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You with the sad eyes, don't be discouraged. Oh I realize. It's hard to take courage in a world full of people, you can lose sight of it all, and the darkness inside you can make you feel so small.
Eddie has sad eyes.
It's a truth he's carried with him for as long as he can remember, ever since that awkward, fumbling kiss with a girl at twelve —just to shut his father up about how embarrassing it was that a Diaz boy hadn't claimed his first conquest yet, when all the neighborhood girls seemed to trail after him like lost puppies. His reflection in the bathroom mirror that day had shown it: a quiet sorrow etched into his gaze, one that spoke volumes he couldn't yet articulate.
Over the years, those eyes had become his silent confessor, mirroring the burdens he buried deep inside.
All his life, Eddie had believed that real sadness was something explosive, something that demanded attention —like the wails of grief at funerals, the shattered screams of soldiers in the field, or the raw breakdowns he'd witnessed in the chaos of his job.
His own brand of sadness felt too subdued to count, too polite to matter. It was just a shadow in his eyes, a subtle dimming that no one else seemed to notice.
Or so he thought.
There was no dramatic collapse, no public unraveling.
Just a persistent weight dragging at his shoulders, like an invisible yoke pressing down on his neck, making it hard to lift his head high. And that tightness in his chest, a constant constriction that turned every breath into a quiet battle.
But that couldn't be real sadness, could it? Not when it didn't shatter him outwardly.
Or at least, that's what he'd convinced himself of for so long.
But now, after the floods of tears he'd shed in front of Buck, in front of Christopher, even in front of his abuela —after the screams that had torn from his throat in therapy sessions and the breakdowns that left him raw and exposed— he knew better.
That dull ache in his eyes was sadness, profound and unyielding.
And the root of it? It coiled like a serpent at the back of his throat, refusing to slither free, no matter how much he willed it to.
In his hands now was a mug, one he'd been scrubbing absentmindedly for what felt like an eternity in the quiet hum of the fire station's loft kitchen.
It was probably spotless by now, but that stubborn ring of coffee stains from years of hurried pours lingered stubbornly, defying his efforts to erase it.
The station was eerily still at this late hour, the kind of quiet that amplified every small sound —the distant drip of a faucet, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. Shift wasn't over yet, but the calls had slowed, leaving Eddie alone with his thoughts in this makeshift sanctuary.
He could feel Buck's gaze on him, a sensation he'd honed over their years together, like a sixth sense tuned specifically to his best friend.
But tonight, it felt less like a comfort and more like a spotlight, illuminating cracks Eddie wasn't ready to examine.
Buck wasn't just looking; he was seeing.
Eddie could sense the understanding in that stare, the way it pierced through his defenses without a word. It was a gentle pressure, like a hand resting lightly on his shoulder —acknowledging his pain without demanding entry.
A silent promise: I'm here, but I won't push until you're ready.
It was both a balm and a curse, because Eddie knew that if Buck asked, the dam might finally burst.
A soft sigh escaped Eddie's lips, echoing faintly in the empty space.
He set the mug down with a quiet clink and leaned against the counter, his back to the room, staring blankly at the array of clean mugs lined up like soldiers. He didn't move to pour himself coffee; instead, he just stood there, lost in the swirl of his mind.
Memories flooded in unbidden —flashes of his childhood in El Paso, the rigid expectations of his parents shaping him into the man they envisioned: strong, stoic, unbreakable. The army days, where vulnerability was a liability.
Shannon, their whirlwind marriage born more from duty than desire, and the guilt that still gnawed at him for how it all unraveled. Christopher's birth, a beacon of joy amid the chaos, but even that came with the weight of being the perfect father.
And then LA, the 118, Buck —Buck, who had upended everything without even trying, making Eddie question the foundations of his carefully constructed life.
One second. Two. Three.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until Buck's voice broke through, soft and tentative.
“Are you okay?”
Eddie turned slightly, his eyes meeting Buck's across the counter.
“Yeah,” he replied, the word slipping out on autopilot, hollow as an empty promise.
Buck didn't buy it; Eddie could see it in the way his brow furrowed, the concern deepening those blue eyes. He swirled his own mug idly on the counter, the ceramic scraping softly against the surface.
