Chapter Text
“Oh, oh, and you wanna know why I’m really in therapy?” Buck’s voice cracked and picked up speed, like a dam about to burst. His words came tumbling out in a rush, breathless, raw. “It’s because I’ve spent my entire life feeling like a constant disappointment.”
There was no pause to catch his breath, no moment to rethink. The words were jagged, sharp, each one a wound he had carried for years.
“And you wanna talk about our jobs?” His eyes burned as he looked directly at his father. “You think my job is dangerous?” His voice rose, desperate and furious, almost unhinged now. “I have walked through fire every single day of my life because of you. That’s why I’m in therapy—because nothing I ever did was good enough!”
His father didn’t waste a second. The response was almost reflexive.
“We tried!” he barked, his voice heavy with old frustration. “But you were always—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he made a dismissive hand gesture, flicking the air as if he were brushing Buck away like a stain he couldn’t scrub out. That tiny movement—it stung more than any slap could. Buck felt something boil up inside him, something primal, something that wanted to strike, to shatter something. He clenched his fists, his body rigid with rage.
He didn’t need to punch anything though, because someone else did the emotional gut-punching for him.
It was his mother’s voice—quiet, defeated—barely audible.
“You never made it easy on us, either one of your” she said, her hand swung desperately through the air.
And then, unexpectedly, a third voice, trembling but cutting straight through the tension like a blade. Maddie.
“We were supposed to?” she asked, her voice breaking in the middle.
She wasn’t the composed adult she had become, not in that moment. No, her voice had the waver of a seventeen-year-old girl again. That girl who once stood in this very living room, begging their father to stop hitting her little brother. Buck turned to her, and for a split second, he could see it—the teenage Maddie, scared, angry, helpless.
“We were kids.” She whispered.
The room went silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the old wall clock. Their mother looked like she was about to cry. Her hands trembled, her face pale. Buck had seen that expression before—years ago, when she stood in the doorway watching their father yell, doing nothing, saying nothing. Frozen in time, just like she was now.
She finally spoke, voice barely audible.
“Evan, I don’t know what you expected us to do.”
And that was it. That was the moment everything inside him broke wide open.
“ Love me anyway. ”
It came out soft, but it echoed through the room like thunder.
There it was. The truth. The one sentence he’d wanted to scream for decades. The one truth he’d swallowed over and over, choking on it until therapy pried it loose.
He said it. And the world didn’t end. He was still standing. His heart still beat. And strangely, his parents didn’t look angry or defensive. They didn’t look ready to lash out.
No, what Buck saw in their eyes stunned him.
Grief. Shame.
It was like they’d been waiting their entire lives to hear it, too. But not because they were ready to fix it. No, because they had never wanted to admit they’d failed.
He couldn’t stay.
He couldn’t do this.
Without another word, Buck turned on his heel and walked out the front door, leaving Maddie, Chim, and their parents behind in a silence that now felt deafening.
He walked aimlessly through the streets, the chill air burning in his lungs, his hands shaking. His boots hit the pavement hard, each step trying to stomp out the storm inside.
He had always believed that saying those words would heal him. That finally telling his parents the truth would unlock something deep in his soul—that it would set the child in him free.
But he was wrong.
Because when he looked inside himself, when he truly paused and listened to that child… the boy was still there. Not free. Not healed.
Still bleeding.
He could see him. His seven-year-old self. Sitting on Maddie’s bed, covered in cuts, trying not to cry. Buck could still remember how sticky his skin had felt with drying blood. How he had looked up at Maddie with wide, terrified eyes and whispered through trembling lips, “I fell… I tripped and fell into the cabinet.”
He remembered the lie. He remembered saying it like it was a script. But Maddie had seen right through him. She saw the bruises. The ones shaped like their father’s hands. She didn’t believe him for a second.
But she didn’t ask questions either.
She had just… held him. Quietly.
He had always told himself it wasn’t that bad. That maybe it wasn’t abuse. Maybe he deserved it. Maybe it was just discipline. Because Maddie had never been hit. She had never been shoved into a cabinet, or smacked so hard he couldn't hear for an hour afterward.
So maybe it was just him.
He remembered it all so vividly. That night. The shrine. The ball.
