Work Text:
"Eddie—fuck."
Buck's fantasy manifests on his tongue, falling dangerously into the air between them.
Somehow, someway that he can't for the life of him explain, his mind has taken a mental shortcut, mixing lust-drunk illusions with reality, and in less than a blink, the man underneath him disappeared without a trace. For a moment, Buck sees nothing but wide chocolate eyes, tan skin and a thick mustache that he loves to tease his best friend about, despite how unfair he really thinks it is that Eddie manages to still look hot with it.
For a moment, the sweat and musk surrounding him take on a different scent and taste, familiar touches turning heady, alluring, and oh so different from what is actually going on, from what he's supposed to be experiencing right here, right now.
For a moment, with his eyes closed and his biceps flexing as he braces his weight over his lover's strong, sturdy body, the tip of his cock grazing against his lover's hole, his breath puffing heavily against his fucking lover's neck, he forgets.
He forgets everything.
He forgets Tommy, forgets where they are, how they got here. He forgets the conversation that has led them here, every single discussion and argument, every kiss and touch that has led him to this moment.
And then he opens his eyes, takes in the sharp jaw and shadow of gentle stubble, the dirty blond hair and the blue-green pools sucking his own in, and with a sudden, violent jolt, Buck comes crashing back down to Earth.
"Evan, what—what did you just say?"
✦
For as long as he can remember, Buck has never been one to sit back and let life happen to him.
At first, it was because his beginnings never really allowed for anything other than being proactive—reckless, maybe, if Maddie was feeling particularly judgmental and apt to give him her trademark pointed frown (because she can and she will always read him better than anyone else in the whole world, whether he likes to admit it or not.)
Secondly, years later, when he finally decided to settle someplace, to thread his roots in Los Angeles—when he finally started building something worthwhile for himself—, it became a constant strive to do better, to prove to himself (and to those who he found actually mattering at some point along the way) that he could, that he had it in him.
And thirdly, because Buck learned very quickly, very early on, that the world really enjoyed throwing major curveballs in his direction. The kind that always left him bruised and battered and broken on the ground until he could figure out a way to scramble back up again, mostly because he had to and, perhaps, even a little because he was (and continues to be) too stubborn not to.
So when things go awry, Buck has a habit of grabbing onto the nearest object and obstinately riding the wave out until the tide hits the shore, and then, well, repeating the process all over again. That's just the way his world works—things get swept away, but what doesn't is Buck's tenacity.
Never his damn tenacity.
He'll keep fighting the good fight, no matter the odds, no matter the stakes. When he's knocked down, he'll struggle until he's standing, and then he'll knock someone else down, stand up again, and let the vicious cycle continue. It's a motto he's kept by through the years, even when it would have been smarter to throw in the towel.
Perhaps, however, starting his relationship with Tommy on such a note, had made for... rocky, uncertain territory.
Perhaps, not-so-consciously transforming his petty jealousy over his best friend spending more time with someone other than him—over the way it seemed to have instantly and seamlessly come so easy between them, changing the dynamic that up until then he was certain only had room for one, and that was him—, into an opportunity to unravel and discover his sexuality, to open a new frontier that was both frightening and exciting all the same, was an epically bad idea.
But Tommy was understanding. Tommy wasn't angry, or upset, or judgmental about his behavior—about his childish petulance, about him almost causing Eddie real injury because of his own stupidity and inability to think straight (puns not intended) when his pride was under attack.
Tommy was confused, surely, but he took his hand, kissed him, and kick-started a brand new chapter in their lives. So Buck let him.
Even when not much later Tommy told him that maybe he wasn't quite ready yet to be 'out and proud', Buck shrugged it off as nothing more than a brief bump in the road. Even when Tommy decided that a henley at a 80s themed party constituted a proper, fitting outfit, Buck swallowed his disappointment and welcomed him back with open arms and a tongue in his mouth the moment they could meet again, because Buck could not be the fool he knew he was acting, he could not let his overblown ego and too-easily hurt feelings put another relationship in his line of fire.
The soot coating his palate was worth it, he told himself.
Swallowing down his concerns, he let their spark ignite and their passion flicker, and he didn't regret it. Every 'Evan' whispered, uttered, grinned into his lips might have sounded a little wrong, felt a little misplaced, but Buck didn't regret it. He watched the world evolve around him, feeling as if he was embodying a third person projection of his own self, and still, he chose not to unpack the nagging feeling inside him that told him this wasn't the new beginning he had initially envisioned.
After all, coming out to Maddie went well, right? Coming out to Eddie went, somehow, even better, even when he mentioned who exactly he was seeing. So who was he to jeopardize that by voicing the uncertainty building inside him like an avalanche poised to fall?
He wanted to explore his freedom.
He wanted to be selfish, to take what was being so generously offered to him, and not look a gift horse in the mouth.
(Because he knew he could be a handful. He knew he could be overbearing, like he'd been with Abby. He knew he could be too much, too alive, like he'd been with Ali. He knew he could be too naive, too dependent on the validation others could offer him, the love and adoration and companionship that made him feel less lost and aimless, like he'd been with Taylor and Natalia.)
Besides, focusing on the good of their relationship really wasn't hard.
They didn't live together, didn't spend every moment of the day side by side, but that suited them just fine. They weren't clingy, they weren't obsessive. They had their own lives, and they cherished having the space and the ability to keep those separate, to pursue their goals and dreams and ambitions without hindrance.
(Buck knew by now not to ask for more, lest he drive away another person from his life.)
It suited them both.
And, moreover, all of his friends—some more than others—got along quite nicely with Tommy. They knew him or of him, and not one of them had warned Buck against him, or attempted to advise him on his choices.
The people who mattered most had met the guy, taken a liking to him, and at the end of the day, those were the only opinions Buck cared about. Hell, Christopher liked Tommy, and unless there was a nefarious plot going on behind closed doors, the kid's judgment was the one he valued most.
No matter that he'd left for Texas and still had no plans of returning to Los Angeles any time soon, and had barely given Eddie (or Buck) the time of day before taking off.
Chris liked Tommy, and Buck trusted the kid.
And Eddie, well.
Eddie had listened. Eddie had worried, and then, after that, Eddie had graciously said that he was glad for him. Eddie had smiled, and meant it. Eddie had said that nothing would change between them, and nothing had.
That was enough.
More than enough.
The sex, too, was an unexpected and glorious perk. Tommy was adventurous, experienced, and more than once Buck had been surprised to find himself in positions he'd never quite... ventured into before. Tommy liked control and enjoyed the rush, and Buck thrived on excitement.
They fit. Or, at the very least, were a decent puzzle match. Sure, a few of their pieces didn't align, didn't quite connect, but they meshed well enough together. They made sense.
Buck was well overdue a little bit of sense, in his unrelentingly chaotic life.
Their first time together, in the same fashion, had been new and arousing, thrilling and invigorating, and Buck had preened at the way Tommy hadn't gone easy on him, had tasted the sweet nectar of victory when Tommy had fucked into him with no reservations whatsoever. Had relished the deep stabs of pleasure-pain in his gut, the burning stretch and the throbbing because—because he wasn't weak, he wasn't a fragile porcelain doll, he could take it, he could handle it.
He could push through, bite back, moan and writhe, and prove to Tommy that yes, he was ready to be out and proud, he was more than fucking okay to show the world how well he could ride dick and take a cock.
(He had been the one who bought their supplies, who took the reins, who planned their date and picked up their dinner from a local, high end Italian restaurant, and not ordered pizza like Tommy had suggested. He had been the one who set their pace, who took Tommy's hand and guided them upstairs to his bedroom.)
(He had been the one who had read up everything there was to know about the subject, because he had wanted it to go well, had wanted to make it enjoyable for both of them. He had been the one who had practiced on himself, because he hadn't wanted to assume, or to be so obviously inexperienced. He wanted to make it good for Tommy, regardless of who ended up taking what role. He didn't want to risk hurting him in any way, as a consequence of his own ignorance.)
(He had been the one who’d led Tommy to his bed, who had kissed him, undressed him, who had made it very clear that he was okay with everything the other man was willing to give.)
The rest, as they say, was history.
They simply continued on, and things mostly remained the same. No fanfare, no fuss, no commotion. Life went on, Buck experienced a multitude of firsts, and Tommy seemed content enough with their arrangement, both with the physical aspect of it and the emotional companionship it provided. Tommy seemed content with him.
(Tommy seemed happy, as long as Evan kept on doing what they were doing, as long as Evan didn't ask for anything too new, or too outlandish. As long as Evan didn't mention trying out anything else, in or out of the bedroom, as long as Evan didn't mess up the status quo, as long as Evan let Tommy work in peace and wasn't invasive, or clingy, or needy or messy or—)
Buck was happy.
Buck was satisfied.
But Buck felt a constant itch under his skin. It sat as a weight in the pit of his stomach, as a lump wedged in his throat, as a whisper inside his head that he tried with all his will and might not to let take over, because it didn't make sense—and why couldn't things remain okay for once in his life? Why couldn't he let himself have something nice without the storm clouds gathering overhead, waiting for the downpour, expecting the hammer of thunder to fall?
So he suppressed it. He repressed it, and he focused on other things.
Like thinking up increasingly creative date-night ideas (which weren't really all that necessary, to be honest, because Tommy often decided he just wanted to spend the evening with him, without dressing up, without leaving the safety of their apartments). Like researching upcoming movies and exhibitions, or trying his hand and taste at cooking something different and new every few weeks, with the help of Bobby—and sometimes Athena, if she wasn't busy giving him the stink-eye at the implications of why he needed advice in the first place. Like asking Hen for help in picking out toys or something sexy and fun for the bedroom, because if there was someone who wouldn't judge him or make fun of him, it was her. (Though Karen always had a knowing glint in her eye, always a little scowl around the mouth, anytime he came by their home to ask.)
Today, like many times before, started out simple, started out normal. Familiar.
It was Friday, he was off duty, and he spent the majority of his morning cooking and changing outfits because, for the life of him, he just couldn't seem to decide which one would make Tommy's jaw drop. Which one would make him willing to listen to him.
(Because the itch wasn't going away. Because the whispers, the doubts, the ever present hint of caution clawed underneath his skin, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.)
He should have known it wouldn't be that easy.
"Evan, how many times do I have to tell you? I don't bottom. And honestly, I'd appreciate it if you could stop being so persistent about this."
Tommy's voice had a note of annoyance to it, a clear warning lurking underneath. His shoulders were raised, the muscles in his arms bulging slightly under his henley ( the same henley he wore that day , his brain unhelpfully supplied), and there was the faintest tilt to his jaw, sharpening his features into something more than a little intimidating.
Buck swallowed. "I'm not—I'm not being persistent."
Tommy crossed his arms over his chest, looking him up and down with an arched brow. He shook his head, eyes narrowing. "Really? Cause it seems to me like that's exactly what you're being."
Buck took a deep breath, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as he forced himself to remain calm.
"Would it—would it really be so bad? To try?"
A pause.
"For me? You don't have to do anything you don't want to, obviously, but—"
Tommy scoffed, interrupting him mid-sentence. "Wow. Okay, so you're guilt tripping now, that's—that's great. Just fantastic."
"That's not what I was trying to do, Tommy," Buck said, taking a step closer. "I just thought—"
"What's this about, then, uh? You want some control over me? You want me to bend over and take it, because you can't handle not being in charge for once? You can't handle an older guy who actually knows what he wants and how he wants it?"
Buck blanched, eyes going wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "What? No! I—"
"No? Cause that's what it sure looks like from where I'm standing."
Buck shook his head, hands raised in front of him as he slowly made his way over to where Tommy was standing, leaning against the kitchen counter, and tentatively reached out to take his hand. He felt himself trembling. What a time for his confidence to go up in smoke.
"This isn't—I'm not trying to exert any control over you, Tommy. I just—I want to share this with you. I want to give you everything I can, I want to experience this 'first' with you, like all the others we have already shared together. I want—I want it to be good, for both of us, I want to make you feel good like you always do for me. And I—I guess, I've always felt that there's a level of vulnerability in that kind of position, right? So I'm... I'm not trying to be in control, I'm not trying to prove anything, I'm just… asking for us to take this step together."
Tommy huffed, but relented, letting Buck thread their fingers together, letting Buck bring their hands up to kiss the back of his knuckles.
This was good. It was going well. Buck was getting through to him, Tommy would see that he meant well.
Buck licked his lips. "Trust me? This doesn't have to be a big deal, and we can stop the minute you're not having fun anymore, of course, but—but I think we'd enjoy this. Together."
At that, Tommy's hackles finally seemed to recede, and a moment later, his hard expression softened into one more open, contemplative, as his free hand started playing with the collar of Buck's shirt.
"If I try this," Tommy murmured, staring unblinkingly into Buck's eyes, "will you promise me not to go around bragging to your friends, uh? Will you promise to keep this between you and me?"
Buck nodded immediately, a smile finding its way onto his face. "Of course, yeah. I'd never—"
"And will you remember that this is only happening once? Unless it somehow blows my mind so much that I start second guessing my life choices and become vers overnight?"
Buck blinked. "Wait, you've—you've never done this? Ever?"
Tommy's mouth twisted to the side in a clear grimace. "Once. A long time ago, before I decided what worked for me. It was a weird fucking experience, wasn't even sure why I did it at the time. Wasn't a huge fan of having my ass feel like it was gonna split in half for days after, if I'm being honest."
