Archive of Our Own

-ˋˏ ༻❁✿❀༺ ˎˊ- 1 -ˋˏ ༻❀✿❁༺ ˎˊ-

“Shit,” Buck hisses through his teeth, watching helplessly as the kitchen floor floods with an ocean of crimson. “Shit. For God’s—Eddie,” he calls out.

“Yeah?”

“Can you bring the mop?”

“Your one, my old one, or my new one?”

That’s a lot of mops. Seems excessive. “Why do we have—never mind. Is there a difference?” He yells.

Some various sounds later—thuds, clanging, jingling; because apparently Mops 1, 2, and 3 are stored alongside the holiday decorations—Eddie appears in the kitchen doorway with a veritable tall, skinny army of cleaning apparatus. 

Eddie looks down at the battlefield a foot or so away, then takes a hop and a skip backward before his socks can be tainted blood red. “My cranberry juice,” he pouts, forlorn.

“I’m sorry,” Buck entreats. “I’ll run to the store this afternoon.”

“No, it’s okay. Don’t put yourself out.” Eddie holds up the mops for consideration. “Pick one.”

“Uh,” says Buck. “Is there a—”

“Yes, there’s a difference,” replies Eddie; his eye roll not visible, but implied. “Here. Use the swiffer,” he says, stretching on the balls of his feet, engaging his full wingspan to pass the enlisted soldier to Buck across the scarlet sea. “Make sure you—”

“Blot it first, yeah, yeah,” Buck replies with an exasperated grin. “This isn’t my first juice clean-up job, you know.”

“Now that I can believe,” Eddie quips, voice flat. Buck shoots him a crinkly-eye glare and goes digging in the cupboard for paper towels. “What happened?”

“I, uh… opened the fridge. This—” Buck gestures to the sodden heap of cardboard junk that was once a thriving, fruity vessel, “was self-inflicted.”

“The carton jumped?” Eddie asks. “Did it leave a note?”

“Don’t think so. It was all very sudden.” Buck leans the mop against the counter, then crouches down to start dabbing at the ground. Eddie gestures so as to volunteer to help, but Buck waves him off. “No. My mess. I’m culpable.”

“You sure?” Eddie looks like he’s itching to be of use. Buck is certain he would be wringing his hands together if he weren’t currently wielding a mop in each of them.

Buck looks up from his kneeling stance and meets his eye. “I think I got it,” he insists, aiming for fed up and scoring a slam-dunk straight through fond, instead.

“Okay,” Eddie nods curtly, definitely unsatisfied with the outcome, but trying his hardest to fast-track his way to acceptance instead of diving down to contribute. Then he disappears to put the spurned mops back in their stale cupboard jail.

Frustratingly, the carton had been roughly half full. Buck is unravelling paper towels like he recently got a part time job as a human bungee cord; blotting the tiles like it’s going out of style. 

“Look at the bright side,” says Eddie, reappearing in the doorway, leaning on one shoulder like he was raised and trained in the art of nonchalance. 

He doesn’t say anything else, so Buck rolls his eyes, preparing to dotingly indulge whatever follows. “And what’s that?”

“Well,” Eddie smirks—definitely self-satisfied, trying to hide it, failing terribly. “At least if the floor had a UTI, it’ll feel better now.”

Embarrassingly, Buck does actually laugh. It bubbles out of him before he can smush it down, because his own heart is a damn traitor. Its primary purpose is to keep oxygen pumping to his brain, but as an unsolicited treat it likes to swallow whole even Eddie’s corniest jokes with one big whelping gulp, then belch out lovesick, satiated giggles as thanks.

Buck coughs in an attempt to play it off; convinces nobody. “It’s like having a live-in court jester,” he monotones. “I should get you a hat; one with bells.”

“Yeesh,” Eddie balks. “No thanks. The constant jangling?” He shudders. “Talk about migraine city.”

-ˋˏ ༻❁✿❀༺ ˎˊ- 2 -ˋˏ ༻❀✿❁༺ ˎˊ-

The front door opens and Buck turns his head to watch Eddie donkey kick it closed. He’s been dabbling in yoga lately, after Hen and Karen got him a friendship-is-marketing coupon to tag along for free to some of their classes, and he’s working the hell out of that Warrior III.

“How was the class?”

“Buck, we’ve been over this,” Eddie drones as he tucks his sneakers neatly side by side, toes and heels kissing. “It’s not a class, it’s an experience.”

Eddie has also, lately, been determinedly dabbling in being open-minded. This dabble extends to trying new things—such as yoga—then taking what resonates; relentlessly mocking what doesn’t. 

Based on reviews Buck has forcibly and delightedly received, the pros and cons list of Wilson-Diaz Yoga Class-Experiences looks something like this:

Pros

• Spending time with Hen and Karen, who usually have good stories. (Stories is an Eddie Euphemism for gossip, because he won’t admit to being a huge one.)
• It provides a less intensive exercise option, in case Eddie doesn’t feel like beating the high-density foam out of a punching bag that day. (Buck does not permit that visual to enter the boxing ring right now.)
• Eddie is steadily becoming more flexible—mentally, due to the many perks yoga has for stress management, as well as, of course, physically. Physically, also, more flexible. (Buck corkscrew jabs that visual the hell out of dodge before it can smash a folding chair over his head.)

Cons

• Fairly frequent run-ins with PTA moms from Chris’ school, who are shameless in asking when Eddie will be making it to another fundraiser, but oh, of course, no pressure, they totally get that firefighting must wreak havoc on his schedule, such a noble and brave profession, though, say, how’s that Buck? Would he be interested in yoga next Tuesday? He’s got the strength for it, you both do, tee hee.
• Everything has some alternative-therapy, put-through-a-dodgy-hippie-thesaurus name. A class is an experience. Meditation is chakra justification; like his ‘inner energies are paragraphs in a word document.’ (Eddie’s words.)
• Each time Eddie comes home from these cl—experiences, he does so glowing with a thin sheen of sweat, wearing loose-fitting tanks he owns in a variety of pleasantly soft, warm shades; which, more often than not, are accompanied by matching jersey shorts that never seem to be any longer than a five inch inseam, max.

That last one is Buck’s personal gripe. He and Eddie already share a grocery list, a chore list, a Car Jukebox (Play)list, so on and so forth—so he feels pretty safe in chaotically jotting down on-the-fly additions to this one, too, like he does the rest.

Today, the shorts are a color the athletic-wear website calls champagne jasmine, though to Buck, they just look kinda beige. Maybe more like taupe, or tan; he hadn’t examined that closely. 

The only reason he knows the official shade is because earlier, Eddie had opted to tie his shoelace by resting one foot on a dining chair that stood an arm’s length away from where Buck was eating breakfast. As a fashion-forward gym goer himself, he naturally instinctively scanned the general vicinity of Eddie’s inner-outer thigh-slash-shorts area in search of a recognizable brand logo. The second the front door clicked shut, Buck had been compelled to undertake some crucial product research.

Turns out, this pair has a four inch inseam. 

Buck clears his throat. “My bad. How was the… experience?”

“Ugh,” Eddie scoffs, sagging down onto the couch beside Buck. “Fine. It was a different instructor, though. Cassie-Jo was out sick.”

