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Buck is in love with his best friend and it’s honestly the most inconvenient, infuriating, soul ruining revelation of his adult life—because it’s not the soft kind of love, the gentle, fluttery sort that sneaks up on you like he’s in a romantic comedy.
No.
That would be too easy for Buck.
This is full body overwhelming, blood pressure spiking engulfing love, the kind that feels like a chronic condition he’s just supposed to live with while pretending nothing is wrong.
And the worst part, the most aggressively annoying part…. he’s living with the guy.
For no good reason beyond the fact that he hasn’t found a new apartment and maybe doesn’t want to because he’s apparently a masochist now.
It’s been three weeks.
Three weeks of playing house.
Three weeks of shared chores and joint grocery lists and arguing about what scent of detergent to use like a couple who’s been married for fifteen years because apparently Eddie isn’t ready for spring garden as he’s been an ocean breeze man for too long. They eat dinner together, they fold laundry together, they bicker in front of Christopher like his two equally exasperated but lovingly committed parents.
They even go to bed together, which wouldn’t be a problem if Buck wasn’t slowly losing his fucking mind every single night.
They have two of everything now so they put Eddie’s TV in the bedroom because apparently their domestic bliss couldn’t tolerate a single piece of unused furniture. So now movie nights happen in bed, propped up against shared pillows, their legs tangled like this is just something totally normal for platonic best friends to do.
Buck lays there, trying not to feel every inch of Eddie beside him, every breath, every shift of muscle, every sleepy sigh. Trying not to imagine what it would be like if Eddie reached out and touched him. If Eddie rolled over and kissed him. If—
But he doesn’t.
Because Eddie’s straight.
Supposedly.
The jury is currently out and honestly, Buck is the entire jury and he’s sequestered himself because he can’t make a damn decision anymore.
Especially since the dreams started.
Which is the fucking nightmare part of this entire situation.
At first, Buck thought it was a one time thing.
They’d gone out for ice cream with Christopher after dinner, and it had been one of those warm summer nights that felt dipped in gold, the kind that makes Buck want to hold onto the feeling forever, maybe bottle it and keep it on a chain around his neck.
When they got back, they watched a movie in bed. Christopher disappeared to his room to fight zombies on his PlayStation and Eddie, like the traitorous bastard he is, fell asleep fifteen minutes in, and Buck, being the dumb hopeless romantic that he is, didn’t dare wake him.
And then Eddie moaned.
Not a sleepy sigh.
Not a nightmare mumble.
A fucking moan.
Then came the panting.
Buck sat rigid against the headboard and turned his head slowly like he was in a horror movie, as he felt Eddie’s face press into his thigh, rutting against the mattress in lazy little thrusts.
It was the most erotic, confusing, panic searing moment of his entire life.
His hand had already been in Eddie’s hair, comforting, sweet, completely innocent—and he’d just… left it there.
Because apparently, on top of being horny and in love, he is also possessed by some kind of evil demon too.
He didn’t mean to keep petting him through it. But there he was, softly stroking his best friend’s hair while he had a wet dream right in front of him. He made little whimpering noises that Buck has never heard in real life, but would now hear forever. He will be in the shower, in the car, in line at the damn grocery store, every time someone says the word bed… Buck will think of those sounds.
He didn’t sleep that night. He turned the movie off. Left the room. Took a cold shower. Considered dying.
Then seriously debated how many years of celibacy he could commit to without developing some sort of medical condition.
But the universe is cruel and God hates him, because it didn’t stop there.
Eddie has been having sex dreams every single night since… for weeks.
And either Eddie doesn’t know Buck knows, or he knows Buck knows and is pretending he doesn’t know, which feels even worse, because it means Eddie is either oblivious or evil.
And Buck, the dumbest man alive™, just keeps letting it happen. He lays there every night, hands clenched into the sheets, watching shadows move across the ceiling while the man he’s in love with moans into his pillow and humps the bed.
They don’t talk about it.
They just go on being husbands who don’t kiss.
He’s jealous of his bedsheets.
Buck is starting to think he might actually go insane… like institutionalised insane.
He’s looking up monasteries.
He’s one more sleepy whine away from calling Maddie and confessing everything just so she’ll yell at him enough to knock some sense back into him.
Because this is not sustainable.
This is not healthy.
This is fucking hell.
And he’s never been happier.
Which is just the final insult.
Honestly, Buck kind of wants to meet her.
The mystery woman. The dream girl. The one who’s got Eddie moaning into his pillow like he’s auditioning for a porno.
Because whoever she is (and he’s still pretending it’s a she for the sake of his own fragile dignity), she’s clearly doing God’s work, or witchcraft, or maybe just has the exact right grip on his best friend’s dream prostate, because there is no logical explanation for the noises Eddie makes unless someone is rearranging his insides with precision and purpose.