"We can use plenty of lube, and we won't go too fast," Buck hurried to assure him, hand squeezing Tommy’s tightly. "I wouldn't do anything that might hurt you, Tommy, I don't—I don't ever want to cause you pain, that's not what this is about."
"Yeah, yeah," Tommy agreed with an indulgent nod, the tension leaving his body almost entirely. He raised his chin and pecked Buck’s lips softly, pulling back almost teasingly slow. "You're a good boy, Evan, I know. Everybody and their mother knows. I'm pretty sure this whole city is head over heels with that look you're giving me right now."
"It's not a look," Buck said (whined) , blushing despite himself—the heat climbing up the back of his neck a stark contrast to the ice and anxiety that had flooded his veins moments before. He cleared his throat, nudged Tommy's jaw with his nose, and buried his face in the crook of his shoulder to hide how embarrassed he was at the praise. (And, perhaps, to mask the dusting of hurt lingering in its shadows.) "It's just my face."
"Yeah," Tommy hummed, sliding both hands around his hips and pulling him flush against his chest. "It's your sweet, innocent, pure as freshly fallen snow face."
Buck frowned. "Now you're just mocking me."
"Would I ever do something like that?" Tommy taunted, chuckling. "Now come on, big boy, before I change my mind. Take me to bed and make me see stars, alright? I'm trusting you here."
That, Buck could do.
✦
Except.
Except.
Except.
✦
"What did you just say?"
At present, Buck is hanging from a very shaky thread. At present, he feels vaguely nauseous, the same he might if he took a brutal hit to the sternum and found himself winded on the cement, his lungs refusing to cooperate.
His breathing sounds labored to his own ears, far away and wheezy, but it's the last thing he can focus on. It's the last thing he thinks matters, when Tommy's voice comes to him through a filter of static and cotton-like sound, from miles and miles away, and yet, somehow, echoing inside his skull.
Repeating over and over and over, each syllable hollowing him out until there's not enough strength left for him to pick himself up. Not enough strength to hold on.
"It's not—it's not what it looks—"
"Oh, no, no, no," Tommy stops him, "don't even try, Evan. 'It's not what it looks like'? Really? 'I can explain'? You're really gonna hit me with the oldest clichés in the books?"
"I'm not—I mean, yes, I mean—There's not—there isn't—"
He is stuttering, tripping over his own thoughts and stumbling over words he hasn't quite grasped the meaning of, bumbling nonsense, like his brain is malfunctioning. Like his throat doesn't know how to construct sentences.
Tommy doesn't let him, in any case.
"Here's what I think it looks like: you got me in bed after begging me for God only knows how long to let you top, and I gave you what you wanted. I let you finger me open, I let you have your fun, because you said you wanted us to do this together. To experience it together. And what do you do? What do you fucking do, Evan, right when you're about to take what you've been so adamant you wanted? Right when I was willing to give you exactly that?"
Buck gulps, shaking his head. He can't—he can't—
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Tommy, I didn't mean to say—"
"You didn't mean to say his name? You didn't mean to moan Eddie's name right when you were about to fuck me? Is that what you're trying to tell me, Evan? And—get off me, goddammit. Get off."
Buck reels back, wide eyed and trembling and scrambling to sit on his haunches on top of the ruffled bed sheets. "Tommy, please, you have to—"
"I have to what? I have to listen to you, again? Cause, no. No, actually. I'm sick and tired of listening to you, Evan. I thought you were worth the effort, but turns out I was wrong, wasn't I?"
Buck gapes. The pang in his heart is so fierce, so all-consuming, it leaves him stunned. The itch in his skin spikes to a burn. (The cold numbness spreading through his limbs feels familiar, like watching someone he once loved drift away from him, with no intention of ever looking back, of ever reaching for him again. He thinks he knows this feeling intimately. The isolation of it.)
"W-wrong?"
"Are you gonna keep doing this, huh? Are you gonna keep clinging to this phantom limb when we both know what this is? Do I really have to spell it out to you?"
"Spell what out? What do you—what are you talking about, Tommy?"
In less than a moment's time, Tommy is standing up from the bed, grabbing his clothes off the floor, and pulling them on quicker than Buck has ever seen him do. In the meantime, as they were arguing, Tommy's erection had flagged to nothingness, his cock hanging limply between his legs. Buck doesn't know why he notices the detail, but it makes his vision go wobbly around the edges.
(He couldn't even do this one thing right. He couldn't even do the one thing he'd done right for his previous partners. The one he'd done right since Tommy had walked into his life.)
Buck's heart lurches painfully in his chest, dread knotting his throat. He can barely breathe past the thickness of it.
"Tommy," he tries, reaching blindly out toward him, "Tommy, come on. Talk to me, please."
"This is always gonna be about Eddie, Evan. It has always been, from the moment you lied your way into my life, and told me that you wanted my attention, when all you wanted was to get me away from him, to stop me from getting too close."
A beat passes.
Then two.
Then three.
"What?" Buck whispers.
His voice comes out weak and reedy. Foreign to his own ears.
"You didn't think I knew, did you? You didn't think I could tell the difference between some lovesick puppy-crush and genuine interest? Between casual attraction and, frankly, obsessive and delusional jealousy?" Tommy laughs, though it has a bite to it. Unamused, indignant. Angry. "Sure, you might like me, but it's never been about that, has it? It's always been about putting a claim on what's not yours. On keeping me busy enough for me to stay away. Well, here's a tip, sunshine: you're not doing yourself any favors by clinging to the thought of someone who doesn't want you the same way you want them. Especially when you can't bring yourself to even try to do the work."
No, no, no, no.
It sounds bad.
The exact kind of bad Buck told himself he would avoid, for reasons he hasn't cared to think of before now. (Or dared to.)
He needs to control the damage. He needs to convince him this isn't what he thinks.
"Tommy, that's not what's happening, I promise, I would never—"
Tommy arches a brow, condescending.
It shuts him up.
The words pile up on top of each other, his tongue turning leaden in his mouth, heavy like liquid cement, stacking up higher and higher until they choke him, effectively swallowing his last attempt.
"You're a coward, Evan. A lying coward, and a piece of shit for what you did. I'm done. Enjoy wasting your time pining after an uninterested straight man. I've got better things to do than taking part in some silly, useless drama and chasing a train that isn't stopping."
Buck is still grasping at air when Tommy slams the door to his apartment closed, the space leaving him frozen in a world turned sideways.
(Everything hurts.)
✦
Buck doesn't move until almost an hour later, when the phone rings, and Christopher's cheerful face appears on his screen. He swipes the screen to answer the facetime, and tucks his body further into itself and under the sheets, aching to reach for him and take him back to where he belongs.
"Hey there, buddy. How's it going? You having dinner with your gramps?"
(He sounds hollow.)
Christopher is smiling, so delighted, so entirely full of good intentions.
(Buck doesn't deserve him.)
(Maybe he doesn't deserve his dad either.)
✦
Even after the initial shock begins to wear off, and Tommy's harsh words are no longer rushing through his system in a never-ending mantra of guilt and shame, even as he finds the courage to peel himself off the bed, change the sheets, pick up the mess left behind, and drag his weight over to the shower to clean off any remaining trace of sweat and spit, arousal and lube—even then Buck's entire world feels like it has tipped off-center, tilted on its axis. Like he stepped into an alternate reality with rules that he doesn't know how to follow, with no map to guide him through the jungle he's left lost in the middle of.
In a world where he doesn't even know his own heart, where he doesn't know the sound of his own mind, where he doesn't recognize himself anymore.
Buck washes, dries off, puts on his most comfortable sweatpants, and a faded t-shirt that Eddie lent him months and months ago, the last time he slept over on his couch, and never asked for it back. He thinks he should spend some time ruminating over the realization, but he doesn't. He buries it instead.
(Deep enough that he hopes he'll never find it again.)
He stays inside his bubble for the rest of the evening, the bubble that looks like something safe, something self-sustaining, but in truth isn't. It's borrowed time, bound to implode on him one day, soon. Like everything else he's ever had that has truly meant something to him. That has felt like home.
(He thinks, sometimes, he's cursed. Maybe that's why his parents have never tried harder to keep him. Maybe that's why Maddie couldn't come with him when he ran, all those years ago, no matter how badly he wanted to start anew with her and take her away from their parents—from Doug, even before he knew exactly how much he was going to hurt her. Maybe that’s why no one ever stuck around long enough for him to be worthy of getting back the love he so readily gives out. He's been trying to fix it for the longest time. Be a better person, a better brother, a better son, a better friend, a better man—but he keeps screwing up. Keeps disappointing, and losing, and ruining what little good things he manages to build. So maybe he's cursed, and it's not actually his fault.
Maybe, he thinks, if he keeps repeating the thought like a broken record, one day he might come to believe it's true.)
In the background, he hears his phone vibrate with notifications popping up every few seconds or so, but Buck can't bring himself to look at it. The mere idea makes him queasy, his stomach turning like he might end up retching the dinner he'd so proudly cooked for their date—their last ever date—what feels like centuries ago.
Instead, he turns the lights off, and burrows under his covers.
He should sleep, he tells himself, his eyes open, dry, glued to the ceiling. He should try to ignore the part of him that just broke open to the core, to the nerve endings, and pretend he isn't imagining the phantom of a body so familiar (and yet not), warm and heavy, snug tight against him, pressed to his side like he belongs there, filling the space missing next to him. Buck should do many things.
He closes his eyes, and does nothing.
✦
Another hour passes with Buck drifting in and out of consciousness, feeling both exhausted and restless, as if his entire being has been scrubbed raw from the inside out.
He thinks he can hear something in the near distance, like a series of scratches or taps, but the noise lasts but a few seconds, and Buck pays it no mind. It isn't uncommon, hearing noises at night in a city that never really sleeps. He learned how to tune them out a long time ago, to adapt and drift into relaxation despite the weird clicks and rattles, the hum of vehicles passing by outside. They've kept him company, in times where he had no one to sleep beside.
Except, this time, the scratching is only a prelude.
"Buck? You here?"
(Maybe he should have known.
Maybe he should have listened to the warning bells ringing off in his head. To the pounding of his heart, and checked his phone. Maybe he should have been a responsible adult and put an end to whatever this had been from the start.
Maybe he should have—
Maybe.)
The same voice he longed to hear earlier interrupts the silence like a loud boom in the middle of the night, far more explosive than any gunshot, shocking his entire system like a volt of electricity.
"Buck? Are you asleep?" Eddie tries again, and now Buck can hear him more clearly, shuffling up the stairs of the lofted bedroom, no doubt climbing them two at a time—because Eddie never does anything half-heartedly, even when it comes to climbing into his chest, prying open his ribs and settling there, next to his heart, without asking for permission to make it his home. Eddie is just like that. Unapologetically so.
Buck almost forgets to breathe, listening to the footsteps grow closer, like a prey knowing death is inevitable, waiting for the moment its time is up. He should move. He should stand up, put on some clothes that don't scream despair and hopelessness, even though Eddie is going to see right through it—through him— anyway.
But Buck doesn't move. He stays put instead, and chooses silence.
(He has never been very good at lying to Eddie, has he? One look, and he'll know something is wrong. He won't even have to ask.)
"Hey," Eddie whispers at last. Buck can feel his presence from where he's standing, hovering at the foot of the bed. It's so palpable, so perceptible, he could swear the hairs on his arm stand on edge. Could swear he hears the other man's heartbeat, echoing through the quiet darkness of the loft. "Buck, I know you're awake."
Buck squeezes his eyes shut, a pang of everything seizing his chest so hard he feels like he's been run over, pierced through by a nail. Like he's back under that firetruck, trapped and in pain, screaming his lungs off as the car slowly crushed him—back in a past that was so many years ago but that sometimes still haunts him, still taunts him when he's deep in the grips of his nightmares, reminding him just how fragile his body is, just how easy it would be to destroy.
Buck says nothing, remains perfectly still. He doesn't dare.
A sigh. Another beat passes.
"Christopher called around an hour ago. He said you guys talked for a few minutes, but he could tell something was wrong and that you hung up after not too long. Said you seemed... tired. Upset," Eddie recounts, and his voice sounds closer now. Buck wants to open his eyes and look, let his gaze roam the sharpness of the shadows draped over Eddie's silhouette. Wants to burn the memory of him under his eyelids, just in case they won't ever get the chance again. Just in case this will be the last time he gets to share the same space with him, close enough to touch, to wrap himself in. But he doesn't.
(If he looks, he'll open the Pandora box.
And he's exhausted.
He's scared of fighting another losing battle.)
"So I tried calling and texting you. A few times, actually. But you didn't pick up... Didn't even read my messages," he continues, and his voice softens toward the end. "Made me worry a little, you know?"
Buck is sure he imagines the quiver in Eddie's tone. Is certain he's hearing what his brain wants him to hear, all the while a small voice in his head is whispering he's not worth the trouble. He's not worth anything, not really.
(But Eddie is here. Eddie came to see him, just because he couldn't reach him. Just because his son got worried enough to call and ask his dad to check on him, the same way he had done with Buck when it was Eddie who'd nearly drowned in his own sorrows.)