It had been a stupid mistake. He was just a kid. He was playing inside—he knew he wasn’t supposed to, but it was raining outside, and he was bored and alone. The ball bounced the wrong way and knocked into the little table where the Daniel shrine was. Nothing even broke.
But it didn’t matter.
His parents had lost their minds.
His mother cried like someone had died all over again. His father screamed so loud Buck thought the windows would shatter.
And then came the slap.
The one that made him stumble backward into the cabinet, shattering the glass with his body. He still remembered the sound it made. Like fireworks underwater. Then came the pain.
But it wasn’t the physical pain that scarred him the most. It was the look in his father’s eyes as he stood over him, breathing hard, not with fear or regret—but rage. Unchecked, white-hot rage.
And why?
Because he had dared to touch Daniel’s memory.
Because he had dared to exist in a world where Daniel no longer did.
That was the part that hurt the most. The part that never healed. Buck hadn’t just grown up in the shadow of a dead brother.
He had grown up competing with him.
Daniel, the perfect son, who died young and left only idealized memories behind.
Daniel, who became more than a brother. He became an altar. A legend.
His parents didn’t just mourn Daniel. They worshipped him.
And they measured Buck against him every single day of his life.
He was never enough. Never quiet enough, never smart enough, never obedient enough. His every breath seemed to offend them.
It wasn’t Daniel’s fault he died. Buck knew that.
But some part of him—some furious, aching part—hated Daniel for it.
Hated him for being the boy who could do no wrong, because he never had the chance to.
Hated him for dying and becoming a saint, while Buck was left behind to be the family scapegoat.
He had tried to bury that hate. To pretend he didn’t feel it. To convince himself he could be good enough if only he tried harder.
But it was a lie.
And therapy had started to unearth that truth piece by painful piece.
There was another truth, too.
The violence.
The part nobody ever talked about.
Maddie had always said their parents weren’t bad people—just bad parents.
And Buck had clung to that idea like a lifeline. Because if they weren’t bad, then maybe he wasn’t really abused. Maybe he had deserved it. Maybe it wasn’t as awful as he remembered.
But it was.
It was that bad.
And the silence was part of it. The pretending. The way nobody ever said the word “abuse.” The way even Maddie never called it what it was.
They never hit her. Only him.
So he had to wonder… Why?
What was wrong with him that made them want to hit?
He reached the alley behind his apartment, his boots crunching over gravel, and stopped at a rusted metal trash can.
His chest heaved.
And then, without thinking, he screamed. A deep, guttural, animal scream. A sound that ripped out of him like it had been trapped for decades.
He kicked the trash can so hard it slammed into the brick wall and bounced back.
A single tear slid down his cheek.
He didn’t wipe it away.
He just stood there, staring at the dented metal, breathing hard.
And in that moment, he didn’t feel like a man.
He felt like that little boy again.
Bleeding. Hurt. Still hoping someone—anyone—would come find him.
__
Buck’s apartment was dark, cold, and silent. But at least it was his. At least in this place, he didn’t have to face anyone’s expectations, or anyone’s judgment. The silence here didn’t cut him—it comforted him. It was like a blanket he could wrap around himself, even if it was woven from loneliness.
He tossed his keys into the bowl by the door and headed straight for the kitchen. The light in the fridge flickered as he opened it. Most of the shelves were empty except for a half-used jar of mustard, some leftover takeout, and a six-pack of beer. He didn’t think twice. He grabbed the strongest drink he could find, cracked it open with a hiss, and let the cold, bitter liquid burn its way down his throat.
He didn’t bother turning on the lights as he made his way to the couch. He dropped onto it heavily, like the weight of the night was finally too much to carry. Just as he took another long, steady gulp from the bottle, his phone started ringing in his pocket.
He didn’t even glance at it before picking up.
“Mads, seriously, I’m fine. You don’t need to—”
“Uh. Not Maddie.”
Buck blinked.
“Eddie?”
“Yeah. Sorry to disappoint.” A small laugh followed. “Guess I should’ve waited until after your dramatic monologue.”
Buck exhaled through a half-laugh. “Nah, I’m glad it’s you. I just... assumed.”
Eddie didn’t fill the silence immediately, and Buck could tell — he knew — Eddie was listening, watching his words.
