Archive of Our Own

there's a chance that you take

that you lose who you have been

when you break all the chains

that you feel comfortable in

there's a chance that i'll take

so that my hunger can be free

in the end, in the end, in the end, in the end

×××××××××

Coming to terms with how big of an idiot Eddie had been his whole life was a hard pill to swallow, no doubt about it, but, hear ya all, he did it. Moving to El Paso after living in LA for almost a decade was eye-opening, in a way he didn't expect. Yeah, his mother was overbearing, his dad judgy and detached even while actively trying to—well, be better, Eddie guesses—and that was no surprise. What threw Eddie for a loop was how not-himself he suddenly found himself being around them. And—why? What for? He's managed to build a life in Los Angeles on his own hook—a good, not perfect, but still amazing life—and he didn't need his parents' approval for that. Why was he still trying to earn it? How deep in him was this need ingrained, this implicit desire to mold himself into his parents’ liking, even when he wasn't in their direct sight?

What sprang after that was a series of realizations. Oh man, they were basically popping out of the woodwork. Eddie braced himself and tried to welcome them with open arms, even if one or two tried to bite them off. Or, perhaps more accurately, they tried to bite him in the ass. And they succeeded.

So here he is, back in LA, living with his best friend after one slightly ill-timed sexuality crisis, and with a new dedication to allow himself joy. All in all, there's only one conclusion to this equation.

He needs to tell Buck how he feels.

In all his self-discovery, there was even a unit dedicated to assessing how much of a pessimist Eddie really was, and what parts of it might come from some trauma-response or other fuck-ups life has served him. The verdict—he tends to be rather pessimistic, although he now makes an effort to avoid catastrophizing. Which is important in this exact situation, because Eddie goes into it knowing that it may not be all butterflies and fireworks, flowers on the sunny meadow kinda-thing, but, at the same time, he's not scared that he's gonna lose the one-singular-most-important-non-parental-relationship in his life, which will lead to him losing Christopher all over again, which basically means never feeling any spark of happiness ever again, and also, probably, growing another obnoxious mustache. He's not, because that's not gonna happen, and Eddie, well-adjusted and fully-realized adult that he is, knows it, both on a logical and emotional level, thank you very much.

So yeah, even though those things definitely won't happen, him confessing his undying and possibly unfortunate love for Buck may not necessarily be a joyful event. He's prepared for that, and, would you look at that, Father Brian, Eddie is still gonna do it. Because Eddie Diaz is a believer now. Not necessarily in God (the God), but, what a small nudge from a priest has started, he believes now that he deserves to want joy. To reach for it, not only if it benefits Christopher or other people, but because it may benefit him.

Nevertheless, Eddie thinks he has pretty good chances, because, well. He’s Eddie, and it’s Buck.

Which is how an ordinary Tuesday afternoon finds him—pacing in his kitchen, pretending not to be doing that and, as it follows, not giving a casserole sitting in the oven enough attention. But whatever, honestly—the casserole's been a lost cause from the start, but Eddie wanted something to butter up the mood. If it all comes to a head, they will at least have some soft food between them, and they can laugh together about how bad of a cook Eddie is. Easy and normal, just like that.

Finally, there's the sound of the front door opening. Eddie dashes to crouch in front of the oven and watches as the cheese melts, and potato slices turn brownish on their uneven edges. It looks—maybe not Michelin star-worthy, but—kinda good. With the accent on kinda.

"I'm home!" Buck yells from the inside.

Eddie can hear his shoes hitting the rack, probably half on, half off, but for sure safe enough.

Now or never, he thinks, and jumps to his feet. "Hey. The dinner needs a lil' more time. If you wanna shower or something."

They meet each other in the middle, in the dining room. Buck is flushed from the hot sun outside; his cheeks rosy, temples glowing from sweat residue. The gentle curve of his shoulders peeks from the baggy grey top he's wearing, and Eddie's eyes slide over it, taking in the view, always unfilled. Then, his attention is intercepted by the adorable scrunch appearing on Buck's forehead. And Jesus, good thing Eddie's confessing soon, 'cause he couldn't keep it all in if he tried.

"Dinner? You've made dinner?"

"Yeah." Eddie bangs his knuckles on the wooden table (it’s just right there, that’s not nerves). “So, shower?”

Buck looks at him, incredulity seemingly growing. And yeah, maybe, since living together, all the cooking responsibilities have fallen onto him—with a rare exception of a hastily thrown lunch here or there—and maybe it even transferred to the days with Buck being on shift while Eddie is not, some meal pre-made and waiting in the refrigerator, but still, it’s not so weird. It’s not; Eddie is no longer a total disaster in the kitchen. Buck is just… much better at it. At the seasoning and keeping-an-eye-on-the-time bit, yes, but also the sharing-the-love-through-food part. And Eddie likes to feel loved, Buck seems to like showing his affection that way, everybody wins. Doesn't mean Eddie can’t try to reciprocate in that way.

Not that it’s about that; it’s just dinner.

Buck seems to accept that, too, and he doesn’t dig deeper, God bless. “Ah, I think I’m gonna do some workout later, so the shower can wait. Read the other day that each shower shortened from ten to five minutes saves ten gallons of water, can you imagine?”

