Archive of Our Own

Eddie is fairly certain he's having one of the weirdest weeks of his life. And that's saying something, considering his line of work.

First, there was the chastity belt guy. Which—alright, he's not one to kink-shame anybody. Live and let live. Would he personally let a petite brunette call him a little dirt boy while she locked up his junk like a medieval princess guarding her virtue? Probably not. But again, not his place to judge. Different strokes, and all that.

Second, as if the chastity belt wasn't enough of a curveball, Buck decided that on their way out of that shift, when Eddie was tired and hungry and not at all prepared for an ambush, he would drop a bomb: he thinks Eddie is wearing a chastity belt, too.

A chastity belt of the mind.

Eddie had just stared at him for a minute, maybe blinked a few times, waited for the punchline that never came.

It threw him off, the whole encounter. It wasn’t the words, specifically; that’s not even the weirdest thing his best friend had ever said to him, which is, frankly, a little concerning. Nor was it the fact that Ravi confidently pegged him as a boxer-briefs kind of guy (he gets that a lot. Something about his vibe, apparently). But Buck's voice lodged itself somewhere in the back of Eddie's mind and refused to leave. Had he been strapping on a metaphorical chastity belt when it came to dating? Had he really locked himself away so thoroughly that even Buck noticed?

He'd been hoping to put that thought out to pasture where it belonged, let it graze quietly until it died of natural causes. But as expected, Buck wouldn't let him. Buck never lets anything go. It's one of his most annoying qualities. Also, one of his best, but Eddie's not in the mood to be generous about it.

Which brings him to the third thing. 

The club.

It was sweet, really. Sweet in a well-meaning, slightly pitying way that made Eddie feel a little bit pathetic. Because Buck had assumed (correctly, but still) that Eddie hadn't gotten laid in a while. A long while. A while long enough that his best friend felt compelled to intervene.

And it was only mildly embarrassing when Ravi felt it necessary to punctuate just how catastrophically bad Eddie was at picking up women. Thanks for that, Ravi. Really helpful. Groundbreaking insight.

But fine. Whatever. Overall, Eddie was just happy to spend time with his friends. He could suffer through the pulsing lights and the overpriced drinks and the bass so loud it rattled his molars. He's survived literal gunfire; he could survive a little flirting… maybe.

That was, until Wingman Buck decided to fly the coop.

One minute he was there, all earnest smiles and elaborate schemes, and the next he was spreading his seed (gross), and picking up not one but two separate people on the night he was supposed to be helping Eddie. Two. On a night dedicated to getting Eddie back in the game.

Eddie, who didn't even want to be there in the first place.

Eddie, who was not interested in a single woman in the goddamn club.

Eddie, who maybe, maybe, was more than a little pissed when Buck all but abandoned him to go grind against Dane or Vane or Flane or whatever the fuck his name was. Not to mention, he was the most average-looking white guy in the club. Buck could do way better. 

And Buck had just... left. Gravitated toward this guy as if Eddie wasn't even standing there. Like they hadn't come here together. Like Buck wouldn't rather be dancing with—

No.

It wasn't jealousy. That would be ridiculous. Absurd, even. Eddie doesn't get jealous. He's a grown man, a father; he has his shit together.

It was simply Eddie being protective over his best friend, who has a well-documented tendency to fall headfirst into love with reckless abandon, even when (especially when) the person he's falling for doesn't deserve him. Buck loves hard and fast and completely, and it's going to get him hurt one of these days. Again.

Eddie just doesn't want to see that happen.

He's protecting Buck from himself. From guys like Dane-Vane-Flane, who probably don't even know how lucky they are to have Buck's attention for five minutes. Not like Eddie does.

Because he knows. He knows how lucky he is to have Buck in his life. Knows it every time Buck shows up unannounced with takeout, every time he makes Christopher laugh until he's breathless, every time he gives Eddie that look.

Eddie knows exactly what he has. In a totally platonic, best-bro sort of way. Obviously.

Anyway…

Dane-Vane-Flane aside. On their next shift, they had a call involving a cryptic pregnancy. Routine enough, as far as surprise babies go. But something about it got Eddie thinking; not about pregnancy, thank God, but about how lucky he is. How impossibly, stupidly lucky he is to have Buck.

Buck, who stepped up to help with Christopher without being asked. Who just... showed up one day and never left, became a second father figure when Eddie was drowning alone as a single parent and too proud to admit he was barely keeping his head above water.

Buck, who shows up for every single family movie night, regardless of whether he had prior plans. Eddie's seen him cancel dates for it. Has watched him text some poor woman sorry, something came up while already halfway through the door with a bag of microwave popcorn and a grin on his face, just to see Chris smile. Just to be there.

Buck, who makes them dinner regularly. Who helps with chores without being asked, who fixes things around the house that Eddie didn't even realize were broken. Who keeps a Google calendar (a fucking Google calendar) meticulously organized with all their trips to the zoo, the aquarium, school events, dentist appointments, everything. Color-coded, too, because of course it is.

Just... Buck.

Buck, who fits into Eddie’s life so seamlessly that it’s like he was always supposed to be there. The missing puzzle piece, a perfect fit. 

In a friendship way. A best friend way. Obviously.

A few days later, while Eddie was enjoying a perfectly good morning workout, minding his own business, lifting weights, existing peacefully, Buck decided it was the perfect time to regale Eddie and Ravi with tales of his mind-blowing hookup.

Hookups.

Plural. 

With an S. 

As in more than one.

Eddie was completely normal about the whole encounter. Cool as a cucumber, as some would say. Unbothered. Unaffected. Unperturbed. Any other word beginning with the letter U that means he handled hearing about Buck's tongue in someone else's mouth with grace and dignity. Totally, completely, one hundred percent fine.

Because Eddie's a straight man. And Buck is his best friend. And everything was good.

Great, even.

He was only sweating from every pore because he was doing a very extensive workout. The most extensive workout of his life, actually. Really pushing himself. Feeling the burn. Nothing whatsoever to do with the way Buck was smiling while he talked about it, all loose and glowing, like he'd had the time of his life with people who weren't Eddie.

He was doing the workout he does to keep his body toned and ready for anything it may encounter. Combat-ready, as they would say in his Army days. 

Say, for instance, if he were to see Dane-Vane-Flane on the street somewhere. Just hypothetically. And for some reason—self-defense, probably, or maybe the guy looked at him funny, or maybe he just had one of those punchable faces—Eddie needed to clock him right in the nose. Really hard. Hard enough to make a point.

He’s just saying... he’d be ready. 

Not that he's thought about it. Not that he's been thinking about it, on and off, at random moments throughout the day. Not that he's mentally rehearsed the exact angle of his fist connecting with that annoyingly average face.

That would be weird.

Eddie's not weird about this. He's a normal guy with normal feelings about his normal best friend's normal hookups. He's fine.

Or, he would’ve been fine. 

In all truth, he was downright giddy at first, because during the workout from hell, Ravi, beautiful, oblivious, angel-sent Ravi, put the pieces of Buck's promiscuous puzzle together.

They were siblings. Buck had hooked up with siblings. 

Eddie had laughed out loud. A real, boisterous laugh; the kind that you can’t fake. Because now Buck was gonna have to end it—with both of them. The universe had handed Eddie a gift, wrapped in a bow, and he was not too proud to accept it.

He could kiss Ravi Panikkar on the mouth for that discovery. Full on the lips. With tongue, maybe, if Ravi was into it.

(Which, in retrospect, he feels bad for, okay? Reveling in Buck's romantic misfortune isn't exactly best friend behavior. He knows that. He's just trying to protect Buck from the Dane-Vane-Flanes of the world, which is no easy feat where Buck's concerned.)

Anyway.

This is where the would've comes in.

Because after yet another grueling shift—one where Hen decided to scare the shit out of all of them by collapsing on scene, because sure, why not, let's add that to the pile—Eddie, or more accurately Buck, came face to face with Dane-Vane-Flane himself. 

Whose name, it turns out, is actually Zane. 

Zane. 

Who would’ve thought? Not Eddie. Eddie had been so committed to not learning this man’s name that finding out felt sort of like a personal failure. 

And Zane wasn't alone. No, of course not. He'd brought Jade, the other half of Buck's ill-advised sibling hookup, right there into the station, together, as a united front, to offer Buck...

A… throuple? They wanted Buck to be a part of a throuple.

Which, hold on. Back up. Rewind.

Eddie had been so ready to watch this whole thing implode on the grounds of incest, only to find out that Zane and Jade weren't siblings at all. They were married to each other. To have and to hold, husband and wife, this whole fucking time.

So that whole thing Eddie had been quietly celebrating, that beautiful karmic justice of Buck accidentally entangling himself with a brother-sister duo? Gone. Poof. Never existed. Ravi got it wrong, and Eddie's fleeting joy was built on a lie.

The sibling thing was just—what, a miscommunication? A fever dream Eddie invented to make himself feel better? He'd been so happy about it. He'd laughed. He'd mentally composed a thank-you card to Ravi and everything.

And for nothing.

They'd said they participated in "ENM," which Eddie briefly mistook for "EDM," which made absolutely no sense but honestly would've been less jarring. Like, oh, Buck's getting railed to house music? Sure. At least Eddie could wrap his head around that.

But Zane, ever the gentleman, explained it as Ethical Non-Monogamy. Which made less sense than when Eddie thought it was EDM.

Whatever. Eddie's not gonna unpack that. He's not gonna think about the logistics. He's especially not gonna think about Buck sandwiched between two people who look like they walked off a cologne ad, doing... things. Together. To Buck. As a unit.

Nope.

After some truly nauseating comparisons of Buck to a unicorn, then a pony, because apparently that's a thing and Eddie needs to bleach his brain, Buck turned them down.

Said hasta la vista. Don't let the door kick you in the ass on the way out. Thanks, but no thanks. Goodbye forever.

Eddie was relieved. More than relieved, proud, even, in a way. Proud of Buck for knowing his worth. For not just jumping into something because two attractive people batted their eyelashes at him. Growth and maturity and all that good stuff.

The relief lasted all of ten seconds, because then Average McFuckface (Zane, whatever) turned his gaze on Eddie. 