“You don't look okay,” Buck whispered, his voice laced with that quiet empathy that always disarmed Eddie.
A bitter chuckle bubbled up from Eddie's chest before he could stop it, sharp and self-deprecating. He met Buck's gaze head-on, shaking his head.
“I'm fine,”" he insisted, his tone drier than intended, edged with defensiveness. But then he softened, sighing as he repeated it more gently, “I'm fine.”
Lying to Buck should have felt impossible after all they'd been through —the shared traumas, the life-saving moments, the unspoken bond that tethered them.
But old habits died hard, especially the ones forged in a lifetime of suppression.
Buck nodded, his expression neutral, no smile to mask the doubt Eddie knew was there.
He didn't push, didn't pry further, and a wave of gratitude washed over Eddie for that mercy. Because if Buck asked again, Eddie wasn't sure he could hold back the torrent.
Where would he even start? With the confusion churning inside him? The realizations that had been creeping up like shadows at dusk?
Eddie leaned further against the counter, setting his mug aside and drying his hands on a nearby towel, his gaze dropping to the lines etched into his palms. Those hands —calloused from years of hard labor— had seen so much.
They'd gripped rifles in the desert heat, steady under fire. They'd lifted stretchers laden with the injured, maneuvered the wheel of ambulances through LA's chaotic streets.
They'd held Christopher's tiny hand on his first day of school, feeling the boy's nervous tremble mirror his own hidden fears. And Buck's hand, that desperate grasp when the ladder truck had crushed him, pinning him to the asphalt.
Those same hands had pounded life back into Buck's chest after the lightning strike, refusing to let go even as his own arms burned with exhaustion.
They were reliable hands, unflinching in crisis.
But now, in this quiet moment, they felt empty, adrift.
What he had buried for so long —the desires, the truths— swelled up, too vast to contain, especially when the world still demanded the same old performances from him.
Courage in the face of danger. Righteousness in every decision. Silence when words might shatter the facade.
Those were the pillars that had kept him alive, fulfilling the roles assigned to him: Man. Soldier. Husband. Father. Firefighter.
He was the hero who charged into the flames, the one whose eulogy would praise his bravery and selflessness, a final nod to his parents' pride.
But what happened when those roles chafed like ill-fitting armor?
His parents had never prepared him for that —for the rebellion stirring in his soul, the understanding that true courage wasn't just enduring pain or biting his tongue.
It was about breaking free from the lies he'd internalized, the ones that whispered he had to suffer in silence to be worthy.
Buck stayed silent, but he moved closer, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of Eddie's thoughts. Their arms brushed, a fleeting contact that sent a spark through Eddie, chasing away the chill of his isolation.
Buck's body heat radiated like a hearth, warming the icy grip of fear that clung to Eddie's skin.
Then, gently, Buck's hand settled on Eddie's lower back —a touch so light it could have been imagined, yet it grounded him, a subtle guide away from the edge.
Eddie didn't resist.
Slightly defeated, yet oddly relieved, he let Buck lead him toward the loft's sofa, their footsteps soft on the worn floor.
The couch was a familiar refuge, where they'd shared countless quiet moments between calls —laughing over coffee, venting about tough shifts, or just sitting in companionable silence.
Eddie sank into it slowly, his body heavy with unspoken burdens, his eyes still fixed on his hands as if they held the answers. Tears pricked at the corners of his vision, hot and insistent, but he blinked them back, refusing to let them fall just yet.
Buck settled beside him in that effortless way of his, their bodies aligning from ankle to shoulder, no space between them. Personal space had always been Eddie's boundary, a shield against vulnerability.
But with Buck, it dissolved.
Buck's solid presence was a support Eddie hadn't known he craved until now —his warmth seeping in, his frame bolstering Eddie's like a promise of unwavering strength.
In this moment, Eddie realized Buck had intuited it: that touch, especially Buck's, was the only thing piercing the numbness.
A subtle shift —Buck's knee pressing more firmly against Eddie's, a silent check-in. Eddie leaned into it instinctively, their shoulders brushing with each breath.
It was small, but it built, layer by layer, like a kindling catching fire.
