Chapter Text
The afternoon light filtered through Buck's loft windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. I'd been coming over like this for years now—talking, hanging out, pretending that the flutter in my chest when he smiled was just friendship. Normal, platonic friendship.
"Hey, put on some music," Buck called from the kitchen, ice clinking in glasses. "You know where everything is."
I did know. I knew his place better than my own dorm room. I knew he kept the good whiskey on the top shelf, knew his laundry was always three days behind, knew exactly which vinyl records made him close his eyes and get lost in the melody. I knew the way he hummed unconsciously when he was concentrating, the way he always left his coffee mug on the counter instead of putting it in the dishwasher, the way he'd developed a habit of buying two of everything at the grocery store—one for him, one for me, just in case I came over.
My fingers traced along the spines of his collection until I found it— AM by Arctic Monkeys. The one I'd mentioned loving during one of our late-night conversations. The one I'd hummed under my breath while we studied. I pulled it out, surprised to find it looked well-worn, more played than the others.
"Good choice," Buck said, appearing behind me with two glasses. His voice was softer than usual, almost pleased. "I may have been playing that one a lot lately."
The admission hung between us as I set the needle down. Alex Turner's voice filled the room, and Buck settled onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. This was normal. We always sat close. Best friends could sit close.
"Before I forget," he said, reaching for his wrist. "I got you something."
He unclasped a simple leather bracelet—one I'd complimented weeks ago, saying it suited him. The kind of thing that looked effortless and cool, the kind of thing that made me notice the way his hands moved when he talked.
"Buck, I can't—"
"You said you liked it, Eddie," he interrupted, already reaching for my wrist. "Besides, it looks better on you."
His fingers were warm as they worked the clasp, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. The bracelet felt heavier than it should have, weighted with meaning I couldn't name. I flexed my wrist, feeling the unfamiliar presence of the leather against my skin.
"Thanks," I managed. "Really."
We settled back into the music, into the comfortable silence that had always existed between us. But something felt different today. Maybe it was the way Buck kept glancing at the bracelet on my wrist, or the way he'd chosen to sit just a little closer than usual. The couch wasn't that big, but we'd always managed to maintain some space between us. Today, his thigh was pressed against mine, his arm stretched along the back of the couch behind my shoulders.
"He texted me again," Buck said after a while, phone screen glowing in his hands. "Tommy. He's always telling me he likes me, you know?"
I did know. Tommy, with his bright laugh and easy affection. Tommy, who looked at Buck like he’s something to show off. Tommy, who brought him soup when he was sick and remembered his favorite coffee order and sent him good morning texts every single day. Tommy, who had no idea that his boyfriend's best friend was slowly falling apart every time he kissed him goodbye.
"That's good, right?" I asked, though something in his tone suggested it wasn't that simple.
Buck let his head fall back against the couch, then—without warning—shifted sideways until his head was in my lap. It wasn't the first time, but it still sent my heart racing. His hair was soft under my fingers as I automatically began to play with it, a gesture that had become second nature over the months. He always did this when he was thinking, when he needed to process something difficult.
"I don't know," he said, staring up at the ceiling. "He's… ok, and he cares about me, and he's there for me when I ask him to . But I don't... I don't feel like I deserve it, you know? Like he's wasting all this love on someone who can't give it back the way he should."
My fingers stilled in his hair. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." He paused, his eyes finding mine. "I mean I don't feel it. Not the way I should. He tells me he likes me and I say it back because that's what you do, but it feels like I'm reading lines from a script."
The confession settled between us like a stone dropped into still water. I resumed playing with his hair, partly to comfort him and partly because I needed something to do with my hands, something to focus on besides the way he was looking at me. His hair was getting longer, curling slightly at the ends. I'd been there when he'd debated cutting it, had been the one to convince him to let it grow.
"Maybe you're just scared," I offered weakly. "Some people have trouble accepting love."
"But that's the thing," he said, his voice getting quieter. "I don't have trouble accepting it from you."
The words hung in the air like a challenge. I could feel my face getting warm, could feel the careful walls I'd built around my feelings starting to crack. The music continued playing, Alex Turner's voice providing a soundtrack to my internal crisis.