God decidedly not bless, Eddie’s plan needs to be sped up in that case. If only California weren’t in perpetual drought; if the whole world weren’t in drought when it comes to potable water, really.

“Wait, should I shower? Do I smell?” Buck’s arm goes up (and the material of his top follows, revealing a soft, soft belly). The man takes a sniff of his armpit. Eddie wishes he didn’t find it so attractive.

“No—no, you’re. Um. Fine?” He stammers, then tries to rein himself in. “But. Hmm. I wanted to talk?”

Okay, so if God (the God) were to really strike queer people down, now would be the moment. Eddie would welcome it; he would do so gladly. Unfortunately, from what he remembers, the Old Testament is, well, old news, and Jesus said something about not destroying men’s lives, but rather saving them. But would he be so nice as to save Eddie from himself and make him not stutter in front of the love of his life? Or maybe, at least, not turn everything he says into a question? Apparently, the answer to that is a resounding ‘no’.

“Oh. Oh. S-sure.” There’s a worry line between Buck’s eyebrows now, which does not scream a ‘good start’. “Is— everything all right?”

“Yep, all good!” Maybe the cheer in Eddie’s voice is slightly too forceful, but he gotta steer this in the right direction. “So—living room?” He waves his hand, as if Buck didn’t know where the room was; as if it wasn’t his bedroom some days of the week.

“Yeah. Sure.” Buck responds, sounding apprehensive despite Eddie’s honest efforts.

They go to the living room, and they sit down on the couch. For a minute there, nobody speaks. Eddie is too busy rehearsing the things he wants to say; needs to say. He’s already done it, but once more can’t hurt, right?

Buck, however, as lovely as he is, is not known for his patience. “So… what did you want to talk about?” he asks, his hands smoothing over his jeans-clad thighs in an anxious manner, and damn, he’s close, and his thighs are so big…

There’s this intense feeling surging through Eddie’s body—his heart and his stomach, mostly. It is nerves, Eddie knows, which is stupid—it’s not like it can go that bad, right? Buck… Buck is his person, first and foremost. And he deserves to know how loved he is, even if it’s… even if it’s not in the way he may wish, coming from his best friend. And Eddie—Eddie also wants to do it for himself. And he’s gonna, just—

Just maybe not sitting so close to the object of his desires, with the distracting hands and distracting thighs. Yeah, some space will help.

And so Eddie rises to his feet abruptly. He takes a step to the left, then turns around and surveys the distance he has created. Maybe… just one more step…

The crease on Buck’s forehead deepens.

Okay, that’s the sign. No more stalling, Diaz. You’ve got this, Eddie nods to himself and takes a deep breath.

“Buck,” he releases—a sigh, a beginning (and a conclusion, really).

“Yeah?”

“It’s— I need to say something, okay? I— I’ve thought about it, and I’ve decided it’s better to— to share it.”

“Okay,” Buck says slowly, and then a look passes through his face. “Is— is it about me living here? If anything has changed, Eddie, you know I can—”

“No, it’s not that,” Eddie cuts in. “It’s… well…”

“Eddie, man, just spit it out. You’re stressing me out.” Buck pats his knees again, straightens himself—almost gets up from the couch, actually—and tries for a big smile, a laugh. A joke, an attempt to somehow relieve the pressure.

“Okay.” Here it goes. “Okay,” he repeats, and takes one more breath—a breath dividing the world into before and after. “The thing is—since I've come back, I couldn't help but notice some feelings.”

Woah. It’s out, it’s actually out. Eddie’s almost surprised by it, even though he’s the one who said it. But—the surprise makes him miss Buck’s reaction, until—

“Fe-feelings?” the man stammers. The smile is frozen on his face.

“Yeah.” Once again, it feels like an exhale.

“What— what kind of feelings?”

“Well. That's why I wanted to talk to you. These feelings—they seem to be... or well, rather— they are. Romantic ones.”

Buck's eyes just get bigger. Eddie—Eddie, on the other hand, is on a roll. Now that he has started, he needs to let it all out.

“And like I've said, I noticed them after coming back, but the thing is—I think they've been there for much longer. I—I don't know when they started, but, looking back at our relationship…” It all flashes behind Eddie’s eyelids, and he almost smiles. “Yeah, they've probably been there awhile.” He stops for a second, takes Buck in—still frozen on their couch, face almost expressionless. Right. He might just be shocked, but also—not a flowery meadow, not necessarily. And so, before handing over the baton, Eddie hastens to add, “And it's not like I think anything needs to change between us. But since I know... I thought you should know, too. So we can decide how to move from here.”

All in all, Eddie thinks it’s going well. He’s covered all the bases, right? Everything he wanted to tell has been told. And in a real mature way, dare he say so himself. Now… now he just needs to not die from nerves, or anticipation—some mix of both, probably—before Buck responds.

Speaking of which, Eddie isn’t able to stop himself from worrying his lips between his teeth when he focuses on Evan Buckley—still sat on the couch, spine kinda rigid, face definitely intentionally blank. Eddie really tries not to rush into—hmm, unfavorable conclusions, but—Buck wouldn’t hide his happiness if he felt at least some of it, right?

