Chapter Text
Eddie has spent a long time teaching himself not to want things.
It’s… easier that way.
Wanting means there is something to lose, and Eddie has learned—sometimes painfully, sometimes brutally—that imagining a future does not mean you're entitled to have one. Hope can be dangerous when you've already learned how quickly everything you love can disappear.
So he doesn't let himself want much.
He wants Christopher to be happy. He wants his family safe. He wants to do his job well and come home at the end of the day knowing that everyone he loves is still there.
Simple things. Things he’s expected to want. Things he can control.
But then there’s Buck.
Buck, who has never been particularly interested in Eddie's carefully constructed rules, who walked into Eddie's life and somehow made himself indispensable without ever asking permission. Someone who has somehow woven himself into Eddie’s very being, made himself a permanent part of Eddie’s life instinctively and refuses to leave.
At first, Eddie told himself it was friendship. That was easy enough.
They were partners. Best friends. The kind of friends who knew each other's coffee orders and could tell, from the sound of a single word, whether the other one had slept badly. There was nothing strange about that. Buck is just his best friend, and this is how best friends are with each other.
At least, that's what Eddie had told himself. And for a while, he had almost believed it.
Then, somewhere along the way, something changed.
Maybe it happened so gradually that Eddie never noticed the exact moment. Perhaps there wasn't one. Maybe love wasn't a lightning strike at all, but the slow accumulation of a thousand insignificant moments until one day you looked around and realized they had built an entire life around you. That they’d suddenly consumed your every thought, became your top priority, and now there’s nothing you can do to ignore it.
That actually, love was Buck sitting beside him after Eddie's breakdown, saying nothing because he understood that words weren't always necessary. It was Buck kneeling beside Christopher to help him with homework, patiently explaining something Eddie himself had already tried three times to explain. It was Buck showing up at Eddie's house with takeout because Eddie had mentioned, once, that he didn't feel like cooking. It was the way Buck seemed to know when Eddie wanted to talk and, somehow more importantly, when he didn't.
And it was the touching.
God, the touching.
A hand settling on his shoulder. Fingers brushing his arm. A palm finding the small of his back when they moved through a crowd. An absentminded squeeze to his knee. Long hugs that neither of them seemed particularly interested in ending.
Then there were the looks.
Eddie had started noticing those too—the quiet ones, the ones Buck gave him when he thought Eddie wasn't paying attention, because there was something in them. Something Eddie didn't know how to name without admitting what he wanted them to mean.
So he hadn't. Not until now.
Because today, Eddie has finally decided that he is tired of being afraid.
He has spent weeks circling around the truth, inventing reasons not to say it.
Not tonight.
Buck's tired.
Christopher needs you.
You're imagining things.
You're going to ruin everything.
It’s not the right time.
But tonight, somehow, the fear has shifted. It hasn't disappeared– if anything, Eddie is more terrified than he has ever been. His palms have been sweating for the last twenty minutes, and he has mentally rehearsed at least six different versions of the same sentence. None of them sound right.
Eventually, he settles on the simplest one.
I love you.
He can say that; he knows he can– he's said it before, after all.
Just… never with this much at stake.
The firehouse is quieter than usual tonight, not that he’d voice that idea out loud.
Hen and Chimney are sorting the ambulance, while Eddie finishes up some paperwork. Leaving Maddie and Buck in the Chim’s office. She’d come over to drop something off for Chim, and had stayed to talk to Buck when he’d sent her puppy eyes. Apparently, she’s just as hopeless to resist them as Eddie is.
He glances toward the office when he hears the way Buck laughs at something Maddie says. That laugh catches somewhere underneath Eddie's ribs, and before he can stop himself, he smiles.
There.
That is what he wants. That sound. That person. That life. He wants to hear that happiness from Buck always, wants to hear that light laughter echo around the walls of their home.
He takes a slow breath and pushes away from the table.
Tonight. He's going to do it tonight.
His hands shake as he makes his way over, but he only makes it halfway to them before he hears Maddie's voice. "So you're really not going to admit it?"
Eddie stutters to a stop.
He isn't entirely sure why he doesn't keep walking. Perhaps it's instinct. Perhaps there is something in Maddie's tone that tells him this isn't a conversation he is supposed to hear.
He should keep going, he knows that. He should alert them to his presence before he hears something not meant for his ears, or he should back away now before he betrays their trust by listening in.