"That's different," I said finally. "We're friends. There's no pressure with friendship."
Buck was quiet for a long moment, his eyes still fixed on my face. I could see him thinking, processing, the same expression he got when he was working through a particularly difficult problem for class.
"Yeah," he said eventually. "Friends."
We'd been lying like that for over an hour when Buck finally sat up, leaving my lap feeling suddenly cold. He stretched, his shirt riding up slightly, and I deliberately looked away. This was the problem with casual intimacy—it was impossible to turn off the part of me that noticed everything about him. The way his shoulders moved, the small birthmark next to his eyebrow, the way he unconsciously touched his mouth when he was thinking.
He grabbed a deck of cards from the coffee table—the same worn deck we'd used for countless games of poker, blackjack, and made-up variations that usually ended with us both laughing too hard to continue. The cards were soft with age, the edges slightly bent from use.
"Your deal," he said, settling cross-legged on the floor.
I joined him, grateful for the distraction. Shuffling cards was meditative, the repetitive motion of bridge shuffling and riffle shuffling giving my hands something to do. Buck had stretched out on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching me work with the same focused attention he brought to everything.
"You know what I keep thinking about?" he said as I dealt out hands for gin rummy.
"What?"
"Tommy asked me the other day if I thought what we do is weird. You and me, I mean. The way we hang out, the way we're... close."
I nearly dropped the cards. "What did you tell him?"
"I told him we're best friends. That's what best friends do." He picked up his cards, organizing them with the same careful attention he brought to everything. "But then I started thinking about it. Do other best friends do this? Do they spend entire afternoons curled up together? Do they know each other's schedules by heart? Do they—"
"Buck."
"Do they smell like home to each other?"
The question was so quiet I almost missed it. I looked up from my cards to find him watching me with an expression I couldn't read.
"What?"
"Earlier, when my head was in your lap. You smell like... like me. Like comfort. Like home." He shook his head, like he was trying to clear it. "Sorry, that's probably weird to say."
"It's not weird," I said, though my voice came out rougher than I intended. "You smell like home to me too."
The confession slipped out before I could stop it, and I immediately focused on rearranging my cards, trying to hide behind the fan of spades and hearts. But I could feel him still looking at me, I could feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
"This isn't weird, right?" Buck asked suddenly. "I mean, I'm not being unfaithful to Tommy by doing this? By wanting to spend time with you like this?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. Of course that's what he was worried about. Of course he was thinking about him, about whether this strange intimacy we'd built was crossing some invisible line.
"No," I said, forcing my voice to sound normal, forcing my face into what I hoped was a reassuring expression. "Platonic cuddling is totally a thing. Friends can be physically affectionate. There's nothing wrong with it."
The words tasted like ash in my mouth, but Buck's shoulders relaxed. He smiled, that easy, grateful smile that had first made me fall for him months ago.
"Good," he said. "Because I don't want you to feel like a replacement for her. I don't want you to think I'm just using you because I miss his physical presence or something. This is different. This is... us."
My heart did something complicated in my chest. He was trying to be considerate, trying to make sure I didn't feel used, but all I could hear was the confirmation that I would never be more than a substitute, a placeholder for real intimacy.
"I know," I said. "I don't feel like a replacement."
It was a lie, but it was the lie he needed to hear.
We abandoned the card game after a few hands, neither of us really paying attention to the rules. The music had shifted to something slower, more contemplative, and Buck had migrated back to the couch. This time, though, he patted his lap instead of lying down.
"Come here," he said, and something in his tone made it impossible to refuse.
I settled against him, my back to his chest, his arms coming around me with an ease that spoke of practice. This was newer territory for us—usually I was the one providing the comfort, the lap, the steady presence. Being held like this felt dangerous, like I was asking for more than I could handle. I could feel the solid warmth of him behind me, could feel his heartbeat against my back.
"Better?" he asked, his voice close to my ear.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. His hand found mine, fingers intertwining with the same natural ease as everything else between us. The bracelet he'd given me pressed against his palm, a small reminder of his thoughtfulness.