“Do you ever get tired?” Buck asked suddenly, his voice a gentle murmur that pulled Eddie from his reverie.
It felt like the natural extension of a conversation that had been simmering between them for years, unspoken but always there.
Eddie startled slightly, blinking away the haze. The question hung in the air, inviting yet undemanding. He knew this was his chance —a fragile window that might slam shut if he hesitated.
The fear of speaking warred with the terror of eternal silence, and in the end, the latter won.
He shrugged, buying time as he cleared the lump in his throat.
“I guess so,” he said cautiously, his voice rough around the edges. “Like everyone else.”
Buck tilted his head, a soft chuckle escaping him, the vibration traveling through their connected bodies. It was warm, affectionate, shaking loose some of Eddie's tension.
“I'm not talking about physical exhaustion,” Buck clarified, his eyes searching Eddie's with that piercing clarity. “You know what I mean.”
There it was —the gentle prod at the crack in Eddie's armor, letting in a sliver of light that both terrified and tantalized him.
His chest constricted, the familiar darkness creeping back, making him feel insignificant, flawed.
It was the same shadow that had haunted him since boyhood, whispering that something was wrong with him for not fitting neatly into the life his parents had scripted.
Not unhappiness exactly, but an emptiness, a void that no achievement could fill.
It was the flinch when two men kissed on screen, the laptop snapped shut in denial. The surge of anger masking the urge to cup Buck's face in his hands. The aversion to his own reflection, as if it betrayed secrets he wasn't ready to face.
“There are things…” Eddie started, his voice barely above a whisper, trailing off as he licked his dry lips. He paused, gathering the fragments of his courage. “There are things I never questioned if I really wanted. I just... assumed they were right because that's what I was told. It all seemed so straightforward back then.”
Buck stiffened slightly beside him, but he didn't pull away. He didn't interrupt, just listened, his presence a steady harbor.
Eddie stole a glance at him, seeing the restraint in Buck's jaw, the way he was holding back to give Eddie room. It emboldened him.
Sighing, Eddie closed his eyes, searching for the words in the darkness behind his lids.
“I don't know what to do with what I feel... or with what I don't feel,” he confessed, his voice cracking as warm tears finally spilled over, tracing salty paths down his cheeks. Each drop widened the fissure in his chest, but it wasn't destructive —it was liberating. “I don't know who I'd be if I stopped doing what was expected of me. If I let go of all these roles I've been playing my whole life.”
There it was, the unraveling thread, pulling at the seams of his existence.
The fear wasn't of the love blooming inside him —that felt more authentic than any romance he'd known.
No, it was the terror of admitting he'd loved wrongly before, following a blueprint that wasn't his, using relationships as props to fit the mold.
Shannon, Marisol, even Ana —they'd been attempts to check boxes, to silence the doubts.
How had he not seen it sooner?
Why did clarity strike now, in the dead of night, on this worn couch, with Buck's steady gaze anchoring him?
Buck shifted, settling more comfortably, his hand moving to rest on Eddie's thigh —a warm, reassuring weight that sent a shiver through him. Buck didn't flee; he stayed, solid and unyielding.
“You don't have to explain yourself to me,” Buck said softly, his voice thick with emotion, cracking just enough to reveal his own vulnerability.
Eddie looked up, meeting those tear-glistened blue eyes, and the world tilted. Buck saw him —not the hero, not the father, not the firefighter.
Just Eddie, stripped bare.
It clicked then.
Buck had always seen through the masks: the forced smiles during failed dates, the rigid posture hiding exhaustion, the way Eddie clung to rules like lifelines. He'd witnessed the mismatches in Eddie's relationships, the unspoken longings.
Buck had glimpsed Eddie's true self long before Eddie dared to.
The dam shattered fully, but instead of drowning, Eddie felt reordered, pieces slotting into place. Something fundamental had shifted —not in Buck, but in how Eddie received his gaze, open and unafraid.
“I thought I was broken,” Eddie whispered, each word a hard-won victory. He placed his hand over Buck's on his thigh, drawing strength from the contact. “Though I never really gave myself permission... you know, to want what I want.”
He didn't say "men."
He didn't say "you."
But the truth quivered between them, raw and exposed.