Instead, he stays exactly where he is.
Buck shifts somewhere inside the room, shuffling something around before he asks, "admit what?"
There is something almost too casual about his voice. Something that implies the ‘laid-backness’ of it is intentional.
Maddie gives a quiet, disbelieving laugh as she says, "You know exactly what."
Eddie's heartbeat begins to pick up. He can imagine the all-knowing look on her face when she says it. He’s glad he’s not on the other end of it– knows that if he were he’d have admitted to being in love with Buck months ago.
He waits, and listens to the way Buck sighs around her name, "Maddie."
Her voice is short, straight to the point when she asks, "What?"
"It's not happening." Eddie can hear the resolution in his voice. Knows that they’ve definitely had this conversation, whatever it is, before, and Buck is still just as set in stone in his opinion as he probably was the first time.
Eddie's fingers curl against the wall as he listens in. He feels bad, he really does, but he can’t bring himself to move.
Maddie doesn't let Buck off the hook. "Why not?"
"Because." Buck says, his voice firm.
Eddie wants to scoff at his brattiness, so he’s not shocked when Maddie does it for him. "That's not an answer."
Buck’s voice comes a little quieter when he responds with, "It is when the answer is Eddie."
Everything inside Eddie stops. For one impossible second, his mind supplies the answer he has been too afraid to hope for.
Me.
He's talking about me.
His heart leaps so violently that it almost hurts. Maddie says something, but Eddie doesn't catch it. He's listening for Buck now, waiting for the words that will finally confirm what he's spent months too afraid to believe.
Maybe this is it. Maybe Buck is going to say it. Maybe—
"I know how it looks," Buck continues. There’s a pause, and Eddie leans back against the wall, his pulse still hammering in his ears as he waits for the rest.
Then Buck speaks again. "I know we're close. I know sometimes I probably make it seem like—"
Maddie cuts him off, and her words shock him, "Like you're in love with him?"
The silence that follows is deafening. Eddie's breath catches, and his entire body goes rigid.
For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat and the faint hum of the firehouse around him. Then Buck laughs.
It’s a small, awkward sound, almost painfully forced. "No."
The single word seems to travel through Eddie's body like ice. "No," Buck repeats.
Eddie stares blankly at the floor, his mind refusing to process what he’s hearing. Even Maddie sounds unconvinced. "You expect me to believe that?"
"It's true."
It isn't, but Eddie doesn't know that.
He has no way of knowing that Buck's heart is breaking behind the office door too, or that every word is being forced out because Buck has spent far too long convincing himself that Eddie could never feel the same way. All Eddie knows is what he can hear.
"The idea is ridiculous," Buck says.
Ridiculous.
The word lands harder than it should. Eddie swallows, his throat suddenly tight.
Maddie is quiet for a moment, before she says, "You're talking about Eddie."
"I know."
"Your best friend."
"Exactly." Buck shifts, and Eddie hears the faint scrape of a chair against the floor. "We're friends," Buck says quietly.
Eddie closes his eyes. Friends. Of course.
Maddie asks the question Eddie suddenly doesn't want answered. "That's all?"
Buck hesitates. It’s only a second, a tiny pause that Eddie doesn't know is filled with everything Buck desperately wants to say. He doesn't know Buck is fighting every instinct he has not to tell Maddie the truth.
All Eddie hears is— "That's all,” and his chest caves in.
He had been so sure.
Not completely sure, perhaps, but hopeful. God, he had been hopeful. For weeks, he'd gathered courage by taking every little thing Buck did and allowing himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—it meant something.
And he had been wrong.
Every touch had been friendship. Every look had been friendship. Every time Buck had pulled him closer, every time he'd chosen Eddie first, every time he'd made Eddie feel as though there was nowhere else he would rather be—
Friendship.
Nothing more.
Eddie's eyes burn, but he doesn't let himself cry– not here. Not where Buck might see him.
He takes one careful step backward, then another, moving slowly enough that neither person in the office has any reason to notice. His hand slips from the wall. Eddie turns.
And he walks away.
He doesn't hurry because that would make it obvious, and the last thing he wants is for Buck to come after him and ask what's wrong. Instead, he keeps his movements controlled, even though every part of him is screaming to get as far away from the office as possible.
He makes it to the stairs and starts down as his vision grows blurry.
The bunks are empty.