He wants to know, academically, for science—what she’s doing that has Eddie humping the mattress like a man on a mission and panting like someone just hit the boost button on his libido.
There has to be butt stuff involved. Buck’s not trying to be crass, he’s just being honest with himself, and the universe, and whatever cruel gods are up there scripting this sick nightmare of his life.
There is simply no way Eddie is making those noises without someone absolutely railroading him through a dream prostate massage so intense it should qualify for some kind of fantasy Emmy.
And hey, there’s nothing inherently gendered about that.
Buck’s not saying it has to be a guy… but the evidence is mounting. It’s not just the moaning or the mattress grinding or the way Eddie sometimes mutters low, breathy things that sound suspiciously like harder.
It’s everything.
Because lately, Buck’s been having some thoughts about this whole “Eddie is straight” narrative.
And maybe those thoughts aren’t helpful, and maybe they’re a little dangerous, but Buck’s been living in this weird liminal space between best friend and boyfriend for so long now that the line’s are starting to blur whether he wants them to or not.
(He does)
He knows it’s probably too good to be true.
He knows he might be reading too much into it, or losing his grip on reality entirely.
But come on.
They’re in the most stable, emotionally intimate, logistically domestic, deeply married situation either of them has ever been in, and no one’s calling it what it clearly is.
They parent together. They cook together. They argue about groceries and floss picks and whether or not Buck actually needs a five step skincare routine.
(Once again, he does.)
They go to bed at the same time. They wake up together. They work together and don’t get sick of each other. They do everything a couple does… except kiss and fuck, which honestly feels more like an oversight at this point rather than a conscious choice.
So yeah, maybe Buck’s losing his mind. But he’s also starting to think it’s not all in his head.
This is a relationship.
They’re just skipping the sex.
Or rather, Buck is skipping the sex. Eddie is apparently getting absolutely railed in REM every single night by the faceless spirit of some invisible being, while Buck has to lie there, pretending he can’t hear the whimpering, or the sighing, or the way Eddie occasionally whispers something low and filthy that Buck is definitely not replaying on a loop in his head while he stares at the ceiling trying not to die.
It’s gotten bad.
Like, genuinely so bad.
He’s started to wonder if maybe he should help.
Not in a creepy way, and not in a crossing a line kind of way, just in the way a very good best friend would, you know, minus the whole being secretly in love with said best friend and the part where said best friend might not be entirely straight.
You know, a little bro solidarity.
Step up, take one for the team, relieve the tension.
A mercy fuck.
For Eddie’s sake and Buck’s mental health.
But he knows that the second he touches Eddie with actual intention, he will combust.
He’ll come once and then simply cease to exist, just turn to ash on the mattress like he fulfilled some ancient curse.
He’d never survive it.
Because it wouldn’t be just sex.
It never could be.
Not for Buck. Not with Eddie.
He’s in love with his best friend. Who maybe isn’t as straight as he says. Who definitely dreams about getting railed into another dimension every single night. Who parents with him, lives with him, loves with him… except for the part where they actually say it or touch each other like they mean it.
If they crossed that line, there’d be no coming back.
Sex wouldn’t ruin what they have—it would define it.
It would make it real. All the soft moments, the lingering glances, the way Eddie smiles at him in the morning like he already belongs to him… it would stop being subtext.
It would be the thing.
Right now, Buck has everything he’s ever wanted, just without the label, without the certainty, without a kiss at the end of the day.
And yeah, it’s breaking him a little.
Because the minute they call it what it is… a relationship with so much love and everything both of them have ever wanted— then it’s not a dream anymore.
It’s real. It’s fragile. It’s risk.
Buck doesn’t know if he’s brave enough to reach for it… or if he’s just scared of losing what he already has.
Honestly, he doesn’t know much of anything anymore.
They’ve just gotten back from a shift, dragging themselves in like zombies who’ve seen too much and slept too little. Christopher is out with a friend until dinner (yay, summer), which means they have the whole house to themselves (boo, nothing left in the tank).
There’s a heat wave gripping Los Angeles for the next few days, and the people of the city are responding with their usual blend of chaos and poor decision making—it’s been a treacherous twenty-four hours for them.
They don’t even talk. There’s just a mutual grunt of understanding, the sound of boots being kicked off, clothes being peeled away, and then both of them collapsing onto the bed like two men who’ve just narrowly survived death.
Buck doesn’t even ogle Eddie during that brief, glorious window between outside clothes and the soft worn shorts he pulls on… that’s how tired he is.
No thirst, no inappropriate thoughts, just the vague, blissful desire to pass out and maybe wake up sometime next week.
He’s too drained to care and suffer.
They both are.
