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The bidding wars end, and Eddie bee-lines it in the direction of the bar. He’s catching glances from several attendees, the ages of whom would fit neatly amongst a population census of U.S. adults, it’s that spread out. Equal age-opportunists with retired paddles in hand that could turn into comically large butterfly nets at any second.
He just needs to make it to the bar, stat, before he can get tangled up in any woven strands of polite-but-heavily-suggestive conversation.
Eddie is startled as a solid weight hits his bicep—a neatly manicured hand, a woman’s, for God’s sake, he was so close—halting him in his tracks. He adopts his evergreen good evening, ma’am, smile, and turns on the spot to seal his fate.
It’s Maddie.
“Thought you might need this,” Maddie says, lighthearted, cheeks pronounced with a sunny smile. A rogue spotlight bounces off her wedding band, a beacon of safety clasped around a large glass of white wine.
“You’re a hero,” Eddie responds, accepting the drink Maddie is extending appreciatively and probably a little too quickly to be socially acceptable, but nothing about this whole event really screams tasteful or reserved, so who the hell cares.
“I think we’ve established that’s you,” she teases, eyes twinkling. Eddie takes a sizable gulp of his drink. “I truly loved the slide, by the way. A Deep Respect for Service. Did you pick those bullet points yourself?”
“I think you know first-hand I absolutely didn’t. Nice to know what Chim sees in me, though.”
“He had some help,” Maddie replies cryptically. Eddie doesn’t fancy touching that; not at least until the alcohol content in his bloodstream could erode a ten-foot pole, so he deflects.
“Ouch. Couldn’t even come up with four selling points by himself?”
“Oh, he could. I mean, he has good taste.” Maddie offers a lithe, charming smile. Then she gestures emphatically with her own wine glass, eyeing somewhere over Eddie’s shoulder. “But he didn’t have to.”
“What—”
“Hey, guys,” says Buck, appearing at Eddie’s side.
Buck sounds a little breathless, like he’s just jumped high off a playground swing and landed in their conversation. His cheeks are flushed. There’s a thin shimmer of sweat at his hairline, presumably from twirling like an Olympic level synchronized swimmer down the catwalk under the heat of several spotlights. He looks equal parts smug and caught-off-guard delighted, in a way only Buck can really pull off.
“Hi, Buck,” says Maddie brightly. “We were just talking about you.”
Were they?
“Oh?” Buck leans in slightly, interest piqued and physically demonstrative, as always. “About my record-breaking sales price?”
“By two dollars,” Eddie drolls. “Split between five senior citizens.”
“Aw,” Buck coos. He reaches out to pinch Eddie’s right cheek, delicate even though that’s not the side that’s injured. His skin heats so fast it probably glows. “Jealousy suits you, Eddie. Still, $2500 is nothing to sneeze at, buddy.”
“Oh, I know.” It’s for charity. It’s for charity. For charity.
“Who is she, anyway?” Buck’s eyes dart around the room. Eddie can almost hear him buzzing like a fruit fly. “Mysterious Miss Moneybags, I mean. Shouldn’t you be setting up a date right now?”
“You’re looking at her,” Eddie replies.
Buck’s eyes lock on Maddie, then widen comically. They look like they’re seconds away from popping out and plopping straight into a storage jar of a raggedy old witch.
“Mads?” Buck sounds like he’s almost pleading. Eddie and Maddie meet each other’s eyes for a second. He scrunches his face up slightly so as to communicate: don’t make him suffer.
“Well, technically, I did place the bid.” Just as Buck starts to sputter fruitlessly, a lighter with no fluid in the chamber, she continues, putting him out of his misery. “But Eddie funded the cause.”
Buck spins on the spot, weight on his toes, feet together. One long, vertical force. He works through some complex algorithms just behind his forehead muscles. “You bid on yourself,” he concludes, incredulous.
“Sure did.”
“But—Eddie. What—” Buck’s hands form several floaty, empty gestures, like he’s relying on their motion force to get the train of thought chugging.
It arrives at the station sooner than expected. “You’re something else, you know that?” Buck says, his mouth remaining slightly agape after he gets the words out.
Eddie snorts. “It’s just way less hassle. Besides, it’s for charity.”
“2500 dollars. Do you—can you even…” Buck trails off.
No, he can’t. But, desperate times; impulsive measures.
“I’ve got it covered, Buck, don’t worry about it.”
“Covered. Okay. Covered.” Buck nods. He looks like one of those solar-powered dog ornaments. He continues: “Jesus, Eddie. That’s a lot of money to avoid one date.”
Which—he has a point. Eddie hadn’t taken much time to think the whole endeavor through. It was mostly out of his hands, because a familiar blinding static had taken over backstage. By the time he could see clearly again, he was knee-deep in a text thread with Maddie.
Whom he barely ever texts in the first place. Is this how people feel when they fall asleep at the wheel?
He doesn’t regret it, really. It’s pretty funny, for one. Second, he achieved his objective, because he’s not making polite, boundary-setting small talk with a kind woman he doesn’t care to get to know right now. A small price to pay.
Unfortunately, Eddie is being steadily confronted with the fact that paying any sort of price to avoid dates with women is not strictly typical behavior. He is also, at present, being steadily confronted with the soft smell of Buck’s good cologne, interwoven with the dim musk of his sweat. It seems like two plus two might just equal four, in the end.