“Oh no,” Buck replies genuinely. “She okay?”

Eddie waves his hand in the air as if to say don’t worry. “Nothing too nasty.”

“She has kids around Chris’ age, right? Man. I hope it’s not something going around his school.”

“Doesn’t sound like it. Karen said—” here he goes, settle down, it’s story time— “that when they talked by the water fountain, Alyssa sort of implied that ‘bug’ might be code for something else.”

“Food poisoning?”

“Try hangover,” Eddie grins. “Multi-day. Her cousin Julie got married at the weekend. Alyssa heard that near the end of the evening, she asked the bartender for a, quote, Cohn Jollins.” 

“Oof,” Buck exhales. “Brutal. Hope she had fun.”

Eddie twists his neck to lean his head sideways against the back of the couch. He smiles softly at Buck and says, “Me too.” A beat of comfortable quiet passes, then Eddie seems to remember he had just been busy huffing. “So, point is, no Cassie; instead, it’s some new guy, wearing these… MC Hammer style pants, as if we’re not multiple decades into the 21st Century. Can’t trust a guy living in the past. Red flag number one.” Eddie holds out a thumb, suggesting red flags are soon to abound.

“Wise words,” Buck nods indulgingly. 

“Thank you,” says Eddie, pleased. “Anyway. Number two—” he wiggles his index finger near Buck’s nose, who lets himself go a little cross-eyed tracking the movement— “he came in wearing one of those super slouchy beanies, then kept it on the whole damn time.”

“Hm. What color?”

“Purple. Does it matter?”

Buck pouts faux-consideringly and shrugs. “A little.”

“Alright, well—the hat was purple. So he comes in, right, the experience hasn’t even started yet, mind you, and get this: he tells Hen and I to stop talking.”

Buck’s eyebrows shoot up. “Like you’re kindergarteners?”

“Exactly!” He makes an exasperated hand gesture, fingers splayed, then folds his arms across his chest. “Or, well, kind of. He winked at us and called us Chatty Cathys. But there was a tone.”

One of Buck’s eyebrows tentatively takes its seat. The other stays perked up straight and twitching, like an anxious dog’s ears upon hearing the word vet. 

Eddie’s very intelligent, and good with people—comes with the first responder, life-saving paramedic territory—but he doesn’t always score top marks on pop quizzes regarding social cues. A tone to Eddie could quite likely, for someone else, be an obvious—well, tone.

“So that’s three red flags by this point, and we haven’t even done any yoga yet, so, obviously, awful precedent,” Eddie marches on unperturbed. “Hen seemed to find it all very amusing, but—”

“That’s Hen,” Buck chimes in.

“Exactly,” Eddie agrees. “So, finally, yoga. It’s fine, sure, but this guy was trying so hard to make his voice all deep and relaxing, it just went full circle back to distracting.” Eddie makes a little round and round gesture with his second red flag finger.

Buck suspects that distracting may well have been along the lines of what this big-beanie-baby instructor guy was going for, but Eddie’s still at full steam, so he bites his tongue for now; simply nods and furrows his brow to show he’s invested.

Eddie meets his eyes. His left cheek dimples with a pleased little smile, grateful to have a captive audience for his bitching—sorry, slip of the tongue—his tale-weaving.

“Then as the class goes on, he keeps hovering. You know how I hate being… hovered.” Buck nods again. Eddie’s personal space is a volatile forcefield when he’s grouchy. The exception being of course Chris, and Buck, too, most of the time. “Then he starts correcting me, of all things—multiple times, mind you—which is ridiculous, given Sara is four feet to my left giving her poor Downward Dog scoliosis."

Buck, appropriately, barks out a laugh. “Mean,” he chastises, with zero heart in it.

“You like me when I’m mean, don’t try and lie,” Eddie dismisses. Before Buck can fully register the words and mentally repeat some don’t blush, don’t start sweating, don’t get hard affirmations, he’s barrelling on effortlessly. “He was all condescending about it, too. Really got on my nerves,” Eddie huffs. 

Then Eddie pulls his legs up onto the couch, tucking them under his thighs. Which—just to note—are still notoriously and significantly visible. Even more so, perhaps, following this change of posture. Buck’s fine.

He’s—Buck’s mostly fine.

“That sucks,” Buck croaks. He drags his gaze away from Eddie’s hyper-present, bare, muscled and hairy legs, like his eyes are a rowdy dog on a leash in a public park that just got a whiff of a kid’s ham sandwich from a nearby picnic blanket, back up to his face. 

“Yeah,” Eddie huffs. “So eventually, I’m just getting into the next pose, camel—” Eddie bends his spine backwards in what Buck assumes is a less than half-hearted demonstration— “and he comes over, all oh, let’s try Camel Junior.” 

Eddie’s instructor-impersonation voice is an exaggerated, raspy baritone that Buck is unfortunately going to have a tough time forgetting.

“Junior?” 

“Fair question, because it’s definitely not a real yoga term. Which is saying something, given every one of these classes already pushes the boundaries of legitimate yoga terminology, but—anyway. Point is: I don’t mind admitting when I’m not bendy enough for something, you know? It’s a process, after all. My hips are there; my back arch is still slightly off, maybe,” he muses, wobbling a flat palm slightly to and fro, “but I know I can handle Camel Pose. Which I told him.”

“Of course,” Buck grins. 

Eddie is so often a man of select words. He usually picks them out in a way that maximizes efficiency while maintaining his aura of friendly neighbor forward-slash firm, toned, tall, pillar of the community forward-slash urgent medical care provider. Which is to say: it’s always a treat when Buck gets to listen to him flat-out ramble. 

He’s so busy being endeared that Eddie soliloquizing about how bendy various parts of his body are barely even makes him grimace from the effort required to hold himself together.

“So then I did Camel Senior,” Eddie offers with a free side of air quotes, “because I can, thank you, and he got all… smarmy. Like—” Eddie switches on his instructor impression again, God save Buck’s soul— “Oh, wow, good work, really impressive, I thought so little of you before, but you sure proved me wrong.”

The airport dog in Buck’s head that guards onboarding for Eddie’s attention makes a few pronounced sniffs. “Is that what he said? Really impressive?”

“Uh, yeah.” Eddie rubs haphazardly at one of his eyes, then slides the hand down his cheek and pulls the skin taut, like he’s tired just thinking about it. “Even though it’s really not. He was just… undermining me, I guess.”

Buck can’t help it: he chuckles. When Eddie shoots him a betrayed crease of the brow, he explains himself. 

“Eddie, he was flirting with you.”

The hand slips immediately away from Eddie’s face and down to the collar of his tank, clutching his pearls. His brow stays furrowed, but his eyes bug out, like Buck’s being absurd; or, more realistically, like Buck has just brought his brakeless train of thought to a halt by sauntering over to the control panel and pressing a big, red button that he hadn’t noticed. 

“What?”

“He wasn’t undermining you, dude,” Buck pronounces slowly, like a bit of a dick. Sue him. He doesn’t leave Eddie stunned often, and he’s a notoriously terrible winner. “He wants to be, you know—mining, uh, under you,” he winces. 

Eddie’s only response is to narrow his eyes into a dubious squint and silently mouth back at him: mining? 