He flops onto the bed and sighs when the mattress catches him, and hopes and prays that Eddie is too wiped out to do his now usual sleep humping thing. Buck genuinely doesn’t have the energy to process it again, let alone endure another round of being serenaded by soft panting and the rhythmic rustle of the sheets as Eddie gets off in his sleep two inches away from him while Buck lies there like the world’s most sexually tortured bystander.
He lets himself drift, the room dim, the weight of the covers welcome, Eddie’s breathing soft and steady beside him. He feels safe, warm but not too warm, floating somewhere just below consciousness.
Until he wakes up sweating, uncomfortable, sticky with heat as the morning breeze gives way to the full on onslaught of a summer afternoon. There are strong arms wrapped tight around his chest, and worse—SO MUCH FUCKING WORSE—there’s the unmistakable twitch of Eddie’s cock against his ass, subtle but certain, and Buck would like to issue a formal complaint to the gods or the universe or whoever’s writing this erotic novel.
He cannot stress this enough: he cannot do this.
Not like this.
Buck is weak, okay, he admits it, he’s tried to be strong, but he’s not, you got him.
He can lie there, wide eyed, hard as a rock, and pretend to be asleep while Eddie softly whimpers and fucks the mattress, sure — he can survive that.
He’s done it for a week now.
That’s doable. That’s manageable.
That’s his new normal now.
But being the fucking mattress?
Being the object Eddie is dry humping in real time while whispering breathy obscenities into the back of his neck?
This is too far.
Nope. No thank you.
Nopenopenope.
Hard nope.
Hard Eddie.
Fuuuuuck.
The panting is louder this time, sexier, hotter, right in his ear, every exhale like a death sentence against Buck’s neck.
He is trying not to enjoy it, he swears he is, but Eddie’s arms are wrapped around him like a weighted blanket made of temptation and it’s actually nice, which makes everything so much worse.
If this continues, he’s going to have to gently lift Eddie’s hands, place them around his own throat, and ask to be humanely euthanised.
He’s still for a second too long, too stunned by the sensory overload to move, to run, to cry for help.
And then it happens.
“Buck, Buck… fuck.”
If eyes could pop out of a skull, and he googled it once, they can’t… they’d be swinging down by his cheeks right now like round little gooey yo-yos.
Buck.
That’s my name.
That’s MY FUCKING NAME.
Buck.
There is no way that he’s the one Eddie’s been dreaming about all week, no possible universe in which Eddie’s nightly sleep orgasms have been brought to you by Buck.
Eddie is hugging him, rutting up against his back, breathless and needy and whispering his name.
If Eddie wants to fuck, Buck is literally right here, shirtless, ass to crotch, already halfway to a breakdown. There is no need for the fantasy when the real thing is currently being used as a human teddy bear.
What did he do to deserve this?
He gives blood. He donates to shelters. He volunteers on his days off. He even pays ten bucks a month to sponsor a child in Guatemala, for fuck’s sake.
Is this karma? Is this irony?
Buck thinks he might die.
Or worse, he might come.
Either way, it’s going to be messy.
Buck tries to breathe through it, in through the nose, out through the mouth, like every yoga instructor and therapist has ever told him to do, except the problem is that when he breathes in, he gets a lungful of Eddie—warm skin and sweat and the faint scent of the soap they both use now, because Eddie liked Buck’s more than his own, and now it’s somehow their soap, shared soap, like that’s a totally normal thing to have with your allegedly straight best friend who is currently getting off against your ass in his sleep.
He tries to move. Just a little. A respectful, non judgmental shift to the side. But Eddie’s arms only tighten, his whole body curling instinctively like Buck is something he doesn’t want to lose even in dreams, and that’s when Buck makes the fatal mistake of glancing over his shoulder.
Eddie’s mouth is slightly open, lashes fanned out against his cheek, and he looks so peaceful, so innocent, like he’s not actively spoon fucking him. Buck wants to scream, he wants to cry, he wants to peel his skin off and start a new life in the woods with no beds, no soap, and definitely no Eddie fucking Diaz.
“Jesus Christ,” Buck mutters under his breath, eyes wide and pointed at the wall in front of him.
Please open up and give me divine intervention or at least a reason not to reach down and wrap my hand around my—
“Buck, uh.”
Again, really, what is he doing to him in this dream?
He can never unhear this.
Eddie moans his name like he is already inside him, like he’d been saying Buck’s name for years, like it belongs to him in a way Buck has never heard anyone say it, and now it’s just there, lodged in his brain forever.
And you know what, sure, maybe Buck could write it off.
It’s one dream, whatever.
Maybe all the dreams aren’t about him.
Weird things happen. Brains are freaky.
But this isn’t the first time Eddie’s said something. He’s muttered stuff before, breathless little noises, stray syllables like yes and more and the other night Buck swears he heard a very distinct please, and now all those puzzle pieces are clicking into place in the (worst) most arousing way imaginable.
