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Curling his fingers around the cold porcelain of the bathroom sink, Buck stares at his distorted reflection in the water-stained mirror.
He takes in his appearance piece by piece. His dark blond hair sits in loose curls on his forehead, each one precisely placed after he spent almost an hour styling it in the same mirror only a few hours before. Buck’s eyes track the barely-there acne marks on his pale cheeks, the small scar on his chin from the ladder truck incident, and the splattering of freckles across his nose. His eyes meet through the glass, darting back and forth until they land on the side of his face.
On his birthmark.
Buck stares at the red mark. It stands out against his pale skin, drawing attention away from everything else. If his piercing blue eyes catch someone’s attention, the birthmark is always where they end up looking.
Narrowing his eyes, Buck’s grip on the sink tightens. His knuckles turn white enough to rival that of the chipped porcelain beneath his fingers. Anger bubbles beneath the surface of his skin like a shaken-up soda bottle. He stares at the birthmark, the furrow in his eyebrows deepening. Buck raises a shaking hand and lightly traces the mark with the pads of his fingers. Tommy’s voice echoes through his mind, his phantom touch still haunting his skin.
“Have you ever thought about covering this up? You’d look so much better without it, Evan. It almost looks like you’ve got dirt on your face, or pink eye.”
Buck drops his hands to the sink and squeezes his eyes shut, his nails digging into the porcelain until they crack under the strain. Every insecurity Buck has ever faced about his birthmark comes rushing back, the voices screaming louder than the bathroom light buzzing above his head.
For his entire life, Buck has put up with the stares and questions from both friends and strangers about his birthmark. Growing up, his mom would scrutinize every part of his appearance before they left the house for school or an event — the few times she allowed Buck to go with them. She would comment on the way his hair never sat flat, on the slight crease in his collar, or the wrinkles in his pants. When she was done, his eyes would drift to the mark above his eye. Buck always noticed the way her eyebrows would furrow, the way her lips would twitch with disapproval, but she never said what she was thinking.
She didn’t have to; her face told the story when her words failed.
Buck knew she didn’t like it. The birthmark made him stand out, calling attention to him in the worst possible way. It ruined the perfect facade she was always so desperate to create, and destroyed the image of normality she clung to. Every bath and shower would find Buck in front of the pristine bathroom mirror, a washcloth grasped between shaking hands as he tried desperately to scrub the mark from his face. He would scrub and scrub until his skin was red, raw, and bleeding, but the mark remained. Buck didn’t care that it stung; all he wanted was for his mom to look at him with something other than content.
He remembers the taunts from the kids on the playground, the patients on calls who refuse to be touched by him lest they catch something, but his mom’s looks of contempt and disgust remain at the forefront of his mind. It’s an image he’s never going to forget, no matter how hard he tries, or how often he pretends it didn’t hurt. Even though he’s a grown man, she still pulls the same face.
Over time, he’s come to accept the mark as a part of who he is. He waves people off when they ask about it in a bar, he brushes off the questions from curious children during firehouse visits, and he ignores the comments from wary patients on calls.
It’s easier to be dismissive than to admit the comments still hurt.
Taking a deep breath, Buck opens his eyes and returns his gaze to the marked mirror in front of him. Every time he blinks, he sees the look on Tommy’s face when he spoke — the wrinkle between his eyes, and the downward twitch of his mouth when his fingers skimmed the mark. Tommy didn’t touch his skin, just ghosted over it as if touching it was somehow the worst thing he could do. Although Tommy had been quick to rearrange his face into something more neutral, Buck saw the truth beneath the furrowed eyebrows.
He saw the disgust in Tommy’s eyes.
It was the same face his mom makes, the one that used to send Buck scampering to the bathroom in search of a Band-Aid he could use to cover it up. He thought he was past that. It had been almost twenty years since he last locked himself away, desperately wishing the mark would scrub off. Yet there he is, locked in the bathroom with anger bubbling beneath his skin and desperately wishing he’d never been born with the birthmark.
If Tommy, his own boyfriend, doesn’t like it, then why should anyone else?