And look, him looking at Eddie wasn't the issue. People look at Eddie all the time. He's a good-looking guy, he's been told, he can handle one look. It was the kind of look, though. The kind that said you're not fooling anyone.

Which was ridiculous. Eddie wasn't fooling anyone because there was nothing to fool anyone about. He's a straight man. He's attracted to women. Beautiful women. With their... woman... parts.

And okay, fine, Eddie could piece together what was happening here. Buck said no, so now Zane and Jade were scanning the room for a replacement unicorn. It made sense, as stupid as it was. Jade's eyes had drifted over to Ravi. Ravi's a good-looking guy, Eddie's not blind, that makes sense.

But why was Zane looking at Eddie?

Eddie, who was standing there in jeans and a denim jacket, looking like a completely normal, heterosexual firefighter. Eddie, who had given absolutely no indication that he would be interested in—in that. In anything involving Zane. Or any man. Ever.

Was he giving off some kind of vibe? Was there something about him that read available for threesomes with married couples? Did he have a sign on his forehead Eddie didn't know about?

He doesn't—he's not—

Zane had no right to look at him like that. Like Eddie was somehow in the club. He's not in any club. He's not even club-adjacent. He hasn’t even been to a club lately, except for when Buck dragged him there and that doesn't count because Buck had abandoned him and he may have spent the night pouting.

Needless to say, after the eye-fucking, he hauled ass back to the locker room to busy himself before he got propositioned too.

Which would be hilarious. Truly. Comedy gold. Because Eddie is straight. 

He’s straight. 

He's just a straight guy who got a little weird about his best friend's hookups. It happens, it's normal, it doesn't mean anything.

Eddie is almost to his car when he hears footsteps behind him.

Fast footsteps; jogging, even. Someone is either trying to catch up to him or he's about to get murdered; honestly, Eddie's not sure which would be worse right now.

He turns, and—

Oh, you've got to be kidding.

"Hey, Eddie, right?"

Zane. Of course it's Zane. Because Eddie's day wasn't weird enough already. Because the universe looked at Eddie Diaz and said you know what this guy needs? More interaction with the man who just tried to recruit his best friend into a polyamorous sex arrangement. That'll be fun for him.

Eddie schools his expression into something neutral. Approachable, even, if he really sells it. He was raised with manners, after all. His mother would rise from her grave—except she's not dead, so she'd probably just appear out of thin air through sheer force of disappointment—if Eddie were openly rude to someone without provocation. Even if that someone is Zane. Even if Eddie has spent the better part of the last week mentally referring to this man as Dane-Vane-Flane and also, more recently, Average McFuckface.

“Yup.”

Nailed it. One syllable. Cool, detached, completely unbothered by this entire situation. 

God, Eddie wants to go home. 

Zane slows to a stop a few feet away, slightly out of breath from his little jog across the parking lot, and he's got that look on his face again. The apologetic one. The kind of look people give you when they're about to say something you absolutely do not want to hear but they're gonna say it anyway because they think it's important.

"Look, I just wanted to say—I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable back there."

Eddie blinks. “...Okay.”

"I didn't mean to, like..." Zane gestures vaguely with one hand, trying to pluck the right words out of the air. "Get in between you and Buck or anything. That wasn't my intention. I didn't realize you two were—I mean, I should've picked up on it sooner, honestly, but I wasn't really thinking, and—"

Hold on. 

Hold on. 

“Me and Buck?” Eddie interrupts because he kind of has to, because his brain has snagged on those three words and is now running in circles around them like a dog chasing its own tail. 

Zane tilts his head, like he's the one who's confused here. "Yeah? I mean, I figured you two were... something. Or, I don't know, working your way toward something?"

Eddie stares at him. “Uh… what?”

"It's just—okay, I'm not trying to make this weird or anything," Zane says, which is a great thing to say when you're actively making something extremely weird, "but Buck could not shut up about you on our date. Like, at all. I don't think he went five minutes without mentioning you."

That’s—

That doesn’t—

"Eddie this, Eddie that," Zane continues, apparently oblivious to the fact that Eddie is currently experiencing some kind of neurological event. "Your kid, how your kid is basically his kid too. Movie nights and inside jokes. How you make this one face when you're annoyed that he thinks is, quote, 'secretly really funny.'"

Eddie doesn't make a face when he's annoyed. He doesn't have a face. He's not—there's no face.

He thinks, distantly, that he may be making that face right now. 

"Honestly, I thought I was the third wheel for a minute there," Zane says, laughing a little, as if this is all very amusing to him. "I was sitting across from him at dinner, and he's telling me about how you two have a whole system for cooking dinner during the week, and I'm like, okay, am I on a date with a married man right now, or is this guy just really enthusiastic about his roommate?"

"We're not roommates," Eddie says, which is a weird thing to fixate on, probably, given everything else Zane just said, but it's the only thing his mouth is willing to produce right now.

"Right, no, I know. Best friends. He said that too." Zane's smile goes soft in a way Eddie does not like. "He said it a lot, actually. Very emphatic about the whole best friends thing. Kind of like he was trying to convince himself."

Eddie’s stomach lurches. "Look," he says, and his voice comes out a little strangled, which is not ideal. He clears his throat and tries again. "I think you've got the wrong idea here. I'm—I'm straight. Me and Buck are just best friends. That's it. There's nothing—we're not something. We're just, you know, bros."

Bros. Did he really just say bros? What is he, nineteen? Does he want to follow that up with a fist bump and a no homo?

Zane’s mouth does… something. A twist, or a quirk, something that looks a lot like he’s trying very, very hard not to laugh, and not quite succeeding. 

“Uh huh,” he says. “Sure.”

Eddie feels his eye twitch. “I am.”

“I agreed with you.”

“No, you didn’t.” Eddie takes a step forward, it's maybe a little aggressive, but he can't help it. "I mean, you did, technically, the words you said were words of agreement, but there was a tone."

Zane raises an eyebrow, he looks way too entertained for Eddie's liking. "A tone?"

"Yes. A tone." Eddie gestures emphatically, as if that will help illustrate his point. "An inflection. A... a subtext. Like you were saying one thing but meaning another. Like you didn't actually believe me."

"I don't know what to tell you, man." Zane shrugs. "I just said sure."

"You said it dismissively."

"I said it neutrally."

"There was nothing neutral about it. It was fully loaded. That 'sure' was carrying a whole secondary meaning and you know it."

Zane holds up his hands, palms out, the picture of innocence. "Hey, man. The only person who can say what your sexuality is is you. I'm not here to tell you who you are. That's your journey."

"Right." Eddie nods, agreeing. "Yes. Yeah. Exactly. My journey. Which is a straight journey. A very straight, heterosexual journey with no detours."

Zane just looks at him, patient and amused. 

"...But why don't you believe me?" The words come out before Eddie can stop them, and he wants to kick himself immediately, because why did he say that, he was doing so well, he was ending the conversation—

Zane’s smile widens, just a fraction, just enough to be infuriating. "You'll figure it out," he says. Bestowing some kind of cryptic prophecy upon Eddie, here in the firehouse parking lot, next to Eddie's car that has one of Buck's hoodies balled up in the passenger seat because Buck's always cold after shift, and Eddie just... keeps it there. For convenience, in case Buck needs it, because he’s a good friend.

Zane turns and walks away. Just like that. Conversation over. Zane has said his piece and now he’s leaving, apparently, like some kind of bisexual oracle who appears only to deliver vague emotional bombshells before vanishing into the ether.

"What—" Eddie takes a step after him. He can't help it, because you can't just say something like that and walk away. "What does that mean?"

Zane doesn't turn around. Doesn't even slow down. Just lifts a hand in a lazy wave over his shoulder, like see you around, or good luck with all that, or my work here is done.

"Hey," Eddie calls after him. "Hey! You can't just—that's not an answer. That's not—"

Nothing. Zane rounds the corner of the building and disappears from view, leaving Eddie standing alone in the parking lot like an idiot.

"Cryptic bullshit," Eddie mutters, finally turning back toward his car. His keys are in his hand, the metal biting into his palm. He doesn't remember taking them out of his pocket. "That's what that is. That's all that is. Cryptic, meaningless, bullshit."

He yanks open the driver's side door harder than necessary and climbs in, slamming it shut behind him.

He's straight. He knows he's straight. That isn't even a question; it never has been. He's been straight his whole life. He married a woman. He has a child, for hell’s sake. He's had girlfriends! Multiple girlfriends. He's had sex with women and enjoyed it, thank you very much, so he's pretty sure he'd know if he wasn't—

If he wasn’t. 

He’s straight. 

So what if Buck talked about him on his date? That's normal. That's what best friends do; they talk about each other. Frequently, in detail… to people they're trying to sleep with. There's nothing weird about that. It's—it's flattering, actually. It means Buck values their friendship. That Eddie is an important part of Buck's life.

Which he knew. He already knew that. This isn't new information.

And so what if Zane looked at him like that? So what if Zane apparently clocked something in Eddie that made him think—whatever it is he thinks? Zane doesn't know him. Zane doesn't know anything. Zane is just some guy. Some guy with good cheekbones and an open marriage and a smug little smile and absolutely zero right to make Eddie feel like this.

Like what?

Like nothing. Eddie doesn’t feel like anything. He feels normal. He feels fine. 

He starts the car, pulls out of the parking lot, and doesn't think about it the whole way home. He doesn't think about the way his chest had gone tight when Zane said I figured you two were something, or the way his first instinct hadn't been confusion but something closer to—

No. Nope. Eddie turns up the radio and focuses on the road. 

He's fine. Everything is fine. He's a normal, straight man who had a normal, not-at-all-earth-shattering conversation in a parking lot, and he's going to go home and make dinner for his son and not think about any of this ever again.

He’s fine. He doesn’t think about it. 

He doesn’t.

He thinks about it. Probably more than what would be considered healthy. 

Uh huh. Sure.

Two words. Two stupid, smug, loaded words, and they’ve taken up permanent residence in Eddie’s head like some kind of parasitic brain worm. He hears them when he’s brushing his teeth, when he’s making breakfast, when he’s sitting in traffic, white-knuckling the steering wheel for no reason. 

Sure. 

