled upon something truly outrageous.
“Junior Texas Ballroom Dance Champion?”
Ah. That.
They’re in the bedroom– their bedroom, Eddie notes absentmindedly, since fate had made it so that they both slept here now–sorting through the last few boxes that Eddie took from El Paso to LA, mostly trinkets and knick-knacks that neither Eddie nor Chris had urgently needed in their first week back home.
“My mom threw them in with Christopher’s stuff when he moved back in with me in El Paso. We had a little argument about it right before. I forgot they were even in here,” Eddie shrugs. He doesn’t bother looking up from the box with magnets he had been occupied with. He’s looking for the one Chris and Buck got at the zoo to put on the fridge, but he can’t seem to find it anywhere.
“Okay, no–what!” Buck laughs, and it draws Eddie’s attention enough for him to actually look up. Buck is holding a metal trophy the size of his forearm, looking back between the award and Eddie like he’s trying to make sense of a magic trick. “Ballroom dancing. Like, Dancing With The Stars ballroom dancing? When were you going to tell me?”
Eddie pushes the magnets aside, and crosses the bedroom floor to where Buck is safeguarding a cardboard box like a dragon with a treasure chest.
He snatches the trophy from Buck’s hands, to which there really is no point, because there’s so many of them in the box Buck simply picks up another one to goggle at.
“I guess it just never came up,” Eddie says, looking at his own warped reflection in the curved surface of the award. “I never really liked it, or at least, I didn’t by the time I quit, which was in high school. I don’t really think about it anymore.”
He studies the prize in his hand. First place , a little plaque tells him. It’s still shiny, like no time has passed at all. It takes him back instantly: the heat of the bright lights, the chilling stares of a panel of stone-faced judges. Some less obvious connections, too: fights with his parents over how often he should be practising, the fear of their disapproval slowly starting to overshadow his fear of losing. He quickly puts the object down. It feels like poison in his hands.
Buck, however, seems to feel quite the opposite. “Texas Grand Latin Championships. First place,” he reads out, beaming at a cheap metal trophy like it’s made out of pure gold. “This is the greatest day of my life since finding out Bobby was a figure skating child prodigy.”
“Your sister’s wedding is not making the list?” Eddie asks.
Buck waves a dismissive hand as he picks up another trophy. “Seriously, why did I not know about this? There’s like, a million awards in here. We need to find some place in the house to put these things on display.”
‘The house’ always sounds like ‘our house’ when it leaves Buck’s lips, Eddie thinks, even though they both know their current arrangement isn’t supposed to be permanent. They haven’t really talked about the living situation yet, at least not beyond you can move back in any day and it’s really no problem Eddie I just want you back home as soon as possible . Eddie knows they probably ought to sort it out soon, but he can’t help putting it off. He enjoys having Buck under his roof, and selfishly, irrationally wants it to stay this way as long as possible, even though he knows it wouldn’t make much sense from Buck’s perspective.
Buck fishes out a small silver cup. “Children’s Championships ages Twelve and Under,” Buck reads out. “Absolutely adorable. Though it does seem a little unfair you were competing in this when you were… Seventeen,” Buck says, doing some quick math with the year on the trophy.
“I used to teach,” Eddie explains, and the shock of another memory washes over him. In his mind’s eye, Shannon is giggling into his shoulder as he’s trying to teach her some basic steps. He’d struggled to find the right way to hold her, for some reason, but she had been impressed nonetheless. He was the only one who knew the difference anyway.
Eddie clears his throat. “The little kids, I mean. Guess I got one of their trophies, or something.”
“No way. You should teach me!"
Eddie sighs. “Buck–”
“I’m serious!” Buck cuts in. “You know I always watch Dancing With The Stars with Maddie. It’ll be so much better if I have any idea what Bruno is talking about. Come on. Show me some samba!” He shimmies his shoulders.
“That’s a salsa move. Or, well, it would be, if you’d made any sort of attempt at shoulder isolation,” Eddie says, and then frowns at how easily it all came back to him.
“Okay, now you definitely need to teach me,” Buck says. “I desperately need to see more of whatever the hell that was.”
“Buck–” he starts, but before he can voice his protests, Buck cuts him off. “I’ll cook and do the dishes tonight! Come on. Please?”
He’s giving Eddie that look that makes him look like a lost puppy, though Eddie would never voice that comparison out loud. He sighs.
“...Living room. We need space. And Chris has to help you with the dishes, he keeps getting away with not doing any chores now you’re living here.”
Buck fist pumps the air and leads the way. It’s hard not to smile at his enthusiasm.