A beat of silence stretches into a minute, the kind of silence that makes the air stagnant, difficult to breathe through. With his mind's eye, he can almost see Eddie hesitate, can almost imagine the thin line his lips have set themselves into, his shoulders squared, his body poised for any bad news—any sort of meltdown.
(Failure has a face, he thinks. One with kind eyes, and a worried frown, and hands that open up a sanctuary he doesn't want to leave anymore. How could he have been so fucking stupid, to think that the rest of the world could take the place of his personal oasis?)
"Is it Tommy?" Eddie asks.
Buck flinches, unable to stop the small gasp that follows. The traitorous rush of his pulse, spiking at the question.
Eddie huffs, but he doesn't sound angry. Somehow, the noise has taken a more bitter flavor to it, tinged with an emotion he can't quite pinpoint, but it is obvious he's out of sorts as well. "I figured."
"I'm sorry," Buck croaks, and he feels like he can't breathe. Like the words are getting stuck on their way out, tangled up in the weight of his guilt. "I'm so sorry."
He's not even sure what exactly he's apologizing for. He's sorry for everything. For not being the man he thought he could be for Tommy, for not being good enough to keep him. For being too broken, too weak, too stupid to make it work. For lying and pretending—to himself, to Eddie, to Tommy—and letting himself believe that he could be the person he wanted to be. That he could be happy with what he had. For being the coward he always tried so hard not to be, and failing again and again and again.
Because he knew.
Deep, deep, so deep down in his core that it could be considered molten lava, boiling hot and destructive, Buck knew. Since the moment he learned Eddie wasn't the prick he'd thought he was for all of one day, Buck has known that he would do anything, change anything, tear himself to shreds if it meant he got to make him and Christopher happy. He would break every bone in his body, walk barefoot through a mile of shattered glass, withstand a thousand more tsunami or lightning strikes, drown over and over again if it meant Eddie and Christopher didn't have to hurt for one more second.
The realization slams into him now, so powerful that Buck nearly folds onto himself, drowning in the onslaught of his want, his yearning, his need for them. It brings him such incredible grief, knowing he's dug himself too deep to see daylight. Knowing he's at the bottom of a grave he made for himself, built from lies and denial, fear and insecurity, with nails he's hammered in one by one in the shape of self-sabotage, of good intentions masking unaddressed demons.
Knowing he's trapped in the walls he's made to protect what he loves most, and in doing so, he's fucked it all up, more irreparably than he's ever managed before.
(Tommy was right. Tommy knew it, even when he hadn't allowed himself to even think it, much less say it out loud, like voicing the thought would be an irredeemable act, a transgression that would cost him the closest thing he's ever had to family.)
He's in love with Eddie.
He's in love with Eddie Diaz, in all the ways he's never been in love before.
It's so easy to recognize it now, so easy to unravel the intricate web of layers and layers of lies, so easy to go back and point out all the times he'd denied it, covered it up, buried it, and walked the other way with a smile on his lips and a tightening in his chest.
"I'm sorry," he mutters again, his head spinning with dizzying acrobatics, a thousand pounds dropping onto his chest. "Eddie, I'm so fucking sorry."
"Evan," Eddie breathes, and Buck is ashamed to say he practically keens. That name on Eddie's lips shouldn't hold so much power, shouldn't feel like a sacred prayer, so different from the thousand-and-one times Tommy called him as much. But it does. Because it's Eddie. Because Eddie has seen him. Eddie knows every single scar, every jagged fracture in him except one, and he's never looked away. He took all of Buck, even the broken parts—even the 'Evan' that he hoped he'd left behind in Pennsylvania—, and he accepted him, welcomed him into his and his son's lives like it was the easiest thing to do, like Buck was someone worthy of keeping.
Because Eddie has never tried to change him. He's never asked Buck to be anything other than who he is, to do anything other than what he feels is right in his heart. He's let him make mistakes and stand up on his own after he falls, giving him the space he needs to self-correct. But, at the same time, he's supported him through it all, even when Buck faltered, even when he doubted, even when he failed.
It's no wonder, really, that Eddie Diaz owns a piece of him, entwined around his heart so deeply Buck is certain no doctor alive could dig him out without killing Buck in the process. It's no wonder that he's not ashamed of loving him, not when Eddie is who he is, but it's also no wonder that he is ashamed of how he's handled it, because the only thing he'll ever fear more than losing Eddie is hurting him. Hurting him, scaring him away like everyone else that came before, and being the cause of him leaving.
So deep into his head, lost in thoughts he can't share, Buck doesn't notice Eddie walking to his side of the bed and crouching down to his eye level until there's a solid palm pressed against his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to feel the calluses on his fingertips through the thin fabric of his shirt. He wants to flinch away. He wants to crawl inside of the hand on him and let Eddie's warmth envelop him completely, cocooning him in that protective feeling of home that comes with simply being in his orbit.
"Buck, talk to me," Eddie whispers, and his eyes look a little wild, like he's just barely holding himself back. "You're freaking me out."
So he does. He pulls air into his lungs, despite the solid rock that has apparently replaced his trachea, and speaks.
Because Eddie deserves the truth. Eddie is worried, and he can't lie to him anymore.
"I fucked up, Eds. I don't... I fucked up so bad." He swallows. The hand on him doesn't move, its grip so firm Buck wouldn't be surprised if it ends up leaving a brand on him—he wouldn't mind if it did. He licks his chapped lips, squeezes his eyes shut, and wills the next words to come out without breaking apart, without transforming into the thing that finally rips him open and splits him apart.
"I... I said your name, tonight," Buck confesses, because there's no point in delaying the inevitable, is there? He's exhausted. He's hurting. He's terrified of what happens next. But he's also tired of fucking this up and pretending otherwise. "When I—when I was with Tommy. When we were... When Tommy was..." he shudders. Continues, stubborn as ever. "It slipped. And I couldn't... I couldn't take it back, couldn't pretend like he hadn't heard me—like I hadn't heard me. And now Tommy is gone, and he... He was so angry, and I was so stupid, and I..."
He trails off. Doesn't open his eyes.
It's okay, he thinks. It's okay if this is the end. Because he deserves it, because he can't be trusted with anything important, because he always finds a way to break everything good he gets his hands on.
The silence is deafening. He feels cold. So cold.
"Buck, what—what did you just say?" Eddie asks, sounding very much like he's been hit over the head with a steel pipe, and Buck feels like he's falling, like the bed beneath him is collapsing, like he's a second away from plummeting.
The same words Tommy had used a few hours ago, the words that drove a wedge between them, that broke the last seal. The words that started the chain of events that brought them to this moment.
"Eddie. I—I moaned your name during sex," he blurts, his voice rising higher and higher the closer he gets to the end, the finality. Buck covers his face with both hands, scrubs down hard, like he can just rub off the memory. Rub off the pain. "Fuck, I—I begged him to let me try topping for once, only to... Only to moan your fucking name when he finally let me."
He huffs, laughs a little hysterically, so fucking bitter at his own stupidity.
"I'm sorry, Eddie. I—I'm so fucking so—"
He expects anger. He expects disappointment, disgust. He expects Eddie to get up, storm out of the room, slam the front door behind him. He expects Eddie to leave, and to never look back, and he'll have no one to blame but himself.
What he doesn't expect is to feel the hand on his shoulder leave, only to feel it again a second later, wrapping itself—together with its twin—around his wrists and pulling them away from his face, forcing him to open his eyes and meet Eddie's.
"Why are you sorry?" Eddie asks. There's an unreadable expression on his face, something almost manic in his eyes, and Buck's not sure he understands the question, his thoughts in disarray. "Evan. Why are you sorry?"
(There's his name again, on Eddie's lips. A caress, a prayer. It makes him want to weep. Makes him want to scream, and claw, and beg Eddie to run as far away from him as he can.)
"Why do you think, Eddie? I—I fucking... I moaned someone else's name when I was having sex with my boyfriend," he hisses, because Eddie is close, too close, and it hurts, because it's all Buck can think about, even when he's trying his damned best not to, not now. He shakes his head and tries to turn, tries to free his arms and move away, but Eddie holds fast, keeping him still with an iron grip and a firm look.
(Buck could fight harder if he wanted. He knows how.
Knows how to twist and pull and shove until he's loose enough to make a break for it, how to use the height and muscle he has over Eddie to get the upper hand, the leverage.
He could do it.
He doesn't.)
"But why are you saying sorry to me, Buck?" He presses. Buck has the sudden feeling like he's looking into a mirror, like the man before him is his double, a carbon copy of his thoughts and fears and feelings, just one step ahead.
He's so confused.
"Why wouldn't I, Eddie?" Buck feels his voice raise in volume more than hears it, a little bit frantic, a lot panicked. Eddie is close enough that he can see the faint stubble on his jawline, the worried crease between his brows. He smells like soap, like the aftershave he's always used since the day they met, and—
His mustache is gone.
"Eddie," Buck whispers, slowly sitting up in bed to take a closer look. "When—when did you shave it off?"
Eddie looks confused at the sudden change of subject, but he's always been a quick thinker, always able to roll with the punches and go with the flow, so he takes it in stride. His fingers flex against Buck's skin. "This morning. I—I kind of got tired of it, of the constant itch on my upper lip. And… and it kinda reminded me too much of Gerrard. It was… jarring to see every time I looked in a mirror."
"Oh."
They fall silent. It's heavy and charged with things left unsaid, with questions and answers neither is sure of how to give or take, where to start or end, how to find a middle ground without risking losing their footing and drowning.
Eddie is by now kneeling beside the bed, the mattress sinking down slightly where he's resting his elbows to hold onto Buck's arms—an anchor, to hold him steady.
A crack in the clouds.
"You didn't answer my question," Eddie goes on, though his voice is as soft as it is pointed, quieter than it'd been a moment ago. He smells too nice, too distracting for Buck's already wavering focus, and the intensity in his gaze is what he pictures stars might look like somewhere outside this city of concrete, steel and artificial lights, even if the only light they reflect at the moment is from the neon-white lamp posts outside.
They are dizzying, overwhelming, so beautiful and captivating Buck thinks he could spend his whole life trying to learn their secrets and still never have his fill, still not be satiated.
(What does Eddie expect him to say? What does he want to hear?)
"Eds... You know why," he ends up murmuring, but it lacks any heat. It's clear in the slouch of his shoulders, the sheen of his eyes, and the wet gravel in his words, that he's giving up. That, deep in his heart, he's letting go.
"Say it anyway."
(Stubborn, as stubborn as Buck himself is. It'd be funny, if it weren't so painful to acknowledge.)
"Because I was thinking of you, Eddie. Because it's you, it's been you for so long now that I don't even remember a time when it wasn't," Buck chokes out. "I tried, I swear I tried to choke it down and make it go away, but... but it just grew and grew and grew, and now I don't—I'm in so fucking deep, man. You're always in my head, even if I push it back. You're—you're everywhere, all the fucking time, Eddie." He draws in a shuddering breath. Looks away from the dark brown eyes that have managed to reduce him to an existence of wanting and pleading for any crumb of attention, any spark of joy brought about by Buck and Buck alone.
"I spent years denying it, not letting myself see, not letting myself know, but I'm just..." He runs a hand through his hair, tugs on the curls and lets the burn soothe him into the rest of his confession, "Christ, Eddie, I'm in love with you. I am. What use is there in pretending otherwise? And I'm... God, I'm sorry, okay? I don't regret loving you, but I am sorry for putting you through this and—and for not being able to be the person you need me to be, for you and Christopher."
Buck is rambling, and it's entirely possible that he's not making any sense, but fuck if he cares. It's over. He's done fighting a battle he couldn't win. It's over, and it's better than if he'd kept it buried for another second and tried to stubbornly stitch together a façade more brittle than glass, waiting for a proverbial fly to stumble upon him and force it all to come crashing down.
"Please. Please, Eds. Just... leave, before I make you hate me more," Buck pleads, the burn of tears distorting his vision, his entire body shivering. He feels weak, small even despite his size, all the strength waning from his veins at once, leaving him deflated and hollow.
"I could never hate you, Buck."
The tenderness in the words envelops Buck in a wave of warmth he'd never felt in his adult life—not from Tommy, not from Taylor or Abby, not even from Maddie—, filling him with liquid amber, sparkling like champagne. It's like a hot bath on a winter's night, or laying out on the beach after taking an icy dip in the ocean.
It's like hugging Christopher, full of that innocent sort of affection that leaves you starry-eyed and lightheaded.
"Buck, listen to me."
It's impossible not to do just that, not with the way Eddie is grasping both his shoulders, searching his face as if he could figure out the enigma to the universe in the blotches of pink staining Buck's cheeks and the red in his eyes.
"I'm... Fuck, there's no easy way to say this, is there?" He laughs —laughs, bright and borderline hysterical—, shaking his head like he's chastising himself for a thought only he is privy to. "Shit. This is... Okay, I can do it."
Buck is officially lost. A part of him wants to laugh, because when isn't he? He's always just a step behind, always clueless and fumbling in the dark, but he's also so hopelessly in love with Eddie that another part of him wants to latch onto whatever it is that's making him smile like that—smile like he's free-falling, like he's just about to take flight and soar to places unknown—, and beg to be made part of it.
"I'm gay, Buck."
His words don't register, not immediately. They float into his headspace and take a while to sink, to attach to a meaning, an identity, and Buck finds himself blinking at Eddie in a moment of stasis.
Eddie is gay.
Eddie. His best friend, his partner.