“Yeah, I know, I heard it. It was a reach; my point still stands. Guy with a beanie, eclectic gymwear, and I’m gonna hazard a guess—some kind of facial piercing?”

A beat passes. Then: “Nose,” Eddie confirms reluctantly. His mouth screws up to the side in petulance before he adds, “And eyebrow.” 

Buck’s subconscious pulls out a small, golden clipboard. Check and check.

“Uh huh,” Buck drags out, milking every second. If he wants to make it through hearing about some potentially-handsome bendy stranger flirting with Eddie, then he’s got to grab hold of the capricious joys as and where they appear. 

He wags two demonstrative fingers out in front of him, like he’s setting the scene before them on the couch; or, if he’s honest, as a dual-wield told you so. Again, like a bit of a dick. “Nose and eyebrow both pierced, got it. He comes in to teach a yoga class. Not your usual instructor, so he’s not so likely to see you regularly. So,” Buck sing-songs, “he figures he’ll test the waters. For instance: you said he corrected you. Was he touching you?”

Eddie hugs one of his legs to his chest, sheepish. “He got my consent first,” he mumbles, left cheek squished into his kneecap.

At least if this guy’s a walking pending client relations violation, he’s a baseline level of respectful about it. “Well, that’s important,” Buck says evenly. “So he’s got his hands all over you,” he continues; Eddie flushes bright red, “and he’s telling you what an awesome stretchy job you’re doing, singling you out, because—correct me if I’m wrong, here, but I assume he didn’t try this with Hen or Karen.”

Eddie exhales harshly through his nostrils. “No,” he mutters in chagrined defeat. “You’ve made your point. I just… am I an idiot?” 

All of a sudden, Eddie’s eyes catch the slats of light pouring through the half-drawn blinds. They become two concentrated jasper pearls that stare Buck down with such raw, precious earnestness that his heart trips over its own shoes.

“Jesus, Eddie, no,” Buck urges. “Not at all. It’s not like you’re expecting some—random guy to hit on you, anyway.”

Eddie hums. “It’s not exactly unprecedented.”

Which—huh?

“I mean, it’s not like guys haven’t hit on me before,” Eddie keeps talking, look at that, he’s got more to say, where did all the gravity in this room go? “They’ve just never been my type, you know?”

You know, he says. Buck has categorically never known less in his life. In fact, his brain is shaking back and forth like a thin sheet of metal. All he hears is wob-wob-wob-wob. 

Right here, right now, he’s a blank slate. He’s left the era of B.C: Basic Consciousness, and tripped down a spiral staircase into A.D: Awareness Depleted. No, Buck doesn’t know about whether or not certain types of men have ever piqued Eddie’s interest—which implies a hypothetical interest there to be piqued, and wouldn’t that just send an army of sharpies scribbling all over his last wall of defense against certain allegations, ha ha ha.

Thankfully though, he doesn’t know, because his brain is exclusively tumbleweeds.

“Uh,” Buck starts. He doesn’t continue.

“And I mean—that instructor? Absolutely not my type. Way too pretentious.”

“Oh,” Buck replies. At least he might have done. He may well have just arranged his lips into a tiny confounded circle, but that’s simply none of his business. He tries again, just in case. “I…”

Another blunder. Predictable, all things considered.

“Buck?” Eddie looks concerned. Rightfully, probably. “You good?”

“Eh,” Buck half-answers. Eddie really looks at him for a moment, then; searching, probing, until—

“Oh, shit,” Eddie mutters, a deer in headlights. “I, uh… shit. I forgot that I—that I hadn’t… gotten to that part, yet. With you.”

“Ah,” Buck catches on. And hey, just like that, he’s worked his way through the vowels. Backward.

“Shit,” Eddie rounds third. “Shit.” Home run. The crowd jeers. Every single foam finger points at Buck and laughs.

“I can—” Buck stammers. “I can like, forget. Maybe. I can try, at least. Just say the word.”

“No, no, that’s…” Eddie screws up his eyes for a second; waves his hands near his face as though he’s wiping a mental whiteboard clean. When he reopens them, he blinks firmly once, then twice, then says, “I don’t want you to forget. I want you to know. I’m—I’m glad you know.”

“Okay,” Buck replies. And even though he kept the then why didn’t you… locked up behind the bars of his ribcage, Eddie still picks up on it. 

He might flunk social cues sometimes, but he’s a damn prodigy in Buckology.

“It’s recent,” Eddie explains. “And—part of me has been dying to tell you, just, another part…” 

Was terrified, he doesn’t add. After all, he doesn’t actually need to say it. It flashes in the forefront of Buck’s mind without effort.

“Yeah,” Buck replies. “Well… I guess we both know what that feels like, now.”

This doesn’t change a thing between us, he doesn’t add. He could, but he doesn’t. He borrows some of Eddie’s hard-won open-mindedness, instead.

“So,” Buck diffuses—or, actually, he grabs the grenade and throws it a football field’s length away, letting it detonate midair— “Who’s the guy?”

Eddie’s subsequent laughter sounds like it rattles through him by surprise. Buck prides himself on being an instrument to that sound. “Buck,” he pronounces, all four letters present and accounted for, each with their own unique emotional hue. “That’s… some of us don’t have to discover our sexualities just because they—kiss us in the face.”

Which would be a reasonable enough argument—it probably is, rationally speaking, which Buck is soundly not—if Eddie’s cheeks weren’t rapidly tinging petal pink; if he weren’t avoiding eye contact and squaring his shoulders; if he weren’t transparently and distinctly deflecting. He’s positively cagey. 

Fortunately for them both, Buck has been practicing the art of reading the room, especially where Eddie is concerned. He knows it’s not his job to set this particular pace, so instead he lets it slide: jots down a scraggly mental note; winds up his ball of red-hot yarn; slips his oversized corkboard into temporary storage. 

As much as he’d love to blow this case wide open, there’s plenty of time.

(Plus, of course: Buck knows what they say about assuming. Not that he needs to make an ass out of Eddie, though. He’s already packing plenty of heat in that department.)

“Alright, fair point,” Buck acknowledges. “In my defense, though; it was highly efficient, as realizations go.”

Eddie untucks his legs, plants both feet firmly on the ground, knees apart; open, easy, authentic. Not to say he wasn’t as such before, but… now that Buck is clued in, the difference is marked. 

“Can’t argue with that,” Eddie concedes. “You get points for speed.” 

“Oh, I’ve never been awarded those.” Buck curls his tongue snake-like between his teeth. Then he adds an eyebrow raise, as a treat. 

Speaking of treats—Eddie blushes up a storm. Thunder ripples through Buck’s chest, rattling his foundations, raw acoustic energy twisting and shouting in his gut. After a moment, it quells, contented; morphing itself into something satisfied, pleasant, and profoundly new. 

His heart settles down into a steady rhythm. As it does, Buck realizes that this might be a lot of fun.

-ˋˏ ༻❁✿❀༺ ˎˊ- 3 -ˋˏ ༻❀✿❁༺ ˎˊ-

“Coffee?” Eddie pokes his head out from the kitchen when Buck gets home from his run.

“I was about to shower, but, uh—sure, if it’s going,” Buck shrugs, then bends down to untie his shoelaces. “I guess there’s no rush.”