Buck is a man of reason and logic. He knows there’s a 99.9% chance that Eddie’s just confused, or sexually frustrated, or has been accidentally mainlining homoerotic tension with him for so long that it’s infected his subconscious.
But there’s that 0.1% chance.
That stupid, delusional, painfully hopeful chance.
That maybe Eddie’s not just dreaming about some anonymous body with broad shoulders and his face. Maybe he’s not just mumbling Buck’s name because he happens to be lying there, conveniently shaped like a man Eddie can climb in his sleep.
Maybe it is Buck.
Maybe every dream has been about him.
And that changes everything.
Buck can’t take the leap if he doesn’t know how it’s going to end, if it’ll fall apart the second he reaches for it, if he’s just a convenient stand-in for whatever Eddie’s subconscious is working through—but at the same time, he’s not sure how much longer he can keep not changing it, not when every night feels like foreplay and every morning feels like the aftermath of something they didn’t actually do, not when his body is hanging on by a thread and his heart has already packed its bags, moved in, and made a home under Eddie’s ribs.
So he does what any sensible, sexually frustrated man in love with his best friend would do in a moment of extreme crisis.
“Eddie!” He blurts way too loudly and shoves his hips back against him.
For the record, Buck is disgustingly sticky.
Not the good kind, not slick or sexy… no, this is the slow, humid, full-body tackiness of a summer nap gone wrong, made ten times worse by Eddie, who is both burning hot and somehow still grinding against him.
“EDDIE!” Buck says again, louder this time, and he feels him wake up. He feels the way his hips stutter, how his whole body goes still except for the arms that tighten even more around Buck’s middle.
Ah, yes, just what he needs as his body hits 100°… more cuddling.
Eddie’s breath ghosts across his ear in short, uneven bursts, and Buck has no idea if that’s from the sheer humiliation of being caught mid… hump, or because he’s actually a little out of breath from said hump.
Honestly, neither option is great.
It’s a standoff now.
A deeply weird, intensely personal, semi-naked standoff in their shared bed, and Buck tries not to laugh at how ridiculous it all is, how this is his life, how this is the moment he realises he’s living inside a romance novel.
But then Eddie moves.
One hand trails up Buck’s chest, slow and tentative, until it tips his head back against Eddie’s shoulder, and the other slides down his stomach, fingers slipping under the waistband of his sweats like this is the only logical response to all this, like Eddie isn’t melting every neurone Buck has ever had.
“Fuck, Eddie,” Buck breathes out, because what else is there to say when your best friend casually grabs your dick before you’ve even had the chance to think of the next move.
“You want me to stop?” Eddie asks, voice all hoarse and rough and completely unfair.
How is Buck somehow supposed to be the one making rational decisions right now?
He can’t think. His brain is fried. The feel of Eddie’s hand around him is easily the best and most horrifying thing that’s ever happened to him.
“You said my name,” Buck manages, like that’s relevant, like that helps this situation even slightly.
“That’s not an answer,” Eddie murmurs, and then, because he clearly enjoys making Buck suffer he adds, “Buck,” real low, like he knows exactly what he’s doing and also exactly what effect it’s having.
Cool.
So apparently Buck is the bait and also somehow the prey now.
Great.
Fucking fantastic.
“Were you dreaming about me?” Buck asks, pressing his hips back and grinding against him, this time earning a choked off noise from Eddie, along with a little extra friction where Eddie’s hand is still loosely wrapped around him.
“I always dream about you.”
That’s it. That’s all Buck needs.
He grabs Eddie’s hand, moves it away—only because he’ll actually lose his mind if this doesn’t happen properly—and spins in his arms, pushing Eddie down into the mattress with zero ceremony so he can stare into his face and confirm this is real, that he isn’t hallucinating from heatstroke or edging induced brain damage.
Eddie looks nervous, blinking up at him with wide eyes, and Buck can see it, the way his chest is rising too fast, the way he licks his lips, the little crease between his eyebrows.
He’s scared too.
Buck gets it, he’s terrified.
“Always?” he asks, quieter now, the moment suddenly feeling fragile. “The last few week?”
“Longer than that,” Eddie says with this shy smile that makes Buck want to kiss him stupid, all bashful and tentative like he hadn’t just been rutting against him like an animal.
“You know you’ve been humping the mattress all week, right?” Buck says, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve gotta have noticed, you always… finish.”
Buck watches the flush crawl up Eddie’s neck, spreading across his chest in this ridiculously unfairly attractive way. He has an overwhelming urge to lick him, to track how far down that red spreads, to see if he can make it worse, make it deeper, make it happen again and again until Eddie’s whole body lights up just because Buck put his mouth on him.