Eddie Diaz.
Gay.
"Huh?"
"I'm gay," he repeats.
"You're—" Buck blinks again. Shakes his head to try and reorder the scrambled mess in his skull. "Since—since when?"
"Since I was born, probably," Eddie replies easily, a crooked little smile on his lips that makes the butterflies in Buck's stomach flutter alive and tickles his chest like he's swallowed a handful of pop rocks. "I only realized it a few months ago, though, if that's what you're asking."
Buck swallows. Swallows again. His throat is dry, his lips too.
He doesn't understand.
"Why..." He trails off. Rewords. "How? Why now? What—what changed? What about... Ana? Marisol? Shannon?"
There are a thousand questions going through his head at once, and not a single part of his brain knows where to begin categorizing them all, much less separating and prioritizing them into something that makes sense. Everything sounds urgent, yet none seems more important than the rest, none as pressing as the fact that Eddie is here, in his bedroom, telling him that he's gay.
"I wasn't ready to admit it before, I guess. It was too scary, too big," he explains, eyes shining bright and clear as day. "And... And I'm not going to lie, it still fucking terrifies me, because I'm still figuring things out and it's not all sunshine and rainbows, you know? I mean, 'course you do, you did this first," Eddie chuckles, but there's an edge to it that Buck feels as if it were a blade against his jugular. "It's just... I'm learning to accept it, and that's—that's good. I feel like I've found a piece of myself that I'd lost for a really long time, and it feels amazing. But yeah..."
Eddie trails off for a second, gaze far away and distant, lost somewhere only he knows how to find his way back from. "I thought I could do it. I thought I could find a way to make it work, with all of them. Ana was... sweet, she really was, but there was just this—this thing in me that couldn't give her what she wanted, couldn't be what she wanted. I told you back then, but seeing people treat us as a 'ready-made' family just didn't sit right with me. Now I truly know why."
Buck nods along, suspended between worlds, unable to tell up from down and left from right.
"Marisol was similar. It felt nice to be desired, to see Christopher taken care of, and to feel... well, you know, that kind of companionship," Eddie smiles a little ruefully. "Thought that by making her move in, I could trick my own brain into settling, y'know? Just pretend long enough that it'd become a reality and stop wanting what it couldn't have. But it just didn't... It didn't feel right."
"And Shannon..." Buck breathes, unsure.
Eddie's lips pinch and curl down at the edges, not quite a grimace, but close enough. Like the memories associated with his late wife only need one mention of her name for his heart to grow heavy with all the baggage.
"Shannon was... complicated," Eddie settles for eventually. He leans forward, elbows on the mattress again, and lets go of his hold on Buck's shoulders for the first time in the whole conversation. "I did love her, a lot. She was my best friend, she's the mother of my son, she brought him into the world, and I'll be forever grateful for that. She gave him a family when I couldn't, gave him stability. She's the reason Chris is the kind and compassionate young boy that he is today."
His eyes soften. Fade into something private, a memory playing only in his head.
"But it was hard. Because I... I spent the whole of our relationship feeling guilty. About the army, about Afghanistan, about leaving her alone with Chris. About... being a coward, because I was too afraid to come back and look her in the eyes after leaving, because I didn't trust myself enough to be there for them like they needed. I was young, stupid, and angry... but I did love her, even when she couldn't take it anymore and left us, even when she came back and things never felt the same again, even when she died. I did love her. I just..."
There's a beat of silence. They take a breath in sync, releasing it at the same time.
"I was never in love with her. I could never be, Buck."
Buck's heart slams inside of his ribcage, so hard it aches . He aches. So fast it threatens to burst out of his chest like some kind of gross zombie movie, Eddie's words bouncing around his skull like they're trying to carve themselves into his brain.
I could never be, Buck.
Eddie looks at him like he's a sunrise after an eternity of night, and Buck is—he's terrified.
I could never be, Buck.
"Why are you telling me now, Eddie? Why did you never say anything before?" He whispers, too choked up to manage much else.
"Well," Eddie snorts a dry, bitter laugh, "for the longest time I’d been fighting to keep it buried in the ground. Denying myself, making excuses and insisting that 'the next one would be the one', even though I knew—even though I knew it was pointless. And... I don't know, man. I was fucking paranoid about it for so long that a part of me convinced itself that coming out now that I was older and in a stable environment and shit would feel... wrong. Like I was ruining something good and functional for no reason. Especially when I was still so unsure of it all. What if I did it and then realized a couple weeks down the line that I'm just incapable of forming a healthy relationship with anyone, male or female?"
(Ironic, really. Because that is a concept Buck understands very well.)
"And also..."
Buck licks his lips. Holds his breath. "...Also?"
The smile that tugs at the corners of Eddie's mouth is something between fond and sad, bittersweet and regretful. "There was also the matter of you."
"Me? What—what does that mean?"
(It's too much and not enough, a confusing clutter of conflicting clues and nonsensical connections, of things he doesn't dare hope for and cannot bear to lose in one failed shot.
Buck knows what he wants it to mean, but experience has taught him through every failed relationship and platonic disappointment that it's best not to be greedy and compromise something valuable just to satiate an imagination gone awry.)
"Just when I thought I was somewhat ready to tell you, at the very least tell you, you became serious with Tommy... before I could even understand what was happening. Weeks became months and I felt... I felt like I didn't have the right to feel this way about you," he murmurs, eyes darting away, "like I should put the lid back on my feelings and be content with having your friendship. Be content with seeing you happy, with knowing you had someone. I'd missed my chance, Buck. I couldn't come clean, not when it could jeopardize what we had."
If Buck thought the previous revelation had been devastating to his state of mind, then it was nothing compared to this new reality, the scope of its impact not unlike a hit to his head with a battering ram.
If Buck thought it was almost impossible to breathe before, then he no longer understands what the fuck 'breathing' even is now.
"Missed your—" he parrots dumbly, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth, unable to form anything more elaborate than a few dumbly repeated syllables that fail to account for the magnitude of the situation, "—chance?"
Eddie nods. Tilts his head to the side and offers a hesitant, wobbly smile, a slight flush sitting high on the apples of his cheeks.
Oh.
Oh.
"Eddie, what the fuck," Buck pants, incredulous, unmindful of the almost hysterical, feverish undertone. He can't stop the way his words make his voice crack, tremors running rampant throughout his whole body, and with Eddie this close, a mere foot away and looking at him the way he is, Buck feels on the brink of a mental shutdown.
"Do you understand now, Buck? Why I didn't want you to apologize?" Eddie whispers, gaze hooded. "Why I'm not going anywhere? Why I'm here, telling you all of this?"
Buck thinks he does.
He thinks he does, because the answer to all of those questions is written all over Eddie's face—in the crinkles around his eyes, in the timbre of his words, the blush of his skin. It's all there, hanging between the half-parted, torturously pink lips that are all Buck can think of, beckoning him closer and keeping him still all at once.
When Eddie moves to cup his face, swiping his thumbs across his cheeks to wipe away the few tears that have, out of his control, slipped down and carved trails on his skin, Buck feels his last shred of resistance snap like an old, rotten rubber band, leaving him a pile of trembling nerves, vulnerable and exposed, too weak to deny himself what his heart craves more than anything.
"Buck," he hears Eddie sigh.
(It's so unfair, how effortlessly beautiful and entrancing his name—no matter which one—can sound on Eddie's tongue.)
"Eddie," Buck groans in response. The word tastes like a benediction.
"Can I kiss you?"
Buck is only human. God help him, but he's only a weak, pathetic excuse for a man when it comes to Eddie Diaz.
So he nods. Frantically.
"Please."
Permission granted, Eddie wastes no time in closing the gap between them, slanting his lips over Buck's and burying his hands in his curls —fuck, his hands, so big, so warm, so perfect where they cradle his jaw with their thumbs and scratch at his scalp with blunt nails—, and something inside of Buck's body relaxes in a way he didn't know was possible. The lump in his throat splits in two and melts like sugar on his tongue, the coal smothering his heart crumbles into dust and the vice on his lungs falls away, allowing him a deep, dreamlike exhale.
The itch he has felt for so long he can't even remember what it's like to not have it, it suddenly stops—just stops, leaves his skin feeling fresh, alive, morphing under the shape of Eddie's palms and his calloused fingertips. The emptiness that has scorched its way into his gut fizzles out and quietens with a purr of contentment, and Buck—Buck smiles.
For the first time since Tommy left him, Buck finds himself giggling, letting out a breathy sort of chuckle that is so purely childlike and innocent in its happiness, so genuinely gleeful and bursting with overflowing affection and unbridled elation, that it makes the butterflies in his stomach explode like an effervescent tablet plopped into a glass of soda, dancing along the line of drugged and drunk and eager, delirious and dizzy and everything in-between.
"What's so funny?" Eddie whispers softly against his lips, not bothered, just curious, and that's—oh, that's a little taste of nirvana, right there. The ghost of a question on the seam of his mouth, a breath shared, a hint of stubble tickling Buck's chin, Eddie's nose nuzzling into his cheek.
Buck shakes his head.
He can't stop grinning. He can't stop himself from playfully nipping at Eddie's lower lip, drawing another breathy, gorgeous sigh out of him, one he's determined to hear and feel over and over again, until it's burnt into his skin and imprinted onto his heart as his own little victory song, his personal anthem of triumph.
"Nothing," he hums. "Nothing is funny... I'm just happy, Eds. So fucking happy right now."
It's crazy how one kiss—chaste as it was, barely more than a press of lips on lips—had the power to quell his restlessness, and turn him into this soft, mushy thing made of sunshine and cotton candy and love-sick giggles. It's crazy how this one kiss was able to soothe his mind, when all the others he has shared with his previous partners, as passionate and heated and fun as they had been, were only ever a temporary band-aid over an infected wound.
Except this isn't really about the kiss. Except Buck doesn't want to compare, doesn't even feel the need or want to, because he's being kissed by Eddie, and that makes everything else obsolete. Unimportant.
Because his best friend is in his room, holding his face between his hands, touching him like Buck is an oasis after a lifetime spent lost in a desert. And that's what matters, isn't it? That he's not in the darkness anymore—alone and tormented and aching, a lonely soul crying for respite—, but surrounded by light. Warmth.
By love.
Eddie's love.
"I love you," Buck chants, "I love you, I love you, I love you, love you, love you—" he babbles, lips barely leaving Eddie's between words and breaths. "—love you, I love you so much."
It feels so good, so freeing, to finally let go, to finally give voice to all the emotions that have been eating at his heart and poisoning his brain for so long, and have Eddie look at him like he's seeing him for the first time. Like he's drinking him in, eyes dark and liquid and shimmering, glazed over and lost to a spell Buck never wants broken.
"Say it again."
"I love you, Eddie."
"Again," he whispers, "please."
Buck presses his lips to the corner of Eddie's mouth, then trails them to his cheek. He lingers there, pecks his cheekbone and hums the three words, just a puff of air, right by his ear, before doing it again on the opposite side.
He kisses his jaw and repeats them. His forehead and repeats them. Both sides of his nose, his chin, his closed eyelids—and repeats them again, and again, and again.
Eddie lets him, and he's trembling by the end of it, his hands on Buck's neck and stroking the underside of his jaw, the column of his throat, the pulse point in his neck, as if he could feel the shape of the words there for all eternity, indelible on his skin.
"Buck," he pants, breathless, and Buck feels a rush of pride at having caused such a reaction, a new high unlike any he's ever had.
"I love you, Eddie Diaz. Always have. Always will," he murmurs. "And I'm so fucking sorry I wasn't braver, or stronger, or... I don't know. Just... more. I love you and Christopher more than I love my life, and I would give it up in a heartbeat if it meant that the two of you could be happy. Safe. You're my world and I couldn't—"
His words get cut off when Eddie captures his lips with his in a kiss that is so different from the ones before—but still tender, still sweet, because that's Eddie's love, his essence, the core of his soul—, gripping the sides of Buck's face a little too tight and a little too desperate, like he can't bring him close enough, and the muffled sound of surprise Buck releases gets swallowed in an instant.
Eddie's mouth is warm—so warm against his—, moist, and as smooth as his touch. He doesn't ask permission when he slicks his tongue across Buck's lower lip, chasing the sound. Doesn't wait for Buck's acquiescence before he pries his lips apart, dipping inside his mouth and curling his tongue against the jagged edge of his front teeth, the rounded curve of his upper palate, the velvety surface of his inner cheeks, coaxing his own tongue into action with soft, playful licks.
A moan shudders its way out of Buck's lungs, and his hands are scrambling blindly for a hold on Eddie's arms, his waist, his back, anything, and before he can even comprehend what he's doing, he's pulling Eddie up on the bed, positioning him to straddle him, both legs plastered to either side of his hips, and pushing back with his own tongue, pouring years of pent-up desire into every slide and roll, lick and nibble, until they're locked in a breathless contest of teeth and tongue, spit and muffled groans, hands grasping and stroking each other's skin everywhere they can reach.
"Don't," Eddie gasps when they're forced to pull apart, gulping down heaping swallows of oxygen. "Don't ever say that again," he sounds gruff, desperate, voice roughened by something else besides lack of air. "We could never be happy if it meant losing you. Not me, not Chris. Don't you dare fucking imply that losing you would—would make us happier than having you by our side, Evan," Eddie rasps, letting the word sit in his mouth like a physical thing. Shaking his head, he hides his face against Buck's neck. "You can't honestly believe that. I told you so long ago... you're the only one I trust with Christopher. With me. You keep us safe, Buck . You keep us happy."