Buck pushes the couch aside while Eddie moves the table to create a clearing. It’s not big, but big enough for the basics.
“I’m warning you, I haven’t done this since before Chris was born.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Buck assures him, with a look in his eyes that almost has Eddie believing this really is one of the greatest days of his life.
“Okay, I’ll teach you some samba. Basic steps first, just the feet.” Eddie says, standing face-to-face with Buck. “When I step forward, you step back. I’ll lead. All you have to do is follow.” He looks down at his feet, and Buck does the same.
“Right foot backward,” he starts, and moves his left foot for Buck to trace.
“Join in your left. Now shift your weight to your right foot, then step towards me with your left.” Buck does as he’s told, albeit in the least graceful way Eddie’s ever seen anyone do it. It’s hardly a surprise; the man can’t even walk straight.
“Move your right foot to your left, then shift your weight to the opposite foot again. There you go. Right foot backward, shift your weight.” They cycle through the moves a few times, only bumping toes a few times. To Buck’s credit, he only needs Eddie to repeat the instructions once for him to have the movements down, after which he switches to simply counting the beats.
When he feels Buck has the hang of it, Eddie stops. “That’s it,” he says, to which Buck looks up at him in surprise. “That’s it? That’s just stepping back and forth!”
“It is when you do it.”
Buck gives his shoulder a playful shove. “Asshole.”
Eddie doesn’t bother trying to hide his smile. “Okay. The next part is to make it look like an actual dance, instead of an aerobics class for elderly people. Look at my feet,” he says, and goes through the steps again. “When you join your feet together, stay on the ball of that foot.”
Buck nods, and mirrors him again, his brow knit together in concentration. Eddie knows that look: it’s the same one he wears when he’s twenty pages deep in Wikipedia, or when he’s steadily making his way through an entire subreddit on some niche subject. A complete devotion to purposeless knowledge that would put most marriages to shame.
“You’ve got it,” Eddie says, and Buck beams at him like a child being praised in class. “Now let’s do it together.” He holds his arms up. There’s a flicker of doubt in his mind– is this too intimate? --but he quickly dismisses it. The notion that something might be too intimate between him and Buck is laughable, and he’s all too aware of it. They’ve avoided crossing certain lines, sure, but only by picking up that line and moving it even further down whatever road they’re on.
They sleep in the same bed, for God’s sake. If he can’t expect Buck to hold him, who will?
“Put your hand on my shoulder blade,” he says, and Buck follows the instruction without sweating it the way Eddie did. Eddie slides his hand up Buck’s back. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes something bloom in his chest. It's been a while since he’s let himself touch anyone like this, and now the simple sensation of any body against his own is pulling at his buried desire like an old injury.
“Now hold my other hand. Like this,” He says, adjusting his grip on Buck’s hand. It’s rougher and bigger than he’s used to, but they fit together like perfect puzzle pieces.
“Closed position,” Eddie explains. He tries his best to occupy himself with the technique of the dance rather than his own touch-starvedness. “Now we do the steps again, but with a little more bounce this time. You want to be constantly bending and straightening your knees.”
They cycle through the movements, Eddie counting for them while Buck follows his lead with surprising ease, though he’s still looking at his feet like keeping an eye on them will keep his limbs from doing something unexpected.
It might just be because it’s been several lifetimes since he last danced, but Eddie can’t remember ever having to do so little work to be tuned in to his dance partner. They move together with relative grace, attuned to each other like the two wings of a bird. Eddie accommodates for Buck’s small mistakes with ease, and whenever he falters, Buck easily relies on Eddie to fall back into the beat.
It’s not really surprising. They’ve been entirely in tune to each other for years now, barely needing words to communicate even in life-and-death situations. A bit of samba is far below their skill level.
…Despite this, Buck steps on his toe so hard Eddie thinks he might break it.
“Ow!” he yelps, pulling his foot back.
“Sorry!” Buck says, but he’s lost his rhythm, and now he’s just kicking Eddie in the shins. To preserve his legs, Eddie pulls himself out of Buck’s arms, putting a safer distance between them.
He rolls his foot around while the pain subsides. “If some old lady dies in a fire because I’ve lost the ability to walk, I’m blaming you.”
“I’m sorry,” Buck says again. He feels the need to look genuinely horrified, and it’s so endearing Eddie can’t help but smile. “It’s fine,” he says. “You’re doing well. Let’s try a whisk next. It’s kind of the same, but sideways.”
Buck bashfully smiles back, and falls back into Eddie’s arms.
“One-and-a-two-and-three…” He shows the different steps, and Buck follows them with ease, finding it easier to simply follow Eddie’s motions than to memorize verbal instructions.