Eddie’s eyes flick back up, all wide and brown and annoyingly sincere, and he says, quietly, “It feels like we’re playing chicken.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve felt like I’ve been getting tortured for a two week straight, so honestly if this is chicken, I’m about ten seconds from driving off the cliff just to end it.” Buck snorts. “I think actual waterboarding might’ve been less psychologically damaging.”
“Buck,” Eddie says, dragging his name out in a soft warning.
“I’m just saying, whatever I’ve been doing to you in your dreams?” Buck grins, eyes still pinned on him, “Dream me deserves a medal, a plaque, maybe a building named after him. He’s clearly putting in work.”
Eddie lets out a short, disbelieving laugh and immediately hides his face in his hands like he’s thirteen and Buck is teasing him about his first crush.
It’s stupidly endearing.
Buck grabs Eddie’s wrists gently and pulls them away from his face, tangling their fingers and pinning their hands down beside his head.
It’s so easy, so natural.
Maybe Buck isn’t the prey.
Maybe Eddie isn’t the predator either.
Maybe they have both been circling the same trap and now they’ve fallen in together.
Because Eddie doesn’t look embarrassed now.
He looks… caught.
Maybe he’s been wanting to get caught.
Maybe he’s been hoping for it.
Buck leans in, their faces close enough that every breath they take shifts the air between them. “So,” he whispers, eyes flicking between Eddie’s mouth and his stupidly beautiful eyes, “why has my allegedly straight best friend been having nightly, very enthusiastic, very physical sex dreams about me?”
“Do you have to be so descriptive?”
“Are you avoiding the question?”
Eddie licks his lips, his tongue flicking out to wet them, and Buck completely loses the thread of what he was going to say next because his brain just stops working, he swears the room tilts slightly.
He wants to kiss him.
No, not just kiss, he wants to taste him, wants to see what that little flick of tongue would feel like if it was against his own, wants to suck his bottom lip into his mouth and keep it there until Eddie forgets about everything else, until all he can think about is him.
“I don’t think I’m very straight,” Eddie says, and his voice doesn’t shake, but it’s low and careful, and Buck just blinks at him.
No shit.
“I don’t think I’m straight at all, actually,” Eddie adds, his smile still shy, still tinged with the kind of embarrassment that comes with honesty and terror and maybe something like relief.
Buck grins, “Good answer.” He whispers.
And he leans down and kisses him, not cautiously or sweet or slow, but with weeks of tension pressing down on his spine and maybe years of wanting behind it too. Eddie makes a little quiet noise of surprise that Buck feels in his teeth, and then Eddie’s hands are in his hair, fingers curling tight, yanking him closer.
And Buck is gone.
Because none of this sweet.
It’s filthy.
He’s hot and sticky and definitely kind of gross, but it doesn’t matter because Eddie’s mouth is soft and open and needy, and he kisses like he’s starving, like he has something to prove, like he’s making up for lost time, and Buck’s body is already trying to rearrange itself to get closer, to get moremoremore.
“One sec,” Buck gasps, dragging his mouth away with immense personal strength, sweat already sticking to his spine. He grabs the comforter and flings it dramatically off the bed, except it lands pathetically, maybe a foot away, like it just gave up halfway through its own journey.
He stares at it stupidly for a second and turns back to Eddie and the air between them is still hot, still humming.
Eddie is lying in the centre of the mattress, shirtless, flushed and blinking up at him, his lips kiss swollen and slightly parted.
They say you should replace your mattress every six to eight years, when lumps and dips start to appear where your body lies night after night, when sleep leaves you restless and you wake up sore instead of settled.
Buck got this mattress seven years ago when he moved into his old loft, and then he brought it with him to South Bedford Street when he took over Eddie’s lease. The whole six to eight years thing feels arbitrary when you only sleep in your own bed half the week. The mattress is still soft, still holds him just right, no telltale valleys where his body has worn it down. He has no real reason to get a new one, but now he can’t look at it without feeling the weight of everything it’s held.
He christened it with Ali, a promise that ended before it even really had a chance. He shared it with Albert when his friend needed a place to stay. He held Eddie through the hard nights when COVID turned the world small and dangerous and all they had was each other, the two of them silent and close in a way neither of them spoke about in daylight. He learned Taylor’s body on this mattress, memorised her rhythms, convinced himself for a while that the two of them could last.
There were the girls he doesn’t remember, bodies tangled for a night, their names dissolving by morning but the mattress was always there steady beneath it all. He gave Kameron the bed when she needed space from Connor, her body carrying something fragile and new. He lost and found parts of himself with Tommy on it, learned things about himself he didn’t know, until Tommy left, and Buck cried into the mattress, searching for the answer to why he was never quite enough.