“Oh. Okay. That's— okay. So you just—wanted me to know? That you know?” He says eventually, tone level, although—Eddie knows him, he knows him well, and he clocks the quiver—mostly concealed, some throaty undertone to his voice, emotions that the man tries to rein in, same as Eddie does. So maybe…

“Well. Yeah. And... How do you feel about that?” He asks, because he needs to ask, hope is bubbling up and up in his chest, mixing with the anxiety, with all the moments that he now thinks of as maybe.

“Wow. It's— it's kinda hard to hear, obviously.” The bubbly bubble inside Eddie bursts; it bursts hard and fast, almost giving him whiplash. Buck seems to be biting his lips too, looking at Eddie with awful wariness, but Eddie suddenly sees and hears everything almost as if through an old, dusty tarpaulin. He doesn’t think he stumbles back, not really, but the words—hard to hear—would warrant it. “And I will probably need a moment?” Buck continues, and Eddie is, unfortunately, fully back in his body. “But... the fact that... these feelings.... are not reciprocated is nobody's fault, right? So, we’re going to be all right, eventually?”

The air’s still thin. Eddie breathes through it, even though it hurts. “Yeah, Buck. That’s all I’m asking for,” he says weakly.

Buck smiles, hesitant, and Eddie does some mimicry of that; or at least, he tries to, but it’s not easy, with the whole heart-breaking-right-at-this-moment thing. He thought he was prepared—he told himself that’s how it could go, but, obviously, it’s completely different, actually living it. Insight is twenty, twenty, as fucking always, he congratulates himself.

And now—it’s getting awkward. Buck is still on their fucking couch, which they share. Eddie is standing above him, two steps to the left, arms hanging limply. He can see the jittery energy and how hard Buck’s fighting not to let it show. He can feel the aching beast curled in his belly, yowling to be let out, to scream, cry, and lick its wounds. But—they don’t want any of it, they want to be all right.

What do you say when somebody rejects your love confession, and you live with them?

Suddenly, the shrill sound of Eddie’s phone alarm rings through the air. He thinks they both release a relieved sigh at that.

“The—” Buck starts.

“Casserole,” Eddie finishes.

“Uh. I think— I’m gonna freshen up a little bit, after all,” Buck throws, thumb directed at the bathroom. He jumps up, forced cheer in his steps and on his face. Before Eddie can make sure his own legs haven't turned into Jello, only Buck's back is visible down the hallway.

Great. Great. It’s going great.

Eddie finally unlocks, then—he walks slowly to the kitchen. The checkered potholders wait on the counter, and, without much thought, Eddie puts them on, opens the oven, and takes the casserole out. The smell is potent when he hangs his head, right there, over the steamy dish. His nose gets stuffy quickly.

It’s a few long minutes before Buck appears again. Eddie lifts his head, moves it to the side; clears his throat, scrubs a hand over his face. “I will dish it out. Can you set the table?”

Fuck, but his voice is not normal. He pointedly focuses on getting the plates from the cupboard. He doesn’t hear Buck moving, though, and he has to get a spatula, which means facing the man. Not really a position in which he can avoid his gaze any longer.

And yeah, once again, there’s a frown etched under his curls. His whole face looks… unsettled.

“Eddie—”

“Ah, I think I added too much pepper. Hope it's still edible,” Eddie interrupts before Buck has a chance to ask—or worse, apologize. Or something equally as bad.

Buck seems to accept that, but only after a drawn-out look that burns on Eddie's skin. “Luckily, I happen to like peppery stuff,” he says, teasingly, just as Eddie knows he would say on any other ordinary day, but—it's still not quite right, not bright enough, nor natural.

They still go on as they would. Eddie serves them a healthy amount of the falling-apart casserole on plates that have become a mix of their non-chipped ones. Buck pulls Eddie's ‘more comfy’ cutlery from the drawer that he’s moved it into. They sit down, Buck's table but Eddie's chairs, cause Buck's sucked ass, and they look at this picture of their mismatched lives.

Or at least, Eddie assumes they both do, thanks to the poignant pause they take—sitting there, not yet eating, their gazes on the plates. A pause in which, it turns out, Eddie pores over the ‘their’ part, while Buck focuses on ‘mismatched’ and decides to promptly smash Eddie, straight in the head.

“Huh. I should probably move out. Hard to get space while living together,” he says. Muses, really.

Eddie raises his gaze so rapidly you can hear his jaw click. “What? No. No. You don't have to go.”

“Seems— seems like I should.”

“No,” Eddie says, with feeling; so resolute that Buck looks stunned for a second. But then— he opens his mouth, and Eddie knows he's gonna continue with this ridiculous line of thinking, and he cannot let that happen. His confession— it wasn't supposed to ruin anything. It was a chance to, maybe, get closer, but definitely not farther. And so—he panics, slightly, because he has to make it better. “You—you don't have anywhere to go, Buck, just stay.” And okay, it's true, but it doesn't sound the best. He tries again, “This— it doesn't need to change anything. I won't feel, like, bad, with you being here. Honestly, I will probably feel even worse without you, knowing that— that I ruined our living situation and unintentionally kicked you out.”

Eddie has risen in his seat during this torrent of words, but he forces himself to stay on the chair. Maybe they can move over this, quickly, and eat the fucking casserole—

Buck doesn't seem to share the same sentiment. He pushes the plate away from himself. “Wow, I'm sorry that me processing things would put you out, I guess,” he says, ironic, with an awful bite. “You know what,” the chair screeches—he rises to his feet, “you don't need to worry about me being homeless, I will just crash at Maddie's until I find a new place.”