Buck is looking at him with searching eyes, but Eddie is rapidly coming to the exact conclusions he might be scanning for, live and in studio. He adores Buck, but he might need to dig up this insight on his own, first.
“Charity,” Eddie mutters, foot halfway out the proverbial door, traitorous eyes laser-focused on Buck’s downturned, pouty, pink mouth.
Maddie clears her throat. She also delivers a soft yet wildly unsubtle kick to Eddie’s shin. When his gaze darts toward her, her eyebrows are raised, and he can read her well enough, largely by virtue of her being closely related and bonded to Buck. He’s being too obvious.
“Anyway,” Eddie diverts, as seamlessly as he can muster, which—probably isn’t very. He turns back to address Buck again. “You certainly rallied. That was quite a show out there. Could’ve done with more acrobatics, though.”
Buck grins. “Well, I wasn’t lying about my back. But,” he points one finger in the air, like a huge, handsome dork, Jesus Christ, it’s all hitting Eddie at record speed, “I’m well practiced. It’s like riding a bike.”
“Or something,” Maddie mumbles into her glass. Before Buck can finish opening his mouth to retort, or, more likely, make an indignant noise, she continues, “I’m going to go find my husband. You two—well, have fun.” She half-motions to leave, then falls back. “Oh, and, congratulations, Buck. You know, on being the prettiest Ken in the dream house. I always knew you could do it.” She pats Buck’s cheek twice with her free hand, then strides away, heels clacking definitively on the laminate floor.
Buck gawks a little at the space Maddie had just occupied.
“Well, it was a compliment,” Eddie offers. Buck gawks slightly at him, instead.
“I am not Ken,” Buck all but squawks. “I know I’m buff, obviously, but I—I contain multitudes. Like Barbie. Multifaceted.”
Eddie has tripped over amused and fallen head-first into fond. “Absolutely. We all saw the slideshow, Uncle-Baker Buck.”
Buck, who was valued at over 8000 dollars but ten minutes ago, currently standing nineteen feet tall in a barely-there tank top, blushes. Eddie downs the rest of his gifted wine.
Buck “Well, that’s… I’m selling the whole package, now, you know? Even if my looks didn’t quite cut it, anymore, that’s not all that I’m trying to—to convey. I’m a changed man. You know the drill, Eddie.”
Boy, does he; as it turns out.
“Were you really worried?” asks Eddie. Buck’s brow furrows, confused. “About, you know—what you said. That your looks wouldn’t cut it. Because that’s…”
Buck’s head tilts on its axis, in a manner that would be almost harrowing if it weren’t his familiar, ludicrously handsome face. “That’s what?”
“Stupid,” Eddie blurts out. Shakes his head. Rectifies. “Not—you’re not stupid. Not at all. I just mean that… obviously, someone should want you for all of you.” Eddie thinks that should really go without saying. “But even without all the addendums. You’re, like, a total smokeshow, man.”
Good God. That’s fucking embarrassing. Even worse—or perhaps better, Eddie is so ruined—Buck beams.
“Total smokeshow?” Buck repeats, nothing short of delighted. On topic, Eddie really could go for a smoke bomb right about now. Just—pull the pin and flee.
Instead, he rolls his eyes. “Buck. Come on.”
“No, no,” Buck is positively cheesing. This is abject torture, made only worse by how Buck’s authentic grin makes it difficult to concentrate on the best of days, which this is not. “That’s incredibly generous, Eddie, thank you. Additional points for the on-theme compliment, but overall, just down-right flattering. You’ll make a boy blush.”
Well, he’s not wrong. Eddie can feel the color that has already risen to his cheeks, oh-so-incriminating. He darts his eyes toward the bar. Evasive, wishful thinking. A moment of solace. When he gathers himself enough to look back at Buck, his eyes still glitter, but his expression is undercut with something pensive.
“That’s… very kind, Eddie, thank you.” Buck is addressing him with simultaneous intrusive familiarity and as though he’s never met Eddie once in his life. Devoted athletes competing for the same team, but their laces have been tied together.
“You’re welcome,” says Eddie coolly, a Herculean effort under the circumstances. “I, uh. I think I owe Maddie a drink, so, I’m gonna—bar. Do you…”
“I’m so great, thanks,” Buck replies, any attempt to sound normal failed with flying colors. His face is averaging about four emotions per second. He looks like a very handsome flipbook. “I’m driving, anyway.”
“Oh, right.” Eddie clears his throat. “No problem, then. I’ll… see you later.”
Eddie turns heel and walks off. Maybe they’ll cut his wine with arsenic, if he flexes a bicep or two.
A little under twenty-four hours later, Buck shows up on Eddie’s doorstep, clutching a small paper bag by the handles.
The rest of yesterday evening had, miraculously, gone uphill. Or, at least, Eddie hadn’t accidentally hit on his best friend in the clumsiest way imaginable any more than just the one time. A win, he thinks, is a win.
“Hi,” Buck says, once Eddie swings the door open.
“Hi,” Eddie replies. Good work so far.
“Can I come in?”