Eddie folds his arms, cocks his hip. “Why does it sound like you have to forcibly remind yourself of that?”

“Because I live in the fast lane against my will.” Buck, now folded over awkwardly, cranes his neck and levels Eddie with an all-business, no-frills look. “I’ve been car jacked. There’s no braking or merging. There’s no hard shoulders.”

As Buck wrestles with a stubborn knot atop his sneaker, Eddie rakes his eyes over the curved jut of his biceps almost shamelessly. “No, I’d say there’s a couple of those,” he muses once he’s done surveying. 

Let it be known: if Buck’s face looks red, it’s because he’s presently head over heels of his shoes, and that’s just how blood flow works. He straightens up, kicks them off, recovers his senses just in time to meet Eddie’s eye. “Damn right,” he smirks.

Then he flexes, because he might as well, and follows Eddie when he promptly turns heel back into the kitchen.

“Here you are, sir. One cup of Joe,” Eddie announces, mug extended in offering; accompanied by a slightly self-conscious, particularly stiff, undeniably dorky little bow. 

Buck takes the mug and curtsys awkwardly back. They’re in this together.

Before he can take his first sip, though, he gets distracted. “When did we get this mug?” Buck asks, amused.

“Secret Santa back in 2022,” answers Eddie, leaning on his elbows against the counter. “From—”

“Chim,” Buck finishes, nodding his head slowly. “Yeah, I remember now. That tracks.” It really does. The cup is plain white with bold, black text that reads, Don’t Talk To Me Until I’ve Eaten This Mug. 

He raises it to his mouth, blows on the surface, and takes a small, almost-too-hot sip. It’s earthy and bitter, because Eddie always makes his coffee Strong-with-a-capital-S. He puts this down to over a decade of being a single dad; Buck puts it down to his corroded tastebuds, worn weary from Eddie’s mulish habit of refusing to let any scalding drink cool off before diving in.

Buck smacks his lips. “Thanks. ‘S good.” 

“Good,” Eddie echoes. The morning sun oozes through the windowpane just to his right. Its beams bounce languidly off the clean chestnut tiles, gleaming and twinkling. It matches up neatly with the warm glint held by Eddie’s eyes. 

-ˋˏ ༻❁✿❀༺ ˎˊ-

“Fuck,” Buck curses out his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. Tiny yet keen dots of bubbling red crest at the arch of his jawline. “God. Okay.” He drops the razor into the sink, turns the tap to cold, fumbles to keep the towel from slipping at his waist.

“Eddie,” he calls out, once the lower half of his dignity is safely secured.

“Yep?”

“Do you—could you get me a washcloth?” Buck shouts, very politely. “A clean one?”

“Why would I get—you know what? Never mind. One second.” The shake of his head is practically audible through the bathroom door. Buck rinses his hands in the now-icy stream pouring into the sink; shakes them off just as Eddie raps gently on the doorframe.

“Come in.”

“Here—oh, no,” Eddie frets once Buck turns around. “You okay?”

To Eddie’s credit, it’s sauna-adjacent in this bathroom, save the meager trickle of air now skulking in through the doorway. The environmental factors could easily explain the rosy glow rapidly appearing on his cheeks—the way his gaze flits not-quite-clandestinely over Buck’s hips and torso notwithstanding.

“I’m fine. Just stupid.” Buck reaches out a hand so he can collect the washcloth. Instead, Eddie glares studiously at the nick on his cheek, then down at his open palm. He seems to come to a decision based on his observations, because he frowns and sidesteps Buck’s arm to crowd in near the sink.

“What—”

“Tilt,” Eddie commands quietly, nudging Buck’s cheek toward the desired angle with his free hand; running the washcloth carefully under the tap with the other. “Stay still.”

As the cloth nears his face, Buck says, “Eddie, really, I can—”

“I said stay still,” Eddie tuts. He meets Buck’s eyes with a look that’s charged with intent and conspicuous care.

Buck shuts up and stays still. 

Well, he hisses when the sudden-cold fabric is pressed to his cheek, but—other than that, he thinks he does a good job.

“How’d you manage this?” Eddie asks. He holds the cool cloth strong and steady, intimidating the blood vessels at the surface of Buck’s skin into a cowardly, shrinking retreat.

Buck winces, bracing for an earful. “My, uh, hand slipped.” When Eddie’s chin dips to examine the limb on trial, Buck tucks it into a fist just a second too late. 

“Buck,” Eddie sighs, but it’s lightweight and warm.

“I know, I know,” says Buck, appeasing. “Coffee jitters and razors don’t mix.”

“If you know, then how come you’ve wound up with a cut jaw again?” 

“Because I’m only human?” Buck tries, wide-eyed and repentant, but Eddie doesn’t bite. “Man, I was on autopilot. C’mon,” he drawls. “Fast lane, remember? It’s just cruise control, at this point. Shower, then shave. You can’t fault me for being a… man of rigid efficiency.”

“You’re a man of rigid something,” Eddie grumbles. Importantly, bravely, Buck pays no mind to their shared proximity—or to any potent discrepancy in clothing status—when he does. “I’ve told you not to shave when you’re all twitchy,” Eddie adds. “Safer to wait ‘til it wears off.”

Buck pouts. “You sound like a don’t drink and drive campaign right now.”

The cloth is removed from his face. The skin there buzzes; cool moisture clashing against dense atmosphere. “Well—you—” Eddie splutters incredulously. “Obviously don’t do that either? You’re actively proving my point, here.” The washcloth hangs limply in one of his confounded hands.

And Buck is helpless to the grin that sweeps his face, that always does, when Eddie gets all clucky and perplexed like this. He can only hope it doesn’t agitate the steadily sealing wound. “I know,” he says, lowering his pitch a couple of notches. “But you love being right. So.”

A puff of air escapes Eddie nostril-first. He looks like a reluctantly charmed horse. “I don’t love it; I’m just good at it,” he retorts, then twists the knob on the tap back to warm and rinses off the razor. He smacks it gently against the edge of the sink, raises it in Buck’s direction and says, “Stay still.”

Buck immediately jolts his head back in confusion. “Hey—hang on there, Sweeney.”

“Oh my god,” Eddie smiles, wry and bemused. “Do you know what stay still means? Have you just never heard those words before?”

“I think they were the first thing my parents ever said to me, actually, but thanks.”

“Hm.” Eddie’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “No wonder they didn’t get through, then. Who’d listen to those idiots,” he mumbles. 

One large, calloused hand comes to cup Buck’s sole shaved cheek, which is how Eddie’s intention finally dawns on him. Not his best attempt at situational awareness, granted, but—well, this is pretty unprecedented, as intentions go. Eddie’s never silently volunteered to shave his face in a small, steamy space. Not to mention, Buck is still currently a flimsy strip of cotton away from naked.

“Are you—”

“Saving you from yourself? Yes,” says Eddie, pointedly wiggling the razor in front of Buck’s face. “Now stay still.”

Buck doesn’t speak—not that he knows what he’d wind up trying to say, so it’s probably a mercy—he just does his best to convey sir, yes, sir through steely eyes as Eddie starts to shave.