“So... dinner with the fam? That trainwreck happen already, or are we still approaching impact?”
Buck took another swig, winced at the burn. “Impact happened. Debris everywhere. You missed a real show.”
Eddie's voice softened. “That bad, huh?”
“Well, I told my parents they never really loved me. So yeah. That might’ve killed the vibe.”
Eddie didn’t answer right away. Buck could picture him lying in bed, brow furrowed, hand behind his head, trying to find the right words — not too soft, not too loud.
“I’m sorry, man. That’s heavy.”
“Yeah, well. It’s not like it’s breaking news. Just the first time I said it out loud.” Buck let out a dry chuckle. “You ever just... say something and realize you’ve been carrying it around your whole life? Like a ghost weight?”
“More than once.”
Buck swirled the bottle in his hand. “I thought it would help, y’know? Get it out. But now it just feels worse. Like now I’ve got no excuse not to fall apart.”
Eddie let out a breath. “What exactly happened, Buck?”
“What always happens. I played nice. I smiled. I sat through a meal pretending we’re a family. Then I said the wrong thing, and suddenly I’m the problem again.”
“What’d you say?”
“That maybe Daniel wasn’t the only one who deserved to be wanted.” Buck’s voice cracked a little, but he swallowed it down.
Eddie was quiet.
Buck could hear rustling — Eddie shifting, maybe sitting up.
“Daniel. That was your brother?”
“Yeah. He died when I was a baby. Leukemia.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I didn’t know him. I just grew up in his shadow.” Buck paused. “I was born to save him. They didn’t even try to hide it. I was the miracle cure. And when it didn’t work... well.”
“You became the reminder.” Eddie said it like he already knew.
Buck didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to.
“They never let me forget it.” Buck’s voice had gone hoarse. “Even when they weren’t saying it out loud, it was in everything. The way they looked at me. Or didn’t.”
Eddie was quiet, but not distant. Present. Focused.
Buck closed his eyes. He didn’t want to say this next part. Didn’t want to name it. He wasn’t ready.
So instead, he leaned into implication.
“There were... bad days, y’know? Days where I learned it was better to stay out of the way. Be invisible.”
Eddie didn’t jump in. He didn’t push.
“I used to think if I could just be good enough, maybe they’d see me. Maybe I could earn it. Love. Whatever that means.”
“You shouldn’t have had to earn that.” Eddie’s voice was firm now. Steady. “That was their job.”
Buck smiled bitterly. “Yeah, well. They were too busy grieving a ghost to raise the kid in front of them.”
Eddie made a small sound — like he wanted to say more but couldn’t yet.
“Maddie tried,” Buck added quickly. “She did everything she could. But she was just a kid too. And eventually she left. I don’t blame her. I just... I didn’t even realize how much that broke me until tonight.”
He heard Eddie shift again. “Did you tell her any of this?”
“Nah. She feels guilty enough. Doesn’t need more weight on her shoulders.”
“And you?”
“I’m used to carrying it.” Buck paused. “Besides, I don’t even know what to call it. It wasn’t... They tried, I guess. And I tried to but I was hurt and maybe I just wasn’t enough.”
Eddie’s voice came low and even: “Buck, you are enough and pain doesn’t need to be visible to be real.”
That undid something in Buck.
He didn’t respond for a long time.
Eventually, he said, “You’re good at this, you know. Being... here. With me.”
Eddie gave a small laugh. “You make it easy, man. Even when you're a pain in the ass.”
That got a real chuckle out of Buck.
He sat up slightly, wiped a hand over his face.
“You mind if I say something completely nuts?”
“I’m already lying in bed with you whispering into my ear like we’re in a rom-com, go ahead.”
Buck grinned, despite everything.
“I used to hate Daniel for dying. Not because I missed him. I didn’t know him. But maybe if he’d lived... they wouldn’t have needed me.”
Eddie didn’t speak. Buck let the silence breathe.
“Maybe I could’ve just been Evan. Not a savior. Not a disappointment. Just... a kid.”
When Eddie finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“If that had happened, you might not be here. And I don’t even want to imagine a version of my life without you in it.”
Buck’s throat tightened. He let his eyes fall shut.