“Oh.” Eddie’s losing some marks now. In his defense, he’s still not used to Buck holding himself back from barging onto the premises like it’s his own home. It’s not, anymore, he supposes. “Yeah. Come on through.”
Buck shuffles past, bag swinging in his left hand. He stuffs his right awkwardly into his pocket; stands at the edge of the living room. Not exactly one foot out the door, but not exactly locking it shut behind him, either.
“I was in the neighborhood,” Buck starts, illogical as anything given their current residences, but Eddie doesn’t call him on it.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I, uh, just finished up my hot date.”
Eddie’s heart, ever-treacherous, lets out a sonic boom of dread before he can catch it by the scruff of the neck. Because Buck was bid on by pensioners. His steamy date was with a handful of kind, horny old people.
“Oh, yeah?” Eddie recovers. “Think you’re gonna see them again?”
“Maybe, actually. I learned a lot. Might be a changed man, I think.”
“Wow,” Eddie replies, questioning. He begins mooching over to the kitchen, trusts Buck to follow. “Doris did all that?”
Buck chuckles. “Doris wasn’t there, but way to stereotype, man. Anyway, it was nice. I had a good time.”
“Eight thousand dollars’ worth of good time?”
“Eight thousand and two, thanking you. And yes, actually. Friendship is priceless.”
“I’ll cheers to that. Want a beer?” Eddie asks, already wrist-deep in the fridge.
“Oh, I—I’m not staying.” Eddie’s grip loosens pathetically around the bottle in his hand. It’s nothing, it’s not any sort of deal, let alone a big one, but his gut hasn’t quite got that memo, yet. He wishes he weren’t practically tasting bile.
“Oh.” Eddie rummages an aimless hand around in the fridge, playing off absolutely nothing, before shutting it with a mostly-unintentional slam.
“I just wanted to swing by and drop this off.”
Eddie turns around. The paper bag has been discarded on the counter - Eddie must have missed the rustling sounds over his own commiseration. Instead, Buck clutches a chunk of fabric in both hands. He turns it over delicately, considering.
It’s a scarf. At least, Eddie can only assume. It’s long enough. It’s made up of two colors - green and brown - and the yarn for each doesn’t quite match in texture, so the vertical stripes aren’t quite even. They wobble in places, like how a child’s toy car leaves wavy scuff marks on the floor. Buck is looking at it with trepidation. It’s a lovely thing.
“Did—did you make that?” Eddie asks, and it comes out awed.
“Yeah.” Buck removes one hand to sheepishly scratch at his jaw, and one end of the scarf subsequently cascades down, the corners hanging just below his belt. Eddie tracks the movement. “So, I received an invite to Stitch and Bitch.”
Eddie’s eyes jerk up to meet Buck’s. He lets out a sharp, breathy laugh. Of course he did.
“Of course,” says Eddie, and the sheer fondness must be plain as day across his face. There’s no use in trying to hold it back, now. “That tracks. Was it fun?”
“Totally,” Buck says, and it’s so earnest. Like it doesn’t occur to him that spending half a day knitting with a group of seniors could be anything other than a riot. Eddie might love him.
“And—well. This is actually my second project,” Buck continues, only really getting started. “The first one, I thought I could make something for Chris, because, you know. It’s Chris. And I finished that, so I started this one, which, it seemed only fair to make one for you, too—”
“Your second favorite Diaz.”
“Naturally,” Buck smiles, pleased. Eddie definitely loves him. “But then it turned out, like, way better than the first one. And I figure Chris doesn’t deserve the first scarf-pancake, right? I’d give him this one, but—”
“It’s mine,” Eddie butts in, unknownst to even himself until the words are floating in the air between them.
“Well… yeah.” Buck runs the scarf through his fingers again, fidgeting with it naturally, like an extension of his body. He did make it with his own two hands, Eddie supposes. “I picked the colors. For you. Because you’re—earthy.”
“I’m earthy?” Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh, definitely,” Buck nods, gathering steam. Back on a topic easier to focus on than gifting something precious that didn’t exist on the planet at all until he thought it up a few hours ago: making fun of Eddie. “Very earthy. Down-to-earth, even. Grounded.”
“You calling me boring, Buck?”
“No,” Buck says, decisive but cheery. “Though you can be, obviously. Total grandpa. Not the point, though. I just mean that you’re…”
Buck chews at his cheek for a moment, weighing up his next words.
“You’re reliable. Stabilizing.” He pauses, then adds: “Comforting.”
Eddie feels like he’s seconds away from bubbling over. The words Buck has chosen are not, by any means, inherently romantic. They’re not a kiss in the rain, or a brass-band proposal, or a candlelit serenade. Buck doesn’t even mean them as a confession in that way - and yet, they’re still miles more suitable and profound than any trope Eddie can concoct.
Their lives, entwined as they are—though in varying degrees throughout the years—are manic. It’s a hard-worn fact that few things can be relied on to remain constant. Fate, whatever hypothetical, hand-wavy force that might be, switches up too fast for that. People leave, places burn, things are taken from you. Sometimes it’s gradual, but more often it’s cruel and quick, the snuffing of a birthday candle.
All is to say: comfort goes a long, long way. If its roots aren’t comfortably rested beneath soil, the tree won’t stand the test of time.
