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This is not the first time it happened.
Christopher is on the couch saying something about the movie they’re watching, and the only light in the room is coming from the television as Eddie sits next to Buck on his left at the floor—their backs pressed to the couch because Chris wanted to lay down. There’s a big bowl of popcorn balancing somewhere between his shoulders and Robin Williams is in front of the room talking about poetry.
Chris has come home for almost two months now. Their routine has settled back into what they had especially since Buck also broke up with his boyfriend at the same time.
It just made sense.
Not to break up when Chris came home, but just to break up. He knows what he wants to do more, anyway. Which home he wants to go to rest at the end of the day, the movies he wants to watch and with whom, the couch he wants his back to feel and lean upon, the laughter that he wants to hear ring out in the kitchen.
Eddie and Chris have been talking it out, and it hasn’t been easy because Eddie is scared and stubborn, and so is Chris. But they’ve both been giving a conscious effort as they repair their relationship, and Buck has been there every step of the way.
Buck is straining his neck as he looks back at Chris to continue their conversation, something about Ethan Hawke because apparently Chris watched Stranger Things and his daughter was there before he feels a weight on his shoulder.
It would have been fine because it has happened before, but he feels the weight move—like finding its spot as it adjusts, feeling the way their arms line up and as he stretches his legs forward so he can rest his head on Buck’s shoulder.
Buck slumps back down, head snapping to the front as Chris is still talking and he’s nodding his head and there’s some sounds coming out from him—he’s sure because Chris is still responding, but his complete attention is on the head that is on his shoulders, hair brushing his cheeks, arms crossed on his chest as he gives Buck his weight.
He squares his shoulders as he feels Eddie sigh, adjusting one last time to an easier position as Buck makes sure he doesn’t strain his neck and he feels the knuckles that kiss his biceps before they’re gone in a second.
This is not the first time it happened.
They’ve known each other for seven years and Eddie is tactile than most of his friends—they’re more tactile than most of his friendships—and Buck’s not complaining. They’ve hugged and rested their hands on some part of their bodies to let the other know how important they were.
And they’ve sat together in the firetruck and on the couch at the station, exhausted and sleep deprived and drowsy and a head may have lolled to their shoulder at one point or another.
Buck has always made sure to scoot down and keep his shoulder still whenever Eddie does, and he’s pretty sure Eddie does the same thing because his neck is always good when he wakes up.
So, this isn’t new.
But that Eddie that rests his head on his shoulder was sleeping, unconscious, barely coherent as soft tufts of air comes out of his mouth.
That Eddie barely even registers that Buck becomes a statue whenever he does so he doesn’t wake up. Doesn’t even know how quiet he forces himself to be, how he turns his phone down as he scrolls through forcing himself to sit.
That Eddie is asleep, but this Eddie is moving and warm and watching and aware that Buck has stopped moving in the last three minutes since he laid his head down.
This Eddie is brushing his hair to his cheek as he finds a spot he can fit his head in his neck. This Eddie is consciously leaning on Buck.
Chris chose this movie and Buck is normally good at watching his suggestions—would make comments here and there, be excited if he understands a reference, or see an actor he knows from another thing, actually watch the movie.
But Eddie is still resting his head and their knees are leaning on each other now as they both have one of them up to their chest and his arm is resting just in the middle of them and he turns his forehead on the edge of Buck’s shoulder rubbing it, almost using him to scratch at his frustration.
Buck is existing at another plane, another universe, another living room where he and Eddie are at opposite ends of the couch and he can watch this properly.
He has accepted that Eddie shows care through touching—has welcomed it with his arms wide open, anticipating the impact, knowing full well how the want will only grow bigger each time.
Buck likes to touch. Buck likes the physicality of it—the weight of another person on his chest, hands on his face, on his arms, on his thighs. He likes being touched and being able to touch. He likes the adrenaline it gives him. It wasn’t as casual as he’d like it to be.
He used to like it a lot more before.
But the way Eddie touches is different.
The way Eddie cares is easy and freely given to Buck. There are no strings anywhere, and there is no expectation to give back, to be the best, to pleasure them.