Just briefly, Eddie allows himself to drown in the movement, age-old muscle memory carrying him through the dance. Buck feels different in his arms than anyone he’s ever danced with, taller and more broad-shouldered than the handful of girls he partnered with over the years. Not wrong or strange, just different.
“Ease into it,” he tells Buck, his voice soft, hoping he sounds more encouraging than berating. “You’re stiff. Let the movements flow into each other.” Buck nods, and drops some of the tension from his shoulders, but the way he moves remains overly controlled like he's being puppeteered rather than moving by his own volition.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Eddie says. He stops them, still holding Buck close. They’re chest to chest, only a few breaths between them. Buck looks up at him. He’s technically supposed to look over his shoulder, but–
“Look at me instead of your feet,” he commands, and they start their movements again, falling into a more natural rhythm. Eddie counts under his breath.
He’s aware he’s supposed to be attentively teaching, but it’s hard to think about anything other than Buck when the man is staring straight at him. For the first time he finds himself unable to hide from evaluating their current situation. It had all escalated very fast, and it was easier not to pause and think about what any of it truly meant, even if he had recently become distantly aware of some feelings that he had quietly been harbouring for–well, years now, probably. If he was being honest.
It strikes him then that the feeling he gets as he’s holding Buck in his arms is the same one he gets when he wakes up next to him. Or when he spots him in the kitchen, making breakfast for what he can’t help but think of as their family of three. He wants to call it yearning or aching or wanting, but it's not, because that would imply its subject is something he doesn't already have. Instead, it's the overwhelming sense that things are right where they belong.
The sudden realization is made a thousand times more intimate by Buck’s unwavering blue eyes and Eddie feels–not wrong , it could never be wrong. Just. You know. Like he’s standing on a precipice, seconds away from crashing into either the ocean or the rocks.
Buck must notice the change in his expression, because he pauses, bringing their movement to a slow halt. Before he can open his mouth to say anything, Eddie speaks. “Time to add music,” he blurts out, turning his face away to hide whatever expression it is he’s wearing. “I think you’re ready. Let me grab my phone.”
He looks up a Spotify playlist with the right kind of songs and connects his phone to the speakers. When he feels like he’s calmed the treacherous beast in his chest, he presses play.
“Ready?” He asks, and Buck nods, slipping into his arms again.
Eddie counts them in, and then they're moving to the music. It takes Eddie back, not to the anxiety of competing and his parents' judgment, but to the childlike glee of when he had first started dancing. He leads Buck with ease, switching between the different steps without verbally having to announce it. They bump toes, of course, and laugh, but Buck manages to catch himself and keep the dance going. To his surprise, Eddie finds he's truly enjoying himself.
As a test, he spins Buck around. It catches him by surprise, and he almost trips over his feet, but his hands quickly make their way back home onto Eddie's body. They sway together to the beat, and they’re perhaps not the best dancers in the world, but certainly the happiest ones.
“You're a prodigy,” Eddie says, aware he's smiling ear to ear.
“Oh yeah? Buck asks, having the guts to sound cocky. “Maybe you should give me one of those trophies, then.”
Before Eddie can respond, Buck swings him around. It fully catches him by surprise, but he manages to keep his balance just long enough for Buck to draw him back in, pulling his body back to where it was with remarkable ease.
And Eddie realises he wants this, damn it, he wants to keep him here, wants to have a dance session on a Friday morning during their 48 hours off where Buck clumsily twirls him around like a lover.
Only he doesn’t have to want it, because he already has it right here.
“Are you leading, or am I?” Eddie asks.
“I don’t know,” Buck says. “You tell me.” There’s a dare in his expression, somewhere.
Eddie spins him around once more, just for good measure, and then merely holds him.
They stop dancing, but don’t let go of each other. Eddie pulls him close, closer than necessary for any of the hundreds of routines he so meticulously trained for.
I’ll lead. All you have to do is follow, Eddie remembers, and closes the distance between them.
When Buck’s lips meet his own, it takes him back to that first day back in LA. It’s not just the feeling of coming home, but also the overwhelming sense that things are finally right , everything in the exact place it ought to be. It’s shockingly simple for how long it took him to get to this point.
He feels Buck smile against his mouth.
“You’ll stay,” Eddie says, and it’s not really a request, because there's no need for it to be. “You’ll stay with us.”
“Of course,” Buck nods, his forehead tipping against Eddie’s. “If you’ll let me.”
“Let you?” he echoes. “I’m telling you. You’ll stay.”
Buck grins, and Eddie presses their smiles together once more. After all, he had made Buck a promise.
I’ll lead. All you have to do is follow.