Or something. Buck’s way more of a plant guy.
Eddie’s throat feels thick; clogged with the sheer weight of the realizations he’s having, in real time, as Buck stands two feet in front of him, earthy scarf swinging from his fingers like a metronome. He watches, lets the motion guide his breathing for a brief moment, then clears his throat.
“Earthy.”
“Yeah,” says Buck, and when Eddie looks up to meet his eyes, he looks like he’s about to bolt.
Eddie reaches his hand out, palm up.
Buck stares at it, looking comically conflicted for multiple seconds.
“Unhand my homemade scarf, Buckley.”
When Buck rests the wool in his hands, it’s soft to the touch.
Eddie nails a small hook to the back of his bedroom door.
It means the scarf has a dedicated place to sit. Plus, though he’s no interior designer, he knows that use of vertical space is convenient for storage.
Convenient, as in it means he can look at the scarf from bed, before he falls asleep.
Eddie might, it turns out, be a little bit pathetic.
He’s been wearing the scarf pretty much daily. Spring is threatening its warmth, and the scarf itself is a little bit small, so much so that Eddie probably looks like he’s trying to bring ascots back into fashion with an unreasonable urgency, but he really doesn’t care. He’s a simple man; one whose best friend made him a scarf. Chose the colors that reminded him of Eddie and everything.
Every time Eddie thinks about it, he wants to jump in the air and click his heels. He’s never been like this before. Leave it to Buck to make a grown man want to tap dance.
And it’s really something, because a few years ago—maybe even months, Eddie isn’t quite introspective enough to have it down to an exact science—he knows that somewhere beneath the surface, the lovingly-joined threads would have sat like a noose around his neck. Eddie was always prone to lingering in his own little ignorant bliss. There wasn’t a room he couldn’t think his way out of by pretending the lock wasn’t an issue.
He’s still not used to the feeling of awarding himself due praise, or grace - that’s a work in progress, likely permanent. He doesn’t even particularly remember actively doing the internal work needed to get to this point where he can just—accept these parts of himself, with increasing ease, like learning to swallow a pill. He doesn’t spit it back out, doesn’t splutter, anymore.
Nowadays, when pleasant sensations seep into his bloodstream, he allows them to soothe. It turns out that being content feels a lot like courage.
“Liquid courage,” Eddie says, thrusting a bottle of pinot grigio into Hen’s arms once she opens the front door. He nudges her shin with a gentle tap of his boot, and she indulges his brassiness like the superb friend she is, flattening herself against the wood panelling so Eddie can stalk past and head for the glass cabinet.
“Hello, Eddie, sure thing, come on in. Go ahead and make yourself… right at home.”
“Thanks,” says Eddie, tone sardonic, but still earnest. Hen really is a good friend. There aren’t many people with whom he feels comfortable swanning in on their private property - something he values highly. He frees two wine glasses from their mahogany prison, sets them down on the dining table, sets himself down on the chair at the end. Finally looks up at Hen.
“Did you—”
“I got an Uber.”
“O-kay. You mean business,” says Hen, moving over to the table gradually, with lingering steps. Assessing the situation, whose name is Eddie. “So, what do I need the liquid courage for?”
“The courage is for me. I’m just feeling generous.”
Hen nods. “As always,” she flatters, taking an adjacent seat.
Hen unscrews the bottle and pours a small splash into Eddie’s glass like a sommelier, gestures with her eyebrows for Eddie to taste it. He plays along, swirling and sniffing, then swallows it in a rapid gulp.
“Great stuff. Love the grapes,” Eddie says. “More, please?”
Hen laughs, and does as asked. She pours a hefty helping into her own glass, too.
“So,” Hen starts. “You’re accessorising.”
Eddie smooths out a fold down the length of the scarf around his neck, slightly self-conscious. He doesn’t take it off.
“I like it,” says Hen. “It suits you.”
“Thanks.” Eddie takes an emboldening sip of his drink. “Buck, he—Buck made it.”
Hen’s mouth forms a pushed-up pout, and she nods once, slowly. Her wide eyes betray the air of neutral nonchalance she’s definitely not trying very hard to maintain.
Eventually, she says: “That was nice of him. To do that for you.”
Eddie tugs slightly at one end of the scarf. “Yeah, it was.”
“So, you’re…” Hen gestures to the handcrafted elephant in the room. “Trying something new?”
Eddie rolls his eyes. “Don’t play coy, Henrietta.”
“Don’t Henrietta me. But—hang on. Do you mean—is it happening?”
“Depends what it is.” Eddie shuffles in place. Denial is doing a lot of unwelcome heavy lifting, he thinks, because two half-questions have been directed his way and he feels like he’s face-first in a hundred-watt interrogation lamp, about to be hooked up to a polygraph, when he’s the one who showed up unannounced in the first place.
“Now who’s playing coy?” Hen asks, eyes narrowed.
“Still you.”
Jesus. He came here to have an honest heart-to-heart, and he’s reverted them to the conversational equivalent of slapping each other's hands like squabbling third-graders. Eddie sighs.
“Yes, it’s happening,” he says, tired already.
