Work Text:
Eddie texts first. Just a single line.
"Still got that headache?"
You pause, thumb hovering over your phone, then type back: "Crippling. Thinking of faking my own death."
Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then appear again. Finally:
"Same. Let's ditch."
You arrive at his house ten minutes later, the heat pressing down like a weighted blanket. The kind of oppressive summer air that makes your skin feel too tight and your thoughts too slow. You're in soft joggers and the oversized hoodie you always steal from his couch, sleeves pushed up, fabric worn to perfection. No makeup. No performance. Just you. Just him.
Eddie opens the door already barefoot, hair tousled like he gave up trying to style it and just ran his hands through it one too many times. He's wearing that LA Fire Department tee, the one that's stretched just right over his shoulders. It smells faintly of detergent and smoke and him—that warm, grounding scent that wraps around you like the weight of familiarity.
"Hey," he says, stepping aside. His voice is soft, low. Familiar. The sound already pulling the tension from your shoulders. You nod in greeting, and he gives you the smallest smile, one of those subtle, lopsided ones that feels like a shared secret.
You shuffle in, each step cautious. Your hip's been temperamental all day, a dull burn nestled deep in the joint, but you're used to it. You have names for your pain now, like old roommates who never moved out. It's a strange sort of companionship, living in a body that doesn't always do what you ask of it.
You both know you were meant to be at Hen and Karen's barbecue. Know that you both made the exact same excuse, two texts fired off minutes apart. Know that no one believes either of you. But no one will say anything. Because sometimes people just need a break. Even heroes. Even you.
Eddie leads you straight to the kitchen like there was never any question. The space is small, cluttered with the evidence of real life: magnets holding up Christopher's art, a crooked dish towel draped over the oven handle, half a bag of tortilla chips left open on the counter. There are fingerprints on the fridge and a rogue LEGO under the table. It feels lived-in. It feels like home, in that quiet way places can when you feel safe in them. When you're not performing.
The kitchen tiles are cool against your palms as you lower yourself to the floor with all the grace of a collapsing marionette. There's a grunt and a wry smile as you settle, joints clicking like badly edited sound effects. Eddie's already moving, sliding down beside you like this is your usual table for two, and in a way, it is.
He pulls containers from the fridge like it's a ritual. And it is. This is your tradition. Your rebellion against social calendars and smiling through pain. Against the expectations you both carry like sandbags over your shoulders. Floor dinners and quiet comfort. No chairs. No expectations. No masks.
Leftover carne asada. Rice. That weird cucumber salad Chim made and somehow convinced everyone was edible. Half a tamale wrapped in foil. You dig in with mismatched forks, passing the containers back and forth like old friends passing secrets. No plates. No pretence. It's messy and unceremonious and completely yours.
You stretch your legs out with a groan, feel the tendons in your knee catch, then your ankle lets out a loud, sharp click. Eddie flinches like the sound touched a nerve, as he always does.
"Are we sure that's normal?"
You glance at him, unbothered. "Yeah. That's just my skeleton yelling. It does that sometimes."
His brows draw together like he's trying to see under your skin. Like he could ease the pain just by caring hard enough. He doesn't say anything for a second too long, fork halfway to his mouth. It hovers there, forgotten, like your answer cracked something in him.
You smirk, raising a brow. "You babying me, Diaz?"
He grins, easy and crooked. That lopsided smile that makes your chest do that inconvenient little ache. "Just making sure you don't fall apart on my kitchen floor. Not without signing a waiver."
"You know I'd haunt your ass. Make your cereal soggy."
He chuckles, low in his throat, the sound curling around the room like warm smoke. His knee brushes yours and neither of you moves away. It's not deliberate. Not exactly. But it happens again a minute later. And then again.
Then it goes quiet. Not awkward. Just... full. Heavy with something unspoken. The kind of silence that says everything. The kind that stretches out between people who know each other so well they don't need to fill the gaps. The fan in the corner whirs gently. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm bleats and silences itself. The house creaks around you like it's exhaling.
Your fingers brush his when you reach for the Tupperware of tres leches cake. It's nothing. A graze. A ghost of a touch. But the way his gaze drops to your hand like it holds the answer to a question he's never dared to ask? That's everything.
You don't move your hand. Neither does he. And still, nothing is said. The pause between you is charged, not with urgency, but with the quiet gravity of knowing someone completely. The knowledge that this, whatever it is, is enough. It's the kind of closeness that doesn't demand anything. That simply exists.
You look at him. Really look. His lashes are longer than they have any right to be. There's a smear of sauce near his jawline. He's still wearing that threadbare T-shirt that fits too well. You can see the beginnings of tired lines around his eyes, the kind earned by too many nights awake and too many worries carried alone. He looks tired. But not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind that needs quiet, not silence. Company, not conversation.
"You ever think about how we keep doing this?" you ask softly, voice almost swallowed by the stillness.
"Doing what?"
"This. Ducking out. Sitting on the floor like a couple of kids hiding from the world."
He leans back on his palms, head tipping toward the ceiling like the answer might be written in the paint. "Yeah. I think about it."
"And?"
He turns his head, eyes finding yours. Serious now. Soft.
"And I don't want to do this with anyone else."
The words hit like the aftershock of a fall. Quiet, but shaking something loose inside you. Your heart catches on them like a thread pulled through fabric. Not dramatic. Not confessional. Just true.
You breathe in through your nose, blinking slowly. "You sappy bastard."
He laughs again, but there's warmth in his eyes. Not the scorching kind. The kind that stays. The kind that makes you feel held even when he isn't touching you. The kind that builds things without saying them out loud. There's a pause, the kind only best friends get to have. The kind where you know you could say something more, but don't need to.
You let the moment linger. Let it settle into the bones of the evening like the scent of cumin and sugar and the echo of laughter in the walls. The kitchen becomes its own little universe. Your body aches in the familiar, relentless ways. But here, in this space carved out of expectation and obligation, it doesn't feel so heavy. It feels manageable. It feels like you.
Eddie nudges your foot with his. A quiet tap. A question. "Want the last bite?"
You smile, feigning coyness. "Only if you feed it to me like we're in some weird romcom."
He rolls his eyes, fond and exasperated. "Don't tempt me. You'll ruin my tough guy image."
"Too late. I saw you cry at that Pixar movie."
He gasps in mock offence. "Bing Bong was a hero and you know it."
You laugh. Not just a chuckle, but a full-body laugh that shakes your shoulders and makes your ribs ache in the best way. He laughs too, and you both end up leaning into each other, shoulders pressed together, breath catching.
You do this. You banter. You lean into the space between you like it's always been shaped this way, like your edges were made to sit beside his. The bond between you isn't fragile. It's something deep and tensile and old. Something that doesn't need a name to be real.
And when his fingers lift the fork, when he offers it with a ridiculous flourish, you lean forward, bite down, and grin, lips sticky with cream and sugar.
There's something in his eyes then. Something settled. Like gravity. Like peace. Like the realisation that he doesn't need to figure it out all at once. That maybe what you both have right now is more than enough.
He's never been more himself than right here.
And you?
You wouldn't be anywhere else.
Not in a million versions of the same moment. Not even if you could.
Because in all the spaces between the hard days, the aching joints, the missed parties and half-empty takeout containers, there is this.
And this? This is everything.
And whatever it is—whatever it becomes—you're both already in it, together.
Right where you belong.