The glide of the razor across his jaw feels borderline soothing when combined with the weight of Eddie’s fingers just across the way; the intent set to his brow; the unwavering focus in his gaze. He drags the sharp blade effortlessly across soft, prone flesh in a careful juxtaposition that makes Buck’s worn-out heart clench and jolt.

It’s a task so everyday that it should perhaps feel— at least, within reason—a little mundane, but it doesn’t. Not at all. Eddie immediately and uncomplicatedly shows Buck’s skin more caution, more tenderness, than he ever extends to himself. He’s covered head to toe in nicks and bruises that linger just on the inside of his flesh, a result of continued carelessness. It’s a litany of hidden little lesions that he’s beyond accustomed to by now, but that here, face to face with Eddie’s caring ministrations, begin to re-agitate and bite. 

Is this why we’re still here? His cells tingle. Is this what you think you don’t deserve? 

His thoughts are underscored by the steady, sporadic percussion of the razor knocking against ceramic; the wind-chime rush of water streaming over metal and plastic, flooding cut-off tufts down and away. 

Buck takes a measured breath, hones his attention on the minute twitch of Eddie’s lip as he goes delicately about his task. As he settles into the solid weight of the palm against his cheek, he decides it’s time to let some of those invisible scabs tag along for that unceremonious ride down the drain.

-ˋˏ ༻❁✿❀༺ ˎˊ- 4 -ˋˏ ༻❀✿❁༺ ˎˊ-

“Did I tell you that Barbara felt me up yesterday?” Buck asks. As if on cue, Eddie’s neck cranes at a right angle toward the source of gossip—which is Buck, to his left, on their couch, as it so often is. His features settle into their favored surprised-slash-concerned, wide eyes and a pout combo. 

“Next door Barbara? As in, our seventy-five year old neighbor?”

“The very same,” Buck nods solemnly.

The wide eyes narrow. The pout remains. “Define felt up,” Eddie drones. 

It’s disheartening, truly, how little faith Buck’s own best friend has in him. Of course, though, it’s simultaneously entirely-heartening to be known and subsequently doubted so well. 

Buck smiles coyly and clarifies: “She pinched my cheek.” Then, when Eddie looks nothing other than considerably unimpressed, he adds, “In public!”

“Define public.”

“What is this, a spelling bee?”

“Yes,” Eddie quips instantly. “Use it in a sentence for me.”

“Fine,” Buck huffs. “Barbara pinched my cheek on her front lawn, outside, in public.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Eddie deadpans. “Sounds violating.”

“Nah,” Buck dismisses; broad, brazen grin present and accounted for. “I’m fine. Thanks for caring, though.”

“Anytime.” Eddie briefly turns back to his book of crosswords. Buck watches patiently as he scrawls in the word BAIT (6 across, 4 letters), then his hand pauses, his jaw ticks—and he swivels once again in Buck’s direction. “Why did she pinch your cheek?”

Hook, line, sinker.

Not that this is exactly riveting or essential information he needs to divulge, per se. It’s just fun, is all, to watch Eddie go through the motions of feigning disinterest, when he’s such a consistently rapt audience to even Buck’s most menial affairs. 

“Her shrubs weren’t blooming,” Buck offers by way of explanation. When Eddie raises an eyebrow, he adds, “Ew. Get your mind out of whatever… deep, nasty gutter it’s fallen into.”

“You started it.”

“I categorically did not start whatever that was, but anyway.” Buck shudders, then marches on. “Her camellias. She got these new matching shrubs a few months back to brighten up the neighborhood, which—I’d thank her to put some respect on the orange tree in our yard, actually.”

“Amen.” 

Eddie extends his arm for a solidarity fist bump, which Buck grants without interruption. “Yesterday, she calls me over as I’m grabbing the mail, visibly distressed, so I’m on alert, naturally. Prepared to check vitals; 9-1-1 on speed dial.”

“Buck, you are 9-1-1.”

“Exactly. I’m right there, on speed dial.” The crossword book slaps closed; Eddie caps his pen with a put-upon sigh. Buck beams, victorious, and continues, “So I jog over and she’s frowning all turtle-like at these bushes, then she says, they’re too green.”

The crosswords thud onto the coffee table with all the combined weight of one single weary man’s intrigue and bafflement. “I have some bad news for Barbara about plants,” Eddie monotones.

“Pretty much what I held back from saying, yeah.”

“Proud of you, bud.” 

“Thanks,” Buck grins, nudging Eddie’s hip with one socked foot. “Instead, y’know, I asked, uh, is something wrong?”

“Keeping it generic. Risky, knowing Barbara.”

“She’s a complex woman, Eddie. Stop getting me off track.” Between the two of them, it’s a miracle Buck has ever successfully completed verbalizing a thought. “Basically, her camellias should have bloomed by now, especially since she’s been totally doting on them, so she’s pretty rankled by the… all leaf, no petal thing.”

Eddie hums, dipping his head to one side, fair enough. He has an empathetic soul.

“So she starts pleading with me for answers,” Buck explains. “Her exact words were, uh—go on, figure it out; you’re a smart, handsome boy. Cue the cheek pinching.”

“Christ,” Eddie despairs, eyeing Buck suspiciously. “Do you have a spell over the senior citizen population of California, or something?”

Rude. Prodding repeatedly at Eddie’s hip with a more assertive socked foot now, Buck asks, “Am I not a smart, handsome boy?”

Four slender fingers grab at Buck’s ankle and hold it firm, stifling the onslaught. 

“Now I didn’t say that,” Eddie simpers, chin dipped down, umber eyes wide and distracting. Then he deposits Buck’s foot onto the couch cushion, pats it twice in reassurance, and stands up. 

Caught off guard—disproportionately so, considering he was the one to lay down the smart, handsome gauntlet in the first place—Buck, out of necessity, temporarily hands his decision-making over to instinct. When Eddie wanders off, he follows, keeping up his constant jabber as a distracting sort of lifeline.

“So I look into it,” he rambles on, “and bless her, given she seems to spend all her time out in that yard—”

“Lurking in the bushes,” Eddie grumbles as they enter the bathroom, because it’s becoming increasingly apparent that he has some gripe with homemade crochet jacket wearing Barbara from next door.

“If you say so. Regardless, she might actually have no idea what she’s doing—or, well, that’s harsh, maybe. Point is, she got the wrong camellias.”

“Wow. What a chump.” Eddie’s voice isn’t just dripping with sarcasm, it’s downright sodden. “Imagine not knowing your different camellias.”

“Well, I do, now,” says Buck. Eddie unzips his fly. “Sasanqua—”

“Gesundheit,” Eddie cuts in.

“Thanks. Those are what she wants: Camellia Sasanqua. They bloom in the fall. What she got—” 

Buck abruptly snaps his mouth shut when a gentle tinkling sound echoes through the room. He looks from left to right and back to left again, gathers his bearings, then says, “Oh. Uh. I’m in here.”

“Yep,” says Eddie, still peeing, still unperturbed. 

“Huh.” Buck shakes his head like an Etch A Sketch, makes a speedy 180-degree turn on his heels, doesn’t stumble even though his socks are slippery on the bathroom floor, thank you very much. 