He’s gotten better at processing his own feelings, but discussing them has always been a whole other ball game. His eyelids get ten pounds heavier whenever outwardly expressing his soul is what’s on the table. It’s an incredibly inconvenient avoidance instinct. Fight, flight, or snooze.
Good thing he chose Hen, who wouldn’t hesitate to throw a bucket of very caring cold water over him, if the situation called for it.
“Okay, then. Whenever you’re ready, Eddie. Maybe before Karen gets home, though, because otherwise we both know you’re doing this twice.”
“You can tell her. I don’t mind.”
“Thank you,” says Hen appreciatively. She rests a soft hand over one of Eddie’s on the table. “But… what exactly am I telling her?”
Eddie exhales. It’s not so stubborn to get out, in the end. “I’m gay.”
The hand squeezes. Hen’s smile is so wide, so pleased, it could fell an army. They’d bear witness to such unabashed support and kindness and toss out their weapons on the spot.
“Nice,” Hen jokes. Eddie feels so grateful for her; her endless emotional intelligence that she extends with such casual geniality. Her eyes are shining, but her response bursts the tension nonetheless. They both laugh, a long-time coming, wheezing thing.
“It is, isn’t it?” Eddie grins. It’s nice. Sharing this fragile moment with her. Hen was, and soon again will be, an excellent work partner. Her hands are professional and diligent; they hold his bare, messy soul with care.
“Thank you, Eddie,” Hen says earnestly. “It means a lot, you sharing that with me. I know a lot of people probably see me as a queer elder—”
“You don’t look a day over thirty,” Eddie interjects, all charm.
“Stop flirting with me, I’m married.” Never missing a beat. “And there’s truth there. I’ve known who I am for a long time - I’m proud of that. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know how it feels, to be in the thick of it. Tangled in those weeds. And, to hazard a guess, I’d say yours are rooted pretty damn deep.” She nudges his hand over, clasps it, jostles their locked fingers amicably. “I’m really glad I can be that safe space for you. It’s an honor, Diaz.”
Eddie uses his free hand to cover Hen’s, resting it there for a heartbeat or so. He meets her eye, scrunches his face affectionately, then reaches for his glass, takes a long sip. “Thank you, Firefighter Wilson.”
Hen laughs, bright. “It feels good to hear that.”
“Feels good to say it,” replies Eddie. “Feels right.”
Hen hums. “So, I’m proud of you. We’ve done that part now. I won’t make you sit through any more raw intimacy, so you can… unclench.” Eddie glares. Then he does as he’s told. “Now we can move onto what this means.”
Hen reaches for an end of the scarf around Eddie’s neck, and turns it over carefully in her fingers. Ridiculously, it feels a little bit like she’s reached through his ribcage to fiddle with his vital organs. Maybe it’s because he knows what’s coming.
“He called me earthy.”
Hen gasps on command. “Scandalous.”
“Shut up,” says Eddie fondly. “That's why it’s—these colors. He picked them out. While he was at Stitch and Bitch.”
Hen cackles. Unrefined delight, plain and ugly and wonderful. “You’re telling me Buck went on his multi-thousand-dollar Sizzle and Spark date and came out of it with a handmade, personalized, Eddie-scarf?”
“Seems that way,” Eddie grumbles. Sips his drink. “It wasn’t the first one he made.”
“Two scarves?” Hen blows a raspberry, impressed. “That’s a long date. And that’s coming from a lesbian.”
“Oh, he had a great time. Best friends, the lot of them. You know how Buck is.” Eddie turns his gaze out the window so he doesn’t have to meet Hen’s all-knowing eye. “But—the first one, he made that for Christopher.”
“Oh, Eddie.”
“But he said it wasn’t good enough. So, he’s gonna redo it, I think.”
“Oh, Eddie.” They’re ostensibly talking about a couple of scarves, but Hen, naturally, catches the glaring neon sign of subtext without Eddie having to clarify.
Eddie huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
“Damn it, Buck,” says Hen, lighthearted and brimming with fond exasperation. “That boy’s heart has its own gravitational pull, I swear.”
Eddie hums. Pulling the cord on that neon sign, he says: “Probably. Anyway, turns out, I’m definitely in love with him. So, two things you can tell Karen.”
Hen nudges Eddie, encouraging him to meet her eyes. When he does, they’re full of mirthful understanding, which means she’s almost certainly about to wreck him with a few cheery words.
“Babe, I don’t have to.” That’ll do it. “My wife is smarter than all of us. I’d say she’s known for years.”
Eddie chokes out a noise. “That’s—humbling.”
“Tell me about it,” Hen drolls. She holds out her glass for him to clink, so he does.
“So,” Hen continues. “Tell him.”
“You—” Eddie coughs around the mouthful of wine he’s just taken, curses Hen’s cruel and purposeful timing. ”Like it’s that simple.”
Hen reaches to pat firmly at Eddie’s back, not quite an apology. “Well, it is.” When Eddie looks at her, disgruntled, she adds, “It is. Eddie. You are not this stupid. You think I’d be so undiscerning in my choice of work husband?”
“Chim’s choice, really. He doesn’t have your eye for detail.” Yes he does.
“Yes he does,” Hen retorts, levelling him a look that spells out: don’t be pedantic with me. “Don’t go forgetting my best friend loyalties, Diaz.”
“You’re mean,” Eddie huffs.