"I'm so glad I can do this with you without it being a big deal," he said, his chin resting on top of my head. "Like, I don't have to freak out about it being 'gay' or anything. It's just us, you know? Casual cuddling."
The words hit me like a slap. Casual. Just us. Not gay.
I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. Of course that's how he saw it. Of course he could hold me like this, could play with my hair and tell me I smelled like home, because to him it meant nothing. It was safe because it was casual, because he could never imagine me as anything more than his best friend.
"Yeah," I managed. "Just casual."
"Exactly." His arms tightened around me slightly. "I mean, you're my best friend. I trust you completely. There's no weirdness, no complications. Just... comfort."
I wanted to laugh at the irony. No complications. If only he knew about the way my heart raced when he touched me, the way I'd started scheduling my days around his free time, the way I'd been falling in love with him slowly and then all at once.
"I'm glad you feel comfortable with me," I said, and meant it, even if it was killing me.
We sat like that for a while, his thumb tracing absent patterns on the back of my hand. The afternoon was slipping away, golden light fading to the blue of early evening. I could hear the neighbors upstairs moving around, could hear the distant sound of traffic on the street below. Normal life continued while I sat here in this bubble of intimacy that meant everything to me and nothing to him.
"I should probably head out soon," I said reluctantly.
"Not yet," Buck said quickly. "Stay a little longer. Please?"
The “please” undid me. I settled back against him, letting myself have this moment even if it was borrowed time.
"I want to show you something," he said after a few more minutes. "Come on."
He led me down the hallway to his bedroom, a space I'd been in countless times but which still felt somehow private, intimate. His bed was unmade, sheets tangled from the night before, and there was something about the casual domesticity of it that made my chest tight. There were textbooks scattered on his desk, clothes draped over the chair, the normal detritus of a life lived.
"I've been reading this book," he said, gesturing to the nightstand. "About attachment styles and relationships. Trying to figure out why I'm so messed up when it comes to relationships. Tommy, Taylor, Abby..."
I approached the bed but hesitated at the edge. The bed was tall, one of those platform beds that required a small hop to get onto properly, and I'd always been awkward about it. I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out the logistics, feeling suddenly self-conscious about something I'd done dozens of times before.
Buck noticed my hesitation and, without warning, stepped in front of me. His hands settled on my waist, strong and sure, lifting me easily—as if I weighed nothing—and setting me down properly on the bed. The casual display of strength, the way he'd just picked me up like it was nothing, left me breathless.
"There," he said with that dumb, satisfied smile of his, like he'd solved a simple problem. He settled beside me as if he hadn't just manhandled me onto his bed, as if the gesture hadn't sent my heart racing.
"Thanks," I managed, though my voice came out slightly strangled.
"So anyway," he continued, apparently oblivious to my internal crisis, "this book talks about how some people are afraid of intimacy because they don't think they deserve love. And I keep thinking about Tommy, about how he tells me he loves me and I just... I don't believe him. Not really."
He was lying back now, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. I stayed sitting, not trusting myself to lie down beside him. Not on his bed. Not when he'd just lifted me like I was something precious.
"He's so put together, you know?" he continued. "He's funny and.. well he doesn’t remember everything I tell him, but he brings me coffee, he laughs at my stupid jokes, he doesn’t make it weird when I spend too much time with you. He's everything I should want."
I felt a stab of guilt at that last part. Tommy had never complained about our friendship, had never made Buck choose between us, yet. He'd been welcoming to me, had even invited me to join them sometimes, not knowing that watching them together was its own kind of torture.
"But the weird thing is," he continued, "I don't doubt for a second that you care about me. Like, I know you do. I can feel it. So why is it so easy to believe from you but not from him?"
The question hung in the air between us, heavy with implications I wasn't sure he understood. I could feel him looking at me, waiting for an answer I couldn't give. Not without revealing everything.
"Maybe," I said carefully, "it's because friendship feels safer than romantic love. There's less at stake."
"Less at stake," he repeated thoughtfully. "Yeah, maybe that's it."
I wanted to tell him that wasn't it at all. That there was everything at stake, that I had more invested in this friendship than he could possibly know. But instead I just nodded, playing my part in the careful dance we'd been doing for months.