Once he’s safely tucked away in a staring contest with the shower curtain, he says, “Well. Call me, uh, Chaperone John, I guess.” Jesus. It’s painful, truly, to exist in his mental sphere right now. Every little neuron is wincing in sympathy. “Cos, you know. I chaperone you—”

“To the john. Yeah, bud, I got it.” The tinkling stops. It’s a miniscule mercy, in the scheme of things. Over the noise of him zipping up his fly, Eddie asks, “So? What did she get?”

“Oh, uh,” Buck coughs, turning back around now that he’s heard the proverbial gun be safely holstered, coast clear. “Yeah, so, she actually got Camellia Japonica, which won’t bloom ‘til wintertime, earliest. So I had to tell her to just—you know. Be patient.”

Eddie barks out a breathy laugh as he goes about washing his hands. “Not her strong suit. I’ve seen her temper. My foot accidentally grazed the flowerbed of her cherished jonquils once—which are not the same as daffodils; she made sure to heartily let me know—like, two years ago, and she hasn’t smiled at me since.”

“Huh,” Buck ponders. “She’s always been sweet to me.”

“She can probably sense your dating history.”

“Hey!” Buck exclaims, like he’s not privately delighted every time Eddie gets a little bitchy.

Eddie just shrugs and grins as he dries his hands on a well-worn, familiar towel by the sink. That’s one of the things Buck loves the most about living in this house: its saturated history—ever since the Diazes moved in, at least. No item or person is made to feel unwelcome. Everything, everyone, has its special-held place. It’s glued together indestructibly by bricks and mortar and purpose and love.

Admittedly, he might be projecting a little, but it’s certainly how he feels. Buck could probably wax poetic about Eddie’s bath mat, if he tried. 

“Sorry,” Eddie lies half-heartedly. “But I swear, Buck, if looks could kill. Barbara would have been tried for second degree, all because of those damn jonquils. I guarantee she would consider her cause justified, too.”

“Never come between a lady and her bulbs,” Buck replies solemnly.

“No sir,” Eddie concurs. He reaches up to grab a spare roll of toilet paper from atop the medicine cabinet, because—Buck swiftly checks—he just finished the current one, and he’s a good, honest man.

Well, mostly honest. For instance: he visibly winces as he stretches out toward his target, then even more visibly attempts to hide that he just winced, or has ever winced, or has been slightly uncomfortable, ever, in his life. 

Since this is by far not his first rodeo, Buck gears himself up for a negotiation.

“Hey.” Buck gestures at their perfectly functional and comfortable bath, asks, “When’s the last time you used this thing?”

Eddie’s nose crinkles as he sniffs conspicuously. “Um… I don’t know, Buck,” he answers, clearly striving for what a strange, out-of-nowhere question, bud, why the heck even ask? But Buck, despite a contrary jibe here and there, wasn’t actually born yesterday.

“Hm.” Buck begins to very nonchalantly rummage in the corner cubby. “Aha,” he cheers jovially after a few seconds, quickly striking gold. “I knew it.”

“Why are you…”

“You,” Buck spins and gestures pointedly at Eddie with the tall, yellow bottle in his hand, “are taking a bath.”

“What? Buck, why—”

“Ah ah ah. It’s my turn for questions. When did you tweak your back again?”

Eddie purses his lips, forehead scrunching, caught out. He’s so facially expressive, which is a well of cartoonish amusement for Buck that never runs dry. Right now, he looks half a second away from smacking his knee and shouting, drat! Foiled again.

Instead—comparatively disappointing, but at least Buck has a healthy imagination—Eddie says, “Only yesterday.”

Good. That’s good. That means he hasn’t been acting fine for weeks, unlike previous incidents. It also means his back started playing up at work, which means Buck was more than likely otherwise occupied, so he doesn’t have to repent too hard for missing Eddie being hurt, even in a minor capacity. A stern self-pep talk later will do; once he’s done strong-arming Eddie into basic relaxation, of course.

Despite his commendable and hard-earned improvements in the realm of self-compassion, Eddie still has a deep-rooted tendency to perceive and treat himself as some immovable object; one with cruel, jagged edges that will tear readily through anything soft that gets too close. Buck knows better, though: Buck knows Eddie is one of those soft things. He’s been torn and stitched back together in several spots, dotted from limb to limb, patched up with varying levels of neatness.

Eddie is a soft, precious, battle-worn thing—which means he deserves bubbles, damn it.

“Alright,” Buck murmurs. He underarm tosses the bottle of bubble bath toward Eddie, who instinctively fumbles to catch it. (This is one of Buck’s favorite tricks to pull. It fills Eddie to the brim every time with righteous disdain that has no right to look so adorable on his face.)

“Stop doing that,” Eddie chides. Buck looks askance. Who, me? Do what?

Looking down at the bottle’s label like he’s reading the countdown clock on a bomb, Eddie says, “Buck.”

“Eddie.”

Said Eddie huffs. Buck suspects he also had to fight back the urge to stomp his foot with that one. “I don’t need… I’m fine. It’ll go away in a couple of days; it’s only when I stretch weird, anyway, so—”

“Or, hear me out,” Buck interrupts coolly, “you could, I don’t know—relax? A few bubbles won’t bite, Eddie.” Then, softer: “It’s a muscle soak. It’ll help, I swear.”

Eddie holds out the bottle and points at it despairingly. “Citrus jamboree,” he whines.

“It’s a party,” Buck shrugs.

“I just don’t think that any bath product could possibly warrant the use of the word jamboree.”

“Well, I think you just have lingering Boy Scout trauma,” says Buck, pressing the bottle with his index finger until Eddie is holding it against his own chest. “One more jamboree can’t hurt. The opposite, even. C’mon,” he pleads. “Let me run you a bath. I just want to help.”

With a dash of satisfaction, Buck watches Eddie’s eyes morph from habitual defiance into fond acquiescence. With a heaping abundance of gratification, he watches Eddie’s mouth steer into the pout of a man who has accepted his warm, foamy fate.

“Fine.”

Buck fist pumps in triumph. It’s not intentional, but—oh well, there it goes. “Awesome. You won’t regret it. Get ready for the bath of your life,” says Buck spiritedly, sidling past Eddie to reach for the twin taps. 

If he runs a gentle, curled hand over and down Eddie’s shoulder as he goes, it’s in the name of comfort. Mostly. It’s also a little bit in the name of Buck wanting to feel up Eddie’s bicep.

Absolutely worth it, for the record.

He twists the hot tap until water rushes urgently into the tub, holding a finger under the torrent to gauge the temperature. Once it’s pleasantly, soothingly hot but not quite come-here-to-boil-your-frogs, Buck holds out a blind, grabby hand for the bubble bath. “Gimme,” he demands courteously.

Smooth plastic meets his hand at the same time a weighty sigh meets his ears. Buck turns around to find Eddie precisely as anticipated: rigid-shouldered, arms folded over his chest, pout in tow. 

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Buck waves him off. “Go get your book. Oh, and get one of your nice fancy guest towels from the cupboard,” he grins boyishly. “Time to live luxuriously, man.”

Eddie comes back in a couple of minutes later when the tub is invitingly full of warm, sudsy water. He sniffs and doesn’t look displeased, which is Feeling-Stubborn Eddie for smells good. 

The aroma in the bathroom now is, in fact, that of a citrusy celebration. Whoever signed off on that scent name deserves a raise.