Dark. Quiet. Perfect.
Eddie slips inside and pulls the door closed behind him. Only then does he let himself breathe. The breath comes out shaky and broken, as though his lungs have forgotten how to work properly.
He sits on the edge of one of the beds and stares at the floor.
For several seconds, he does nothing. He can't.
His body hasn't caught up with what just happened.
Eventually, he leans forward, resting his elbows against his knees and pressing his hands together.
We're friends. That's all.
He can hear Buck's voice perfectly, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to attempt to ease their stinging. It doesn’t work, but it shouldn't hurt this much.
It is only rejection. Except Buck hadn't even rejected him. Eddie hadn't asked.
He hadn't given Buck anything to reject– he had simply been stupid enough to hope. And maybe that is worse, because now he has to live with the knowledge that if he had walked into that kitchen five minutes earlier, he would have told Buck he loved him.
He would have handed over the one thing Eddie has spent his entire life protecting. His heart.
And Buck would have looked at him like the idea was ridiculous.
Thank God he hadn't said it.
Thank God.
The thought should bring relief, but instead, it leaves him feeling hollow. Eddie bends farther forward until his forehead rests against his hands, and a quiet, humorless laugh slips from him. "Idiot."
His voice cracks on the word. He wipes quickly at his eyes, almost angry with himself for allowing even that much emotion to escape.
He refuses to cry.
He has spent enough years learning how to swallow pain, he can swallow this too.
The rest of the shift passes in fragments, each call bleeding into the next until time becomes little more than a blur of sirens, adrenaline and exhaustion. Whenever they aren't responding to alarms, Eddie retreats to the bunks.
He tells himself he is tired, that explanation is believable enough, after all, it has been a long day.
He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of the firehouse beyond the door. Someone laughs. A cabinet closes. Footsteps pass in the hallway.
Every sound reminds him that Buck is somewhere out there.
Eddie turns onto his side and pulls the blanket over himself.
He doesn't sleep, simply lies there feeling more and more hollow the longer he allows himself to overthink and lament over Buck’s words.
At some point, the door opens, and Eddie knows who it is before he looks. He appears in the doorway, still in his uniform, and his expression softens when he sees Eddie lying there. "Hey."
Eddie forces his eyes open, then forces a fake smile on his face, "Hey."
Buck steps inside, though he doesn't come all the way over immediately. Instead, he lingers near the door, studying Eddie with that familiar crease between his eyebrows. "You okay?"
Eddie's heart twists. Of course Buck asks, of course he cares. They’re friends. Best friends.
That almost makes it worse. "I'm fine."
Buck doesn't look convinced. He sends Eddie a frown as he says, "You've been in here for hours," in a way that sounds like a question.
Eddie shrugs, and gives the first excuse he can think of, "I'm tired."
"Did something happen?" Buck’s head tilts to the side as he asks, looking like an adorably confused puppy.
Eddie looks away, because it’s so endearing that for one terrifying second, the truth rises to the back of his throat.
I heard you.
I love you.
You broke my heart.
He swallows all three, then bites back tears as he lies. "No."
Buck takes another step toward the bunk. "Eddie."
"I'm okay." The words come out firmer this time, and Eddie makes himself look at him. He wishes he hadn't, because concern is written all over Buck's face, so open and genuine that Eddie almost breaks.
He almost reaches for him. Almost tells him everything. Instead, Eddie forces the corners of his mouth upward. "Go bother somebody else, Buck."
Buck's mouth twitches, but he doesn’t quite manage a smile, "There he is."
Eddie looks down before Buck can see how badly that smile hurts.
Buck moves closer and sits on the edge of the neighboring bunk. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and Eddie can feel the movement even through the small gap between them.
For a moment, neither speaks. Then Buck nudges Eddie's shoe lightly with his own. "You sure?"
Eddie nods. "Yeah."
It’s a lie, but Buck doesn't know that. He doesn't know that Eddie is lying because he overheard him. He doesn't know that Eddie is trying desperately to memorize what it feels like to have Buck this close without allowing himself to want more.
Eventually, Buck stands. "Okay." He hesitates beside the bunk, hands resting loosely at his sides. Then, softer, "I'm here if you need me."
Eddie can't look at him, so he just nods with his eyes closed, "Thanks, bud."