He’s been mentally cataloging everything about himself that could possibly read as Not Straight. His clothes? Jeans, Henleys, the occasional flannel. That’s not gay, that’s just… Texan. His music taste? He listens to whatever’s on the radio. His posture? He stands like a normal person. Maybe he crosses his arms a lot, but that’s a defense mechanism, not a sexuality indicator. 

He even Googled “signs you might be gay” at two in the morning, which led him down a rabbit hole that included a Buzzfeed quiz (“Are You Gay or Do You Just Have Daddy Issues? Pick Some Houseplants to Find Out”), a Reddit thread that made him feel like he was having a stroke, and an article titled “25 Things Straight Men Do That Are Actually Pretty Gay” that he had to close immediately because number seven was “having a best friend you’d do anything for” and he didn’t need that kind of targeted attack in his life. 

He’s not gay. He’s just… thorough. He’s investigating, gathering data. 

What did Zane see? What was it about Eddie that made him so certain? Did he talk, or stand, or exist a certain way that made Zane so sure? Eddie’s been replaying the conversation on a loop, dissecting every moment, trying to figure out what he did wrong. 

Not wrong. That’s not the right word. He didn’t do anything wrong. There’s nothing wrong with being—

But he’s not. That’s the whole point. 

But something made Zane think otherwise, and Eddie needs to know what it is. He needs to understand the data so he can… adjust. He just doesn’t want to give people the wrong idea. He wants to make sure it doesn’t happen again, so the next person he talks to doesn’t look at him like he’s a closet case in denial. 

Which he isn’t. He just needs a second opinion. 

And who better to ask than his best friend? Buck knows him better than anyone. Buck will tell him the truth. Buck will say, “Eddie, you’re the straightest man I’ve ever met, Zane was clearly projecting, now let’s go watch a movie and never speak of this again.”

Yes, that’s exactly what will happen. 

Buck moved out a little over three months ago.

Which is cool. It’s completely fine. Eddie never expected Buck to live with him forever; that would be weird. Buck’s a grown man with his own life, his own space, his own… everything. He needed his independence. Eddie gets that, he respects that. 

It’s not like the house feels emptier now. Or that Eddie still instinctively sets out two coffee mugs in the morning sometimes, or catches himself listening for the sound of Buck’s footsteps in the hallways, or leaves Buck’s favorite cereal in the cupboard even though Chris doesn’t like it and Eddie thinks it’s too sweet. 

It’s fine. He’s fine. The cereal is fine. Everything is fine. 

Buck’s new place is nice. Smaller, but nice. It’s got character, Buck had said when he got it, which Eddie had quickly learned was real estate code for “the pipes make a sound like a dying whale every time you run the hot water” and "there's a draft coming from somewhere, but I cannot for the life of me figure out where.” But Buck seems happy there, so Eddie’s happy for him. 

He’s happy for him.

(The cereal went stale last week. Eddie threw it out. He did not have feelings about this.)

Eddie doesn’t knock when he arrives. 

He never knocks. Knocking would be weird at this point; they’re past knocking. Eddie has a key, technically, but he doesn’t even use that most of the time because Buck never locks his door, which is a whole other issue Eddie has lectured him about approximately seven hundred times. "You're a first responder," he said. "You know what happens to people who don't lock their doors." And Buck always just grins and says, "Yeah, but those people don't have me as a neighbor," which doesn't even make sense because Buck doesn't have himself as a neighbor; Buck is the person not locking the door—

Whatever. Not the point.

He throws the door open, steps inside, and immediately hears a clatter from the kitchen followed by Buck’s startled yelp. 

“Jesus Christ—”

Eddie winces. Okay, maybe he should’ve texted first. 

Buck’s head appears around the kitchen doorway, eyes wide, spatula in hand, like he's prepared to defend his home against intruders. Which, again, could be avoided if he just locked his door, but Eddie's not going to get into that right now.

When Buck sees Eddie, his expression shifts from alarm to confusion to something that lands somewhere in the neighborhood of fond exasperation. It's a familiar journey. Eddie's seen Buck's face make that exact trip many times.

“Eddie?” Buck lowers the spatula. “No—sure, come on in. Not like I was in the middle of anything. Not like you could've knocked, or texted, or sent up a smoke signal, or literally any form of communication that isn't just appearing in my house like a cryptid—"

"You don't lock your door," Eddie says, which is not an apology.

"That's not the point!"

"It's a little bit the point."

“It’s not—” Buck huffs, setting the spatula down on the counter begrudgingly. He steps fully into the living room, crossing his arms. "Okay, you know what, fine. You're here. What's up?"

Eddie opens his mouth.

This is it. This is the moment where he calmly and rationally explains his situation. He'll say, "Hey Buck, quick question, Zane seemed to think I wasn't straight and I'm just wondering if you've noticed anything about me that might give off that impression, no big deal, just curious, anyway, how about those Dodgers?"

That's what he's going to say. Calmly. Rationally.

"Do I look gay?"

Nailed it.

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and absurd and definitely not what Eddie meant to say. His brain-to-mouth filter has apparently clocked out for the day. 

Buck stares at him. Eddie stares back. A car alarm goes off in the distance. 

“Uh.” Buck’s mouth works for a second, trying to form a response. “I—what?”

“Do I look gay?” Eddie presses, because in for a penny, in for a pound, in for a complete psychological breakdown in your best friend's living room. "Like, is there something about me that reads as not straight? Something in my vibe? My aura? The way I dress?"

"The way you—" Buck's eyes drop to Eddie's outfit, which is jeans and a Henley, the same thing Eddie wears literally every day of his life. "Eddie, you dress like a dad going to Home Depot."

"Is that gay?"

"What? No, it's—" Buck shakes his head as if he's trying to physically dislodge this conversation from his brain. "Eddie, what is happening right now? Why are you asking me if you look gay?"

"Because Zane—" Eddie starts pacing, because standing still feels impossible when his entire identity is apparently up for debate. "After you turned him—them—down, he found me in the parking lot."

Buck's eyebrows shoot up. "He what?"

"Not like—it wasn't—he didn't proposition me or anything." Eddie waves a hand dismissively. "Well. Actually. He might have? There was a look. Earlier. But that's not the point. The point is, I told him I was straight, and he did this little—" Eddie tries to replicate Zane's smug scoff and fails miserably. "This noise. Like a laugh, but worse. Like he thought it was funny that I said I was straight. And then he said I'd 'figure it out' and walked away like some kind of—some kind of sexuality oracle."

Buck’s mouth is twitching at the corners, dangerously close to a smile. 

“Don’t,” Eddie warns.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're laughing at me."

"I'm not laughing—"

"You're doing the face. The face you do when you're trying not to laugh. I know that face, Buck. I've seen that face."

"I don't have a face!" Buck protests, and yeah, okay, that's definitely a laugh escaping through his nose. "It's just—sorry, I'm sorry, it's just—a sexuality oracle?"

"Shut up."

"Did he have a crystal ball? Did he read your palm? Did he—"

"Buck."

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” Buck holds up his hands in surrender, visibly wrestling his expression back under control. It takes him a few seconds; Eddie counts. "Okay. I'm good. I'm serious now. So Zane... didn't believe you when you said you were straight."

"Correct."

"And this is bothering you because...?"

"Because!" Eddie throws his hands up. "Because what does he know? What did he see? I've been straight my whole life, Buck. Thirty-plus years of being attracted to women. I have a son. I've had girlfriends. And this guy meets me for five minutes and decides he knows something about me that I don't know about myself? That's—that's insane. That's ridiculous."

Buck is quiet for a moment, studying Eddie with an expression he can’t quite read. Then, inexplicably, he chuckles.

"What?" Eddie demands. "What's funny?"

"Nothing, nothing." Buck shakes his head, but there's a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "It's just—Tommy said something like that once, too."

Eddie's brain is a car hitting a brick wall. "...What?"

“Tommy.” Buck shrugs casually. "Back when we were dating. I mentioned you were straight once, and he did the same thing—the little 'sure,' the look."

Eddie stares at him for a solid minute and a half before Buck seems to realize he should maybe elaborate.

"He, uh. He also called you 'the competition' too." Buck scratches the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. "Which is a whole other story, actually, not really relevant right now—"

"Hold on." Eddie's voice comes out strangled. He holds up a hand, as if he can physically stop the flow of information until he's ready to process it. "Hold on. Your ex-boyfriend. Your awful, terrible, ex-boyfriend who I've never liked—"

"You were literally his friend first—"

"That's not the point—" Eddie's pacing has gotten faster, more erratic. He feels like a caged animal. "Tommy said I was gay? Tommy 'I peaked in high school' Kinard? Tommy 'I have the personality of a wet paper towel' Kinard? That Tommy?"

Buck winces. "Those are... those are some creative descriptors."

"And he called me the competition?" Eddie's practically hyperventilating now. "Competition for what? Competition for you? What does—we're best friends! Okay, yes, we're close, maybe unusually close, maybe we have a whole co-parenting thing going on and I kept your cereal in my pantry for three months after you moved out, but that doesn't mean—that doesn't—"

"You kept my cereal?"

"Not the point, Buck!"

"Okay, okay!" Buck steps forward, hands raised like he's approaching a spooked horse. "Eddie. Hey. Look at me. Breathe."

"I'm breathing," Eddie says, not breathing.

"You're really not."

"I'm breathing fine."

"You're hyperventilating. I can literally see your nostrils flaring."

Eddie clamps a hand over his nose on instinct, which makes it harder to breathe, which makes the hyperventilating worse, which makes Buck let out a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

"Oh my God, Eddie, just—" Buck reaches out and gently pulls Eddie's hand away from his face. "Breathe with me, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on. We've done this before. Remember the meat grinder incident?"

"We agreed never to talk about the meat grinder incident."

"We agreed you would never talk about it. I never agreed to anything." Buck's hands are on Eddie's shoulders now, warm and calming. "In... and out. There you go. Again. In... out."

It takes a minute. Maybe two. Eddie focuses on Buck's voice, Buck's hands, the steady rhythm Buck is setting. His heartbeat eventually stops trying to break out of his chest. "Okay," Eddie breathes. "Okay. I'm good. I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Buck doesn't let go of his shoulders. His thumbs are doing this absent little stroking motion, back and forth, probably without Buck even realizing it. It's... nice; soothing. The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"Kiss me."