Eddie gets up after him. “What? The hell is—” And he does something he’s rarely succeeded in doing up to this time in his life—he stops himself. Breathes in.

Keep it calm, Eddie. You were supposed to do it maturely. Channel your fucking inner Frank.

“O-okay. I went into it knowing it could be hard for us both, so I'm trying to take it into account, but—I would appreciate it if you didn't get so... sarcastic.”

On the outside, it sounds good. Calm. But Eddie—Eddie can feel his fingers shaking, a tight grip on the table masking it only halfway. He can feel a tremble in his whole body. He's a string pulled tight— final vibrations awaiting the after— a high-frequency tremor.

“What do you want me to say, that it's nothing and I don't feel any type of way about your whole ‘confession of knowledge’?” Buck does the air quotes, Jesus Christ. “Of course I do, Eddie, it fucking sucks. And I feel I have a right to react not— not so gracefully about it.”

Eddie didn't think it was possible, at least—not in relation to the same person, on the same day, but— his heart breaks again. He's in resonance, emotions growing— growing— and—

crashing

against

each other.

He can't— he needs to—

If he focuses on the words (itsucksitsucksitfuckingsucks), he's gonna lose it. The situation is going to implode; their relationship is going to fold into itself because of more harsh words, evoking devastating feelings, evoking harsher words…

Instead, Eddie tries to concentrate on the message. He reaches for all the tricks (methods) learnt in therapy. He even briefly imagines the stupid lotus flower on a cerulean lake in some freaking multibillionaire zen-Buddhist backyard.

And—

Inhale.

It fucking sucks. And I feel I have a right to react not so gracefully about it.

Exhale.

“Okay, maybe you do. And maybe I also need some space after all. I'm gonna— I'm gonna go for a drive.”

“Drive? What? Eddie. No, I'm leaving—”

“Well, at least wait until I'm back. If you can survive that long in our house.” Eddie snaps.

He has to pass by Buck to get out. He's storming off, really—the Buddhist monk has granted him only enough composure to de-escalate the spat, make a reasonable decision about leaving, no extra HP for the way he does it. But, the moment they would brush shoulders—not really enough space to glide by if you're not careful and slow, which Eddie decidedly isn't—Buck flinches back, turns sideways so no part of them comes into contact.

Fucking great, amazing, cherry on top, Eddie seethes as he grabs his keys, fingers numb from how hard he was clenching them before.

Then—the door opens into the night, and he leaves.

×××××××××

At first, Eddie drives aimlessly around the neighborhood. But the slow, residential streets don't really help in getting rid of his rabbit-paced thoughts, so he goes farther, heading towards West Hollywood. And then he's on Santa Monica Boulevard, and it's busy, as always, but since he's already there, driving towards the Griffith Park roads doesn't seem like too much of a stretch. At least the roads there— the roads there are solitude, quiet; slightly eerie at night, but Eddie’s always liked it, the way it seems like a different world compared to how it is during daytime, the way the whole city shimmers from above.

So he goes there, and at first his grip on the wheel is still tight, white knuckles appearing and disappearing from view with the passage of orange light from the street lamps. But after a while, it's as if his thoughts and this messy swirl of feelings inside him slowly begin to disentangle; some parts of it dissolving in the darkness, some staying with him.

The situation is a right mess. Eddie thought he was ready for it, but he forgot that emotions don’t really care about your readiness or your enforced maturity. He forgot that you can’t really control others’ emotions, either, even if you handle the situation the best. So—the situation’s a mess, he’s hurt and he’s gonna hurt for a while, but—he still believes they can get a hold on it.

It’s him and Buck, after all.

The one thing that hurts the most—the one thing is, he never thought Buck would become so… acrimonious. So defensive, so bitter. If he imagined this outcome, he was scared of the apologies, of the pity, or even—it’s almost funny, how, for a moment there, these last weeks, he was kinda scared that Buck would jump in, in this, with him, without giving it much thought. That even if he didn’t feel the same, he would try and force it, he would settle for a relationship as he’s always been bound to do; if not for his own benefit, then to avoid hurting Eddie.

Yeah. Funny.

But it’s good. It’s good, nothing of that has happened, and that’s better. They’ve voiced out their grievances; now they can move on.

Eddie gives himself another ten minutes to breathe (the clear, crisp air coming through the open windows like invisible tendrils arising from the stygian roads). Then he heads home.

×××××××××

There's this weird thing they have going on, apparently, that makes them sit in the car on the 4995 South Bedford driveway for an indefinite amount of time after arriving. Some precious, shadowy minutes before getting up, going inside, and facing the music, whatever beat is playing at that moment. Eddie is, for the first time, on this side of that deal, and he must say, he finds it weirdly comforting. Almost as if, as long as he stays there, a little bit hunched on the Prius’ seat, he's safe, and all things outside aren't real.

On the other hand, he acutely remembers the amusement, sometimes confusion, accompanying the times Buck has done it, and the thought of being watched from the windows in this presumable safe haven irks him too much once it appears in his head. So he straightens himself, keeping in a groan; his muscles are way too stiff after all these hours being tensed, and then driving around.