It’s holds all of that. The history of him. The trying and the failing and the hope, stitched into the seams. It’s seen him at his best and at his worst.
It still works, it’s still soft, still comfortable. But somehow it feels like it’s carrying too much, holding a version of him that he’s just now starting to outgrow.
He’s had it almost as long as he has known Eddie, now stretched out beneath him, golden in the sunlight, blinking up at him like he is meant to be here. His body sprawled across the mattress like he occupies every memory that isn’t his, but he was somehow at the back of his mind for.
“I think it’s time to get a new mattress.” He whispers.
Eddie grins up at him, “kay.
“This one’s seen too much,” Buck says, gesturing vaguely at the bed. “I don’t think it can ever truly recover from what’s gone down on it this week, and I don’t think I can either.”
“Asshole,” Eddie says, but there’s no heat in it, and before Buck can so much as grin in reply, Eddie sits up and yanks him forward, his hands curling around his neck, their mouths colliding again in something that’s far messier, far hungrier than before. Buck groans as he lets Eddie push him onto his back and crawls over him, straddling him.
Buck’s brain is barely working right now, most of it focused on the weight of Eddie’s thighs pressing into his hips and that he now knows that Eddie is a kisser who uses tongue and leverage to blow his mind, but somewhere in the middle of the heat and the grinding and the casual unravelling of his mental health, Buck finds a tiny scrap of clarity and decides he absolutely needs to circle back to the most important detail.
He pulls back, panting slightly, and blinks up at Eddie. “Hey—hey wait, back up for a second.”
Eddie lifts an eyebrow, like now is not the time for questions, but Buck pushes on. “I asked you earlier, but then we kissed and I forgot how to think, but I really need to know, what the hell are your dreams about?”
Eddie goes quiet for a moment, then slowly, infuriatingly, he smiles at him.
“Everything,” he says simply, and pecks his lips.
Buck frowns. “Everything?”
“Yeah,” Eddie shrugs a little, like it’s not a big deal, but his hands are now warm against Buck’s chest and his voice goes softer, like maybe it is a big deal. “There’s nothing I haven’t thought about. Every possible version of this… of you, I’ve thought about it. I’ve imagined what your skin feels like, what you sound like, what your hands feel like on me, how you’d taste, what you’d look like when I…” he trails off, grinning a little bashfully. “It’s all been in there. There isn’t anything we haven’t done to be honest.”
“Oh my god,” Buck says slowly, which is not the most eloquent reaction, but it’s the only one his brain can come up with while it melts under the weight of every possible version of this. “Eddie, I—what the hell, that’s… I’ve been out here dying and you’ve been living a whole fantasy life in your subconscious.”
“Texas really sucked, man.” Eddie snorts. “You can’t even watch porn there, I had to get inventive while having a sexuality crisis and—”
“I’m sorry, Texas?!” Buck chokes, and then he laughs, breathless and delighted and offended on behalf of every fantasy he’s squashed down because Eddie’s been doing this on purpose. “You mean you were over there dreaming about me like I was some kind of, some kind of… sexy coping mechanism?”
Eddie grins, sheepish and shameless. “It worked.”
Buck shakes his head, still laughing, and lifts a hand to touch Eddie’s face, his thumb brushing along his jaw, marveling at the fact that he’s allowed to do this now, that this is real, that Eddie isn’t backing away but leaning into it.
Then Eddie’s voice drops, loses the teasing lilt, turns soft and real and far too intimate for Buck to handle without his heart flipping completely inside out. “I really did think about all of it. I felt it, Buck. Because I love you… and I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t plan it, but I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time. Since before I could admit it to myself. When we were away from each other, everything just started to make sense and my life was such a mess but when I closed my eyes and you were there… dreaming about you was easier than waking up some days.”
Buck blinks, his chest clenching so tight it’s a miracle he’s still breathing.
And there it is, that horrible, stupid, gooey thing that happens when Eddie Diaz says something honest. Buck doesn’t think he could ever not just immediately go to mush.
He hates it. He hates how his heart turns to soup and his brain starts painting ridiculous images of what the rest of their life might look like, sharing clothes, one calendar, Sunday mornings at the farmer’s market, bickering over arbitrary things, and… well, no, they already do all that.
“I—Jesus, Eddie,” he whispers, eyes blinking too fast because if he cries right now he’s never going to live it down, “you can’t just say shit like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because now I’m gonna cry and ruin this with my gross too emotional snot and then you’re never gonna want to have sex with real life me, you’ll just close your eyes and summon dream Buck.”
Eddie laughs, low and warm, and it vibrates through his whole body where he’s still sat in his lap. He leans in, presses a kiss to the corner of Buck’s mouth, then the other side, and finally right in the centre, sealing a promise he’s not afraid of anymore.