“I’m right. There’s a distinction.” Hen raises her eyebrows at him over the rim of her glass.
“You sure?” Eddie asks, the insecurity he usually strives to keep close at hand bleeding into his words.
“I’m positive,” says Hen, not once losing Eddie’s train of thought as it darts over the map. “Eddie, I’m serious. If that boy knew you were an option, he probably would have turned down a wholesome afternoon with five pensioners, just out of respect. Or sheer shock. Keep close when you tell him, actually, ‘cause he might straight-up pass out.”
Eddie snorts. Keeping close won’t be a problem.
“I can do that.”
“I’m sure you can,” Hen teases. She looks about two seconds from pinching his cheeks and telling him to go get ‘em, or something of that ilk, but far, far more crude.
“I’ll talk to him,” Eddie appeases.
“Attaboy.” She clinks their glasses again. “That scarf is too small for you, by the way.”
Eddie sighs, longsuffering, because yeah, he knows. If only he cared.
The next day, Eddie gathers his wits, his courage, and a six-pack of hazy pale ales, then heads over to Buck’s house.
There’s no answer when he knocks, so he lets himself in. Eddie misses when they shared a space. Knowing he would be coming home to a 6’2” force of nurture, one often clad in a denim apron, did wonders for Eddie psychologically. That being said, his heart pangs with—something, novel but fond, whenever he steps over the threshold of Buck’s new place.
It’s such a rich contrast to the loft he occupied before. His personality steadily sweeps the walls and floors as time passes. Every knick-knack, every kitschy painting, every rogue-animal-decorated furnishing—God, that snake rug just haunts Eddie—reverberates Buck’s presence. It’s just… sweet. To watch Buck, someone so historically desperate to find a home, build one up himself that’s so entirely true to who he is.
That doesn’t mean Eddie will ever let Buck loose in HomeGoods. Some signs should simply never be displayed as ironic, no matter what Buck says.
Eddie calls out to no response, so he stops to place the beers in the fridge before heading for the backyard. Sure enough, when he steps out, he’s met with a cruel test of God. Careful, all who enter here, if ye be gay and weakminded.
Buck is mid pull-up. He has his eyes closed with the exertion, which is a small mercy, because it means Eddie is gifted with a precious moment to shut his jaw. He tries to, but.
But.
Buck is working out alone, on his own property, free to—express himself. Which he is, audibly.
It’s early evening, the sun is low in the sky, and Buck’s skin is cast in a warm glow. The tips of his curls get caught in the bright light with every rep, blazing gold. There’s a gleam of sweat dripping down his temple. He’s wearing gray sweatpants, which Eddie fights with every inch of fast-dwindling power he contains not to notice too closely, choosing instead to gawk at Buck’s torso. It’s hardly any better.
The shirt Buck is wearing simply cannot be his correct size. Eddie has half a mind to buy out Target to save himself from this torment. It clings, and clings, and clings, short sleeves curling in on Buck’s biceps, bulging out of the fabric, each flex practically threatening to burst them at the seams. The cotton ripples where it gathers around his shoulders, chest, and waist, and Eddie wants to smooth it all out, agonisingly, reverently, crease by crease.
God, his arms are so big. If Eddie circled one with both hands, his fingers might not even touch. His hands and mouth both feel suddenly, catastrophically, dry.
Did he mention that Buck is moaning?
With every pull, Buck lets out a grunt that Eddie will hear in his damn dreams, all while the heavens shine a damning amber spotlight on the firm muscle of his biceps, nothing short of taunting. Eddie stands there, dumbstruck, and tries to gather his sanity.
The next pull-up clearly pushes Buck’s limits, because he lets out a staggered groan, and his shirt rides up in slow motion with the gradual, obscene movement, and that’s about all Eddie can handle right now, thanks.
“Yo,” Eddie calls out. He’s doomed.
Buck startles, but his form doesn’t waver. The bastard. “Eddie? Hey! What—” Buck, like some intricately designed Eddie-specific torture device, does one last pull-up with a final grunt only usually heard in professional porn. “What’re you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Eddie lies, an echo. Buck recognizes the phrasing, smiling shyly as he brushes off his hands.
“Of course,” Buck replies, ducking his head, boyish. “Nice scarf, by the way.”
“Oh, this old thing?” Eddie tugs at the scarf’s neck. “Custom-made, you know. Highly sought after designer.”
“Oh, really?”
“Mhm,” Eddie nods. “Bespoke. One of a kind.”
“Earthy,” Buck chimes.
Eddie chuckles. He takes a few steps forward. “That’s what I heard.”
Buck steps forward in kind. “It, uh. It suits you.”
“I think so, too.” They meet in the middle, standing a foot apart on the grass. From this distance, Eddie can see how the curls against Buck’s hairline are damp with sweat, how the flush lingers in his cheeks from his workout. The sight alone hits Eddie with his own rush of endorphins.
Buck winces, suddenly, and reaches out to tug at the scarf. “Bit small, maybe. You sure that designer’s all he’s cut out to be?”
“Oh, no doubt in my mind,” replies Eddie, staring down at where Buck’s fingers toy with the wool. The movement is—coy. It seems intentional. Eddie’s gut surges up, forward, back down, swooping like a fierce wave. “He’s a great guy. Heard he went for eight thousand dollars, recently.”