It's time to face the music, indeed.

The house seems mostly dark when Eddie walks down the driveway, but there's a low, orange glow coming from the window in the living room. It's Eddie's night on the couch, so either Buck is sitting there, waiting for him, or maybe he’s just left the light on so Eddie doesn't stumble in the darkness. And while Eddie is really hopeful for the second option, he doesn't hold much hope that it isn't the former.

The decision to do all this while Christopher is away (ten days on some fancy astro camp in Idyllwild, a two-hour-long drive and a definite time making it less anxiety-inducing after the whole Texas deal) was a reasonable one, you might even say—smart. However, getting closer to the building that now houses both warmth and rejection, dreams and crushed hope, Eddie wishes desperately for any kind of buffer. The obvious one would be a snarky teenage boy. As it is, apart from straight-out avoiding and/or ignoring each other, they are destined to clash. Again.

He tries the door, and it's unlocked. Doesn't give much hope for an easy evening. Either way, he presses the handle gently, opting to stay quiet; maybe Buck was waiting, but there's still a chance he fell asleep. If so, a few tough moments of covering him with a blanket and, probably, watching his unmarred-by-daytime-worries face await Eddie.

The light is dim, but right away it's easy to see the silhouette sitting on the couch. It doesn't as much as stir, at least not until Eddie passes by the furniture, so—dozens of quiet seconds of dropping the keys, taking off his shoes, and listening to his heart flinging itself against the ribcage. Then, like a coward, Eddie dips into the kitchen without a breath of acknowledgement from either of them and grabs a glass of water. Only with it in his hand, he talks himself into going back there and exchanging some words, ‘cause he's a civilised, mature person, thank you once again.

With the lamp on in the kitchen, there's more color to everything, but the shadows lay themselves longer, starker. Buck looks like a piece of woodcut, some in-between stage in the process of xylography that they’ve all seen once at the museum—grey stubble on sepia skin, the blue of his irises faded. He wears the same t-shirt as before, but he’s changed into his workout shorts, and his curls are unruly—the kind of unruly that, Eddie knows, comes from the sweat, and not the shower.

He’s raised his head from a previous slouch, but his eyes rest on his interlaced fingers—fingers that keep moving, moving, moving, not necessarily nervously, but certainly not relaxed.

“Hey,” Eddie speaks up, his voice kinda timid. “How was your workout?”

Buck lifts his gaze, the line of his eyebrows startled. “My workout?”

Yes, Eddie also doesn't know why that's what he’s said. It's not like he wants to pretend nothing happened, it's just— he wants them to be okay. He wants Buck to know that they can be okay.

He doesn't have any other ideas though, so he just waves his hand in the general direction of the other man. “Looks like you've got it done.”

Is it weird to say? Does it sound like he's here, a few-hours-post-rejection-and-making-Buck-want-space, thirsting over him being sweaty, and—and buffy, and— disheveled?

(It would be true any number of times, but not this one. This one—the image of Buck awakens something more like a heartbreak; a beast yowling for things it now knows will never belong to it.)

But Buck just looks down at himself and scrunches his forehead. “Ye-yeah. It was okay.” A moment of silence, then—an almost eye contact. “What about your drive?”

“It was good,” Eddie says succinctly. And fuck, yeah, it’s not working.

Internally, Eddie sighs with great suffering. On the outside though, he retreats back to the dining room, puts the glass down on the table, and then, very bravely, he might say, walks closer to Buck—stops just by the couch, bracing himself on the armrest.

Buck sits more on the left side, so there's still a few feet of space between them. They seem to be both painfully aware of it, and wary. But at long last, Buck isn’t actually dodging eye contact—he’s looking right at Eddie, the set of his face almost… sulking. But searching deeper—and Eddie, standing as he is, having the height advantage on his side for a change, has a great opportunity to do so—it’s like the man is surprised, angry, and scared, all at once.

Also, for the record: damn his pouty lips and baby blue eyes. They’re making it hard to focus on logic, and not the emotions brimming inside Eddie.

Still, Eddie Diaz has made a decision and he stands by it—he needs to say his piece before even thinking about a shower or being sorry for himself while lying awake. And well, the couch is his bed for the night, and it’s occupied, so.

“Listen, Buck,” he starts. “I don’t want it to cause a rift between us. I won’t say it ain’t hard for me, but I get that it isn’t easy for you either. So—so maybe we both need some space and time.” He watches as Buck’s lips tighten in an almost straight line. He doesn’t want to hear another snarky remark, not before finishing, so he lifts his hand to stop the man. “Or maybe we need to have some more conversations when emotions aren’t that high. Either way, I want to make it clear—I don’t want you to move out. But if you think this is the best course of action, I won’t stand in the way.”

He waits. Buck stays quiet. Then—a raise of brows, and Eddie realises his hand is still frozen in the universal ‘stop’ gesture. He rolls his eyes, but lowers it back.

“I thought this was gonna be one of the ‘let’s just forget about it’ chats,” Buck admits, forced casualness in his voice and body language.

Eddie wrinkles his forehead. “What?” Is it not obvious that he’s done repressing stuff? “I don’t really think it would help anything.”