“I really want the real you,” Eddie says, soft and certain.
Fuck.
Buck is completely undone, definitely teary, way too sweaty, fully overwhelmed and totally in love, so all he can do is nod, blinking back the sting in his eyes, “Back at ya, bud.”
Eddie grins, the kind of grin that reaches his eyes and makes Buck feel both seen and wanted all at once. “This is gonna be so much fun.”
“Yeah, totally,” Buck says, dragging his hands up Eddie’s sides, his fingers skating over tacky, sweat slick skin. “Quick question though, might be silly, do sweat and the threat of fainting from heat stroke exist in your dreams, or is this just a real life perk?”
Eddie groans and laughs, rolling off him with a dramatic flop. “It really is hot today.”
“You ever heard the phrase heat rises?” Buck asks, fanning himself with one hand.
“Well… yeah.”
“So on a scale from one to ten, how deeply unromantic would it be if I suggested we move this to the living room floor… where the air conditioning lives?”
“What?” Eddie squeaks. “We can’t… the living room? What if Chris comes home early?”
“God, dream Buck must be such a prude if you think the living room floor is scandalous,” Buck deadpans.
Eddie bites his lip and tilt his head to the side, “What about cold shower, sex, cold shower.”
“What about the car?” Buck counters, sitting up.
Eddie blinks, “Where the fuck does the car come into this?”
“Duh. There’s air con in the car.”
“There’s also windows, and neighbours, and my dignity,” Eddie says, leaning over to flick him hard on the arm.
“Ow,” Buck rolls his eyes. “I’m not talking bend you over the bonnet, we’d drive somewhere secluded, your dignity intact.”
“You realise that sounds like you’re planning a kill me, right?”
“Kill that ass,” Buck blurts before immediately cringing. “God, nope, I am so sorry, I take that back.”
Eddie bursts into laughter, full bodied and loud, his head tilting back as he completely loses it, and Buck, still sweaty, turned on, and mildly embarrassed, suddenly doesn’t care about the heat anymore, because nothing compares to that sound, to that smile, to the way Eddie lights up like Buck is the funniest, most ridiculous person in the world and somehow still the person he wants.
So Buck moves forward without thinking, grabs him by the waist, and pulls down onto the bed, crawling between his legs with ease. He kisses him again, slow and deep, trying to memorise him, and Eddie makes those sounds Buck has learned intimately over the past week, soft and low and completely devastating.
Buck trails his mouth down Eddie’s neck, nipping and kissing along the way, and when he licks over a patch of skin near his collarbone, sweat slick and warm, he doesn’t flinch or pull back, he hums, because even salty, Eddie tastes like everything Buck has ever wanted.
“What about the heat?” Eddie asks, breathless, his fingers tightening in Buck’s hair.
“It’s always gonna be too hot with you,” Buck mumbles into his skin, dragging his hands down, exploring the dips and lines of Eddie’s torso, his thumbs brushing along the sharp edge of his hipbones. “I want you so badly it’s driving me insane.”
“Keep saying stuff like that,” Eddie pants, his whole body tense beneath him, buzzing with want.
“I want to touch you everywhere,” Buck whispers, voice rough, his mouth working its way lower, kissing over his ribs to his stomach, “I want to kiss every inch of you. I want to take my time. I want to learn you like a map so I always know my way home.”
“Jesus, Buck,” Eddie says, voice wrecked, hands already pulling at him.
And Buck just grins, breath shaky, completely drunk on him. “I’m going to show you real me is better than dream me.”
Eddie laughs again, short, desperate, breathless, “you’ve already done that.”
Buck leans over and grabs supplies from the drawer, his hand steady despite the pounding of his heart, then he kisses Eddie again slowly.
“You okay?” he murmurs against Eddie’s lips, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it anyway.
“Yeah,” Eddie breathes, barely holding back a smile. “So good.”
Buck takes his time.
It’s not about showing off, not about proving he can make Eddie fall apart—he knows he can—it’s about being here, being allowed to be here, finally getting to touch Eddie like this with nothing between them, no silence, no fear, no unsaid things hovering heavy in the air. It hits him in waves, crashing into him, this isn’t one of Eddie’s dreams, and it’s not one of Buck’s spirals where he wonders what it would be like to be wanted like this.
This is Eddie. This is real.
And Eddie, breathless and flushed and watching him like Buck’s the whole damn sky, the clouds, the moon, the sun, the fucking birds flying free.
Eddie is something worth worshipping.
So Buck kisses his way down, licking at the skin just above the waistband of Eddie’s shorts, mouthing at the edge until Eddie twitches beneath him, a low sound slipping from his throat as he lifts his hips, his patience no longer part of the equation.
“I thought you wanted to take your time,” Eddie says, voice shaky but still laced with amusement, gasping a little when Buck drags the fabric slowly off one hip and licks a path lower.