"Fuck, Eds," Buck croaks.
He's surprised he can even manage that much. His heart feels too big for his chest, beating a bruise onto his ribcage from the inside. It's a miracle he hasn't cracked a rib or two already.
(Not that it would register right now, caught as he is in the whirlpool of Eddie's words, hands, lips.
Who needs ribs anyway?)
"You make me feel at home, Buck. Everywhere I am, as long as I've got you and Chris and our weird, extended family, I'm at home. That's all the happy I could need, anywhere."
"Jesus, Eddie," he sighs, bringing his own hands to cradle Eddie's skull and guide him back up so he can press their mouths together again, once, twice, three times, quick and tender and sweet, before tucking his nose behind Eddie's ear and reveling in the smell of him. In the feel of him, the weight of him in his lap, the strong, thick thighs bracketing his own. "What am I going to do with you?"
Eddie hums, his head tipping backwards just enough that Buck can brush a feather-light trail of kisses down the column of his throat.
"Keep me, heal me, love me. Like you always have," he answers simply. "Just... maybe not in secret anymore?"
There's something fragile and hesitant in his voice, a sliver of vulnerability peeking out of the corners, like he can't quite believe it himself, like he's almost convinced he'll wake up in a second, cold sweat drenching his sheets and heart torn in half.
But that's just how they are, aren't they? Both of them, afraid and broken and imperfect, two lonely souls that, for some miraculous, wonderful twist of fate, managed to stumble onto one another and find the exact shape and size to fit each other's cracks.
"Always," Buck promises. "I've got you, and you've got me. Just us three, together. Forever, if that's what you want."
(And that's a big promise, Buck knows that. A massive fucking declaration. But how could he not make it? When he's lived his whole life wishing to have this—wanting it with every inch of his being—, and now that he's holding Eddie's heart between his palms and his love on his lips, how could he not promise forever and eternity and everything in-between?)
"Sounds like a plan," Eddie grins, and it's—it's breathtaking, the smile he offers Buck in that moment. Brilliant. Blindingly gorgeous, brighter than a thousand suns and stars combined. "But maybe let's start with today first? Or, you know... tonight."
Instantly, the implication behind Eddie's words and the tone with which they're said has a heat spiking low in Buck's gut, and he's suddenly hyper-aware of the way his fingers have traveled down to Eddie's hips, of the way they're now digging into the meat of his outer thighs, a hair's-breadth away from his ass.
"O-oh. Did you—did you have anything in particular in mind? To kick-start our 'tonight'?" He stutters, throat suddenly dry. He feels the heat quickly rise up his chest and spread to the tips of his ears, and the blush bloom across his cheeks and neck even before he sees Eddie's eyebrow lift with an amused tilt of his head, lips curled into a knowing smirk.
"I'm sure we can think of something."
The answer comes accompanied by a pair of wandering hands slowly trailing down his chest, carving a searing path along his body and coming to a stop just below the hem of his shirt.
Eddie waits a beat, then two, then three, until Buck is squirming under him, a whine sitting right on the tip of his tongue. And Eddie knows—of course he does—, because he leans in until he's just a breath away and ghosts his lips over Buck's, keeping him teetering on the edge of a kiss that doesn't come.
"I think we could start by getting you out of this shirt," he murmurs, fingers curling in the fabric. "You know... I was pretty upset when it suddenly went 'missing', but now... Now I think I can make peace with losing it for good."
Buck sucks in a sharp, surprised breath, and his eyes snap down to where Eddie is pawing at his t-shirt, watching the movements like his own life depends on it. Because, honestly, he's not sure how much longer his brain will be able to function if Eddie keeps this up.
"Is that so?" He croaks.
"Mhm," Eddie nods, pressing an open-mouthed, lazy kiss to the base of his throat, and Buck squeezes his hips tighter when the contact sends a pulse of arousal straight down to his dick. "I wouldn't mind," a kiss, "if," another one, and another, and Buck is going crazy, his nails probably leaving half-moon crescents on Eddie's skin by now, "you kept it."
It takes all of his remaining self-restraint to keep his hips from jerking upward, chasing the delicious friction he knows he would find there, against Eddie's crotch and ass. He manages it, just barely, but it's still a close call, especially with the way Eddie's hand has moved past the hem of his shirt, pushing it up as he goes, stroking and caressing his chest and stomach, teasing him with the faintest scratches of short fingernails along the path.
"I wouldn't mind if you took all of my clothes and wore them everyday for the rest of our lives," Eddie continues, just when Buck thought he couldn't possibly say anything to make him lose his mind more.
"As long as I get to peel them off of you every night."
Evidently, he was wrong.
Very wrong.
"That sounds—that sounds good," he breathes, shaking his head to clear his thoughts—of course, failing miserably—, and doing his best to sound somewhat coherent. "Yeah, very good. Let's... let's do that."
He thinks it comes across as a little mangled, but at least he can blame it on Eddie, who's apparently made it his mission to give Buck a stroke or send him into an early grave before either one of them even manages to take their clothes off.
Not that Buck minds—he loves this new side of Eddie. Loves the way he looks so carefree and happy, smiling and teasing and so at ease in Buck's lap that it's almost hard to remember the version of him who was so guarded, rigid in his interactions and always on the lookout for any kind of threat. Of course, Buck does remember, and he knows why and how Eddie used to be that way, but that only makes it all the more precious, this newfound lightness and freedom in his soul.
And, more than anything, it makes him feel like a giant, puffed up with pride. Like he's won the lottery or hit the jackpot by being the one responsible for making Eddie's shoulders lose the tension that usually clings to his frame, by being the catalyst behind his easy grins and quick-witted jokes and, above all, by being the lucky bastard who gets to love him for good, the way he deserves to be loved.
Buck is shaken out of his thoughts by the feeling of his shirt finally being tugged upwards and over his head, his arms obligingly lifting and moving to accommodate, until the piece of clothing is thrown behind Eddie without a care and Eddie's mouth is back on his neck, somehow even hotter and wetter and hungrier than before, lapping at the tender, sensitive flesh like it's his only purpose in life.
"You're gorgeous," Eddie mutters. "Have I ever told you how fucking gorgeous you are, Buck? It's—Jesus," he huffs, moving his lips down his chest, following the dip in the middle to his sternum and pecs, teeth scraping, biting, teasing, but never hard enough to leave a mark, just a ghost of the possibility that lingers over Buck's skin, a phantom pressure that drives him insane. "It's been so fucking hard being around you lately, not being able to look at you as much as I wanted, not being allowed to touch you like this—"
His voice falters when he drags his tongue to the side, flicking his eyes upwards as he goes to watch Buck's reaction, and his mouth falls open on a surprised moan when their gazes lock. The look Buck knows he has to be sporting right now—the dazed, blissed-out, glazed over one—seems to be doing something to Eddie, whose lips part even further, mouth going slack for an instant before a sharp breath is drawn between his teeth and he's suddenly back in action, dropping his head back down and sealing his mouth around a patch of skin just to the side of his left nipple, sucking and licking and worrying the spot with his teeth until a bruise blooms and stays his mark, dark and vibrant and loud on Buck's skin.
When he pulls back, Eddie takes a moment to admire his handiwork, fingers reaching out to trace the edges of the hickey, reverently following the shape and color, as if trying to burn the memory of it onto his brain.
"Yeah, exactly like this," he whispers, voice hoarse and full of awe and possessiveness. The tone strikes a match inside Buck's chest, and something deep and primal growls in his veins, curling his toes and sending every last bit of his blood straight southward.
And it's not just that. His whole being yearns , aches with the need to have Eddie mark him up everywhere, and leave an imprint of him that will last for days—weeks, even—, something for everyone to see and translate into an irrefutable claim on him, something permanent and impossible to ignore.
His heart, his lungs, his stomach, everything in his body clenches with a hunger that only Eddie can quench, and in a moment of sheer, bone-crushing need, his hands lift to shakily cradle and trace every line of his best friend's face, before his thumbs find the corners of his mouth and press lightly against his lower lip, encouraging him to open up and take him in.
Eddie does.
He lets Buck slip his fingers inside, and Buck nearly loses his mind for good when Eddie encloses them in the moist heat, tongue flattening to allow Buck to push down like he wants, to explore and rub at his gums, the back of his teeth, the insides of his cheeks.
Eddie's eyes, molten chocolate in the dim glow of his bedroom, never leave his, and he keeps them trained on Buck even when he hollows his cheeks and begins sucking—obscene and wanton and looking like sin incarnate.
"Fuck, I—" Buck starts, voice coming out rougher than sandpaper, but he forces himself to continue, to push through and finish, "I want you to mark me up, Eds. Make everyone know I'm yours. That I've—That I've been yours since the very beginning. Even when I was too fucking scared to admit it to myself. Always yours, Eds. Yours. Yours, y—"
Eddie groans, cutting him off with a growl, and a split-second later, he's releasing the two fingers trapped in the vise grip of his lips, leaning up and plastering his whole body to Buck's and kissing him so thoroughly, Buck thinks he's actually going to melt into a puddle.
It's messy. Sloppy. It's mostly teeth and tongue, saliva smearing on their lips and chins like they're starving beasts, battling for control in an exchange that has no real winners. Just a merry game of back and forth, push and pull, give and take, until neither of them can breathe and they're forced to come up for air, panting heavily in the scant space between their faces.
"Are you sure, Buck?" Eddie asks, still sounding breathless, but with an undercurrent of concern weaving in and out of his words. "Everyone at the firehouse will know, and they'll ask questions. I want them to know cause they're my family, but... but if you're not comfortable—"
Buck stops him with a finger over his mouth, grinning when Eddie automatically presses a kiss to the tip without thinking twice, like a reflex he doesn't even notice.
"They're our family, Eddie. And I want them to know because I don't want to hide this anymore, and I don't want to be without you," he replies, letting his voice carry his sincerity. "I wanna be able to kiss you in front of them, I want them to tease us about being gross, and I want to hold your hand while we watch Bobby cook for everyone and Chim and Hen bicker over the stupidest things. I want it all, Eddie."
There's a beat, a moment of silence, as Eddie takes everything in, as he processes what Buck is saying, and then he's smiling—small at first, then growing bigger by the second, until he's beaming brighter than a sunflower in the summer, and Buck can't help but match it.
"Okay," he whispers, dropping a chaste kiss to the tip of Buck's nose. "Then we should... we should probably tell your sister too. And Athena, and—"
"Eddie," Buck cuts in, amused. "We can tell everyone later, okay? Right now..." he trails off, taking advantage of Eddie's pause to strip him of his shirt as well, throwing it somewhere in the vicinity of his own on the floor. "I really really need you to get your mouth back on me and bite me like you mean it."
The hickey on his chest is still throbbing lightly, pulsing in time with his heartbeat and reminding him of its presence every time he moves, which has Buck feeling restless and hornier than he can remember feeling ever before in his life.
"Like I mean it, huh?" Eddie repeats, licking his lips and letting his fingers drop back to Buck's chest, nails grazing the tender spot and drawing out a hiss from between his teeth. "I think I can do that."
"Fuck," Buck croaks, trying and failing miserably not to arch into Eddie's touch. "C'mon, Eds. Please."
Eddie laughs, the bastard, but he finally moves to obey.
Buck watches, entranced, as Eddie bends his head down and starts working on another mark, right next to the first one, just a little higher up, closer to his clavicle. This time, he doesn't bother with taking his time, with teasing and dragging it out, instead choosing to get straight to work, latching onto the spot and sucking hard, alternating between long drags of his tongue and quick bursts of suction, until Buck can feel the blood physically rush to the surface and pool underneath his skin.
He doesn't stop there though. No, Eddie—who seems to have taken Buck's words to heart—moves on to another patch of flesh, a little bit higher and closer to his neck, where it'll be that much more difficult to hide, and bites down hard enough to leave a bright pinkish-red ring of teeth marks.
Buck keens.
He keens and he writhes and he pulses, dick straining in his briefs and sweats and leaking a damp spot into the fabric. He knows he could come like this, just from having Eddie play him like an instrument, strumming and plucking him to his heart's content, but he doesn't want this to be over so soon.
And he knows Eddie isn't done yet.
Eddie, who is busy carving a path of hickeys up the length of Buck's torso and along the ridge of his collarbone, pausing only to lick at the bruised and bitten spots before continuing. Eddie, who soon moves on to leaving smaller, less painful-looking but no less noticeable lovebites all across his throat and neck, until Buck's breathing is reduced to short, erratic bursts that never manage to fully fill his lungs.
Eddie, who at some point seems to think that what he's been doing so far isn't enough, because before long Buck feels the touch of gentle fingers drawing random shapes across the marked, flushed expanse of his chest, and the next thing he knows, Eddie's forefinger and thumb have his right nipple trapped between them, pinching and pulling at it until it's swollen and hard and tingling in that perfect mix of pain and pleasure that makes him groan and jerk his hips upwards involuntarily, desperately seeking friction, a lifeline, anything to help him soothe the little monster that seems to have taken residence in the pit of his belly.
"What do you want, Buck?" Eddie breathes over the damp skin of his jaw, sounding just as out-of-breath as he is and infinitely darker than when they started. "Tell me. What do you need?"