Eddie opens his palms stretching them to the expanse of where his shoulders meet his neck and holds him there, firm and final and important. Like all Buck has to do is stand up and look him in the eye.
Eddie flicks his hands towards him and Buck feels warm in his core as he wraps him around his arms. Eddie looks at him and he feels like he’s touched him in the middle of who he is, accepts him palm up and cradles him close.
Buck’s never been offered or taught the kind of affection Eddie has been showing him.
“Is somebody going to die?” Eddie asks, voice little in Buck’s ear. He doesn’t answer, so Eddie repeats it, closer now as he feels air tickle him.
Buck looks at him then, and he shouldn’t have.
Because he’s looking up at Buck, big hazel eyes blinking up at him as he looks dazed and a little pained at the movie they were watching.
“Uh,” Buck tries to keep his voice low, “I don’t know—Chris—“ and he snaps his head to Chris and he thinks he might have moved a little, but Eddie just moves with him.
“Shh!” Chris chastises them, “Watch the movie!”
And they do.
Or Eddie and Chris do.
And Buck is sitting here trying to even out his breathing because he has the smell of Eddie’s shampoo already memorised.
“Grumpy old man,” Eddie whispers, laughing a bit and it shakes from within him and it shakes Buck and just fuck.
He’s sure the scene doesn’t warrant laughing so they both feel Christopher’s knees nudge both of them in the head.
And the scene goes darker and he can feel Eddie tense up from beside him and he can even hear Christopher’s gasp from above him and Buck’s not sure if his chest is constricting from the scene or from Eddie wrapping his arms to his knees.
He feels Eddie deflate from next to him and they both say nothing even as Chris says, “What the fuck? I’m gonna kick Sean for making me watch this.”
And Eddie is still hugging his knees to his chest and there’s screaming from the television and it reminds him of something and Buck adjusts himself so Eddie can lean more and when he feels a tear escape and drop on his shoulder, his hands are moving before his brain does—fingers tread lightly on his best friend’s wrist as he gets Eddie’s arm to rest over his own knees.
Buck’s not sure what Eddie thinks or what Eddie’s doing—he’s looking at his fingers then at the movie, then at Eddie’s hand letting his fingers still hold them. He lets it rest there, lets it go as he thrums on the inside of Eddie’s wrist lightly, soothingly.
Eddie’s probably not going to stop him because he leans in further as if there’s more space to occupy next to Buck, as if they’re not existing in the same bubble right now, like they aren’t breathing the same air.
So, they stay like that—Eddie’s head on his shoulder, arm over his knees as Buck lets his fingers dance over his wrist.
He doesn’t know if Chris is just used to being this affectionate, or is just used to Buck and Eddie never really acting normal about each other, but he doesn’t say anything.
As the movie ends, there’s dread pooling at Buck’s stomach as the thought of losing this weight on him, but Chris gets up, legs swinging right next to him, and Eddie’s head rises up, but just enough to have his chin rest on his shoulder looking back at Christopher.
If Buck moves and looks at Eddie, he’s sure their lips will line perfectly together. He turns the other way.
“Fun movie, huh?” Eddie asks, no humor in his voice. Buck’s sure he shed more than just a tear, his fingers have stopped moving, but it still rests just on Eddie’s wrist.
Chris smiles as he holds his hands up, “I went in just as blind as you guys! I was set up.”
“Well, it was funnier than I expected still,” Buck comments, “despite the, uh—“
“Despite his boyfriend dying?”
“Whose boyfriend?” And Eddie’s chin is digging in his shoulders, but Buck’s not complaining.
“Todd and Neil?” Chris has a very obvious duh tone in his voice.
“Were they?”
Chris rolls his eyes, “Pretty sure. Or well, that’s what they tell me. And like—you saw his reaction to him.”
And Buck remembers what it reminded him. His fingers on Eddie’s wrist became a hold.
“Well, I’m going to get mad at my friends for that,” Eddie is about to start a lecture on going to bed as Chris hastily adds, “then sleep. Like five minutes then I’m out. Okay? Night, guys.”