Buck's hands freeze; the stroking stops. “...I’m sorry?”

“Kiss me.” Eddie doesn't know where this is coming from, except he does, actually—it's coming from the part of his brain that has been chewing on this problem for two days straight and has finally arrived at a solution. A terrible solution. A solution that makes perfect sense if you don't think about it too hard. "I need to know."

Buck's eyes have gone very wide. His mouth is open slightly, like he's forgotten how to close it.

"You need to know," he repeats slowly. "What... what exactly do you need to know?"

"If they're right!" Eddie gestures vaguely, encompassing Zane and Tommy and the entire concept of sexuality in one frustrated motion. "What if there's something about me that I just don't know because I've never tried? I've never kissed a guy, Buck. I've never even considered kissing a guy. But clearly something is making people think—" He stops, swallows hard. "I just need data. That's all. One kiss, and then I'll know for sure, and I can put this whole thing behind me."

"Eddie." Buck sounds pained. "You can't just, this isn't, you can't just experiment on me like I'm some kind of—of litmus test for gayness—"

"Why not? You're the only guy I trust enough to ask."

Buck makes a noise like he's been punched in the stomach. "That's—that's not—" He's flushing now, pink spreading from his cheeks down to his neck, and Eddie watches it happen with detached fascination. He's never really noticed Buck blush before. It's kind of pretty.

Wait, no. Not pretty. Normal. A normal observation about his normal best friend's normal circulatory response to embarrassment.

"C'mon, Eds." Buck's voice is rough. He clears his throat. "You don't really want this. You're just spiraling, and you latched onto the first solution your brain came up with, and—"

"Buck." Eddie steps closer. Buck's hands are still on his shoulders, so he doesn't have far to go. "Please. I'm asking you as your best friend. As the guy who kept your terrible cereal in his pantry for three months. As the guy who—who would do anything for you, you know that, right? I would do anything for you." Buck's breath catches audibly. "So please," he begs. "Just—do this for me. One kiss. That's all. And then we never have to talk about it again."

Buck stares at him for a long moment. His eyes are searching Eddie's face, looking for something; permission, maybe, or doubt, or a sign that Eddie's about to yell "psych!" and run away.

Eddie doesn’t move; doesn’t blink. Buck exhales, shaky. “Okay,” he says quietly. "Okay. One kiss."

"One kiss," Eddie agrees. His heart is pounding again, but it's different this time. Not panic, something else; anticipation, maybe, which is weird, because he's not supposed to be anticipating this. He's supposed to be dreading this, or at least approaching it with scientific detachment.

Buck's hand moves from Eddie's shoulder to his jaw. His fingers are trembling slightly. Eddie can feel it against his skin, the faint vibration, and for some reason, it makes his chest ache. "If you want to stop," Buck says softly, "just say so. Any time. I'll stop."

"I'm not gonna want to stop, Buck, it's one kiss—"

"Eddie."

"...Okay. Yeah. I'll tell you." Buck nods, then proceeds to do absolutely nothing. 

He’s frozen, rooted to the spot. Eddie’s seen him run into burning buildings without a second thought, but it seems kissing his best friend has short-circuited whatever part of his brain controls forward momentum. 

“Buck.”

“Yep.” Buck doesn’t move. 

“You said okay.”

“I did say that.”

“So…?”

Buck swallows hard; Eddie watches the bob of his Adam's apple, weirdly transfixed. Buck’s eyes dart to his mouth, then away, then back again, as if he can’t help himself. “If I do this,” he says slowly, “we can’t un-do it. You get that, right?”

Eddie’s stomach somersaults, which is weird, because this is just an experiment. Clinical and detached, absolutely no reason for his stomach to be doing much of anything. “I get it,” he says. 

Buck exhales. His thumb brushes across Eddie's cheekbone, featherlight, and Eddie's breath stutters minutely.

"Okay," Buck whispers, leaning in. "Here goes nothing."

Eddie's brain helpfully supplies a running commentary: This is it. This is happening. Your best friend is about to kiss you. For science and the pursuit of truth and self-knowledge. This is a completely normal thing that completely normal heterosexual friends do for each other. Well, Buck’s bi, but still. Nothing weird about it. Nothing—

Buck's lips touch his, and Eddie's brain shuts the fuck up.

It's soft; gentle. Almost tentative, like Buck's afraid Eddie might spook and bolt. Which is fair, honestly, given Eddie's behavior over the last day or so. But Eddie doesn't bolt (surprising to everyone, especially himself), he doesn't even flinch. He just... stands there, letting it happen, cataloging the sensation with what he hopes is scientific objectivity.

Buck's mouth is warm. His stubble scratches lightly against Eddie's chin. He smells like coffee and that body wash he uses, the one Eddie always gives him shit for because it costs eighteen dollars a bottle and Buck insists it's worth it for the "notes of sandalwood and cedar." Eddie had mocked him mercilessly, but now, standing here with Buck's lips pressed against his, he's thinking maybe Buck had a point. It does smell good. Really good.

Focus, Diaz. Data. You're collecting data.

Buck pulls back after a few seconds, three, maybe four, Eddie wasn't counting, he was too busy noticing the sandalwood, and searches Eddie's face.

"So?" Buck's voice is rough. "Verdict?" Eddie’s still standing there with his eyes closed, half convinced that a slight breeze could knock him over with how light-headed he feels. He finally blinks his eyes open, meeting Buck’s gaze.

Okay. Assessment time. Did you hate it? No. Did you like it?

That's... a more complicated question.

"You have nice lips," Eddie says finally.

Buck stares at him. "I—what?"

"Nice lips," Eddie repeats, as if saying it twice will make it sound less insane. "Very... soft. I mean, objectively speaking, I'd assume anyone would like kissing you. Man or woman. It's not—it doesn't prove anything. You're just a good kisser."

"I'm just a good kisser," Buck echoes flatly.

"Right."

"So you liked it because I'm talented. Not because you're attracted to me."

"Exactly." Eddie nods, relieved that Buck gets it. "It's a skill thing. Like how I can appreciate a well-executed military maneuver without wanting to enlist again."

Buck's eye twitches. "Did you just compare kissing me to a military maneuver?"

"It was an analogy."

"It was something."

"The point is—" Eddie holds up a finger, very much aware that he's grasping at straws and the straws are disintegrating in his hands, "—one kiss isn't enough data. The sample size is too small. Statistically insignificant."

"Statistically insignificant," Buck repeats, and there's a strangled quality to his voice now, like he's either about to laugh or cry and hasn't decided which.

“We should try again. Longer this time. More…thorough.” Eddie can feel himself doing it, shifting the finish line farther away so he doesn’t have to stop running, but the thought doesn’t slow him down.

Buck opens his mouth, probably to argue, probably to also point out that Eddie is rapidly moving the goalposts and they both know it, but Eddie doesn’t give him the chance. He’s operating on instinct now, some part of him that’s tired of thinking and just wants to do, so he leans in and kisses Buck again. 

This time, Eddie kisses him like he means it—or like he's trying to figure out if he means it, which is almost the same thing. His hand comes up to grip the back of Buck's neck, fingers threading into the short hair there, and Buck makes a sound against his mouth. A small, surprised sound that shoots straight down Eddie's spine and pools somewhere low in his stomach.

Buck's lips part, and Eddie takes the invitation without thinking, licking into his mouth, tasting the coffee he’d been smelling before, and something sweeter underneath. Buck's tongue meets his, slick and hot, and Eddie's brain goes fuzzy. His other hand finds Buck's hip, gripping hard enough to bruise, pulling him closer until they're pressed chest to chest and Eddie can feel Buck's heart hammering against his own.

This is—

This is not like kissing a woman. 

Or maybe it is, and Eddie's just never been kissed like this before. Never had someone match his intensity, push back against him, give as good as they get. Buck kisses like a challenge, a conversation, like he's trying to tell Eddie something important and this is the only language he has.

Eddie might be fluent. He might have been fluent this whole time and just didn't know it.

They break apart gasping, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air. Buck's eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and his lips are red and wet and slightly swollen. Eddie did that... Eddie wants to do it again. 

For… science.

“So,” Buck manages. "What's the, uh. What's the verdict on that one?" Eddie's brain scrambles for an excuse. A rationalization. Anything to explain why his entire body is thrumming like a live wire right now.

"You're..." He swallows. "You're a good kisser."

"You said that already."

"It bears repeating."

"Eddie."

“It’s still not—I mean, kissing is—” Eddie stumbles over his words. "Kissing is just kissing. It doesn't necessarily indicate... anything. Lots of people are good kissers. Again, it's a skill. Like juggling, or—or parallel parking."

"You're comparing kissing me to parallel parking now?"

“It’s a good skill to have.”

Buck laughs fondly. "You're unbelievable. You know that?"

"I've been told." They're still close, way too close. Eddie can feel the heat radiating off Buck's body, can see the rapid pulse jumping in his throat. He should step back, create some distance, reestablish the boundaries of normal friendship that they've been gleefully bulldozing for the last twenty minutes.

He does no such thing.

"We'd need to do something else. To be sure." Eddie's mouth is running without permission from his brain, which has staged a full mutiny. "For science."

"For science."

"You keep repeating what I say.”

“Because what you’re saying is unhinged, Eddie!”

“I’m being methodical!”

“You’re being a—” Buck cut himself off, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay. Okay, let's say, hypothetically, I agree that a few kisses is…” He shakes his head. “Insufficient data. What exactly are you proposing we do about it?”

Eddie’s brain is suggesting things. Unhelpful things. Things that Eddie absolutely cannot say out loud because saying them out loud would make them real, and if they’re real then Eddie has to deal with what it means that he’s thinking them in the first place. 

“We could…” He trails off; makes a vague gesture with his hand. A sort of… up and down motion, near his hip. 

Buck squints at him. “Are you… miming something?”

Eddie does it again, more emphatically. Adds a second hand for some reason, which doesn’t clarify anything and actually makes it worse. 

“Is that—” Buck’s head tilts. “Are you doing charades right now? Eddie, what the hell, I don’t—is that a snake? A rope? Are you churning butter?”