“Evan?” Tommy’s knuckles tap against the bathroom door, and Buck instinctively tightens his grip on the sink. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Buck says, fighting to keep his voice from shaking, “yeah, I’m okay.”
He releases his grip on the sink and runs his hands over his face, raking his fingers through the perfectly styled curls. Buck takes one last look at himself in the mirror. His hair is now a mess of tangled curls, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, and his skin almost translucent under the flickering lights. His birthmark stands out even more against his skin, like a red marker scribbled across white paper.
Buck opens the bathroom door and finds Tommy leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. He looks at Buck with a slight upturn of his eyebrow, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. If Buck expects to see concern, he doesn’t. Only the same contempt his mom would show when he hid in the bathroom as a kid.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You were in there for ages.” Tommy’s eyes rake over his face, and Buck doesn’t miss the way they linger on his birthmark for a few extra seconds. His mouth tightens. “This isn’t about what I said, is it?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re too sensitive, Evan. All I’m saying is that you’d look better if you covered it, and I’m sure you get sick of people asking about it on calls or people staring at you like you’re diseased. I mean, people were staring at us when we were at the restaurant the other week, and I know it wasn’t because it was two guys on a date.”
“No one was looking at us.”
“Yes, they were. The people at the next table were staring the entire time, and so were the waitstaff. I’ve been there with dates before, and no one’s ever acted like that. Just buy some concealer or something, no big deal. Definitely not worth getting upset over.”
“No, I know, it’s not like that.” Buck swallows the bile in his throat. “Jee had a cold the other day, and I might’ve picked something up from her when I visited Maddie and Chim.”
“Your niece is cute and all, but kids are germ factories. I’m happy to keep them at arm's length.” Tommy laughs, but the sound is like a knife to Buck’s chest.
Buck clears his throat. “Maybe you should go. I don’t want to get you sick, too.”
With a grimace, Tommy takes a step back. “Good point. I’ve got a shift tomorrow, and the Chief is looking to promote someone, so I can’t get sick.”
“Right. Well, we can reschedule next week. I should have kicked this by then.”
“Sure.” He shrugs, taking a few more steps down the hall. Buck follows, but keeps himself at a safe distance with his hands tucked into his pockets. Tommy grabs his jacket from the coat rack and pulls it on, turning to look at Buck. “Maybe next time you can grill a steak or something. Baked ziti is fine, but it’s not date food. I’m sure Diaz and his kid appreciate it, but I like to be wined and dined.” He reaches for the door, his fingers brushing the metal. “Text me when you’re no longer a hotbed for viruses. Night, Evan.”
“Night.”
Without another word, Tommy opens the front door and slips out of the apartment, closing the door behind him with a click. Buck slumps against the wall, closing his eyes and letting the soft classical music playing through the speakers wash over him. A dull headache starts to drum behind his eyes. His mind spins violently.
The date was supposed to be perfect. Flickering candles on the table, classical music playing in the background, even though Buck can’t stand it, and a tiramisu that took his ages to prepare chilling in the fridge. They hadn’t even made it to dessert. Only a small part of the baked ziti has been eaten, the rest sitting on the dining table beside the candles that slowly drip wax onto the wood.
Tommy’s words swirl through his head, and Buck curls his hands into fists, picking at the skin around his nails. He knows Tommy just wants to look out for him. Buck should have used one of Bobby’s recipes for dinner. Baked ziti was something he always cooks for Chris when he stays over, not something he should have cooked for his boyfriend on a date.
The points about his birthmark bother him the most. Tommy was right about the constant questions being tiresome. There have been countless incidents of patients preferring to interrogate him over it rather than answering questions about their own welfare. Buck tries to think back to one of their first dates at a restaurant further into the city. He doesn’t remember anyone staring at them, and if they did, he simply put it down to him and Tommy being on a date together.
Except…
Except they haven’t been out to dinner since. Tommy insists on Buck cooking either at the loft in Tommy’s place. He always dismisses the idea of going out to eat or sitting in a restaurant surrounded by other people, like he didn’t want to be seen out with him. At first, Buck had taken it as the two of them warming to their new relationship and wanting to figure things out without people staring. Now he knows why.