He walks past them and now it’s just the homepage of the streaming app they were using and Eddie’s chin on his shoulder and Buck holding his wrist and nobody seems to be breathing because Eddie is still looking back at that empty space Chris occupied and Buck’s just stuck there.
The way Todd screamed—the way Buck screamed at the thirty feet of earth and his anger at the sniper and they were in love and Buck—
Buck feels the weight lift off his shoulder as he looks at Eddie.
“What?” He asks Eddie, mourning the loss of his head on where they should be right where Eddie puts his trust on him the most.
Eddie smiles slightly looking where their hands were, and Buck is still holding him and he doesn’t want to let go.
He lets his fingers let his wrist go, but before he can move, Buck is moving his fingers up like light kisses on his palm as he slots them right into place next to Eddie’s own fingers. Palm to palm—close, together, no in between.
It takes for Eddie to follow, to close his palm on Buck’s, but he does.
“My hand,” Eddie says, a bit breathless.
And Buck just sighs because Eddie is here and awake and warm and letting Buck hold his hand, and holding Buck’s hand back.
He scoots down as he lets his head fall on Eddie’s shoulder, letting his head find a perfect spot.
And Eddie stills and lets him find it.
This is the first time this has happened.
It happened a few more times after that.
A lot of times, all of the time—with both of them wide awake and aware and conscious and warm and laughing. Eddie would rest his forehead on his shoulder as he laughs at whatever Chim said, and Buck would lean back on him as Hen teases him about something.
Sometimes, Buck would leave his hand in the middle of them as they read their respective books, just light grazes of the tip of his fingers to the side of Eddie’s thigh.
Eddie would always have his hand on his knee whenever they sit together, or just press them close enough—which isn’t new, anyway, but it’s still special to Buck—to know that the other is there and they can breathe and sigh and rest.
On movie nights, Buck’s arms would already be around Eddie anticipating the way his head would find its spot on his shoulder, hair tickling him as Christopher tells them to stop looking at each other, and,
“Please! I’m here! This isn’t a romcom! Stop kissing!”
Which Chris is exaggerating because they’ve kissed a maximum of just two times in front of him during a movie before.
But yes, the kissing is new.
The admitting to each other what they’ve felt all this time is new, but God, the kissing.
Buck didn’t know he was kissing everybody wrong—kissing Eddie feels right, feels easy, feels like breathing. Feels like Buck doesn’t need to work up to something, to prove something, to get something in the end, or to give.
Kissing Eddie was as easy and casual as all of his other touches.
He would kiss Eddie good morning and good night, when Eddie’s doing his frown or his goofy face, when he’s washing the dishes with Buck, when he has to go home before him, when he comes home, when he chooses the right brand of milk for him, when he rolls down the window to Buck’s jeep and the light is red—he has to cross the console and claim his lips in his, light and easy and heady.
And Eddie kisses him back, kisses him first, always finds the perfect excuse to plant his lips right on his as he smiles into him, presses their body impossibly close, or just a light feathery one as he shouts out a reminder or a greeting or a thank you.
Buck knows exactly how many kisses to give from Eddie’s mouth to the mole right under his left eye—five if he wants to cover all of the space, leave none of it forgotten. He knows how many kisses it takes from the inside of his wrist—the first Buck ever let himself touch—to the middle of his palm. Six, if he wants to take his time.
Buck would memorise Eddie by kisses and touches and the casualness he’s teaching Buck of giving and taking.
Of letting Buck know that he’s already found his perfect spot—here in his living room, another movie Chris swears won’t make them cry this time, popcorn bowl hanging precariously between the couch and his other shoulder because the other one is homing part of his world.
The other part nudges both him and Eddie at the back of their heads whenever they squeeze even closer, but his smile is fond and light and affectionate as he also lets his knee rest there, close to where they are.
“I love you,” Eddie kisses to his shoulder.
“I love you,” Buck kisses back to his hair.
“Guys!” Chris groans, and Buck is happy to be stuck right where he should be.