The light in the room was getting softer, the sun setting outside his window. I could see dust motes dancing in the air, I could hear the sound of his breathing, steady and calm. This was dangerous territory—his bed, this conversation, the way he was looking at me like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
"I should go," I said finally, though I made no move to get up.
"In a minute," he said. "I like having you here."
The simple statement shouldn't have meant so much, but it did. It meant everything.
The sun was setting by the time I finally gathered the courage to leave. Buck walked me to the door, both of us moving slowly, reluctant to end the afternoon. These moments always felt borrowed, stolen from the real world where we had to pretend to be just friends.
"Thanks for today," I said, shouldering my backpack. "For the bracelet, for... everything."
"Thank you for listening," he replied. "For being here. For being you."
The words were simple, but something in his tone made me look up. He was closer than I'd realized, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, close enough that I could smell his cologne mixed with something distinctly him.
"I should actually go," I said, but I didn't move.
"Yeah," he agreed, but he didn't step back either.
Instead, he pulled me into a hug—not unusual for us, but this one felt different. His arms tightened around me, holding me against him like he didn't want to let me go. I could feel his face in my hair, could feel him breathing me in.
"You really do smell like home," he murmured against my temple.
My heart stopped. His lips were so close to my neck, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath. For a moment, I thought—hoped—that he might close that tiny distance. I felt him hesitate, felt the moment stretch taut between us like a held breath.
But then he pulled back, just slightly, his hands still on my shoulders. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and I wondered if he could see everything I was feeling written across my face.
"I'll see you tomorrow?" he asked, his voice rougher than usual.
"Yeah," I said, though my voice sounded far away. "Tomorrow."
I walked to my car on unsteady legs, the bracelet heavy on my wrist, the ghost of his almost-kiss burning on my neck. In the rearview mirror, I could see him still standing in the doorway, watching me drive away.
That night, I lay in my narrow dorm bed, staring at the ceiling and replaying every moment of the afternoon. The music, the bracelet, the way he'd held me, the way he'd lifted me onto his bed like I weighed nothing. The almost-kiss at the door.
It was casual, he'd said. Just friends. Not gay. Not complicated.
But I knew what I'd felt at that moment at the door. I knew what I'd seen in his eyes when he'd looked at me on his bed. And I knew that for all his talk about Tommy and how he couldn't love him the way he deserved, there was something else happening here. Something he wasn't ready to name.
I touched the bracelet on my wrist, his bracelet, and wondered how long I could keep pretending that this was just friendship. How long I could keep being his safe space, his comfort, his casual intimacy, while my heart broke a little more each day.
Tomorrow I'd see him again. Tomorrow we'd fall back into our careful dance, and I'd smile and laugh and pretend that being his best friend was enough. Because it had to be enough. Because casual was all he could offer, and I'd rather have that than nothing at all.
But tonight, I'd let myself wonder what might have happened if I'd turned my head just slightly when his lips were against my neck. If I'd been brave enough to ask the questions that mattered.
If casual was just another word for coward.
The bracelet caught the light from my phone, and I closed my eyes, holding onto the memory of his hands on my waist, lifting me up like I was something precious. Like I was something worth holding onto.
Was it casual when you gifted me your bracelet? Was it casual when you laid your head on my lap, when you curled up against me while I played with your hair? Was it casual when you manhandled me onto your bed, with a dumb smile, because you don't know how it looks? You just sat next to me like you didn't just pick up my entire body weight and casually set me down on your bed. Was it casual when you didn't believe your boyfriend loves you but you didn't doubt for a second that I do? When we said goodbye at the door and you didn't want to let me go? You hugged me, smelled my hair, almost kissed my neck. I felt it, and I think you felt it too. But it was casual, right? I'm just your best friend.
Maybe casual was enough. Maybe it had to be.
But as I drifted off to sleep, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were both lying to ourselves. That there was nothing casual about the way he'd held me, nothing platonic about the way he'd breathed me in at the door.
And tomorrow, I'd have to pretend otherwise all over again.
Because that's what best friends do. They pretend that casual is enough, even when it's everything.