Eddie held Buck's gaze, willing him to understand: You are what I want. You always have been.
Silence wrapped around them again, but this time it was soothing, a space for absorption rather than avoidance. Buck's small smile and subtle nod conveyed volumes —acceptance, without need for elaboration.
“That doesn't make you weak, or broken,” Buck murmured after a beat, flipping his hand to intertwine their fingers slowly, deliberately. The gesture was intimate, electric. “It makes you honest. And honesty? That takes more courage than charging into a burning building.”
Eddie let out a short, incredulous laugh, a release valve for the building pressure. It wasn't mocking; it was the sound of walls crumbling.
“I don't think my family would approve,” he admitted between chuckles, squeezing their joined hands. The thought of his parents' disapproval —rooted in their conservative values, their unyielding expectations— still stung, but less sharply now.
Buck's responding smile was that familiar, lopsided one, his eyes sparkling with a mix of humor and deep admiration that made Eddie's face heat.
“Your family also thought living in LA would be a death sentence,” Buck teased lightly, shrugging. “Too dangerous, too chaotic. And look at you now —thriving, despite everything we've been through. The shootings, the collapses, the lightning... we've survived it all.”
Eddie burst into genuine laughter then, the sound bubbling up freely, shaking his frame.
It was ironic, yes —their lives were a litany of near-misses— but true.
His real family wasn't blood alone; it was the 118, Christopher, and above all, Buck. They'd never abandoned him, never demanded perfection.
The knot in his chest unraveled further, clarity sharpening.
“I feel like I realized too late,” Eddie confessed, his voice steadier now, less fractured. “Like I wasted so much time pretending.”
Buck's expression turned serious, but his tone remained light, infused with warmth.
“Things happen when they're meant to, Eds. You weren't ready before, and that's okay. Life isn't a race. And hey, if it helps... I've been waiting, you know? Not pushing, but... here.” He paused, searching Eddie's eyes. “I mean it —when the world feels like it's caving in, or you don't know how to navigate this... I'll be right here. We're a team. Always have been.”
It wasn't a grand declaration, no sweeping solutions or heroic vows.
Just presence. Permanence. For Eddie, who'd lost so much —friends in war, Shannon, nearly Buck multiple times— that was everything.
Buck wasn't positioning himself as a fixer. He was home, a safe harbor in the storm.
Something deep within Eddie loosened, a weight lifting, leaving him buoyant.
He didn't need labels, not tonight at least. His truth was a spectrum, messy and beautiful. Buck's gaze affirmed it —saw the beauty in the complexity.
Eddie drew in a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of Buck —soap, faint sweat from the shift, something uniquely him.
For once, he didn't straighten his spine or summon false strength. Instead, he leaned in, turning his body to bury his face in the crook of Buck's neck. No permission sought, but Buck's hand sliding to his nape granted it anyway, fingers threading gently through his hair.
The embrace should have felt awkward —two grown men in a small couch, tangled in vulnerability— but it was revolutionary.
Eddie shifted, subtle touches guiding him: Buck's free hand on his waist, pulling him closer; Eddie's leg draping over Buck's as he adjusted. It built naturally, until Eddie was fully in Buck's lap, enveloped in his arms, their bodies fitting like puzzle pieces long separated.
“Thank you,”" Eddie murmured against Buck's skin, eyes fluttering shut as warmth flooded him, chasing away the last remnants of cold fear.
“Always,” Buck whispered back, his hold tightening, protective yet tender.
Eddie sighed, but this one was different —lighter, freer.
He didn't know what tomorrow held —explanations to Christopher, navigating the team, facing his family's potential judgment— or if he'd even label this yet.
But three certainties anchored him: He wasn't broken. He hadn't arrived too late. He hadn't failed.
In Buck's arms, Eddie didn't care about the world's gaze.
He was seen, truly, and that was liberation.
There was no kiss, none was needed.
Breathing came easier now, unburdened. His true self shimmered through, vibrant and unhidden.
For the first time in forever, Eddie wasn't hiding.
And I'll see your true colors shining through, I see your true colors and that's why I love you. So don't be afraid to let it show your true colors. True colors are beautiful, like a rainbow