“All ready,” Buck announces. He wipes his hands on his jeans—Eddie makes an aborted, incredulous hand gesture at the various towels in the vicinity, which Buck ignores—and stands up. “Right, you get in. I’ll go prep the veggies for dinner, then I’ll pop out to pick up Chris; I can whip it all up in a pan real quick once we’re back and you’re done here. Sound good?”

Eddie, with a cynical, mopey, and entirely unintimidating frown encompassing the whole bottom half of his face, says, “Alright.”

“Alright,” Buck concurs, doubling up the enthusiasm because—well, it’s a little funny. Come on, now.

Right before he turns to leave, Buck darts back to the cubby in the corner for one last finishing touch. He tosses the rubber duck into the water like a three-pointer. It falls through the invisible net and dunks into the foamy tub with a delightful splash. Then he makes his getaway, bolting out of the bathroom on his tiptoes.

“Take your damn duck!” Eddie’s clamor follows him down the hallway.

“What was that?” Buck yells back. “I can’t hear you! So many carrots to julienne!”

-ˋˏ ༻❁✿❀༺ ˎˊ- 5 -ˋˏ ༻❀✿❁༺ ˎˊ-

“Shuffle over,” Eddie insists for the fourth time.

They’ve made their peace with being strewn across the couch for the evening, with Star Trek—the movie reboot, though Buck suspects Eddie would have been happy with any cosmic jaunt within the franchise—as their entertainment companion. 

Normally, for movie night, however impromptu, they’d at least maintain some pretense of sitting upright. Right now, though, they’re both exhausted. Their last shift involved a five-alarm that tore through their well-built, substantial stamina like the tear-and-share garlic bread once perfected by Bobby for Lasagna Thursdays. 

So here they lay, top and tail; two men with one joint couch that is proving itself unsuitable to have and to hold them, simultaneously and horizontally. They’re too large, for better or for worse.

“I’ve shuffled all the way over, man,” Buck grunts.

“Then why is my ass hanging off the cushion?”

“Maybe because it’s—” Buck’s mouth slams closed in a movement akin to a venus fly trap, but it’s too late. He’s already launched himself abruptly and expeditiously into a life-or-death word choice. 

Well—thank God for constitutional rights. 

“Never mind,” he pleads the fifth. 

“No, what?” Eddie sits up, eyes boggling. He’s getting a real unrepentant, transparent kick out of Buck’s fast-running mouth. “Finish that sentence. Tell me why my ass is at fault, here.”

Buck calmly and maturely aims a lingering kick at the ass in question, then sniffles meekly. “Well, I mean,” he argues, “it’s definitely not my fault if the surface of your ass happens to take up—half of your couch jurisdiction.”

Eddie’s jaw drops as suddenly as one of those towering fairground rides. He lets out a noise that borders on a wheeze, then says, “Are you calling me fat?”

“No, Christ, Eddie,” Buck whines. He nudges the pertinent posterior in question with his foot again, just in case Eddie forgot what they were talking about, and for no other reason, don’t question him. “I’m calling your ass fat. There’s, like, a significant difference.”

“I still don’t see how that’s better.”      

“God,” Buck groans. “I’m bisexual. I’ve been bisexual for—time. I’m still young, ish. Why do I feel underqualified here?”

Eddie grins at him, chin resting lazily on his sternum. He has one arm—and yes, one perfect ass cheek—dangling over the side of the couch. He looks entirely too calm and collected, and it’s driving Buck insane with barely-contained affection. “You can’t handle talking about my ass, Buckley?” He teases.

On screen, Captain Jim Kirk drawls, you could handle me, if that’s an invitation. Buck glares forsakenly at Chris Pine, then back at Eddie.

“Not fair. Stop that,” Buck points a reproaching finger at Eddie, who holds two palms up in faux-innocence. Buck is horny, but not stupid; he knows Eddie knows what he’s doing. “I’m just saying… you’re gay, now. You’re literally younger than me—”

“By one year—”

“Whatever. How do you not know that a fat ass is, like, a major compliment nowadays?” Buck’s single extended finger turns into a splayed, astounded hand when he says, “Especially when you have the ultimate one!”

And—well. Buck certainly did not make any sort of conscious judgment to add that last remark. Turns out, he might be a little flustered.

Understandably, Eddie looks like the cat who got the year’s free supply of cream. “Well then,” he drags out, an unabashed smile splitting his face at each of his ears. “I guess that’s it; I flunked out of gay school. So much for a continuous journey of self-discovery. You’ve been so supportive up til now, too,” Eddie pouts. 

He attempts to pout. He is, in fact, still beaming ferociously. 

“I’m sure you can appeal to the board,” Buck croaks. 

Eddie hums. “Maybe. Reckon my, uh—ultimate ass will give me an advantage?”

Internally, Buck sighs. In for a penny, in for a poundcake. “Yep,” he responds, popping the P. 

Then he holds eye contact in his stubborn, toddler-like fist, until his skin gets too clammy under the fierce warmth of Eddie’s direct attention. Buck coughs and turns to the TV screen. “You’re absolutely gonna have to study, though.”

Eddie cackles, abrupt and bright. “Is that right?”

Never tearing his eyes away from Spock, Buck grumbles, “You might be gay, pal, but that alone isn’t enough to erase the three months you confidently thought Hot To Go was sung by Chappell Joan.”

-ˋˏ ༻❁✿❀༺ ˎˊ- + 1 -ˋˏ ༻❀✿❁༺ ˎˊ-

While Eddie reads, he runs one hand repetitively through the coiled jumble of curls atop Buck’s head. 

It’s still early. They’ll have to get up to run through Chris’ before-school routine in a while, but not just yet. Buck soaks up the pleasant, tingling sensation as it washes over his scalp in gentle waves, and dozes.

Until a car backfires outside.

“Jesus,” Buck pants, jolting upright so frantically that Eddie drops his book.

“Hey,” Eddie soothes, encouraging Buck to lay back down with a gentle hand to his collarbone; Buck goes easily with the guiding motion. “You good?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Eddie tugs him closer until Buck is splayed back against the crook of his neck. He feels the faintest press of a mouth at the crown of his head. Such a soft and unassuming graze of a touch, yet it splits him directly in two; the glowing amber rays of his soul come bursting forth from the seams that Eddie’s devoted fingers rip down his chest. Buck swears he sees them illuminate the dust particles lingering in the air, dancing drowsily over the bed they share.

He rests his eyes closed for a moment, and breathes.

“Don’t need to be sorry,” Eddie mumbles into Buck’s hair. “‘S not a problem. You’re just—like a cat. Jumpy.”

That makes Buck’s eyes glide open. He stares meditatively at the slowly rotating ceiling fan. “I’ve always been called a dog.”

Eddie hums. Four fingers score thoughtfully through the curls at his hairline, pulling them back and away, briefly exposing his forehead before releasing to let them flop dutifully back in formation. “You have layers, I think,” he muses. “You’re definitely doggish, no doubt about that, but.. there’s cat in there, too.” 

As though puppeteered by the back and forth petting of Eddie’s hand, Buck nods. “I’m bisexual,” he says jokingly. He’s rewarded by Eddie’s fond exhale of a laugh. 