“I’m not churning butter—”

“Then what—”

“How would churning butter have anything to do with me being gay?” Eddie demands. “What kind of charades are you playing?”

“I’m not playing! Eddie, you’re the one flailing your hands around like you’re having a seizure! I’m just guessing!”

“It wasn’t flailing, it was a gesture—”

“A gesture of what? What possible gesture involves—” Buck mimics Eddie’s motion back at him, which looks even more absurd when Buck does it. “This? What is this?”

“Oh my god.”

“Are you milking a cow? Pulling a rope? Opening a very tall jar?”

“Opening a—how big do you think jars are?”

“I don’t know what’s happening right now!”

“We could jerk each other off!” Eddie blurts out, and the words land in the space between them like a brick through a window. The silence that follows is so profound, Eddie can hear Buck’s kitchen faucet dripping. 

Drip.

Drip. 

Drip.

“You—” Buck’s voice cracks. He clears his throat. “Sorry, I think I just hallucinated. Did you just suggest—”

“Hand stuff,” Eddie clarifies. “Manual stimulation. It’s the next logical step.”

“The logical—” Buck laughs, high and slightly hysterical. “Eddie, there is nothing logical about any of this. You showed up at my house, asked me if you look gay, we kissed, and now you want me to give you a handjob? That’s not logic, that’s—I don’t even know what that is. A fever dream, or a prank show. Am I being filmed right now?” He looks around the room wildly. “Is Ashton Kutcher about to jump out of my closet?”

“Ashton Kutcher hasn’t done that show in like fifteen years.”

“That’s so not the point!”

“Buck.” Eddie steps forward and grabs Buck’s shoulders, forcing him to make eye contact. “I’m freaking out, okay? I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours questioning everything I thought I knew about myself, and I just need—I need to know. One way or the other. And I can’t—” His voice wavers embarrassingly. “I can’t do this with some stranger. I can’t download Grindr and meet up with a random guy in a parking lot. It has to be someone I trust… it has to be you.”

Buck’s face falls a little, his jaw tightening and releasing over and over. “You could literally just watch gay porn,” he says weakly. “That’s a normal way to figure this out. That’s what most people do.”

“I panicked and closed the tab.”

“You—” Buck blinks. “When?”

“Last night. There was—” Eddie mumbles, not wanting to get into it. “There were a lot of… sounds.”

“Sounds.”

"Grunting. Aggressive grunting. It wasn't—it wasn't conducive to self-reflection."

Buck looks like he's aged ten years in the last five minutes. "So your solution is to have your straight best friend jerk you off instead of just... watching a different video. Maybe one with less grunting."

“You’re not straight, you’re bi.”

“Okay, whatever, I know I’m not straight—”

“So you’re qualified.”

“That’s not how qualifications work!”

“Buck.” Eddie tightens his grip on Buck’s shoulders. “Please.” And there it is, the word that always works on Buck. The magic word. Eddie's not proud of using it, but he's also not above it. Buck's resolve visibly crumbles.

"This is insane," Buck mutters. "This is genuinely, certifiably insane. I want that on the record. When we're both in therapy in ten years, I want the therapist to know that I tried to talk you out of this."

"Noted."

"I'm doing this under protest."

"Also noted."

“And if you freak out halfway through this and make things weird between us… that’s okay. But also, it would suck.”

“I won’t freak out,” Eddie promises, which feels like a lie even as he says it, but he’s committed now; they’re both committed now. Why does he feel so giddy? He’s about to get a handjob, he thinks. Anyone would be giddy about that. It has nothing to do with the fact that it’s Buck. It’s just anticipation. General, non-specific, heterosexual anticipation.

Buck is quiet for a moment, looking down at his shoes. He looks… conflicted, maybe, but not in the way Eddie expected. Not reluctant so much as… restrained. "Buck." Eddie softens his voice. "If you really don't want to do this, I get it. Seriously. I'm not gonna—I would never hold it against you. I know this is a lot to ask, and I know I'm being—me, about it. But you can say no."

Buck laughs, short and a little pained, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks down like he needs to get control of his face before he lets Eddie see whatever is trying to climb out of it. His fingers flex once at his side, restless, like he’s holding himself back from reaching. "Eddie, trust me, 'not wanting to' isn't the issue here."

Which is a weird thing to say. Eddie files it away for later analysis, when his brain isn't running on pure adrenaline and desperation.

"Then what's the issue?" Buck just looks at him. There's something almost sad in his eyes, which makes no sense, because this is supposed to be—they're just—

"Nothing," Buck says finally. "Forget it." Before Eddie can push further, Buck sighs, resigned, the sigh of a man who knows he’s about to make a questionable decision and has decided to make it anyway. 

Eddie decides not to take offense at the fact that Buck is acting like touching his dick is some sort of Herculean labor. Like Eddie's asked him to clean out a septic tank with his bare hands, or he's being marched to the gallows for crimes against the state, and Eddie's genitals are the executioner.

It's fine. Eddie's not offended. His dick is perfectly nice. Buck should be so lucky.

“Bedroom,” Buck says. “I’m not doing this in my living room like some kind of animal.”

The logistics, as it turns out, are awkward as hell. 

“Okay, so,” Buck hovers near the bed, hands flexing at his sides. “How do you want to—I mean, do we just—should I—”

“I don’t know,” Eddie admits. He’s standing on the opposite side of the room, which suddenly feels both too far away and not nearly far enough. "I've never done this before."

"Yeah, I gathered that from the whole 'sexuality crisis' thing."

"Don't be a smartass."

"I'm sorry, I cope with uncomfortable situations through humor, you know this about me."

Eddie takes a breath. Okay. He can do this. He's done scarier things. He's been shot. He's been buried alive. He's watched Christopher try to make scrambled eggs unsupervised. This is nothing. This is just… a handjob. People get handjobs all the time. It's practically a handshake.

A handshake where someone touches your dick, his brain supplies unhelpfully.

A bro-job, if you will. Which is a thing. Eddie’s pretty sure that’s a thing. He was in the Army, he’s seen it—guys helping guys; there’s nothing gay about it. Just friends, being friendly, with each other’s dicks. 

God, he sounds insane.

"Maybe we should sit," Buck suggests. "On the bed, side by side. That way it's not—" He gestures Eddie toward it. "Confrontational."

"Confrontational," Eddie repeats. "Are we negotiating a business deal?"

"I don't know, Eddie, I don't have a protocol for jerking off my best friend! I'm improvising!"

"Okay, okay." Eddie holds up his hands. "Sitting side by side. That works."

The bed dips under their weight, and their shoulders brush. Eddie's hyper-aware of every point of contact—the warmth of Buck's arm through his sleeve, the slight pressure of Buck's thigh against his. Buck’s thigh is… solid and muscular. The thigh of a man who does a lot of squats, probably. Not that Eddie’s been paying attention to Buck’s squats. Or Buck’s thighs. Or the way Buck’s shirts stretch across his shoulders when he’s working out.

Noticing things about your friends is normal. Eddie notices things about Ravi and Chimney too, he just can’t think of any specific examples right now.

His heart is thumping embarrassingly loud in his chest; doing percussion, a whole ass drum solo. “So,” Buck says.

"So," Eddie agrees.

"We should probably... take our pants off."

"Right. Yeah. Pants." Neither of them moves.

"This is painful," Buck announces. "This is actually physically painful to witness, and I'm the one doing it. Okay, you know what, new plan." He twists to face Eddie more fully. "I'm going to count to three, and when I get to three, we're both going to unzip our pants like normal adults.”

“Okay."

"Okay. One."

Eddie's hand moves to his zipper.

"Two."

Buck's hand mirrors his.

"Three."

The sound of two zippers going down in tandem is, objectively, one of the most ridiculous things Eddie has ever heard. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

"Don't," Buck warns, but he's fighting a smile too. "Don't you dare laugh, Eddie. I'm trying to help you through a sexual awakening, the least you can do is take it seriously."

"I'm taking it seriously!"

"You're smirking."

"It's a serious smirk."

"That's not a thing."

They're both grinning now, and somehow that breaks the tension, cracks it right down the middle until it doesn't feel quite so insurmountable. This is still Buck. Still his best friend. Still the guy who once ate a ghost pepper on a dare and cried for twenty minutes while Eddie laughed so hard he pulled a muscle. 

"Okay," Buck says, sobering slightly. "I'm gonna, is it okay if I—"

"Yeah," Eddie says, before Buck can finish the question. "Yeah, just... go ahead.”

Buck’s hand slides into Eddie’s lap and—

Oh.

Oh. 

Eddie’s brain, which had been providing a near constant stream of anxious commentary, goes completely silent. Because Buck’s hand is on him, warm and broad and so different from his own, his fingers are slightly calloused and his grip is just the right amount of tight and it feels… good. 

It feels really fucking good. 

Which is normal. Any hands would feel good wrapped around his dick; that's just… biology. It doesn't matter whose hand it is. Could be anyone's hand, a stranger's hand, hell, could be a mannequin hand, probably, if the mannequin hand had the right technique.

Buck has the right technique.

Buck has really good technique.

“This okay?” Buck murmurs, and Eddie can only nod, not trusting his voice. Buck’s thumb swipes over the head, spreading the moisture there, and Eddie’s hips jerk involuntarily. His hand flies to Buck’s forearm, gripping hard. 

“Sorry—”

“Don’t apologize.” Buck’s voice is breathy, focused… aroused. Eddie can’t think about that right now. He definitely can’t think about how Buck’s arm feels under his fingers, with corded muscle and fine hair and—fuck. “Just relax.”

Relax. Right. Sure. I'll just relax while my best friend gives me a handjob in his bedroom. Super chill. Nothing to see here.

Buck's hand starts moving with more purpose, finding a rhythm, and Eddie's thoughts fragment into something less coherent. He's distantly aware that he should probably be reciprocating—that was the deal, wasn't it? Mutual handjobs, an exchange. But his hand feels like it weighs a thousand pounds and his brain has been reduced to static.

Buck shifts closer, and suddenly Eddie can feel the heat of him all along his side, can smell that stupid expensive body wash, can hear the soft catch of Buck's breath every time Eddie's grip tightens involuntarily on his arm. It's a lot. It's a lot of sensory information; Eddie's just processing data. That's all this is—data processing.