“Eight thousand and two,” Buck corrects, because he’s so damn predictable; in the sense that Eddie can rely on Buck to meet him wherever he needs them both to be, always.
“My mistake.” Eddie inches forward. He claws at his jeans ever-so-slightly, a grounding movement. “He’s also kind of—”
“A smokeshow?” Buck interjects through a crooked grin. He looks so pleased with himself, but Eddie’s right there with him.
“Absolutely,” Eddie breathes. He takes note of the subsequent hitch in Buck’s breath. It feels a lot like courage. “Thoughtful, too. Very multifaceted.”
Buck laughs. His eyes gleam, even though he’s stepped out of the direct sun. “Wow. You’re sure talking him up.”
“It’s easy,” says Eddie, looking up slightly at Buck’s smile, then his eyes, striking and icy blue. “He’s kind of the whole package.” He reaches up, taking Buck’s hand where it’s still playing with the scarf.
“Eddie,” Buck says, breathless.
“Hi,” Eddie replies, lips curled up. “Do you always… moan like that? When you work out?”
Buck seems caught off guard. He gasps out a laugh. “Was I—”
“Moaning obscenely into the open air? Yes, you were.”
“My bad.” Buck tangles their fingers together. “I’ll be more cautious from now on. Selective. With noises, I mean.”
Eddie hums. “Good.”
“Eddie,” Buck repeats, an ounce more firm. “What’s happening here? This is—” Buck runs a thumb over Eddie’s knuckles, and his heart swoops. “I just need to be, like, one hundred percent sure. Please.”
Eddie nods. “No problem. Your, uh. Your date the other day made me realize a few things.” He wriggles his fingers playfully within Buck’s grip, but absolutely does not let him go.
“Oh, yeah?” Buck’s tone is cocky. Eddie quietly wants to take him apart.
“Mhm. I’m gay, for one.”
No retort for that. Instead, Buck’s jaw drops, like he never could have seen that coming, despite how Eddie’s been holding his hand for the past sixty seconds. It’s wonderful. He hopes he never figures out precisely how Buck’s mind works.
“And for two,” Eddie continues on, unperturbed by Buck’s slack expression, “I’m interested. In you. Heavily, even.”
“Heavily,” Buck repeats, wide-eyed, like the only words he can remember how to speak are the ones he can copy verbatim from Eddie. It’s a dangerous power trip.
“Yep,” says Eddie, popping the P. He’s being cocky now - so sue him. Buck is—all that Buck is, and sun-drenched, and so, so, handsome, and Eddie’s rendered him near-speechless. He’s allowed to feel a little smug.
“That’s…” Buck blinks, and it seems to bring him back to his body. He shakes his head like a slightly-wet dog, resetting. “Awesome.”
Eddie beams, almost starstruck. Awesome, indeed. “I like to think so.”
“Sorry,” says Buck, slightly sheepish. “I think I’m processing. I’ve not really, uh, let myself believe it, ‘til now, so it’s… Yeah.”
“For sure,” Eddie agrees.
“I had my—some suspicions, though. Since the auction.” Buck blushes. Funny, now, that Eddie can’t actually bring himself to feel embarrassed.
“Oh, was I being obvious?” Eddie asks, coquettish.
“No, no.” Buck plays along, plucking at the strings effortlessly, in tune with Eddie always. A familiar melody, just a change in dynamics. “Your conniving with my sister did make me think a little, though. Which sets a truly terrifying precedent, by the way.”
Eddie smiles. “She’s a good Buckley. One of the best.”
“I agree. The best, I’d argue. And she’s gonna have a lot to say about this turn of events. That is—”
“You can tell her,” says Eddie, assuaging. “Of course.”
“Cool.” Buck squeezes his hand, a tiny token of thanks. “I’ll have to work up to it, though, because she definitely won’t let me live it down. She’s been clued in far, far longer than I have.”
“Oh yeah?”
“God, yes. She’s known how I feel about you for—I’d rather not say, actually.”
“No, no, please say,” Eddie teases. Making Buck squirm might be a little addicting. He suspects he’ll always be looking for another fix.
“I plead the fifth,” says Buck, thumbing at the scarf with his free hand. It doesn’t even seem purposefully flirty, more—antsy. “But, at least, she didn’t have anything close to concrete evidence for your side of the equation, until the auction.”
Eddie snorts. “That tracks. Admittedly, it took me a while to catch up. Even without me concocting the priciest escape plan of all time, she probably knew before I did.” He scuffs one foot, scratches his jaw. “A lot of people probably knew before I did.”
“Not me,” Buck attests.
“No, not you,” Eddie concurs, voice low. “And you’re the one that counts.”
Buck’s resulting smile echoes the near-blinding late afternoon sun currently caressing the horizon. It’s warm, and content, but he’s visibly twitchy. His eyebrows are making nonstop micromovements. His fingers fidget with the loose ends of Eddie’s scarf. His eyes keep dropping to Eddie’s mouth.
Oh. Buck wants to kiss him, Eddie realizes.
That’s why he’s antsy. Christ, that’s adorable. This—absolutely ripped giant of a grown man, his best friend, is down-right cute. Of course he is.