“Sure, bud.” Eddie’s hand slides down. He rubs a thumb back and forth over Buck’s shoulder almost hypnotically. It lulls Buck’s heart back to an unhurried beat for a tranquil minute or two.

Then all at once, overwhelming, comfortable affection barrels into him like a rough tide.

Even though it’s been a slow and inevitable build to this point, it still catches Buck unawares. The feeling is reminiscent of that first gasping gulp of air after spending a fitful nightmare drowning out by Santa Monica Pier, except with none of the lingering anguish or terror; just a sharp burst of urgent relief. It grounds him. It sends him tumbling from the top floor.

With all the butterfly-wing nerves of a teenager—ones Buck hasn’t felt in years, even while he was one—he folds his forearm upward to take Eddie’s hand in his own, as unceremoniously as he can muster.

This is where they’re headed, he’s never been more sure or certain of… well, pretty much anything. Which is a high bar when, historically, Buck has served as a golden, grinning poster boy for only-sometimes-warranted self-assurance. Even so—as his fingers press in and carve out space to slot between each of Eddie’s, he feels a little like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Then Eddie hums peacefully and grips back; squeezes their clasped joints like this is how they’ve always fit together. A mountain-high pile of cookies gets poured into Buck’s eager lap. He glances at their joined hands and bites his lip in barely controlled jubilance. 

With a steadying breath, Buck turns his head to look directly at Eddie, instead. 

Dreamy morning light punches in through the bedroom window, hitting Eddie’s back perpendicular to his spine. He’s backlit, almost, so Buck has to focus his vision that little bit extra to take in his favorite details that are usually so easily accessible: the tiny patch near his ear that he always misses shaving; the freckle below his left eye; the faded scar on his lower lip. 

Buck dabbled in photography at points on his nomadic travels. He wasn’t a prodigy, but he liked learning. 

Contre-jour, is the phrase. French for ‘against daylight’. In photography terms, it means utilizing strong backlighting to make your subject more eye-catching; to present them in a way that’s new and striking. It’s supposed to, if Buck recalls, enhance the visual and emotional impact of an image.

He doesn’t have a camera right now, so he blinks his eyelids like shutters, instead. 

Eddie’s outline glows in a way that’s so captivating to the point that it feels—just borderline condescending, actually, from the universe. He gets the picture, thanks, the neon sign reading That’s Your Guy! is no longer required; yet nature continues to frame Eddie so incredibly pointedly that Buck has to refrain from rolling his eyes.

Eddie looks up from his book and catches Buck staring. “Hey,” he whispers, squeezing Buck’s hand. “What’s up?”

What’s up, he asks, somehow sounding a whole lot like forever, despite choosing two of the most ordinary, run-of-the-mill words imaginable. So Buck kisses him.

After letting out a small mmf, Eddie’s book goes tumbling to the floorboards, discarded. His hand is put to better use gripping at the nape of Buck’s neck and kissing back with all he’s worth. 

Buck’s a cliché, he’s hopeless, he’s a total and irreparable lovesick fool—because he could swear he feels it when that last little missing piece slots into place; a freshly completed jigsaw thumping behind his ribcage. He’s whole; he’s home.

He twists his legs and torso to press his front against Eddie’s, trapping their clinging, joined hands between their chests. His free hand fits itself snugly at the dip of Eddie’s waist, grips in tight, relishing in the gentle give between all five of his fingertips. Their lips meet and slide and pull, entirely unhurried, tangling the two of them together in a way Buck can only dream is irrevocable. 

Eddie’s lips are slightly chapped from the lingering cool night air. As such, Buck is compelled to lick over them soothingly with his tongue. As a byproduct of his chivalry, the kiss deepens. Eddie’s hand runs back up into the curls at Buck’s crown, he tugs, then tugs again; Buck stifles a whiny moan into Eddie’s mouth. 

Just as he’s starting to think outside the box—that is, run the hand residing on Eddie’s waist over and down toward the vicinity of that ultimate ass—Eddie pulls back softly. At least he lets Buck’s bottom lip linger between his own for a second to cushion the blow. 

Unfortunately though, the lights may be on, but Buck’s not home. He’s thoroughly elsewhere. He’s headed eagerly, as mentioned, toward the vicinity of Eddie’s ass. He reaches his destination, moans (sue him), and surges in for another hungry kiss, then—

“Hey now,” Eddie laughs, soft soft soft, and retreats. “Cool your jets, there.” He dips in for an indulgent peck, then against Buck’s mouth he says, “We have a teenager to feed.”

“Who’s we,” Buck grumbles. Then he squeezes Eddie’s ass again, because, hey, when in Rome. “I’m the one cooking.”

Eddie pulls back a few inches and looks into—actually, it’s more like he’s looking straight through Buck’s eyes. He seems pensive, but not troubled.

“What’s up?” Buck echoes, one pointed eyebrow jutted upward. Eddie snorts.

“Just…” Eddie lets out a ragged puff of air through his lips. “I’ve been, uh, adapting to the idea that I can have… well, this.” He slides his hand around from Buck’s nape to his jaw, thumbs reverently over the tiny shaving scar that’s quickly fading. “And I’ve been in no rush, so it was probably inevitable, but—is it bad that I’m a tiny bit annoyed you beat me to it?”

Buck pants out a pleased laugh. “No, I think that’s justified,” he says. “I’m a terrible winner.”

“Mm. Yeah, you are.”

“Be nice to me. You have to. I just kissed you first.”

“Hey,” Eddie pipes up. “I would’ve gotten there eventually. I mean… look at you.” He does. From head to toe, unashamed, brazen, wanting. “I’m only human.”

The words simmer easily in Buck’s gut. Want flickers, but in an unprecedented turn of disposition, Buck finds it incredibly easy to find patience. Borrowing some of Eddie’s, maybe—two souls, two entwining temperaments, on a lazily coinciding jaunt to the rest of their lives.

Speaking of lazily—

“Eventually,” Buck repeats Eddie’s turn of phrase. “Unbelievable.”

“What?” Eddie asks, smiling with faux-indignance. “Can’t a man take his time?”

“You can’t fool me, man. This wasn’t about taking your time. You’re a yearner,” Buck accuses. He also pinches Eddie’s ass. He finds it really helps him get his important points across. “You’re not bothered that I beat you to it, you’re bothered the wait is over. You wanted your—indulgent little rom-com build-up, didn’t you?” Buck beams, delighted, his eyes flitting between each of Eddie’s in search of confirmation.

Because he’s a nightmare, and the love of Buck’s life, Eddie just shrugs, his lower lip jutting outward.

“You did,” Buck presses. “You wanted the lingering glances, the music swelling, all of it; you absolute romantic.” The only response Buck gets is a broad grin and a sweet little peck to the tip of his nose. 

“Admit it,” Buck nags, squeezing Eddie’s ass—again, for the sake of emphasis. “Tell me.” Squeeze. “Eddie.” Squeeze. “Come on.” Squeeze. “How long were you gonna dance around it?” 

What the hell, why not, everyone loves an encore—one more squeeze.

Eddie shrugs once more. The smile he wears from cheek to cheek, one of pure, concentrated joy, doesn’t falter or waver when he says, “You can take the boy out of the ballroom.”