"You can—" Buck starts, and Eddie's hand shoots out on autopilot, fumbling into Buck's lap with all the grace of a drunk octopus.

"Sorry, sorry—"

"It's fine, just—yeah, like that."

Eddie's fingers wrap around Buck and, oh. Oh, that's. That's a dick. That's Buck's dick, hot and hard and heavy in Eddie's palm, and Eddie's brain performs a series of acrobatic maneuvers that leave him feeling a little dizzy. He gives an experimental stroke, feels Buck shudder beside him, and something primal and satisfied uncurls in Eddie's chest.

It’s just pride; pride in a job well done. Good craftsmanship, he has always been good with his hands.

Then they're both just... doing this. Sitting side by side on Buck's bed, hands in each other's pants, jerking each other off like it's a totally regular weekday activity. Friends helping friends. Bros being bros. Just two dudes, one of whom is supposedly straight, definitely not having a complete sexual awakening at the ripe age of—

Fuck, that feels good.

Buck's grip tightens, twists on the upstroke, and Eddie makes a noise that he will deny to his dying day. An embarrassing noise; one that suggests he is very much enjoying this and would like it to continue indefinitely.

Buck makes a noise too, a low, punched-out groan, and Eddie feels it reverberate through his whole body. His hand speeds up on Buck without conscious decision, matching Buck's rhythm, and suddenly they're moving together, synchronized, like they do everything else. As if they've been doing this forever, and Eddie's hand was always meant to be here, wrapped around Buck, making him feel good.

Which is—that’s insane. Eddie's hand was not meant to be anywhere. Eddie's hand is just a hand. A helpful hand; a friend hand. "Good?" Buck asks, slightly panting now.

"It's—" Eddie's brain scrambles for an explanation that doesn't involve admitting he's about two minutes away from coming harder than he has in years. "I mean—you have—it's not that different from my own hand."

Buck's rhythm falters. "Excuse me?"

"Your hand." Eddie gestures vaguely with his free hand, the one not otherwise…occupied. The one not currently memorizing the weight and feel of Buck's dick, cataloging every ridge and vein as if Eddie's going to be quizzed on this later. "It's just a hand. I jerk off all the time. It's basically the same thing."

"It's basically—" Buck sounds incredulous. "Eddie, I'm literally touching your dick right now."

"Right, but—" Eddie's hips stutter forward as Buck does something particularly clever with his wrist. His free hand grabs Buck's thigh, squeezing, needing something to hold onto. "But the—the mechanics are the same. Friction and—and pressure and—oh fuck—the point is, this doesn't necessarily mean anything, physiologically speaking.”

“Physiologically speaking,” Buck repeats, and he sounds like he’s losing his mind, which makes two of them. “You’re getting a handjob from a man and you’re talking about physiology?”

“I’m just saying,” Eddie gasps as Buck speeds up, clearly out of spite, the bastard. “I’m just saying that the human body responds to—to stimulation regardless of—regardless of the source, so this isn’t definitive proof of—of anything.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m being rational—”

“You’re being an idiot.”

“Those aren’t—ah—mutually exclusive.”

Buck’s hand twists again, and Eddie’s vision whites out for a second. He’s close, he’s so close. He doesn’t want it to end, which is—which is just because it feels good, okay, not because it’s Buck, or because Buck is panting against his ear and making these soft little sounds every time Eddie's thumb catches under the head, or because Buck's free hand has landed on Eddie's thigh and is gripping hard enough to bruise and Eddie likes it, not because—

Not because of any of that.

Eddie's just touch-starved, that's all. It’s been a while since he was paid any… special attention and he'd feel this way about anyone touching him. Probably.

“I could blow you,” Buck whispers.

Eddie’s brain blue-screens. 

“What?”

“If the hand thing isn’t—” Buck’s voice is rough, his movements slowing into something almost lazy as they both catch their breath. Eddie realizes, belatedly, that his own hand has gone completely still. He’s just… holding Buck’s dick right now. Cradling it, really, casual as anything, like this is a totally normal place for his hand to be. His thumb is stroking absently along the shaft, a soft back-and-forth, almost tender, and Eddie has no memory of deciding to do that.

Yup, there’s a dick in his hand. His best friend's dick. Which is—it's a nice dick, objectively speaking, not that Eddie's ranking dicks now, not that he has a mental database of dicks to compare it to, but if he did, Buck's would probably score pretty high. It's flushed and hard and there's a bead of precum at the tip that Eddie has the sudden, unhinged urge to smear with his thumb, or maybe taste, or—

Wait. Taste? Why would he want to taste it? That's not—he doesn't—that's definitely not a straight thought. That's not even a "figuring things out" thought. It’s one thing to lend a helping hand but that—that’s a gay thought. That's a specifically, explicitly gay thought, and Eddie is—

Eddie is not thinking about it. Eddie is filing that thought away in a box labeled "not today" and burying it in the backyard of his mind.

“I-I could use my mouth,” Buck says.

Eddie.exe has stopped working.

“O-Okay,” Eddie breathes.

Buck’s breath catches, and for a second Eddie thinks he’s going to go for it. His eyes drop to Eddie’s mouth, then lower, and there’s this moment of tension where anything feels possible. 

Buck seems to shake himself out of it. “I mean,” he says, “I could, but—would that actually tell you anything?”

Eddie blinks. “What?”

“A blowjob.” Buck’s hand is still moving, slower now, nearly absent. “You’ve gotten blowjobs from women before, right?”

“I—yeah?”

“So it’s not like it would be anything new. A mouth is a mouth, right? By your logic.” There’s something almost challenging in Buck’s tone, throwing Eddie’s own rationalizations back at him. “Same friction and pressure and—what was it—physiological response regardless of source?”

Eddie opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out, because Buck is right. By Eddie’s own stupid logic, a blowjob wouldn’t prove anything. He’d just find another excuse, another reason it doesn’t count. “Oh.” Eddie's hand has gone still again. “Yeah. I guess that’s… yeah.”

Buck nods. “So that’s out.”

“That’s out,” Eddie agrees, even though part of him, a part he’s aggressively not listening to, is screaming in disappointment. 

They sit there for a moment, hands still on each other, neither of them moving. It should be awkward. It should be unbearably awkward, actually, two guys holding each other’s dicks in contemplative silence like they’re pondering the mysteries of the universe. But somehow it’s not, somehow it just feels like them, which is maybe the most alarming part of all of this. 

“What about…” Eddie starts, then stops. 

Buck raises an eyebrow. “What about what?”

“I mean, we could—” Eddie’s face is burning, he can feel it, the heat crawling up his neck and settling in his cheeks, and he’s grateful for the dim lighting in Buck’s bedroom. “I-I could fuck you.”

Buck’s grip tightens accidentally, and Eddie hisses. “Sorry, sorry—” Buck loosens his hand. “You want to fuck me?”

“For the experiment,” Eddie clarifies quickly. “To see if, you know. If it’s different.”

“If fucking a man is different from fucking a woman.”

“Right.”

Buck is quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing absent-minded circles on Eddie’s hip, probably without realizing it, and it’s distracting as hell. “Eddie,” he says finally, “you’ve had sex before.”

“Obviously.”

“Penetrative sex.”

“Yes, Buck, I have a child, I’m aware how reproduction works—”

“So you’ve been inside someone before.” Buck’s voice is patient, kind of gentle, sort of how Eddie sounds when helping Chris through a particularly difficult math problem. “And by your own logic—your insane, ridiculous, absolutely buckwild logic—that means topping wouldn’t prove anything either, because you’d just say it felt the same. Because a hole is a hole, or whatever crazy thing you’re about to say.”

Eddie’s mouth snaps shut. He was, in fact, about to say something along those lines. 

“Huh,” he says instead. 

“So that’s also out.”

“Seems like it.”

Buck shrugs, his shoulder brushing against Eddie’s. “I guess we’ve exhausted our options here. End of the road, experiment concluded. We gave it the old college try.”

He starts to pull his hand away, and Eddie feels panic spike through his chest. “Wait—”

Buck pauses. Eddie’s brain is doing that thing again, the thing where it runs ahead of his mouth and his common sense and every instinct for self-preservation he’s ever had. He should let this go, let Buck pull away and they should get dressed and never speak of this again and Eddie should go back to his normal, heterosexual life and repress all of this so deeply it never sees the light of day.

That’s what he should do. 

“You could fuck me.”

Buck’s hand spasms. On Eddie’s cock. Which is still out. Because they’ve been having this entire conversation with their hands on each other's dicks. 

“I—” Buck trails off. “What?”

“That’s different.” Eddie’s talking fast now, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. “That’s something I’ve never done before. I’ve never been—I’ve never had anything—so that would actually be new data. That would be conclusive. If I don’t like it, then I’m straight, and if I do like it, then I’m…” He stops, not quite able to finish the sentence. 

Buck is staring at him. His mouth is open slightly, his eyes wide, and Eddie can see the pulse jumping in his throat.

“Eddie,” Buck groans. “You can’t just—you’re asking me to—”

“I know what I’m asking.”

“Do you? Do you actually? Because it sounds like you’re asking me to fuck you for science, and I need you to understand how insane that is.”

“It’s not insane, it’s—”

“It’s insane, Eddie! It’s the most insane thing you’ve ever said to me, and you once tried to convince me that a hot dog was a sandwich!” 

“It is a sandwich, it’s meat between bread—”

“That’s not the point!” Buck’s voice pitches higher. “The point is that you—that I—” He stops, takes a breath, visibly trying to collect himself. “You’re asking me to take your… to be your first… and you want me to—”

“You said you’d help me figure this out.”

“I said I’d give you a handjob! There’s a pretty significant jump between handjob and—and—” Buck gestures helplessly at Eddie’s entire body. 

“Is there, though? I mean, we’re already here, pants are already off, it seems inefficient to stop now.”

“Inefficient,” Buck repeats. “You want me to fuck you because it would be inefficient not to.”

“I want you to fuck me because I trust you,” Eddie says softly. “Because if I’m going to do this—if I’m going to actually figure this out—I don’t want it to be with just anyone. I want it to be with someone who knows me, who won’t make it weird if I freak out, who’ll still be there after, no matter what happens.”