“So,” Eddie drawls. He loosens their joined hands to fiddle with Buck’s fingers. “Are you gonna actually kiss me?”
Buck’s eyeline snaps up from where it’s staring glassy-eyed at the hand Eddie is toying with, to instead look directly at Eddie, affronted. “I was being a gentleman!”
“A gentleman?” Eddie teases. God, flirting with Buck comes too naturally. So much so that Eddie’s a little worried he’s been doing it without knowing this whole time. “Buck, you destroyed a perfectly good, LAFD-sanctioned shirt so you could peacock shamelessly on a runway less than a week ago. The buttons went flying. You could have blinded a pensioner. Then they wouldn’t be able to objectify you while you knit me lovely scarves, and wouldn’t that be sad?”
Buck blushes. His birthmark glows rosy to match, a calling card of embarrassment. It’s incredibly endearing.
“I’m trying something new,” Buck mumbles, like a confession. “You’re important. And this whole—” Buck raises their joint hands and waves them in the air, pointed, “this, is kind of out of my realm of imagination.”
Eddie raises his eyebrows incredulously, even though he really, really gets it. His world feels tilted on its axis in the most daunting, delicious way.
“It is?” Eddie all but purrs. He tilts his head inward, a hair’s breadth. “Maybe you should dream bigger.”
“Well,” Buck stutters, “maybe in this scenario, I’m the blinded pensioner.”
“That makes sense.” Eddie’s nose hits Buck’s, and he brushes them back and forth, a tease; intimate and electrifying. Buck’s pupils flare. Eddie continues: “Grandpa.”
Buck makes a protesting sound, eyebrows sky high, blurry from how close a distance Eddie is watching them.
“I’ll show you grandpa,” says Buck, defiant.
Then Eddie really is tilted off his axis, because suddenly he’s being lifted up, up, his legs wrapping around Buck’s hips on blind instinct, pure self-preservation, and he’s being kissed within an inch of his life, precise and devastatingly thorough.
Eddie squeezes his thighs automatically, even though Buck is—Jesus Christ—more than capable of holding his weight. Two firm hands, by virtue of plucking him effortlessly off the ground, cup his ass while Eddie secures his grip, making him dizzy.
Once he’s, well - situated, one of Buck’s hands starts its journey tantalisingly up Eddie’s back, a deep pressure pushing Eddie closer, closer, closer, as though he needed any additional encouragement, until it smoothes between his shoulder blades and back down, settling at the base of his spine.
Eddie presses his torso to Buck’s, meeting him with unabashed eagerness, because he feels nothing short of incredible right now. Buck’s lips are slightly chapped, and the rough texture adds a graze to the kiss that sends a thrill deep through Eddie’s bones. He sucks Buck’s bottom lip between his own, smoothes over it delicately with his tongue, one hand grasping at the back of Buck’s neck like a lifeline.
He’s incapable of feeling Buck enough. The nerve endings in Eddie’s fingers aren’t cut out for just how fiercely he needs to feel Buck’s goosebump-coated skin under his touch.
Buck is a fervent, diligent kisser. He approaches it with the same dichotomy of freedom and pinpoint care he approaches most things. It’s so paradoxical that it’s hard for Eddie to even keep focus; distracted left and right, first by the cool balm of sloppy spit on his cupid’s bow, then by a dextrous swipe of Buck’s tongue over the roof of his mouth. It’s messy, and well-practised. Organised chaos.
Their mouths break apart with a gasp, a thin trail of saliva connecting their upper lips, which—if Eddie keeps looking at that, he’ll come in his pants, Jesus fuck. They’re both hard. Eddie has no chance of ignoring it, not with how tightly he’s being clutched to, and equal parts desperately clutching, Buck’s body. Buck adjusts his grip, jostling Eddie slightly, and the resulting friction brings forth a noise he might just take to his grave.
Buck hears it and chuckles, low and alluring, then pecks Eddie’s lips, once, twice. He pulls Eddie’s bottom lip between his teeth, a shameless tease.
”Hi,” Buck says, and if his tone of voice had a face, Eddie would punch it. Then kiss it, over and over. Cocky bastard.
Eddie presses their foreheads together intensely, lets the blunt sensation ground him.
”Hi.”
”You okay?” Buck asks, kissing Eddie’s cheek. He shows no sign of letting Eddie down from being hoisted in the air. Good.
”Okay is one word,” says Eddie, running a hand up through the hair on the back of Buck’s skull. “There are—several other words I’d deem more suitable, right about now.”
”Oh yeah?”
“No further questions,” Eddie entreats. He has no trust in whatever might come out of his mouth if Buck keeps using that voice on him.
“Got it,” Buck replies, then places a tender kiss on Eddie's jaw. The hand at Eddie’s back runs its way up, possibly to smooth through his hair in retaliation, but it hits the scarf first.
”You liked the scarf,” Buck hums, quiet but proud.
”I love the scarf,” Eddie corrects, pulling back a fraction so they’re still nose to nose, but he can meet Buck’s eye, stern. “Knit me more.”
“Yes, sir,” Buck laughs. “Right now? Or—“
“God no,” Eddie interrupts, leaning in for another kiss. “You’re busy.”