And isn't that the million dollar question, honestly? What does he need? What does he want? He wants everything. He wants the sweat, the kisses, the moans, the heat. He needs the pressure on his chest and the weight on his lap, the feeling of calloused fingers on his nipples, the sound of his name as it leaves Eddie's lips like a prayer.
He wants Eddie.
He needs Eddie.
"You. Want—want you, Eds. Fucking need you," he chokes out, gasping for breath when Eddie's hand moves to his other nipple and pinches it just as hard and perfectly as the first one.
"Anything you want, mi amor," Eddie purrs, nipping at his earlobe, and Buck feels his dick throb at the term of endearment—almost at the same time as his heart does, in a weird, twisted sort of symmetry. "How do you want me? Need me to take care of you, princess? Fuck you nice and slow on my fingers until you're ready to take my cock?"
Of course, Buck immediately conjures the mental image of what that would look like, of what it would feel like. The sight of Eddie, propped up on his knees between his splayed thighs, fingering him open, stretching him wide, making sure he's slick and ready to take him. Eddie's face, flushed with arousal and determination, sweaty strands sticking to his forehead and his lips slightly parted in concentration, while he crooks his fingers just right to make Buck arch and keen.
He imagines Eddie's dick, flushed an angry red and glistening, the head purple and leaking steadily, as it pushes past Buck's rim, inch by slow, maddening inch, until he's bottoming out and sheathed to the hilt. Eddie, driving into him over and over, with slow, deep rolls of his hips, finding that perfect, magical angle to rub over his prostate and set Buck's nerve-endings aflame, because he's Eddie, and everything he does for Buck is always perfect.
He imagines coming like that—hard and long and completely untouched, clenching down around the cock filling him, spilling ropes and ropes of come all over his chest, painting himself white, with the heady combination of Eddie's eyes on him and his dick inside him.
"Or...," Eddie starts again, cutting into his fantasy like a hot knife through butter, voice pitched low and thick like honey. "Do you want to fill me up? Spread me open on your dick, show me how sorry you are for staying away so long?"
Buck's brain short-circuits, his vision going white and fuzzy at the edges and his ears ringing with static. He can't think. He can't breathe. He's not even sure he's still alive at this point, asphyxiated by the endless loop of Eddie's words replaying in his mind over and over, like a scratched record, until they threaten to drive him insane.
"Eddie, I—"
"You want me to ride you? Need to feel me just like this," Eddie, the incredible, beautiful asshole that he is, punctuates his words by rocking his ass over the tent in Buck's briefs and sweats, the only pieces of clothing either one of them are still wearing, and Buck whimpers pathetically at the sensation, "watching me as I bounce on your thick, fat cock, while you stay nice and still underneath me? Like the good, patient little princess I know you are?"
He should be embarrassed, probably, but it's so fucking hot, so incredibly dirty, the way Eddie is speaking, that it only serves to ramp up his arousal further and further, and he can feel the precum oozing steadily out of him, the spot on his briefs probably a sizeable pool of it now, dampening the fabric and making the slide of his dick over it feel absolutely maddening.
"I bet you're just so big... so thick, but also so, so useless with it, aren't you? I can feel you under me, Buck, and you're so hard, so desperate to fuck up into me, but you won't do it, will you? You'll just lay there and take it, because you know that's what I need. Right, tesoro? You'd let me use you as long as I wanted, however I wanted, and you'd just take whatever I give you and say ‘thank you’ afterward. Right?"
It's almost scary how true that is.
Buck would let him, if Eddie wanted to use his dick to get himself off.
And it wouldn't even be some sort of selfless act or sacrifice on his part. It'd be selfish, self-serving, and completely and utterly wonderful and amazing, watching and feeling and experiencing Eddie chase his own pleasure, witness him morph into this whole new creature, formed entirely out of ecstasy and raw emotion, capable of grasping his needs and clawing them out of his flesh, and finally taking what he so clearly deserves.
Buck's mind is made up before he can even fully process the idea.
"Please," he croaks, hands flying to Eddie's hips and squeezing, digging his nails into him in a way he hopes translates into a plea, that conveys the extent of his need and desperation. "Please, Eds. Please, do it. Use me, ride me—anything, anything you want."
He thinks he must sound wrecked—hell, he feels completely wrecked—but the thought quickly flies out the window as soon as he meets Eddie's gaze and sees the matching desperation shining in his dark, half-lidded eyes. Eddie looks wild—his pupils blown, his eyelids drooping to half mast, and his mouth hanging slightly open—, and he looks at Buck like he's the sole focus of the universe and the reason for everything that is good and true and beautiful in the world.
Buck is lucky.
So unbelievably lucky.
He's so focused on memorizing the lines and planes of Eddie's face and committing every single one to his memory—because he has to—that he misses it, the way Eddie's hands move off of him to start divesting himself of the rest of his clothes, pulling down his pants and his boxers at the same time and leaving him completely bare and vulnerable on Buck's lap, except the vulnerability doesn't carry with it any shame or hesitation. He looks powerful, strong and regal, sitting naked astride Buck's thighs, like a conqueror surveying the lands he's captured.
Like a god who's finally found his match and the salvation that only his most devout, most faithful follower can provide.
Buck would worship him any minute of his life, if Eddie asked him to.
"Ask and ye shall receive," Eddie murmurs, startling him out of his stupor and managing to pull out the slightest, tiniest surprised laugh from him. "But now... will you be good and tell me where you keep your lube, so I can stretch myself nice and open for you?"
Buck nods frantically, pointing a finger towards the nightstand on his right. "In there, top drawer. And there should be condoms inside too," he adds, his voice shaking, because his body is already anticipating what's about to come—pun not intended—and it's becoming harder and harder to string together coherent thoughts.
Eddie turns away to fish out the items from the drawer, giving Buck a perfect view of his back and ass, but he stops short of actually returning with them, instead staying still for a few long seconds. Buck is just about to ask if everything is alright when Eddie starts talking again.
"Actually... you know what? Fuck that. I don't wanna use them," he declares, throwing the condoms back inside the drawer and turning around holding only the half-empty bottle of lube. He looks at Buck again, determination and a little bit of fear mixed in with the arousal in his eyes, and takes a deep breath before continuing. "We get tested regularly at work, and I'm willing to bet you've never let Tommy—you've never let him fuck you without one, so... can we just..." he trails off, chewing his lower lip anxiously, waiting for Buck's answer.
It doesn't even occur to Buck to question him. Not only does he trust Eddie—with his heart, his body and his life—, but he also has an inkling of where this is coming from, if the look on Eddie's face, the uncertainty and the tiny hint of doubt in his voice are any indication.
So, he gives his own answer in the only way that seems right at that moment: by pushing himself up onto his elbows and pressing a soft, slow, tender kiss to Eddie's lips, trying to pour into that one gesture as much of his love, adoration and loyalty as possible, to erase Eddie's fears and reassure him of Buck's own certainty, because this —they are permanent. They have been from the very first moment, when the universe (and Bobby) decided to throw them into each other's lives and never separate them again.
Neither of them would allow it.
"Yeah, we can. Whatever you want, Eds," he whispers against the soft, pink swell of Eddie's bottom lip. "You're right, I didn't let him. I—I don't think I would've, even if he'd asked. I wouldn't trust anyone else enough to... but I trust you. More than I trust myself sometimes."
"I trust you too," Eddie whispers back, sounding far more calm and relaxed now that he knows where they stand on the issue.
Then, the fire comes rushing back to his gaze, and Buck is almost knocked on his back from the force of it. Instead, it's Eddie who is pushing him backwards, using a hand splayed on the center of his chest, until his back collides with the mattress once again. Eddie follows him down, hovering above him on all fours and smiling softly.
"Help me take off your clothes, then?" Eddie asks, voice hushed like they're sharing secrets, like his words are something private, for them alone, even if there's no one else listening in.
Buck nods eagerly, not trusting his voice, and makes a grab for his sweats and underwear, fumbling with his shaky fingers to get rid of them as quickly as possible, somehow managing to maneuver around Eddie's body still on top of him so he can kick them off his legs and throw them off to the side.
"So eager... good boy, Buck," Eddie praises him, smiling again, and Buck feels the words hit him like a punch in the gut, spreading a heat that seems to be trying to burn its way out of his stomach and up his throat, tangling his tongue and turning his brain to mush. "Will you sit up for me now?"
With a jerky nod, Buck obeys, quickly maneuvering his body up against the headboard without jostling the kneeling figure still in his lap, until his back hits the cool surface and Eddie is reaching over to adjust the pillows behind his back, making sure that he's comfortable.
"Perfect, tesoro. You're perfect," Eddie murmurs, leaning forward and kissing him again, chaste and brief. "Just stay here and watch, okay? Think you can do that?"
And, God, he wants to. He wants to keep watching Eddie no matter what, the desire to follow his instructions warring with the other, equally visceral need he has to be perpetually skin to skin with Eddie, to seek his warmth and touch at all times, until they blur into one mass and the space between them disappears forever.
"Yeah," he croaks, finding his voice deep down in the bottom of his throat and pulling the word out of his mouth with all the strength he has left. "I can do that. But—but Eds, can I touch you, please?"
He can't not touch him.
He needs the contact. The solid feel of Eddie's warm, firm, alive body underneath his fingertips, or else he'll go crazy.
"You can," Eddie replies easily, pushing forward once again to brush another peck against Buck's lips. "Always. Always touch me, if you want to. No holding back with me, okay?"
There are layers and layers to his words, more weight and meaning than what's coming through at face value, and Buck hears it—he hears Eddie, loud and clear. Eddie, asking him not to try to hide anything, not to shy away or keep things to himself out of fear of what he'll think, or because he's worried Eddie won't be comfortable with something Buck wants. Eddie, giving him his full, explicit and enthusiastic consent to be seen, to be touched, to be loved. Eddie, telling him that he's allowed to want, and he's allowed to receive, and there's nothing either of them have to fight anymore.
He hears all of it, and he decides to reply in the best way he knows how.
Sneaking his arms around Eddie's waist, he pulls him closer until their bare chests are flush against one another's, molding into each other's dips and curves, and hugs him tight.
"Thank you," he breathes, hiding his face in the crook of Eddie's neck and letting himself indulge in the urge he'd had since the beginning, by pressing a kiss to the soft, sensitive skin over his pulse point, one hand slipping upwards to simply rest between his shoulder blades, not seeking anything except the reassurance of his presence. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
There's a short, quiet beat, and then two arms come to wind around his shoulders, and he feels a tender kiss being placed against the crown of his head, featherlight and barely there, except for the fact that it feels like everything.
"Nothing to thank me for, silly," Eddie whispers, his breath ruffling the top of Buck's hair, and then he's pulling back, looking at Buck with soft eyes and an even softer smile, and Buck is so so so gone on him. "I love you, Buck. I'm always gonna give you whatever you need, especially if what you need is me."
"Love you too," Buck repeats, thinking that the words are simply not enough. They will never be enough, because no language, no combination of letters, could ever encompass the kind of love he has for Eddie. It's visceral and magical, powerful and terrifying, and it's something that is only theirs. For once in their lives, they'll be able to hold on to something for themselves, something that the whole universe can't try to tear away from their grasp, because it exists within their hearts and lives inside their bones and no one else can understand it. No one else can know it like they do. "I... I love you so much, Eds."
"Good," Eddie murmurs, stealing another kiss—God, Buck has lost count of how many they've shared so far, and he wants nothing more than to lose track a thousand, million more times, if only to keep drinking in Eddie's taste and feeding his addiction to the softness of his lips, "because I wasn't kidding about the whole you showing me how sorry you are for staying away part."
Buck barks out a laugh. "Oh, yeah? That wasn't just some sexy talk to get me going?"
Eddie grins at him, raising a brow. "Who says it can't be both?"
"Well, then..." Buck starts, pulling Eddie impossibly closer and feeling his smile grow as their foreheads touch, "how about you get that prep going so I can get started on my groveling and repenting?"
He watches in amazement as Eddie's eyes darken, his grin turning sharper, before he's blindly reaching to the side and grabbing the lube from where it had ended up, tossed somewhere near them on the sheets, uncapping the lid and pouring a generous amount onto his fingers.
"Hold onto me," Eddie sighs softly as he raises a little higher on his knees and reaches behind himself, out of Buck's view, and Buck is fast to comply, tightening his hold on Eddie's back while his other hand takes residence low on his right hip, gripping tightly, reveling in the feel of the smooth, solid mass of muscle under his fingertips.
"You good?" He can't help but ask, the irrational worry for Eddie's comfort and safety battling the almost insatiable desire coursing through his veins.
"Never been better," comes the quick, sincere reply, along with a tiny, breathy gasp, as Eddie finds leverage on his shoulder and shifts his hips, adjusting his angle slightly.
And, oh God, Buck can't see it, but he can imagine it so easily. The first, tentative touch of a slick finger to his entrance, circling the rim teasingly and coating the outside in the cool gel, before sinking in. Just the tip first—just the barest intrusion, a hint of a promise, till Eddie can give himself more, sinking the finger in past the knuckle, feeling his body open up to accommodate the width, and crooking it inside to get himself used to the pressure and stretch.