“Well, I would have taken that out,” Buck admits and leans back slightly against the couch.

“I mean, we don’t have to talk about it anymore.” Probably saves Eddie the humiliation. “But— I don’t want to pretend it hasn’t happened. You don’t feel the same, and we’re both gonna have to learn to live with it.”

Buck straightens again. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean— that’s a funny way of putting it, but I guess it adds up to the same thing.”

Eddie is so confused. He knows Buck’s not a cruel person, so he keeps his mind from going into the direction of hurt, but—he doesn’t understand. “What's funny about that?”

“Well, it's you who doesn't feel the same. Like, that's what people would say in a situation like that.” He waves his hand around, then braces it on his knee and starts massaging the joint (it’s his bad leg—how long has he been sitting like that?). “But it actually means the same as saying I don't feel the same, just—a roundabout way of putting it.”

Eddie looks at the jittery limbs, going up and down, up and down. “I have no fucking clue what you're talking about.” He squeezes his own hands, finds Buck’s gaze again. “I told you about my feelings, and you don't feel the same. Can we not dig into it more?”

For Buck, it’s stillness that’s unusual; fidgeting can still mean ‘processing’, but it’s generally less tense. So it gets Eddie worried when all the movement ceases. Buck’s frozen on the couch, only his eyes getting bigger and bigger.

Then, all at once, he scrambles to his feet.

“What? What? You told me about my feelings.”

It’s— “How—how would that even work, Buck?" Eddie scrunches his forehead.

“No, it's—it's what happened. You told me you noticed I was feeling differently about you after you came back from Texas. Which makes sense, because of the whole—the whole people-talking-about-it-and-me-realising-it thing, and I thought I hid it well, but you obviously know me too well for that.”

“What the hell? I'd realised I felt different after coming back home. Of course I told you about how I feel.”

Eddie would have thought it impossible, but Buck’s damn baby blues get even bigger. He looks frenzied, from the tip of his ears to the leg buckling under the sudden weight.

Meanwhile, Eddie—Eddie is processing. His head is swimming under the throng of overlapping thoughts. It’s— No fucking way— Why would Buck—

Oh, Sweet Mother of God and all the saints of heaven.

“Buck, tell me you didn’t,” he pleads, despairing.

Evan Buckley stands there, his giant body awkwardly bent between their couch and the coffee table. His lips are moving around sounds, but he’s not uttering a word.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. I cannot believe you,” Eddie groans. He turns around, paces, rubs at his face.

“I–I haven’t done anything!” Buck unlocks and whisper-yells. “You haven’t—Eddie!”

“You,” Eddie points his finger, ”you made us suffer for hours.”

“It’s you who went for that drive,” he squawks; squeezes by the furniture and joins Eddie in the limited open space. It’s no good—they cannot both pace there, it’s too small, and right at this moment, Eddie wants to punch him more than he wants to kiss him.

“I wouldn’t get closer—I will put my hands on you, and not in the fun way,” he threatens, because, actually, why not.

Why, as it turns out—it sends Buck buffering. Again.

“You—you want to put your hands on me. In the fun way,” he reassembles, but with a kind of shocked awe.

“No, not right now,” Eddie reiterates. His body, perhaps same as Buck, doesn’t get it—he feels his heart suddenly beat with a different type of rush.

Lucky for them, Buck seems to shake out of it, going by the scrunch of his forehead. “O-okay. Actually… What now?”

Eddie looks at him, and looks at him, and looks at him. He’s still reeling from the rollercoaster of emotions. He still doesn’t believe it really happened as it did. Maybe it’s all a fever dream?

But no, Buck stands so close to him now, less than three feet away, and Eddie could never imagine the depth of the wonder in the man’s eyes, the dip of his astounded bottom lip. He could also never imagine this brand of craziness.

Doesn’t mean he isn’t exasperated as fuck.

“I’m gonna have a shower and think about where I went wrong with my life. You—you can go and do that after me. We both apparently need it very much.”

Buck’s bottom lip falls.

Eddie is a weak, weak man.

“But in the meantime—you better not leave this living room. We’re gonna have this conversation again. Properly, this time.”

Now, it’s Buck who’s looking intently. He takes a deep breath and says, “Okay.”

Eddie nods his head—once, twice—then turns around. He grabs whatever comes into his hands from the bedroom dresser, locks himself in the bathroom, and promptly bangs his head against the door.

“Fuck.”

×××××××××

It takes Eddie twenty, maybe thirty minutes to get himself under control, standing there with the cold water washing over his skin. It's freezing, and it's cleansing, feeling the thick rivulets prickle at his scalp, drip from his hair to his back, wrap around his thighs. He feels better for it. He hopes it will help with the flush creeping onto his cheeks whenever he thinks about how this afternoon went.

Thanks to the newly acquired clarity, he can see that his perfect, mature love confession might not have been as perfect as he thought. Has he used any concrete names of the ‘feelings’ he was talking about? He's not sure. Has he said that he was talking about his own feelings? He thought it was strongly implied, being the one actually saying things. But, well. Buck is one of the smartest people he knows, but he's also a huge idiot. Adding a sprinkle of specific Evan Buckley issues—yeah, Eddie can see how it all unraveled.