“You’re the first person who ever said something like that and meant it.”
“That’s not true.”
“Feels like it.”
“Then I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.” Eddie said softly. “You matter, Buck. Not because of what you can do or who you’re trying to save. Just because you're you.”
Buck let that sit.
His phone buzzed — low battery warning.
“Battery’s about to die.”
“Come over tomorrow, okay? We don’t have to talk. Just come. You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”
Buck hesitated. Then nodded, even though Eddie couldn’t see it.
“Yeah. Okay.”
“And Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“You're not a failure. You’re a damn miracle.”
Buck hung up without replying. He couldn’t. Not because he believe it, he didn’t—but because some part of him wanted to. And that scared him.
He sat there in the quiet hum of his apartment, phone in hand, heart pounding.
His screen lit up with notifications—texts from Maddie. Over twenty of them, all asking if he was okay.
“Yeah. Everything’s great, sis. Don’t worry.”
He whispered the words into the dark, not daring to text her back. He wasn’t ready.
Instead, he placed the phone on his nightstand and opened the drawer beside it.
He had to push past the clutter—tissues, a few condoms, a charger he never used, earbuds tangled in a knot, a book he’d never finished reading, and a bunch of photos of Chris, most of them from the beach or the park.
And beneath it all, like a hidden relic from another life, he found it.
A framed photograph.
It was old. Slightly faded. But he’d never forgotten it.
In the picture, a young boy—maybe nine—stood in the arms of his big sister. Maddie was grinning, youthful and carefree. Behind them stood their parents, smiling like they were a normal family.
They were all smiling.
It had been taken at a neighborhood barbecue, a rare moment of peace. Maybe the only moment. The kind that makes you think, for a second, that things were okay.
He remembered that day. Remembered the warmth of the sun, the smell of burgers on the grill. But he also remembered what happened after the photo—how, barely three hours later, his father had broken his nose in a fit of rage.
But still—this picture. It meant something.
Because for one fleeting moment, they had pretended to be a happy family. And maybe that moment had been a lie, but it was his lie. One he held onto like a secret talisman.
He traced a finger along the glass, across the smiling faces.
He loved his parents. He would probably always love him, no matter what had happened.
He tucked the photo back into the drawer and closed it gently.
Then he lay down, closed his eyes, and finally let the silence cradle him—not as an escape, but as a space to breathe. A space to hope that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t the disappointment he always believed himself to be.
You're not a failure. You're a damn miracle.
Buck had ended the call without responding to that. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe it was too much. Maybe he didn’t believe it. Or maybe, just maybe, a part of him did, and that was scarier than anything else. Eddie didn’t know. He only knew that he’d said it because something deep inside him felt like Buck needed to hear it. Because there was something in Buck’s voice—something hollow, something exhausted, something resigned—that told Eddie he had to say something. That he had to reach through the phone and remind Buck he mattered.
A damn miracle.
It echoed in Eddie’s head. Again and again. He turned over in bed and pressed his face into his pillow with a groan. He couldn’t sleep. His mind wouldn’t let him.
Ever since the lawsuit, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Buck. About that night at Buck's apartment, just after things had started to mend between them. They were drinking cheap beer, sprawled out on Buck's worn-down couch. Laughing. Real, honest-to-God laughing, the kind that made your chest ache and your eyes water. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, things felt... okay.
Buck had grabbed his phone, tried to take one of those cursed ultra-wide selfies and post it to Instagram. Eddie had tried to wrestle it away from him, because he looked like hell in those pictures, and Buck had been relentless. They tussled like kids, like best friends, shoving and laughing and cursing.
Then they ended up on the floor. Bodies pressed close, faces even closer.
Buck had looked at him.
Really looked.
And Eddie... Eddie had looked back.
Their laughter faded. Their breathing slowed. And Buck's eyes flicked down to Eddie's lips, just for a second. Just long enough. Eddie had felt that jolt of something through his chest, that electric pulse that wasn’t fear or confusion. It was want. It was clarity. Buck leaned in a little.
So did he.
Then Buck's phone rang, and the moment shattered. Like glass. And they'd never talked about it again.