Eddie's mouth goes a little slack above him, his eyes a little hazy, syncing up perfectly with the fantasy in his mind, and Buck thinks he might just stop breathing entirely in order to conserve all his brain power and use it to carve the sight into his retinas and permanently embed it in his memories.
"Fuck, you look so beautiful like this. Always do, but right now... Eds, you have no idea. You're stunning," he can't help the praise, can't hold it back, not when the image of Eddie like this—bare and vulnerable, body loose-limbed and open, slowly coming undone—is right in front of him, begging to be worshiped.
Eddie gasps a little louder this time, and Buck finally takes proper notice of the blush sitting high on his cheeks and the way it's spreading all the way down his neck and chest right in front of his eyes, the red splotches and the flush standing in stark contrast to the otherwise bronze skin and making him look somehow even more ethereal and otherworldly—something Buck hadn't even thought possible, not until now, anyway.
So he keeps watching, enraptured, as Eddie must add a second finger, judging by the way his brows knit together and his jaw slackens further, as his pretty pink lips fall apart and his breaths come out in staccato puffs of air. His own hand moves mindlessly, up and down Eddie's flank, his thumb rubbing slow, gentle circles into the pretty arch of his waist, a feeble attempt at grounding him, but also a reminder that he's here, present and alert and very much focused on him, to take him apart with his eyes and savor every single shift and tremble of his muscles.
"I can't wait for you to fill me up," Eddie whispers, wrecked, just as his arm resumes its back and forth motion behind him, the rhythm of his hips also falling into a pattern, rocking down a little erratically onto his fingers and forward against Buck's stomach, where he can feel his cock dragging over his stomach and leaving behind a wet streak of precum on his skin. Once again, Buck feels marked—claimed, in a way he never has been before. "I know it's gonna be so good, Buck. So good, just like everything else with you."
Buck can only moan brokenly in response, words failing him, and pull Eddie even closer, close enough that they're practically breathing the same air, the proximity enough to make his head spin and his lungs seize up. He's painfully hard, his own cock drooling all over himself, but he couldn't care less, because all of his focus is zeroed in on Eddie—on the little hitching gasp that leaves his mouth when he twists his wrist at just the right angle, on the tiny groan when he adds a third finger and has to take a minute to let himself adjust, on the way his face is set in concentration, brows furrowed and teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he opens himself up for Buck with the utmost care, the same kind he takes with his work, always, but with the added bonus of not risking his life or someone else's in the process.
"That's it, sweetheart. You're doing so good," he encourages, finding his voice in the absolute chaos of his thoughts, and pressing a kiss against Eddie's cheek, feeling the wetness of his sweat on his lips, following the line of his jaw and kissing the corner of his mouth next. "So beautiful, so strong for me. You're so pretty it makes me crazy, Eds, do you know that? Can't even think about anything else anymore, it's all you—always you, inside my head."
"Yeah?" Eddie asks breathily, a little smile blooming on his lips despite how far gone he already is. "Wish I could be inside your head for a minute, see for myself how crazy I'm making you... How I look through your eyes. If—if it's even a little like I see you."
The chuckle that leaves his lips then is a little wet, a little wobbly, and Buck has to blink away the moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes before he can speak again, but even then all he can manage is a soft, "Eddie...," because nothing else could possibly encompass everything that's going on inside him.
Eddie doesn't seem to mind though.
He just shakes his head and leans back a little, squeezing Buck's shoulder for leverage as he pulls his hand free from himself—with an obscenely slick sound that has Buck's brain short-circuiting and his stomach swooping like he's on the verge of plummeting a thousand feet down to the ground—, panting heavily as he stares straight at Buck and says, "Okay, I think—I think I'm good. Want you in me now."
He sounds and looks so blissed-out, every sign pointing to the fact that he's ready and craving more, that Buck doesn't think twice before grabbing the lube still lying beside them on the bed and uncapping the lid, then instantly moving to messily (and blindly) pour a generous amount of it directly on his cock, hissing a little at the chill of it against his overheated flesh. However, the discomfort doesn't last long, especially not when Eddie's hands are suddenly framing his face, tilting his head up and locking their gazes together. Eddie leans in to brush their mouths together in an achingly tender kiss.
"Look at me. Need you to look at me—never stop looking at me," Eddie sounds winded, like he's pleading, like there's something deep inside him that is clawing its way up and fighting to get out and he can barely hold it back anymore. "Need you to watch me sink down on you, need you to keep your eyes open, okay? Even—even if it's the hardest thing you've ever done, look at me."
Buck feels like every muscle in his body is simultaneously melting and tensing up, like his limbs are simultaneously made of pudding and have turned to steel, frozen in place, and his brain is being twisted this way and that, fighting between staying quiet and saying all the things his chest is burning to spill. "I will. Nothing could make me take my eyes off you, Eds," is what makes its way past his lips, a promise in its most basic, yet most visceral form.
Instead of a verbal reply, Eddie lets his next actions speak for him.
Motioning for Buck to keep his length still and steady for him, Eddie lines himself up till the head is kissing his entrance, catching against the wet, stretched rim with the gentlest of caresses, and then his hands are covering Buck's shoulders again as he takes one single, deep breath.
Buck can only describe the sensation, the act, the experience of Eddie sliding down on him and taking him inside his body as the closest a human could get to the Divine and still survive, to the highest of euphorias and the deepest, most sacred of epiphanies.
It's religious, Buck thinks, as cliché and blasphemous as the thought may be, because what is faith, devotion and loyalty, if not the single-minded belief in someone's power and ability to give you what you need most, and give it to you willingly and with their whole self? And that's exactly what Eddie is. Exactly what Eddie gives to him.
His body is the temple, and Buck is the worshiper, prostrating himself at his altar, kneeling on the stone floor and begging for salvation and deliverance.
It feels like his very soul is being taken into custody by Eddie's body, welcomed inside like the lost, lonely, desperate creature he's always been, and made to stay there forever. It feels therapeutic, warm in a way nothing and no one has ever been, and addictive, too, because the second he gets a taste of that warmth, he becomes starved for more, greedy to soak up every little ounce and drown in the sensation of belonging—of finally having a place to rest, a place where he's wanted. A home.
Eddie sinks all the way down until they're flushed together, until he's sitting entirely in Buck's lap, and the world beyond his field of vision loses all meaning and clarity. The only thing in his line of sight and understanding is Eddie's face, painted in radiant brightness and the most gorgeous shade of red, sweat dotting his forehead and temples and the sides of his neck, shimmering gold and sparking like starlight against the natural glow of his complexion. The only thing he hears is the soft, hitched, punched-out rhythm of Eddie's breaths, in perfect tempo with the beat of his own heart, and the fluttering, strained moans that leave his parted, kiss-swollen lips as his eyelids flutter and his body shifts minutely, getting used to the intrusion and the fullness and the stretch of him, thick and solid, buried deep inside. The only thing he knows—the only thing his whole self has any semblance of recognition for, is Eddie.
So it's no surprise that one of his hands is reaching for Eddie before his brain is even able to think it, cradling his jaw and reverently swiping his thumb along the curve of his cheek and catching a stray droplet of sweat. It's no surprise either, the awe that washes over him when Eddie readily turns his head and nuzzles the inside of his palm, kisses his wrist and the thin skin over the pulse point and inhales deeply, releasing a slow, shaky sigh against the sensitive flesh.
"Hi," is what Eddie whispers softly, a short, huffed-out syllable breathed against the heel of his palm, and it's enough to coax a chuckle out of Buck, short and disbelieving. Enamored.
"Hey yourself," he shoots back, pressing the pad of his thumb into the corner of Eddie's smile and feeling the stretch of it against the digit, grinning when a tiny, half-moan, half-giggle falls from Eddie's lips and his hips give the faintest roll in response.
"We're really doing this," Eddie mutters, mostly to himself, like he still can't believe it, and Buck can't blame him. It seems too good to be true for him, too, even though his whole body is thrumming and alive with the certainty that, at long last, everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be.
Buck can only hope Eddie feels the same.
"Wouldn't have it any other way," he confesses, honestly. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah," comes the instant, whispered reassurance. "I'm great. More than great. I just feel so—so full, like you're squeezing into every crack of me, making me whole like I've never felt before. Like a piece I didn't even know was missing has finally slipped into place and made me brand new."
Buck doesn't know how Eddie is able to wax poetry in this state, doesn't know how every word is simultaneously a sweet, meaningful compliment and a sucker punch to his gut, but he wouldn't change it for the world. This is Eddie. His partner, his best friend, the love of his life. There's nothing about him Buck would ever want to change.
Which is why, even though he's choking up and there's an honest-to-God lump clogging his throat and tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes, he sniffles, moves his other hand from Eddie's hip to join the first one on his face, and grins up at him. "You're so cheesy."
Eddie answers with his very own lopsided grin, full of adoration and mischief and all the things that made Buck fall a little deeper for him every day. "Says the actual walking Hallmark card," he snarks back, followed immediately by, "Now shush. Let me enjoy the feeling of your cock in my ass, please and thank you."
"Well, when you ask so nicely," Buck shrugs, acting as nonchalant as possible, even though his stomach is fluttering and his cheeks are sore with how wide his smile is.
He's reluctant to drop his hands from Eddie's cheeks, where they fit so perfectly, the right size and weight to frame his rosy features, but somehow he finds the strength, and brings them back to their previous resting place, one low on Eddie's waist and the other high on his back, tracing the smooth, solid expanse of muscle and reveling in the warmth radiating from beneath his palms.
This is good too. Having Eddie under his fingertips is good. Feeling him, feeling his body with nothing else in the way is good.
Eddie, predictably, wastes absolutely no time.
At his touch, he begins to move, closing his eyes and tilting his head upwards, towards the ceiling, and arching his back a little as he lifts his hips and drops them back down—slowly, leisurely, like he has all the time in the world to work himself up on Buck's cock and take his pleasure however he wants.
(And it is exactly what this is, what they are, here, now. What they've always been. Equals, partners—on the field and off it—, giving each other whatever the other needs without hesitation or restraint, with the trust that they won't be judged, or punished, or taken advantage of.)
In turn, Buck is free to explore with his eyes and hands, and he's more than happy to indulge. He takes his fill of the sharp, pretty outline of his collarbones, the shallow valley between them and the strong line of his throat, Adam's apple prominent and bobbing every now and then, and his heart sings an ode to the stunning play of muscles over bone, contracting and releasing below the bronze-toned canvas of his chest.
He takes his fill of the elegant curve and hollow dip of his spine, trailing his fingertips down the bend of it and sliding his touch lower till he can grip him by the waist and add a little pressure, not really guiding or urging him, but rather feeling his movements and drinking in the friction.
Eddie, in turn, continues his lazy pace, seemingly gaining more confidence as the minutes tick by, and loosens up fully the longer he rides him, his thighs spreading a little wider, his body a little more languid and uninhibited, and his moans and sighs a little louder, a little greedier. There is no discomfort or hesitation, no traces of pain anywhere to be seen, just Eddie controlling the pace, the rhythm, the depth and reach, following his instincts and letting his impulses guide him, and Buck is nothing if not entranced, completely in awe and taken captive by the grace, the beauty and the magnificence that is this moment, the two of them moving together with such synchronicity it's as if they were born to do it.
(Maybe they were. Maybe that's how it is for soulmates, who are so perfectly aligned, so attuned to each other that they move and think as one being, one entity, two sides of the same coin.)
Time loses its meaning, too, the seconds bleeding into one another and turning into a single, uninterrupted stretch, minutes forgotten and merely serving as a background to the symphony of Eddie's quiet gasps and mumbled, incoherent pleas and, most beautiful of all, the sounds his body makes as he rolls and rocks and moves above him, resonating in the quiet stillness of the room—sweaty skin meeting even sweatier, flushed flesh; the squelching, slick sounds of movement; the smacks and slaps of impact.
Buck doesn't try to take the lead, and Eddie doesn't push him to. Buck doesn't instigate, and Eddie doesn't demand.
Instead, Eddie's hand snakes up and into his hair, grabbing a fistful of it, his fingers burying in the curly tresses and scratching lightly at his scalp, while his pace becomes just a fraction faster and a hint harder, while his hips change their angle and his motions take a steeper, downward arc and a deeper angle, purpose behind every tilt and swivel, rise and fall.
When his breath catches for a little longer, Buck knows. When his legs tense up, his toes curl and his knees bracket him tighter, Buck knows.
"That's it," he croons softly, and Eddie shudders, his pace faltering a little before resuming with renewed determination. "You found it, right? Keep going, Eds, you're so close."
"I'm—yeah, fuck, Buck. Right there," he babbles, his body arching closer, his hand in Buck's hair pulling sharply enough to sting. Buck barely feels the pain, too preoccupied with watching, listening, feeling Eddie target that one spot with laser focus, his movements losing their lazy ease and his composure cracking a little bit more, piece by piece, revealing the wreck underneath, the raw desperation and the wild hunger. "Please, don't let go. Keep touching me, I need—Buck , please—"
When he's unable to finish that thought, Buck knows.
When Eddie leans forward, buries his face against his neck as he keeps, frantically, unrelentingly, chasing his release, his hips a staccato beat, and mouths helplessly at the marked-up, bruised skin there, Buck knows what is being asked of him.
In the flash of an instant, his fingers are circling around the flushed, dripping length of Eddie's dick, hard and neglected until now, and he starts working it to match Eddie's pace, thumbing the slit, smearing the beads of precum gathered there around the crown, and tugging along the shaft, adding the tiniest twist at the tip to add a little bit of extra friction.