Tommy didn’t want to be seen out with him because of the birthmark, almost like he’s ashamed of it.
Sighing, Buck pushes himself off the wall and returns to the kitchen. He begins the slow process of cleaning up — wrapping the rest of the ziti in foil and putting it in the refrigerator, blowing out the candles, and washing the dishes. Buck grimaces at the half-eaten ziti on Tommy’s plate. He’s not surprised; he watched Tommy push the food around all night.
When he’s done and the kitchen looks the way it should, Buck stumbles back to the bathroom in search of a Tylenol or Advil to help with the headache. He finds a nearly empty blister packet of Tylenol and swallows them dry. Dropping the empty packet in the trash can, Buck moves to close the bathroom cabinet, but a small tube catches his eye.
It’s an old concealer from his Buck 1.0 days, when he used to hide the hickeys on his neck to keep Bobby from lecturing him. Buck grabs the small container and turns it over in his hands.
“No big deal.”
Tommy’s voice echoes through his mind, and Buck unscrews the tube. The consistency of the makeup isn’t great, but it’s still usable. Buck dabs it across his birthmark, slathering on far too much of it. He grabs the long-since forgotten make-up sponge from the back of the cabinet and dabs at the concealer, watching the red mark fade before his eyes.
His birthmark turns a lighter shade of pink beneath the concealer, and although it hasn’t been covered entirely, it’s less visible than before. Unless someone looks for it, they won’t know it’s there. It’s almost as if it never existed.
Buck drops the sponge into the sink and grips the edges of the porcelain, staring at himself in the mirror. He narrows his eyes at his reflection, eyes moving frantically over the glass, and he takes himself in. His hair is a mess, curls knotting together and sticking up, his eyes are still piercing blue, and his freckles stand out against his pale cheeks.
Everything is the same.
Except it’s not.
It looks wrong, lopsided almost. For years, he wished the birthmark didn’t exist, that he could scrub it away with soap and water, but now that it’s gone, everything is wrong. A part of him, his identity, is gone, leaving an imposter staring at him through the glass.
This isn’t him.
None of it.
He prefers a baked ziti over steak, Green Day to classical music, and thinks a date can be more than a fancy meal surrounded by smoking candles. His hair is supposed to be a mess, not perfectly styled, and his clothes are always going to be wrinkled. Most importantly, he’s always going to have the birthmark. It isn’t just a spot on his face, but it’s a part of him. It’s what makes Buck, Buck. Without it, he’s just another guy.
Buck grabs the concealer and sponge from the sink and drops them into the trash can alongside the empty Tylenol packet. He stumbles out of the bathroom and to the kitchen, where he grabs the uneaten tiramisu from the refrigerator and a six-pack of beers. Snatching his keys from the sideboard, Buck leaves his apartment and heads for the parking garage. He scrambles into his jeep and leads his apartment block behind, following the familiar streets.
Pulling up to South Bedford Street, Buck balances the tiramisu and beers, digging around in his pocket for his key. He unlocks the door without knocking.
“Eddie?” he calls, maneuvering himself into the house.
“Buck?” Eddie sticks his head through the archway leading to the kitchen, a towel thrown over his shoulder. “What happened to the date?”
Buck steps into the living room and deposits the dessert and the beers onto the coffee table. “Tommy left earlier, and we didn’t get to dessert. I thought you and Chris might like it instead.”
“Did something happen? Between you and Tommy?”
Shrugging, Buck pulls a beer out of the cardboard and twists the top off, gulping half of it down in one sitting. He swipes his hand across his mouth and glances over his shoulder at Eddie, who hasn’t moved from the archway. “Are you going to join me or do I have to eat this entire thing myself?”
Eddie’s face drops. His eyebrows draw inwards, his mouth pressing into a thin line, and concern twisting itself through his features. The same concern he didn’t see from Tommy. He removes the cloth from his shoulder and drops it on the table in the other room, stepping towards Buck. “What happened?”
“I told you. Tommy left early; he’s got a shift in the morning and couldn’t stay.”