The resistance drains out of Buck’s shoulders, replaced by what looks like defeat. “Eddie…”

“I know it’s a lot to ask. I know it’s…” Eddie sighs. “Ridiculous. But I don’t know how else to do this, I don’t know how to figure out who I am, without you.”

Buck’s just looking at Eddie, searching his face for something, and Eddie doesn’t know what he’s hoping to find. “You’re sure,” Buck says finally. It’s not quite a question. 

“I’m sure.”

“Because once we do this—”

“I know.”

“There’s no taking it back.”

“I know, Buck.”

Buck exhales slowly, his whole body seeming to deflate. “Okay.”

Eddie’s heart stutters. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Buck runs a hand through his hair and Eddie notices it’s shaking slightly. “But if you want to stop at any point—”

“I’ll tell you.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Buck nods, more to himself than to Eddie, then leans over to his nightstand, opening the drawer to pull out a bottle of lube and a condom. He sets them on the bed between them with a kind of ceremonial gravity. Eddie stares at them. This is happening; this is actually happening. Eddie Diaz, heterosexual father of one, veteran of the United States Army, is about to get fucked by his best friend in the name of sexual self-discovery. 

His life really has taken a turn. 

“So,” Buck says. “How do you want to…?”

Eddie’s brain, which has been running on pure adrenaline and denial for the better part of two hours, chooses this moment to completely abandon him. “I don’t—” He points at the bed, at Buck, at the general concept of sex. “I’ve never—what’s the standard… configuration?”

“Configuration,” Buck repeats. “You make it sound like we’re assembling furniture.”

“Well, I don’t know the terminology! There’s no manual for this!”

“First, it’s sex, sex is sex. Second, there are literally thousands of manuals for this. The internet exists, Eddie.”

“I panicked and closed the tabs! You know this!”

Buck chuckles; some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders. “Okay. Okay, how about this—lie back, on your back. That’s usually… it’ll be a good starting point, for, uh… first-timers, so you can, so we can, y'know, uh, s-see each other.”

First-timer. Eddie’s a first-timer. He’s a thirty-four-year-old man and he’s a first-timer, and somehow that’s not as terrifying as he thought it would be. Not with Buck looking at him, hungry and tender and a little bit awed. Eddie pulls his shirt over his head, discarding it behind him, and lies back on the bed. 

The pillows are soft against his head, and he’s suddenly very aware of his own body, the vulnerability of being spread out, exposed. His cock is hard against his stomach, flushed and leaking, as he watches Buck’s eyes track down to it before dragging back up to his face. 

Buck peels off his shirt, throwing it aside and crawling toward Eddie before kneeling between Eddie’s legs. “Have you ever…” Buck trails off, makes a weird flailing movement with his hand, and Eddie can see now how his game of charades earlier was confusing, because he has no fucking clue what Buck is trying to say. 

“Have I ever what?”

“You know.” Buck’s ears are turning pink. “Touched yourself—back there.”

“Are you asking me if I’ve ever fingered myself?”

“I’m asking if you have any experience with anal stimulation!”

“That’s a very clinical way to phrase it.”

“Eddie, I swear to god—”

“No,” Eddie admits, making his face flame hotter. “I haven’t.”

Buck nods, processing. "Okay. So we're starting from scratch. That's fine. That's—we'll go slow."

“We don’t have to go that slow—”

“We’re going slow.” Buck’s voice brooks no argument. “I’m not going to hurt you because you were too impatient to prep.”

“I’m not impatient!”

"Eddie, you've escalated from kissing to penetration in less than an hour. You're the definition of impatient,” Buck scolds, swatting Eddie's thigh. “Plus, this isn’t something you can just rush into, this is a commitment.”

“Your dick is a commitment?”

“My dick inside your ass is a commitment, yes!”

Eddie rolls his eyes. "I'm not asking you to marry me, Buck. I'm asking you to fuck me."

"Those feel equivalent right now!"

They glare at each other for a second, both flushed and panting, acutely aware that this conversation has veered so far off the rails that the rails are a distant memory.

“We do this my way, or not at all,” Buck warns. “End of discussion.”

Eddie wants to protest, he’s a grown man, he’s survived worse than a little discomfort, but Buck isn’t budging, and Eddie can’t fault Buck for trying to protect him. Fine. Slow it is. 

Buck coats his fingers with lube, warming it between his hands, and Eddie watches with a mixture of anticipation and terror. This is really happening. Buck’s slicked-up fingers are going to be inside him. Inside his ass.

For science.

His internal justifications are getting flimsier by the minute.

“Okay,” Buck murmurs, settling more firmly between Eddie’s spread thighs. “I’m gonna start with one finger. Try to relax—breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“You’re holding your breath.”

“Am not.”

“Are to.”

“Am n—”

“Eddie.” Buck’s free hand lands on Eddie’s hip. “Relax, I’ve got you. Imagine you’re jello.”

“Buck, I am not—”

“Imagine your body turning into soft delicious lime… sorry, Eds, what was your favorite flavor again?” 

Eddie glares at him. “We are not playing Jello-body when you’re about to stick your fingers in my ass, Buck.”

Buck grins, suppressing a laugh. “Alright, alright, fine. But seriously, breathe.” 

Despite everything, despite the absurdity of this situation, despite the fact that his best friend is about to finger him open, those words unknot something inside Eddie. I’ve got you. Buck’s always got him, that’s never been a question. 

Eddie exhales, forces his muscles to relax, and nods. Buck’s hand disappears, trailing down further, and Eddie sucks in a breath and tenses for a moment before remembering that’s the opposite of what he should do. The feeling is strange; unfamiliar. Buck’s finger circles his rim, exploratory, giving Eddie time to adjust to the sensation. It’s more intimate than what he was prepared for, which shouldn’t be surprising, considering. 

“Still good?” Buck asks.

“Yeah,” Eddie gasps. “Keep going.” Buck presses in carefully and Eddie’s breath hitches. It’s a lot. Definitely not bad, but impossible to ignore. He can feel every millimeter of Buck’s finger sliding into him, the stretch noticeable but not unpleasant. 

“Okay?” Buck’s watching his face, searching for any sign of discomfort.

“Yeah, I’m—yeah.” Eddie shifts his hips experimentally, the movement sending a spark up his spine. “Oh.”

Buck smirks. “Good oh or bad oh?”

“I don’t—” Eddie shifts again, chasing that spark. “I don’t know yet. Keep going.” Buck obliges, working his finger deeper, and Eddie’s eyes flutter shut. It’s weird, being so full, so aware of someone else inside his body. He can feel Buck’s knuckle against his rim, can feel the slight curl of Buck’s finger as he searches for—

“Fuck.”

Eddie arches off the bed, a bolt of pleasure shooting through him, unexpected and intense. His eyes fly open and Buck is grinning down at him, smug. “Found it,” Buck announces, entirely too pleased with himself. 

“What the hell was that?”

“Eddie, you’re a medic,” Buck teases as he crooks his finger again, and Eddie’s vision sparks. “That, Eds, would be your prostate. Fun, right?”

“I—you—” Eddie can’t form words; his brain has short-circuited, rerouted all power to his nerve endings, and coherent speech is no longer an option.

Buck takes pity on him, easing off the direct pressure, returning to the gentle stretching. “I’m going to add another finger, tell me if it’s too much.”

It’s not too much. God, it’s good, it’s better than Eddie expected; he doesn’t even know what he expected, but it wasn’t this. Two of Buck’s fingers inside him, scissoring gently, occasionally brushing that spot that makes Eddie see stars. He’s making a litany of embarrassing noises, but he can’t stop, can’t seem to control his body anymore. 

“You’re doing so good,” Buck murmurs. Eddie’s dick twitches against his stomach, praise apparently being a thing for him now. Apparently everything Buck does is a thing for him. “Taking it so well, Eddie.”

“I don’t need—fuck.” Eddie gasps as Buck’s fingers curl again. “I-I don’t need a pep talk.”

“You sure? Because you seem to like it.” Buck’s grin is wicked. “Your dick definitely likes it.”

Eddie glances down. His cock is fully hard now, leaking steadily against his stomach. 

Traitor. 

“It’s just—” Eddie gropes for an explanation. “Physical response. Doesn’t mean anything.” Buck’s hand stills. Eddie keeps going. “Because if you really think about it—ah—there are all kinds of ways a woman can—fuck—participate in prostate stimulation with her partner. Strap-ons—” Eddie gasps as Buck starts moving again. “D-Dildos, and, uh—fucking hell.”

“Sure, Eddie.” Buck adds a third finger, speeding up, and Eddie moans, his eyes rolling back. “Whatever you say.”

“Fuck you.”

“I believe you asked me to fuck you, actually.”

“I’m rethinking that decision.”

“Uh-huh,” Buck grins. “Sure.”

Uh-huh, sure. The fucking asshole.

Eddie wants to argue, he really wants to argue, but Buck chooses that moment to press all three fingers against that bundle of nerves and whatever retort Eddie had dissolves into a strangled cry. He keens wantonly, his toes curl, his entire body tightening around the pleasure sparking through him. “Buck,” he says weakly. “Buck, I need—”

“Need what?” Buck is obviously affected if his voice is anything to go by. Eddie opens his eyes to see Buck staring at him with barely-restrained hunger. His free hand is wrapped around his own cock, stroking slowly and the sight of it, Buck touching himself while fingering Eddie open, sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through him.

“You,” Eddie manages. “I need you.”

“Eddie—”

“I’m ready. I’m, Buck, p-please, I’m so fucking ready, just—”

Buck’s fingers withdraw and Eddie whines at the loss, his hole clenching around nothing. He watches, panting, as Buck tears open the condom wrapper with shaking hands, rolls it on and slicks himself up. His cock is flushed dark, heavy, and Eddie’s stomach flips at the sight of it, at the knowledge of where it’s about to be. 

“Last chance to back out,” Buck says, positioning himself at Eddie’s entrance. The head of his cock catches on Eddie’s rim making them both shudder. “We can stop, we can—”

“If you stop now, I will literally never forgive you.”

Buck laughs, relaxing a little more. “Okay. Okay, just tell me if it’s too much. I mean it, Eddie, anytime.”

