Work Text:
The flyers Eddie spent all night stapling to telephone poles flap uselessly in the Santa Ana winds, their corners already curling like defeated flags. Inside the abandoned firehouse—their firehouse—Buck’s sneakers squeak against the epoxy-coated floor where he’s practicing windmills, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to show forearms still tacky with sweat.
"You’re gonna win," Eddie says, toeing the duffel bag of campaign buttons Chimney screen-printed ("BUCK NASH: HE’S GOT YOUR BACK").
The truth sits between them like the folded lawn chairs they stole from Eddie’s abuela’s patio: Buck doesn’t care about zoning laws.
Buck grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah, but you’re the one who’d actually read the meeting minutes."
He hooks a finger into Eddie’s belt loop. The kiss tastes like grape soda and the kind of inevitability that makes Eddie’s stomach flip.