“I am,” Buck mutters against his skin, lips brushing as he suck a mark just below his hipbone. Then he pulls Eddie’s shorts down and off in one smooth move and settles between his thighs.
The first time Buck wraps his mouth around Eddie’s cock, Eddie lets out a sound that’s raw and so real it punches right through Buck’s chest. High and sharp, like he wasn’t expecting it to feel this good, like whatever restraint he had left just shattered.
Buck hums low in his throat, lips soft, tongue slow, his hands roaming over Eddie’s waist and thighs, steadying him as he begins to build a rhythm. He doesn’t rush. He just listens, lets Eddie guide him with the way his body reacts, the way his hips jerk, the way his breath stutters with every pass of Buck’s tongue.
He pulls off slowly, his hand wrapped around him loosely, licking a wet stripe along the underside of his shaft, and looks up, grinning. “Better than dream me?”
Eddie looks completely wrecked already, cheeks flushed, hair damp at his temples, and sticking to his forehead. “Yes, fuck, yes,” he pants, “so much better.”
Buck grins wider and sinks back down, mouth wet and warm, and lets one hand slide lower between Eddie’s legs. When he brushes along the crease of his thigh, Eddie spreads them wider without thinking, completely open for him, trusting, and yeah, okay, Buck might be a little too in love with him, because that does something to him that no fantasy ever could.
“Still good?” he asks, voice hoarse, fingers trailing back.
“Yes.” Eddie nods, fast, barely able to catch his breath. “Yeah. Please.”
Buck leans up for a second, grabbing the bottle of lube and slicking his fingers, his mouth never far from Eddie’s skin. Then he lowers again, lips wrapping around the head of Eddie’s cock while his fingers move slowly down, pressing gently, carefully, easing one fingertip at his hole, waiting for Eddie’s body to relax, to give.
Eddie gasps and shudders, his hand sinking into Buck’s hair, the other fisting in the sheets.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice rough, eyes fluttering closed. “Fuck, Buck.”
He’s so warm, so tight, but Buck moves carefully, he takes him deeper, his tongue flattening and lapping along his cock, as he curls his fingers just enough to make Eddie writhe under him.
He adds another finger when Eddie moans his name again, deeper this time, desperate and wrecked, he works him open with careful patience and a steady rhythm. Every movement designed to draw out more of those sounds, more of that pleasure, more of this Eddie.
“Jesus, Buck, I’m—fuck, I’m not gonna last,” Eddie gasps, his hips jerking.
Buck pulls off just enough to grin at him like an idiot, “You don’t have to, I’ve got you, baby.”
And then he’s on him again, pumping his hand in time with his mouth, his other hand curling his fingers just right, and Eddie loses it. His back arches of the bed, his mouth dropping open in a soundless moan, coming harder than Buck was expecting, shaking apart with Buck’s name on his lips and both hands gripping him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
Buck doesn’t let go. He eases him through it, gentles everything, swallows him down, slow licks and soft strokes and careful touches until Eddie finally exhales, body loose and wrecked, chest rising and falling trying to remember how to breathe.
When Buck finally pulls back and crawls up beside him, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and still a little dazed, Eddie cracks one eye open, breath catching like he’s not quite convinced that just happened.
“Fuck,” Eddie whispers, blinking slowly at him.
Buck brushes a thumb over his cheek, cupping his face gently. “You okay?”
“I can’t feel my legs,” Eddie huffs a laugh, his voice low and hoarse. “But yeah, yeah… I’m really good.”
“Good,” Buck says, so soft it’s almost not a word, then leans down and presses a kiss to his jaw, lingering there a moment before pulling back just enough to whisper, “I love you.”
Eddie’s eyes go wide for a half-second, then soften in the warmest way, a smile creeping onto his face. “You’re not this sweet in my dreams.”
Buck blushes and looks down at Eddie’s rising chest, his heart beneath his fingertips as he traces small shapes against his skin. “Yeah, um—sorry. I’m probably going to be really sappy. I just—you’re… you’re kind of everything.”
Eddie reaches towards him, curls a hand behind his neck and pulls him down into a slow, sweet kiss. “I love you too.”
Buck’s heart just breaks open, he feels wild, like he’s sixteen again and someone finally said yes. It loops in his head like music, he loves me, he loves me, he loves me—and he bites his lip, trying to get it together, trying not to start crying like an idiot because Eddie’s lying there, gorgeous and wrecked and smiling like he means it.
He clears his throat, “So, uh— tell me about that cold shower, sex, cold shower idea…” he grins, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly.
Eddie laughs again, a deep, messy kind of laugh that comes from the tips of his toes and travels up to mouth, and Buck thinks, you are it for me.