But Eddie couldn't let it go. He couldn't stop replaying it. And maybe he was lying to himself, had been for years. Maybe he wasn't just a straight man with an unusually deep bond to his best friend. Maybe he was something else. Something new. Or maybe he was just Bucksexual, was that a thing? If not he woudl make it to one, he thought with a groan and buried his face deeper into his pillow.
His phone buzzed again. He grabbed it without looking.
Caller ID: TECHNICALLY BUCK, JUST IN UNCOOL.
He smiled, just barely. Buck had changed that in his contacts months ago, and Eddie never changed it back.
He answered. "Hey Mads, everything okay?"
There was a long, heavy pause on the other end. Then a soft sigh. "No, not really. Eddie... did you talk to Buck tonight?"
"Yeah. We got off the phone, like, ten minutes ago. Why?"
"Good," she murmured, almost to herself. Then silence.
"Maddie? What's going on?"
"Eddie," she said, and her voice cracked. "You’re looking out for him, right? You’re keeping an eye on him?"
"Always," he said, no hesitation. "You know that. We look out for each other."
"No," she said, more firmly now. "I mean... I mean really look out for him. Not just at work. Not just during calls. I mean Buck. When he's not okay. When he acts like he is. Especially then."
Eddie sat up in bed, heart starting to pick up. "What are you trying to tell me?"
There was a pause. Then a soft, broken whisper: "Promise me you won't judge me. Please."
His chest tightened. "Maddie, you know I wouldn't. Whatever this is... you can tell me."
She took a breath that sounded like she was trying not to cry. "Evan doesn't understand. He never really has. He remembers things... wrong. He talks about our parents like they were just cold. Or distant. Like it was just a little emotional neglect. But it was more than that."
Eddie didn’t speak. He just let her keep going.
"They weren’t always that way. Before Daniel got sick, they were... they were amazing. Loving. Warm. My dad used to sing to us while making pancakes. My mom would read bedtime stories and kiss our foreheads and tell us we were her whole world. I thought we had the perfect family."
Another pause. A long, aching one.
"Then Daniel got leukemia. And then Evan was born. And it was like they stopped being people. Like they shut down."
"Maddie..."
"They blamed him, Eddie. I know they did. They never said it out loud, but they did. He was the reason Daniel died. He wasn’t a miracle to them—he was a replacement. A failed one. And they hated him for it."
Eddie’s blood turned to ice.
"They yelled at him. Constantly. For the smallest things. They would scream at him for crying, for making noise, for existing. And they hit him. Not where anyone would see. But they did. And I... I didn’t do anything."
"Jesus," Eddie whispered, barely able to breathe.
"They never did that to me," Maddie said, her voice wrecked. "So I let myself believe it wasn’t happening. I was a kid too, but that’s no excuse. I was his sister. I should have protected him. I should have said something. But I just... closed my eyes and waited for it to stop."
Eddie swallowed hard. His hands were shaking. Everything Buck had ever said, every moment of self-doubt, every reckless choice, every quiet little act of self-sabotage—it all made horrible sense now.
"He thinks he's a failure because that's what they made him believe," Maddie said quietly. "And he tries so hard to hide it. But I see it, Eddie. I see it every day. And I'm scared. Because I don't know how to undo that damage. And I don't think he believes me when I try."
"Maddie... they hit him? They hit him?"
Her silence was answer enough.
"I swear to God..." Eddie muttered, his voice low and dangerous. He wanted to break something. He wanted to go back in time and pull Buck out of that house himself.
"Eddie, I need you to promise me something."
"Anything."
"Promise me you’ll protect him. That you won’t let him go through this alone. I can’t be what he needs. Not completely. But you... you’re different. You are what he needs. Whether either of you sees it yet or not."
Eddie closed his eyes.
He saw Buck’s smile. The one he only gave when he felt safe. He saw Buck sitting on his living room floor, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. He saw Buck holding Christopher like he was the most precious thing on Earth.
He remembered Buck’s voice, brittle and too brave. His laugh, a little too loud. The way he talked about himself like he was a burden, like being wanted was a foreign concept.
"I promise," he said, voice steady despite the storm in his chest.
"I promise, Maddie. I’ll protect him."
Even if he doesn’t think he deserves it. Even if he tries to push me away. Even if he never lets me in the way I want.
Especially then.