He leaves the shower. The mirror tells him that, at this point, the redness on his face is unmitigable, so he scrubs at his body roughly and makes his neck and torso match. The clothes—he actually took Buck's shorts, which is a big no-no to wear for the upcoming moments. He refuses to redo the last love confession of his life with half of his ass uncovered, so he only slips on the t-shirt, and then sneaks into the bedroom, having yelled some approximation of ‘bathroom free’ while passing through the hallway.

This time, he turns on the bed lamp. It’s the one on Buck’s side of the bed—not that it matters, or, well, it may matter later, if— scratch that, when they’ll both be actually occupying that space. It allows him to dig for something suitable to wear. There’s no hurry putting it on, slow moments being spent waiting to hear the telltale sounds of footsteps and the bathroom door closing. Only then does Eddie leave the bedroom, prompted by the growling of his stomach. The house is warm and quiet. Buck must have done the dishes—the drying rack is full of plates, pans, the glassware Eddie used for the casserole. And, sure thing, when Eddie opens the refrigerator, his uneaten meal is waiting on the middle shelf, wrapped in saran.

When it’s reheating, Eddie busies himself with putting away all the cooking utensils; or at least, he tries to, but he’s distracted. His eyes seem to get stuck on the photo strips on the fridge, the basil and mint pots on the windowsill, Buck’s hoodie on the back of a chair. And his thoughts—they’re even worse, jumping from one thing to another, past to present to future. It’s a relief when he can sit down and eat, even though the casserole is overpeppered, and his mouth burns a little. At the very least, it helps to anchor him in the present moment.

There’s the sound of doors opening farther in the house; once, twice. Eddie swallows the rest of his meal, looking up to see if Buck will appear in the doorway, but—it stays empty.

Well, Eddie kinda told him to wait in the living room, right?

Not even five minutes later, Eddie’s plate is washed and dried, put back in the cupboard. The man takes—hopefully—one last, deep breath to steel himself. The walk through the house is both the longest and shortest he has ever taken.

Exactly as expected, Evan Buckley sits on the couch, his legs spread, his hands twiddling with the material of the sweatpants he put on. His curls are once again a sun-kissed halo, bouncing up and down when he lifts his head quickly to look directly at Eddie.

There's only a short moment when they're still, when they're quiet, and it's enough to feel all the emotions passing between them.

Eddie doesn't let it stretch, lest it permeate the air with nervousness.

“We're both idiots,” he states.

Buck bites his lips—just a minuscule movement before he lets them go. “Yeah— yeah”

He's still sitting on the couch, and Eddie is still standing in the doorway, dark dining room behind him and golden space in front. There's a metaphor somewhere in there, Eddie supposes, but he's tired of metaphors, and half-words, and all the other half-things.

He's tired of living a half-life.

“Buck.” Eddie steps into the warm light. “I love you.”

Buck breathes out— or loses all the tension in his muscles— or maybe he rids himself of all the hollow spaces between his bone and marrow, skin and fascias, blood and capillaries; all the spaces that his hunger and loneliness have lived. He sags, either way, but not with tiredness, more like—a relief.

“E–eddie. Oh my god.” Suddenly he's on his feet, one step closer, two. “I love you. I'm so in love with you. Even though I tried so hard not to be. Or— I tried to tell myself I wasn't.”

Eddie hums and nears a couple of inches. “Seems like a lot of work for nothing.”

“Yeah, I just thought— but, it's not so crazy after all.”

It comes easy, to cross his arms over his chest and adopt a teasing lilt. “Huh. You're saying you're not crazy for me, Buckley?”

Buck is finally within arm’s reach. He laughs, blushes. “Jesus. No. I'm definitely, like, not normal about you. It's just something— something Maddie said.”

There are a lot of things Eddie could say. ‘Been talking about me?’, ‘When did she say it?’, ‘How not normal are you?’. Instead, he wets his lips and reaches out a hand. Buck's forearm is warm under his fingertips, soft after the shower, supple. It's not a new touch between them, but it feels new all the same.

“Will you tell her about today?” he asks after half a dozen seconds. It comes out more mellow than expected.

“Can't exactly hide it from her, can I?” He traces Eddie's fingers’ path with his gaze. “But if you mean the disaster of this afternoon—she's never gonna let me live it down. Chimney’s never gonna let us live it down.”

“Mhm. We can always start the story from this point. Seems the most crucial.”

He's not sure when he’s started whispering, but with how close they stand now, it seems fitting. Eddie can pick out each individual eyelash when Buck's eyes flutter; he can see the divots and bumps on his skin, all of them excerpts from his story. They are breathing the same air, and it's as if life finally makes total sense—when something of Buck's becomes Eddie's and something of Eddie's becomes Buck’s.

At long last, Eddie's nose brushes Buck's cheek. The second man inhales sharply, and Eddie feels it, the pressure against his skin increasing some. He greedily, but so, so slowly follows its path.

Never has he imagined a nose could be so sensitive.

He thinks he knows where it goes, but then—

“Aren't you scared?”

Actually, Eddie has never felt as calm, as safe as now. Even Buck's worries can't worry him, and that's saying something.

He still wants to understand them, though.

“Of what?”

“Of that change. What— what if we don't work, not like that?” Buck lowers his voice, as if saying a secret, something not even their living room ought to hear. “I can't lose you, Eddie.”