Buck lingers another second. Eddie can feel him standing there, something on the tip of his tongue. Can feel the weight of everything they have been to each other.
But then, with a sigh, Buck leaves. The door closes behind him with a soft click that seems to echo in Eddie’s now empty space..
Eddie waits until his footsteps disappear down the hallway. Only then does he turn his face into the pillow.
Only then does he let a tear slip free.
Then another.
He presses the heel of his hand against his mouth to muffle the unwilling sounds he lets out, and stays there until the shift ends.
When he finally goes home, it is late.
The house is quiet. Christopher is asleep.
Eddie checks on him first, standing in the doorway and watching his son breathe. The sight steadies something inside him, if only for a few minutes. He reaches down and gently brushes a strand of hair away from Christopher's forehead, muttering "Goodnight, bud."
Christopher doesn't stir.
Eddie stands there for another moment before quietly closing the door. Then he goes back down the hall and pours himself a glass of water, setting it carefully on the kitchen counter because his hand has begun to tremble.
For a moment, he simply stands there. He looks around the familiar room, at the kitchen table and the cabinets and the little collection of ordinary things that make this place home.
This is the life he knows. The life he had thought was enough. His chest feels strange.
Tight.
Heavy.
Eddie presses a hand against his sternum and frowns, because It hurts.
Not badly, but just enough to notice.
He takes another breath, trying to make the pain ebb away. Instead he coughs. He straightens when another cough follows, harsher than the first.
"What the hell?"
His throat burns. He coughs again, bending forward as the spasm tears through his chest. Something catches in his throat.
He gags, and his hand flies to his mouth.
Another cough follows, this one more violent than the first, then another, until his ribs ache with the effort. Something small and soft lands in his palm.
Eddie freezes.
Slowly, with trembling fingers, he opens his hand, to find a petal.
Pink. Delicate. Soft.
He stares at it, but his brain refuses to understand what he is seeing. "No."
The word barely makes it past his lips. He looks at the petal again, and his fingers begin to shake.
He knows what it is, what it means. Everyone knows what it means.
Hanahaki.
The stories say it happens when love is unreturned, when someone loves another person so deeply that the feeling has nowhere else to go and the body begins to give that love somewhere physical to exist. Flowers grow inside the lungs.
The flowers bloom, and eventually—
Eddie coughs again, leaving two more petals falling into his palm.
His breath catches, then his voice hiccups around a sob, "No."
He backs away from the counter, bumping into a chair hard enough that it scrapes against the floor.
His legs feel suddenly unreliable. He grips the back of the chair and looks down at the petals scattered across his hand.
He thinks of Buck, of course he does. There is no one else. There has never been anyone else that could cause him feelings strong enough to kill him.
His chest tightens again, sharper this time, and Eddie folds over as another coughing fit tears through him.
He coughs until his eyes stream. Until his lungs burn. Until he has to grip the chair just to keep himself upright.
When he finally manages to breathe again, he looks down at his palm.
Another petal rests there, larger than the others.
Still Soft. Still Pink. Still Beautiful.
Still Cruel.
A broken laugh escapes him. "Of course." His voice trembles as he repeats, "Of course it would be you," to the empty room.
Because apparently loving Buck wasn't enough. Apparently losing him wasn't enough. His own body has decided that it needs proof. Proof of what he cannot have. Proof of what he cannot say. Proof that Eddie Diaz, who has spent his entire life surviving everything thrown at him, has finally found the one thing he cannot simply endure.
He sinks slowly to the kitchen floor, his back coming to rest against the cabinets as the petals flutter from his hands to scatter around him.
One hand presses against his chest. The other curls helplessly around a bundle of flowers.
Another cough shakes his body. Another petal falls.
Eddie closes his eyes, and for the first time, the thought comes without hesitation.
I'm going to die loving him.
The realization should terrify him. Instead, all Eddie can think about is Buck sitting beside him in the bunks only hours ago, looking at him with worried blue eyes and asking if he was okay.
Eddie had lied, and Buck had believed him. Or– pretended to. Somehow, that hurts almost as much as everything else.
Buck loves him, Eddie just doesn't know it. All he knows is what he heard.
We're friends.
That's all.
He curls his fingers around the petals, pressing them carefully into his palm as though he can somehow crush the evidence of what is happening inside him.
His shoulders shake as another cough builds in his chest. And somewhere deep inside his lungs, another flower begins to bloom.