“Buck.” There’s an edge to Eddie’s voice. “What’s with the concealer?”
Buck drops his gaze to his hands, placing his beer on the table, and picking at the skin of his fingers even though they’re already starting to bleed. He should have washed the concealer off when he had the chance. His hands start to tremble again, Tommy’s voice echoing through his mind once again. Eddie shuffles in front of him and sits on the coffee table, pushing the beers and dessert out of the way. He reaches out and pulls Buck’s hands apart so he stops picking at his skin.
“Come on, Buck, what’s going on?”
“Tommy.” Buck takes a shaky breath, his eyes focus on Eddie’s hands still resting on his. “He … he said he’d prefer me without it.” He swallows. “He said when we went out to that restaurant, people were looking at us, that they were looking because of my birthmark. We haven’t been out to dinner since. I think he’s … he’s ashamed to be out with me.”
Eddie scoffs, his grip on Buck’s hands tightening. “If that’s true, he’s an idiot. You shouldn’t have to hide part of you to make him happy.”
“I just wanted to see what it looked like, but I didn’t like it. It’s not me.”
“You’re right, it’s not. You look like some weird body-snatcher version of yourself. Like aliens abducted you and replaced you with a replica, but they couldn’t quite get your face right.”
Buck laughs, looking up at Eddie. The concern covering his face before has been replaced with a veil of sadness. “Aliens?”
“Chris. He’s fallen into a UFO rabbit hole, and he’s obsessed with the idea of body-snatchers and abductions.” Eddie smiles, but the sadness remains in his eyes. “Come with me.”
He stands up, keeping his grip on Buck’s hands. Eddie leads him through the house and into the bathroom, where he gestures to the closed toilet. Buck sits on the lid, hands in his lap, and he tries to ignore the desire to pick at his skin despite the blood. Turning to the sink, Eddie grabs a washcloth and turns on the faucet, squeezing out the excess water.
Eddie’s fingers dance over Buck’s chin as he angles his head upwards, wiping the now-damp cloth across the concealer covering his birthmark. Buck leans into his touch, exhaling softly. The voices in his head go quiet at Eddie’s touch. The cold water soothes his warm skin, the gentle nature of Eddie’s touch a stark contrast to Tommy’s.
“There,” Eddie says, dropping the cloth into the sink. “That’s better.” His fingers brush over the birthmark, his touch gentle, but Buck can feel his fingers dancing across his skin. “You look more like yourself now.”
“Thanks.”
Crouching beside him, Eddie’s finger cups Buck’s cheek, his thumb moving in soothing circles. “Tommy is a fool if he thinks you’re better without this.” He reaches up and touches the birthmark again. “This is a part of you. It makes you different in the best possible way, and if he doesn’t see that, he doesn’t see you. Don’t hide yourself away because of him, or anyone else. You, Evan Buckley, are perfect just the way you are.”
A sly grin creeps its way onto Buck’s face. “You think I’m perfect?”
“Don’t ruin it.” Eddie laughs, moving his hand and pushing Buck’s shoulder gently. “That tirimsu is going to get warm sitting on the table. You grab the bowls and spoons, and I’ll get Chris. He’ll kill us if we eat it without him.” He stands up and turns to walk away.
“Eddie?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you.”
Eddie smiles a warm smile that makes the bathroom light up that little bit more. “Get a move on, Buckley.”
He taps his hand against the bathroom doorframe and leaves Buck alone under the fluorescent light. The smile stays on Buck’s face as he pushes himself off the toilet lid and captures his reflection in the mirror.
A mess of curly hair, a splattering of freckles, and acne scars across his pale cheeks, and his birthmark right where it should be. Pride of place. Just as it should be.
“Buck! Dessert time!” Chris’ voice carries through the hallways of South Bedford Street, the excitement evident in his voice.
“I’m coming.”
For the first time that evening, Buck smiles at his reflection, pleased with what he sees. He leaves the bathroom to join the Diaz’s in the living room for tiramisu and a movie, warmth flooding the house. Dropping onto the couch beside Eddie, Buck pushes any thoughts of Tommy from his mind.
This is where he’s supposed to be.