“I will.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Eddie reaches up, cups Buck’s jaw, forcing him to meet his eyes. “I trust you. Now will you please put your dick in me before I lose my mind?”

Buck leans down, pressing a kiss to Eddie’s mouth; soft and sweet, so brutally tender, then he pushes in. Eddie stops breathing. It’s—God, it’s so much more than fingers. Fuller, deeper, the burn of the stretch bordering on too-much before tipping into something else entirely. Buck is inside him. Buck is inside him. Eddie can feel every inch, every twitch, his body struggling to accommodate.

"Breathe," Buck reminds him, and Eddie forces air into his lungs, feeling his muscles relax incrementally. "That's it. You're doing so good, Eddie. Taking me so well."

"Y-You're—" Eddie's voice cracks. "You're really leaning into the praise thing, huh?"

"You're really responsive to the praise thing." Buck rolls his hips experimentally, and Eddie gasps. "See?"

"Shut up."

"Make me."

Eddie drags him down into a kiss, messy and graceless, more teeth than technique. Buck groans against his mouth and Eddie feels the vibration all the way down to his bones. They find a rhythm eventually, Buck rocking into him deeper each time, Eddie arching up to meet each thrust. It’s clumsy at first, awkward, elbows bumping and angles not quite right. Eddie’s leg cramps at one point and he has to stop and stretch it out while Buck waits, amused, his cock still balls deep in Eddie’s body. 

"This is very sexy," Buck deadpans.

"Shut up, my hamstring is staging a revolt."

"Should I—do you want to switch positions?"

"No, I've got it, just—" Eddie flexes his leg, grimaces. "Okay. Okay, I'm good. Keep going."

"You sure? Because we could—"

"Buck. Fuck me."

“Bossy,” Buck says, but starts moving anyway. 

Then it stops being awkward. Buck shifts his angle, and suddenly he's hitting that spot on every thrust, and Eddie's brain goes offline. Just, gone. Poof. No more experiment, or data collection, no more desperate rationalizations about physiological responses and friction mechanics. There’s only Buck above him, around him, inside him, and Eddie can’t think about anything else. 

“Oh god—” Eddie’s head tips back, exposing the line of his throat; Buck’s mouth finds it immediately, sucking a mark into the skin. “Buck, that’s—right there, right there, don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Buck’s voice is barely recognizable, speeding his thrusts just a fraction; Eddie clenches around him and Buck groans at the pressure. "Fuck, Eddie, you feel—you're so tight, so hot, I can't believe… shit."

"More," Eddie gasps, and he doesn't even know what he's asking for, just knows he needs it. "Please, Buck, more, I need—I need—"

Buck gives him more. Pulls almost all the way out and drives back in, hard enough that it pushes Eddie up the bed. Eddie moans loudly, clutching at Buck’s back hard enough to leave marks, wrapping his legs tight around Buck’s waist to keep him as deep as possible. “You’re so good,” Buck is murmuring against his skin, a litany of praise that’s turning Eddie’s brain to static. “So fucking good for me, baby, wanted this for so long.”

"You—" Eddie tries to respond, tries to say something that makes sense, but Buck grinds deep and stays there, rotating his hips over and over, making Eddie see entire galaxies. "Oh God, oh fuck, w-what are you—"

“Like that?” Buck’s smirk is smug and Eddie wants to kiss it off his face. “Thought I’d try something.”

“I’m gonna die,” Eddie informs him, or tries to, it comes out more like a whimper. “I’m gonna die and it’s gonna be your fault.”

"Dramatic." Buck starts moving again, hard thrusts that punch the breath out of Eddie's lungs. "You army guys are all so dramatic."

Eddie wants to respond with something clever, something cutting, but all that comes out is a high, keening whine. His cock is trapped between their bodies, leaving with every thrust as it provides just enough friction to keep him on the edge but not enough to push him over. 

“Buck,” he whines. “Buck, I’m close, I’m so close, I need—please, I need—”

"Yeah?" Buck's hand worms between them, wrapping around Eddie's cock as he jerks into the touch. "What do you need, Eddie? Tell me."

"You, just you, please" Eddie's babbling now, words spilling out without thinking, he can't stop them, can't do anything but hold on and feel. "Please, Buck, I can't, I need to come, please let me come, I'll do anything, please please please."

"I've got you." Buck strokes him faster, fucks him harder, and Eddie shatters. "I've got you, Eddie. Let go, come on, baby."

Eddie comes with a choked shout. His whole body seizes up, clenching around Buck, and the orgasm tears through him with an intensity that leaves him shaking. He can feel it everywhere—his fingers, his toes, the roots of his hair. Can feel Buck fucking him through it, drawing out every last wave until Eddie's shaking and oversensitive and completely spent.

Somewhere in his daze, Eddie feels Buck bury himself deep and groan against Eddie's throat, shuddering as he comes. Eddie holds him close, arms wrapped tight around Buck's back, one hand tangled in his sweat-damp hair. They stay like that for a long time, both of them trembling, neither willing to move. 

“So,” Buck mumbles against Eddie’s neck, muffled and exhausted. "How's that for data?"

Eddie laughs. It bubbles up from deep in his chest, genuine and uncontrollable. "Inconclusive," he manages. "We should probably do it again, to be thorough."

Buck lifts his head, staring at Eddie, caught somewhere between disbelief and hope. “You’re serious.” 

“Very serious.” Eddie’s hand plays with Buck’s curls. “For science, of course.” Buck’s face cracks into a smile, big and bright, the grin Eddie’s been in love with for years without ever letting himself admit it. 

In love. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

The realization doesn't crash into him. It seeps, quiet and undeniable, settling into his bones like it's been waiting there all along.

He's in love with Buck. He's probably been in love with Buck for years. Which explains a lot. 

Instead of panic, or denial, or the desperate scramble for justification that's characterized this entire evening, Eddie just feels calm; settled. Something that's been out of alignment, finally clicking into place.

"Hey," Buck says softly, tracing patterns on Eddie’s skin. “Where’d you go?” Eddie looks at Buck’s flushed face, his ridiculous sex hair, his earnest eyes still waiting for Eddie to freak out, to take it back, to run. 

Eddie’s done running.

“Nowhere,” he says. “I’m right here.” Before he can talk himself out of it, he makes a decision. "I think I'm gay."

Buck blinks. "You—what?"

"Or bi. Maybe bi. I don't know yet." Eddie's mouth is running ahead of his thoughts, but for once he doesn't try to stop it. "But definitely not straight. That's—I think we can conclusively say that I'm not straight."

"Eddie." Buck's voice is trembling. "Are you—is this—"

"The data is in." Eddie pulls him down, kissing him softly. "The results are conclusive. I'm into men. Or at least one man in particular."

Buck's breath catches. "One man in particular?"

"Don't fish for compliments. It's unbecoming."

"Eddie."

"You." Eddie meets his eyes, lets himself be seen. "It's you. It's always been you, I think. I’m in love with you, Buck. I was just too stupid to figure it out."

Buck stares at him for a long, trembling moment. His eyes are wet, which Eddie is absolutely not going to mention because he's pretty sure his own are too, and that's a level of emotional vulnerability he's not ready to unpack on top of everything else tonight.

Buck kisses him and Eddie melts into it. It feels different now, no tests nor experiments or ways to prove something. Just them, finally. 

When they break apart, Buck's forehead rests against his, their breath mingling in the space between them. Eddie can feel Buck's heart pounding against his chest, can feel the slight tremor in his hands where they're cupping Eddie's face. "I can't believe," Buck whispers, "that it took Zane of all people to make you realize—"

"We're not talking about Zane right now."

"We're definitely talking about Zane. I'm sending him a fruit basket. I'm sending him a car."

"Buck."

“A nice car. Maybe a Porsche. Do you think he’d like a Porsche?”

“I will smother you with this pillow.”

Buck honest to god giggles; the sound is the best thing Eddie’s ever heard. "You like me too much to smother me."

"The jury's still out."

"The jury just delivered a verdict, actually. Something about being into one man in particular? I forget the exact wording…" Eddie kisses him again, partly because he wants to and partly to shut him up. It works, for about ten seconds, until Buck pulls back with that same stupid grin plastered across his face.

"So," Buck says. "What now?" Eddie considers the question. Considers the fact that he's lying naked in his best friend's bed, covered in drying sweat and come, having just had the most intense orgasm of his life. Considers the fact that everything he thought he knew about himself has been completely upended in the span of a few hours, and somehow he’s never felt more certain about anything. 

He holds up his fist. 

Buck stares at it, confused. “What are you doing?”

“Fist bump,” Eddie says. “Come on.”

“You—” Buck's face cycles through about seventeen different emotions in rapid succession. “Eddie, you just had a massive sexuality revelation, we just had sex, and you want to fist bump?”

“It feels like a fist bump moment.”

“In what universe is this a fist bump moment?”

“We accomplished something! We achieved a goal. It’s a celebratory fist bump.”

“The achievement being you… enjoying… getting fucked?"

"The achievement being self-discovery, Buck. Personal growth, and all that.” Buck gapes. He looks like he's trying to decide whether to laugh or cry or possibly call a psychiatric professional.

Eddie waggles his fist expectantly.

"You're unbelievable," Buck says, but he's fighting a smile. "You're actually, genuinely unbelievable. I'm in love with an insane person."

"An insane person who just let you put your dick in his ass. The least you could do is give me a fist bump." Buck's composure cracks. He snorts, then giggles, then full-on laughs, his whole body shaking with it, and Eddie grins because making Buck laugh has always been one of his favorite things and now he gets to do it forever. 

"Oh my God," Buck wheezes. "Oh my God, fine, you absolute disaster of a human being—"

He bumps Eddie's fist. Eddie grins. "Nailed it."

Buck groans, burying his face in Eddie's neck. "I hate you. I'm in love with you and I hate you."

"No, you don't."

“No,” Buck agrees, pressing a kiss to Eddie's shoulder. "I really don't."

They lie there for a moment, tangled up in each other, and Eddie feels content. He threads his fingers through Buck’s, feels Buck’s arms tighten around him, and thinks that maybe figuring yourself out at thirty-four isn’t so bad. 

Not when you've got someone like Buck to figure it out with.