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5:37 a.m.
Okay, so he slept with Eddie. Had sex with. Fucked. Fornicated with. Knocked boots.
With Eddie.
Now Buck’s awake before the sun, waiting for the alarm to go off for work so it doesn’t look like he was sneaking out of bed first thing in the morning to avoid any sort of awkwardness. But he doesn’t want to sneak. This is his bed. Because they came back to Buck’s house after the 118 Christmas party. They came back together.
5:39 a.m.
And had sex. With each other. And it was good (so good), and it was right and now they’re in the same bed – Buck’s bed, Buck’s sheets – and Eddie’s still asleep. Asleep with his soft mussed hair (from Buck’s grasping hands) and his red swollen lips (from Buck’s desperate kisses) and the purpling bruise low on his throat (again, from Buck).
5:42 a.m.
Buck stares at the little scar under Eddie’s lip. The one he absolutely pressed wet kisses to the night before. When Eddie wakes up, he’s going to want to talk. He’s going to want to discuss what they did (so many things) and how it happened (slowly, and then all at once) and why it was a mistake.
But it wasn’t a mistake, not for Buck. How could it be a mistake when Buck’s been in love with Eddie for as long as he’s been able? It took him a minute (his sister castigating him again, another failed relationship, the way Eddie looked laughing bright and holy in the holiday candlelight) to shake the last guardrail of platonic friendship from Buck’s eyes.
5:45 a.m.
The alarm on Buck’s phone goes off and he silences it quickly, but not before Eddie stirs. He scrunches his nose and stretches languidly, and Buck swallows heavily, captured by the play of hard muscles under Eddie’s soft skin, the pattern of his chest hair.
“You takin’ first shower or me?” Eddie asks, his voice rough with sleep.
Buck blinks. “Huh?”
Eddie opens his eyes slowly, finds Buck in the dim bedroom. He hadn’t closed the curtains all the way before they’d crashed into bed and the streetlights provide just enough illumination.
“We’ve been on enough ‘slip-and-fall’ calls to know better than to share a shower,” Eddie says, smiling a little and this is not at all how Buck thought this was going to go.
“Right.”
“You can shower first,” Eddie continues. “I know it takes you a minute to get this under control.” Eddie reaches out and pushes his fingers through Buck’s riotous mess of curls (from Eddie’s hands, holding him in place).
Buck pushes up on his elbows. “Eddie.”
Eddie slides his hand down his face, brushes his thumb across Buck’s lips. “You can be weird about this if you want,” he tells Buck. “But I worked through my sexuality crisis months ago.”
A blush fans across Buck’s cheeks.
“Besides,” Eddie continues. “I love you. Been waiting to say that.”