“Well, I can't lose you either, so we're going to figure it out.”

Eddie could probably write a whole book about the pattern of breathing of one Evan Buckley, all the subtle and unsubtle changes it undergoes, complete with their different meanings. Turns out, it is entirely another experience to take stock of them so close to the source.

“Well, okay,” Buck chuckles lightly, his respiration rate gone almost back to normal. “If you’re sure.”

“Never been surer,” Eddie assures and finally kisses his best friend—the love of his life.

Their lips work against each other, one touch turned two and three, turned into haste and ferocity; then, between a blink and a breath, it becomes slower but oh so thorough. Buck makes a sound, and Eddie eagerly licks it from his mouth, feeling as if he could reach inside the man’s chest cavity, bruise Buck’s heart with his tongue to mark it his forever. Based on how Buck presses into him, fists squeezed into Eddie’s t-shirt but body still pushing forward, perhaps he feels it too.

It’s warmth and wetness, pressure and release, sanctum and sin.

Also, turns out Eddie is really fucking gay. Or—really fucking gay for Buck, at least.

When they separate, the only thing you can hear in the otherwise quiet house (quiet neighbourhood, quiet world) is their panting. Then, Buck nudges his forehead into Eddie’s shoulder and leaves it there, chuckling softly into the fabric. Eddie releases the airtight grip he had on the man’s hip and moves his hand higher, stroking along his spine.

“Did that maybe make you any surer?” he asks after a moment of the soft caress.

“Duh,” Buck snickers and raises his head. Eddie wants to kiss his forehead, his crow’s feet, and birthmark, but—it’s not like it’s not the time, although—

“I’m kinda beat,” he admits.

“Oh.” Buck makes it as if to untangle himself from their embrace, but manages only a half-step back with Eddie’s hands not relenting their hold. “It’s been a long day, hasn't it?”

It might be around midnight or maybe one o’clock; Eddie doesn’t really know and honestly doesn’t care.

“I think you sweat through the couch, sitting there and brooding.” He points towards the furniture with his chin and watches the way Buck scrunches his forehead (adorably).

“What? No, I haven’t.” He still sizes up the couch, twisting the upper half of his body to do so.

“So you didn’t plop down there right after overdoing your workout?” Eddie raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Well, yeah, but— it’s not like I was working out on the couch, Eddie. Don’t pretend you mind—”

“Ah-ah,” he tuts. “But it’s supposed to be my bed tonight. That seems really unhygienic. And I don’t think it’s going to dry off in time if we wash it now.”

“Wash— okay, you know what, just take the bed, I will sleep here and wash the couch tomorrow if you care that much.” Buck ultimately frees himself and huffs, crossing his arms.

Eddie fights to contain his smile. He should maybe stop at that point, say what he really wants to say, but— it’s fun, watching Buck huffing and puffing, getting indignant but being so fucking accommodating, always.

And Eddie has a feeling he will get what he wants either way, so—he still plays into it, ramping up the outrage he pretends to feel. “Sleep here? Didn’t you hear me? You cannot sleep on a dirty couch, Buck.”

“I cannot? Eddie, it’s just a couch, and I will use the sheets, jeez.”

“And let the sweat soak through deeper? Great, let’s just throw this thing out now.” He spreads out his hands. Ah, the theatrics. Maybe he should have tried drama club instead of ballroom dancing, back in the day?

“Oh my god—” Meanwhile, Buck starts spluttering and finally turns to look back at Eddie, probably ready to declare that one Edmundo Diaz has gone mad and become an old crank. And maybe it’s the smirk peeking through Eddie’s lips, or maybe Buck has caught up both to the absurdity of the complaints and the histrionics of his friend's behaviour, but—his expression clears at once.

Eddie stops reeling in the Cheshire grin.

“Oh my god,” Buck repeats. “You dick.”

Shoulders once again shrugging, Eddie makes a universal ‘what do you mean, I’m innocent’ face. “What? I want us both to be comfortable after this long day. We can’t sleep on a dirty couch. And since the couch is out of the game, I only see one option.”

Buck shakes his head, but there’s a smile starting there. “And what option would that be?” He plays along.

“Well, we gotta share the bed, obviously,” Eddie says solemnly.

“Obviously. Because the couch is unhygienic."

“Yeah.” He snaps his fingers. “You finally get it.”

At this point, they’re both smiling like idiots. Buck slides fractionally closer.

“You could have just asked, you know that?”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

One snag of hips, and Evan Buckley is back where he belongs, in Eddie Diaz’s arms.

“We could be having different kinds of fun. If you did.” It’s undoubtedly flirty, but there’s tentativeness and a question there, too. It serves to quicken Eddie’s heart even harder—not only with anticipation, but loads and loads of softness as well.

He wants to squish Buck and keep him in his view, within hand’s reach, always.

“Yeah?” he breathes out amid these emotions.

“Yeah. Tomorrow, though.” Buck kisses him, a solid touch of lips there for a second and gone in the other. “Now—we gotta clean that couch, right?”

Eddie snorts and serves Buckley an elbow. Then—he takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom.

No half-words. No half-measures. Just this—warm skin, steady breath, soft light. Buck and Eddie, and the start of a whole something.