Everything becomes overwhelming, everything thrums with white-hot intensity, but Buck is determined to stay present, keep his eyes on Eddie like he promised, take in every little tremble and shiver, no matter how much it gets to him—especially then. He is determined to commit to memory the feeling of Eddie's breaths coming hot and damp against his throat, the faintest trace of teeth against the pulse point and the wet trail of spit he leaves in his wake; the way his whole body trembles, held together by the barest threads of control, twitchy and fraught; the way his cock feels, hard and pulsing and heavy, nestled against the palm of his hand and steadily leaking more and more pearls of liquid; the squeeze, the heat, the tight, constricting, unbelievable pressure surrounding him, the velvet-soft drag and the heady pull of the body sucking him in, insatiable and starving—every last, minute detail, from start to finish.
He is determined not to miss a thing.
So he catalogs every shift in Eddie's movements, the abrupt shortening of his thrusts and the jolt-jerk of his hips, memorizes how and when and where Eddie reacts to every touch and stroke and slide, what gets him to be just that little bit louder, what makes him stutter or stop that little bit longer, and stores the information away for safekeeping, like a treasure trove, an entire hoard of all the things that make his best friend unravel, and once they're safely tucked away deep inside him, he can pull them out and make use of them again and again and again, till he knows the map of Eddie's pleasure and bliss like the back of his own hand.
It doesn't take long after that.
His climax has been chasing him for the better part of the night, dancing right at the edge of his vision and humming, sharp and bright, along his veins, but he refuses to let it take over before Eddie can catch his own high, so he holds it off, locks it back up and throws away the key, and redoubles his efforts to get Eddie there.
With his free hand, he grasps at Eddie's ass and squeezes the plump, supple flesh there, a perfect handful, and brings his forefinger and middle close to his entrance, lets them brush against the puffy, stretched rim and feel the place where they're joined, where Eddie's body is spread open and taking him in, and uses the excess lube to gently rub circles into the opening, just as his other hand slithers down to cup his balls and tug at the delicate, silky skin there, working him up just that little bit more.
Immediately, Eddie's mouth clamps down on his shoulder, teeth sinking into the already-abused flesh, and his whole body goes taut—like a perfect replica of one of those Greek statues Buck has always thought he resembled, probably since the very first moment he laid eyes on him and thought that the fire in his belly was fueled by envy, hatred and rivalry.
A few seconds later, Eddie is coming with a drawn-out, muffled shout, spilling over Buck's hand and onto their stomachs, still bouncing jerkily in his lap and grinding down onto his dick despite the increased snugness, the almost vice-like tightness that his body turns into with every drop that leaves him. Eddie clings onto him with all of himself, both physically and mentally—fingers threaded in thick curls, teeth embedded in sweaty skin, arms and legs locked around the curves and contours of his body, and the weight of his love and earlier confession resurfacing and stirring in his belly, making his heart dance—, and he rides the high with the abandon of a man who's finally coming into his own and is taking what has been denied to him for far too long, with the conviction and certainty of someone who is not afraid or ashamed anymore.
Eddie comes undone, and the sight is more than enough to finally shatter Buck's resistance.
Eddie comes undone, and yet he continues moving, fighting the overstimulation of his prostate being assaulted from the inside out and of his throbbing cock still trapped between their bodies.
Eddie comes undone, and only stops when he registers that Buck is right there, his fingers gripping at the flesh of Eddie's ass so hard it has to leave marks behind, the hand on his cock stilling its ministrations and dropping it in favor of winding back around him, gripping his waist like a madman.
Eddie comes up for air, uncovering his face from the safety of Buck's neck, and when their gazes meet and lock, that's all it takes.
"Eddie—" is what slips past Buck's lips, cliché and predictable but entirely sincere, nothing else left to say and everything written plainly across his face, and the man atop him—his best friend, his partner, the love of his existence and the ones before that and the ones after—graces him with a smile, lopsided and damp, but beautiful all the same, and it's all the answer he needs.
Buck lets the fuzzy film at the corners of his vision take over, surrenders to the onslaught of pleasure that has been awaiting for its cue, and breaks apart in Eddie's arms, mind shattering and consciousness scattering as his climax rolls and crashes and drowns him in waves of sweet, honeyed heat, the only lifelines he has to keep him afloat Eddie's touch on his skin and his scent in his nose and the sound of his voice whispering praise in his ear, coaxing him to stay right there, where they're together.
When he reemerges, what feels like eons later, his blood is singing. His whole body is thrumming, loose-limbed, sated and content, and it feels like the most natural thing to return his arms to their newfound home around Eddie's waist, dragging him ever-closer and turning his head just so to press his smile against a collarbone, to lay a kiss, feather-light and barely there, on the ridges and curves there—wilfully ignoring the tackiness between their bodies, the gentle shuddering of oversensitivity running through him, and the way his legs are starting to cramp a little from having had to support Eddie's full weight for so long (which he's definitely not going to complain about)—, and just breathe in the scent of Eddie's sweat and the combined, intoxicating smell of sex and them.
"Should've known you'd be a cuddlebug after sex," Eddie comments idly, going for teasing and achieving soft instead. The hand that comes up to card lazily, repetitively, through his hair also doesn't really help his case.
"You love it," he replies easily, nosing his way up the column of his throat and peppering kisses all over the side of his neck, the line of his jaw and the corner of his mouth, unable to help himself and unwilling to try. He's allowed. Eddie loves it. "And you love me."
Eddie huffs out a laugh, tilting his head and slotting their lips together for a kiss that is just a simple press of mouths, no heat or urgency, just... affection. "Can't argue with that," he agrees, and Buck's heart flips and soars and does a dozen other ridiculous things inside his ribcage. "I do love you and your... puppy energy."
"Hey," Buck protests, indignantly. "I am a very intimidating man."
"Yes, yes, you're very big and scary," Eddie placates, his eyes shining with silent mirth, and it's should feel ridiculous how much it makes his insides feel all gooey and sappy, but it doesn't. Not even a little.
"Damn right," he mutters, mostly to himself, and leans back in for another kiss, this one longer and deeper, tongues sliding together languidly and teeth catching at mouths, tender and playful. When he pulls back, it's with the biggest smile he's ever had on his lips, and he knows that, if he could see his own face, he'd find it stupidly fond and completely besotted.
He doesn't care. He wants Eddie to know.
"I love you," he whispers, quiet and earnest, and watches as the flush on Eddie's cheeks returns full force in a matter of seconds. It's adorable, and Buck cannot stop looking.
"You already said that, like, fifteen times since I got in here," Eddie reminds him, but doesn't shy away from him. Quite the contrary; his eyes, his posture, his whole being seem to relax a fraction more, sinking further into his hold and wrapping him up a little tighter in the process.
"I'll say it twenty times, then. Or fifty, or a hundred," Buck counters, and lifts his hands from the dip of Eddie's waist to gently cradle his face, framing those cheeks in the shape of his palms and gazing lovingly into those big brown eyes that he adores, his thumbs swiping over the tiny wrinkles at their corners and relishing in the feel of the smooth, sun-kissed skin under his fingertips. "A thousand. A million. As many times as it takes to make up for all the times I didn't, all the times I was too scared to be honest about this."
"Don't say that," Eddie whispers, a little pained, but doesn't look away. One of the hands in his hair leaves its resting spot, slipping down to the left side of his face and coming to a stop on his birthmark. "You didn't do anything wrong, Buck. We didn't do anything wrong. This is what we needed, in our own time. And we're here now. Together."
"We're here now," Buck repeats, and he sounds a little awed, a lot awestruck. It's a familiar feeling, when it comes to Eddie, but this is the first time he doesn't bother trying to hide it. He knows he doesn't have to.
"And I'm never letting you go," Eddie confesses, the barest, thinnest sliver of apprehension leaking into his tone, so subtle Buck wouldn't have noticed, if not for the fact that his face is mere inches from Eddie's and he's paying undivided attention to the man in his arms.
"Good," he grins, baring his teeth and tilting his head, making sure his point is very clear. "Because I have no plans to leave, Eddie Diaz. Not unless you ask me to, and even then—you'll have to be very convincing about it. And very, very sure. Because you're not getting rid of me so easily, now that I have you."
Eddie stares at him for a long moment, searching his face, his expression, for any hints of uncertainty, and Buck lets him. He makes no attempt to hide away or disguise his emotions, letting them flow freely from him, right from his eyes and to Eddie's searching gaze, like a river into the ocean, and lets him see exactly what he wants to see. What he deserves to see.
What he will always see, every time Buck looks at him, for the rest of his days.
No tension lingers in Eddie's lips when he leans forward, no hesitation colors his breath when he exhales against his lips.
"Then you better carry me to the shower and clean me up before you ruin your chances," he murmurs, close enough for the tip of his nose to brush against Buck's, eyelashes fluttering in a fan-like tickle across his cheek. "Cause I think I might just understand why they call you fire hose... you filled me up real goo—"
"Eddie," he interjects, strangled and a little high-pitched. "Please. Let's never mention that again or I will actually die."
"So dramatic," Eddie smirks, but concedes and closes the remaining distance between them once and for all. "Now carry me to the damn bathroom, big boy."
And, well. That's a demand Buck has no problem obeying.
After all, they have all the time in the world for everything else.
✦
"Eddie? Are you asleep?"
"...Not anymore," the man grumbles, but turns around obediently anyway, the sheets pooling dangerously low on his waist as he does.
Buck can't complain. It's a good view, just a little too risky for the topic he's trying to broach.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," he apologizes, reaching out with a hand and pressing it against the warmth of Eddie's chest—yes, right above his heart because he's a sap like that—, and scoots a bit closer, unable to resist the urge to nuzzle at the crook of his neck, leaving a soft kiss there as a consolation prize. "You can go back to sleep."
Eddie makes an affronted sound at the back of his throat, shaking his head and carding his fingers through the thick mess that is his bed-head, nails scratching pleasantly at his scalp, coaxing him to stay put and just sink further in his embrace. Buck's eyes flutter close. He is powerless against the pull.
"Not happening. Not when there's something clearly bothering you," Eddie points out, the words rumbling low in his throat. Buck is distracted for a minute or two by the sound of them, the deep rumble of it vibrating underneath his ear, "Out with it, Buckley."
Eddie is trying to act stern, but it's clear to Buck, by now, that it's only a coverup for his genuine concern. He can't really hide it—not when his heartbeat picks up ever so slightly the moment Buck tenses and inhales sharply, readying himself, and certainly not when his touch remains gentle and grounding and never fails to soothe, even as he urges Buck to come out with what's weighing heavily on him.
Buck loves him so much his chest could burst from it.
"We should tell Christopher."
As expected, Eddie stiffens a little, but it's only a flash in time, and Buck knows that, even then, it has more to do with his own thoughts and concerns, his own doubts and worries and fears, rather than a total aversion to what Buck is suggesting—or the implications of what Buck is suggesting.
"Before you say anything, it's not—it's not about me wanting to jump right in and take Shannon's place, or anything like that, okay? It's just... He should know," he says, his voice going quieter as his explanation goes on. "He should know the truth from us and... if the idea of you and me together makes him even a little happy, maybe it'll help him move on from... you know. Maybe it could be what brings him back to u—you, I mean," he hurries to correct, stumbling a bit over the word and swallowing thickly when Eddie's hand comes to a halt on his neck and squeezes softly, an obvious cue for him to raise his head and meet Eddie's eyes.
The tender, affectionate look on his face almost bowls him over, making his breath hitch in his chest and his eyes prickle.
"To us," Eddie corrects gently, not a trace of a stutter or any uncertainty whatsoever, his tone firm and sure and, most of all, loving. "If anyone is gonna get that kid back to me, Evan, it's gonna be you. You've done it before. You've brought him back to me after a damn tsunami, you've listened to him and given him the space to hurt without being rejected. You've come to my aid when he asked you, without so much as a second thought."
"I'd do anything for him," Buck cuts in, earnest and open and bare.
"I know, mi vida," Eddie croons, his voice little more than a whisper, but so very warm, as he looks at Buck as if there is nothing and no one he believes in more. "And he knows too. You're his hero, Buck, and not only for surviving the tsunami, or any of the other crazy things you've survived since the day he met you. You're his hero because he knows, no matter how mad or upset or... anything else he gets, he can always count on you."
Buck lets the words settle into him, wrap themselves around his heart and hold tight
He hears his inner child's voice, crying for the same things—a parent's approval and unwavering, unconditional love. He hears Christopher, voice broken and worried, calling for him when Eddie had shut himself in his room to drown in his sorrows. He hears himself again, alone in a city he didn't know, with no one and nothing to call home.
He hears Christopher's voice again, this time cheerful and excited, and feels the phantom warmth of a tiny hand around his own, squeezing tight.
He hears the child within, crying again, this time with the realization that the love he so wished for is right in front of him, and this time it is not conditional or out dependent on things out of his control.
He hears Eddie, this time not from the past or from the depths of his mind, but right beside him, solid and real and breathing and living.
Eddie's thumb brushes against his birthmark. Buck inhales shakily.
"We've been a family for years already... we just need to make it official."
When they lean forward and slot their lips together, it tastes like a promise, one that Buck plans to keep no matter what.