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Buck's been staring a lot lately.
At knives. Steep drops of cliffs when he goes hiking. The concrete of the parking lot when he’s on the roof at the firehouse. Pillows. Blunt force objects. Rope. Fire. The blades for Eddie’s safety razors. Expired Oxycontin.
When Buck walks into a room, he categorizes the different ways that he could kill himself. This new habit should concern him. It’s comforting to him, though, somehow. Neat boxes in his brain, filled to the brim with every day items or sights that can turn deadly in a moments notice. Never one to be highly attuned to detail, Buck feels pride in his ability to detect the inviting, intoxicating danger.
“Buck?”
Right. He’s with Eddie. On his couch. There’s a hockey game in the background, but Buck hasn’t been able to focus because he doesn’t care about the Stars. Or hockey. Really any sport. Also, his eyes are dry from staring too long at the fireplace poker. If he had enough nerve or enough brute strength, the rigid metal end could go right through his heart. Probably.
“Buck, hey,” Eddie’s voice cuts in. It sounds distorted in Buck’s ears, sort of like an echo, or as if Buck is submerged underwater and Eddie is speaking from dry land. “You with me?”
If Buck could speak, he would say “of course I’m with you, the Stars are getting their ass beat.” Buck cannot speak. The lamp is probably a better option than the poker. Lightbulbs are glass. Remove the lampshade, unscrew the lightbulb, shatter it on the floor and slit a deep vertical gash into delicate veins on the wrist.
“Buck,” Eddie says more insistently.
A gentle hand touches his shoulder and Buck doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move or acknowledge the kind pet in any way. Because Buck cannot feel it. He can’t feel anything. Eddie has nice hands. Big. They would never be used to inflict violence on Buck, but Buck imagines it anyway. If someone else did it for him, would it still be suicide or murder? Even if he begged and pleaded and cried for it?
“Hey, can you feel my hand?”
Buck tries to shake his head no, though he’s not sure if Eddie is able to see it. If he could get past the animal instinct of self preservation, he could suffocate himself with the pillow he’s laying on. Eddie must still be speaking, Buck thinks he is naming things that Buck can feel and sense around them.
Buck is beginning to remember what having a body feels like. Eddie’s hand hasn’t left his shoulder. He doesn’t see it as his eyes are back to being laser focused on the fireplace poker. However, feeling returns to his body with the weight of fingerprints from Eddie’s hand on his arm. It’s nice, so he closes his eyes to focus on Eddie’s touch rather than the objects in his vicinity.
His throat is dry, he swallows roughly. “Eddie.”
“Buck, hey, hey,” Eddie whispers, his tone reverent and relieved. “You okay?”
“Yes,” he lies. Not much of a lie if Eddie knows he’s talking utter bullshit. Buck shakes his head out, then his hands. He squeezes his palms into fists, nails too short to do any damage.
“Buck.”
The worst thought comes to him. Bobby, his heart repeats incessantly. Every time air gets into his lungs and blood successfully circulates, Buck can only be reminded of Bobby and how badly he wishes he could speak to him.
“I want to talk to Bobby,” he whispers. “I–I can’t talk to Maddie. She would get worried. She’d be… like—shit. I need Bobby.”
“Oh, Buck. It’s—no, okay. We’ve got this, right? Me and you. Come on, what do you need to talk about?”
Buck shakes his head. His throat is still uncomfortably dry. He can unfocus his eyes on danger before him and instead land his stare onto Eddie. All beautiful soft brown eyes and mussed hair from pulling at it when the Stars fumbled a shot.
“Eddie,” he practically whines. “I think that… maybe. Maybe we should, um. Get rid of. Sharp objects in the house.”
That was clearly not what Eddie thought he was going to say. He shakes his head, his eyebrows crease into confusion. “Okay, maybe we can do that… but why, Buck?”
“They’re dangerous. B-but everything and anything can be dangerous. The fireplace poker. It–it could stab me. You. Christopher. It could kill us. The lightbulbs, too.”
“Lightbulbs?”
He nods. “Glass.”
“That, uh, can be used to hurt someone, right?” Eddie asks, clearly searching for the reason behind Buck acting like a maniac. “You’re worried about me and Chris getting hurt? Because we’re, well. We’re okay, Buck. Okay?”
The perfect out has been gifted so graciously to Buck. Yes. Make it about Eddie and Christopher. Worrying for their safety. The comfort of Buck’s obsession is teetering into discomfort now, and he surmises that if he’s left alone in the bathroom that he would be dead before sunrise.
“No, no, Eddie. You’re—you and Chris. I know. You’re as safe as you can be.”
“Okay, then what, Buck?” Eddie urges. His hand has traveled from Buck’s shoulder down to his leg. The meat of his thigh. Presses there, an unmistakable jolt to Buck’s nervous system.
“Maybe I should be locked up, you know? In, like, a padded cell. So–so that I can’t—”
Realization dawns on Eddie’s face then, he nods and grips Buck’s thigh a little harder. The pool of worry in Eddie’s eyes and grip is breaking Buck’s heart. Or it would, if Buck could still feel anything but numb. “So that you can’t hurt yourself?”
He nods quickly. “Eddie, it’s all I can think about. I walk into… any room, any situation and-and all I can imagine is all the different ways I could die. By-by my own hand, Eddie. That's all I can think about. It was something to just calm down my thoughts. At first. Categorizing things. Taking inventory, right? But. I’m numb a lot now. Can’t always fucking get out of it. Out of like, this–this trance. I want to break your lamp and use the glass to cut myself.”
“Well, I’m not going to let you do that.”
“No?” Buck whispers back. Hopeful, soft and gentle, like he had no say in what was said at all.
“Of course not. We’ll–we’ll get you through the night. Okay? You’re not going to hurt yourself. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
Eddie pauses, and Buck doesn’t fill in the silence. It’s too charged. He doesn’t know what to say, and Eddie is looking him over like he’s a patient, really. A victim. His hands are numb again and he hates it, so he forces himself to move them to reach out for Eddie. He needs skin. Without really thinking, without perfect precision, he hikes up Eddie’s shirt and places a palm on the warm planes of his stomach.
“Buck?” Eddie whispers. Buck doesn’t reply still, just grunts.
He feels himself being jostled, his head resting now on Eddie’s chest, his lips right up against his collarbone. Underneath him, he hears the monotonous beats of Eddie’s heart. Eddie’s hand detaches from Buck’s back for a moment, just so he can lift his shirt higher. It’s glorious, the inviting skin on display. He splays his hand out, dances his fingertips across the wiry hair and takes a deep breath in of Eddie’s scent.
He feels calmer than he has in months. With the position, he can’t see the lamp or the poker or anything else but Eddie.