Archive of Our Own

Eddie kisses him.

He doesn't rush it. That is the thing he will remember later, when he is trying to figure out how it even happened at all—that he had time to stop. That he chose not to. He leans in slow, slow enough that Buck could pull back if he wanted to, slow enough that Eddie could still laugh it off, turn it into nothing, pretend he had just been going for a better look at the screen or whatever lame excuse he could come up with on the spot. There is space there, a pause, their faces close enough that Eddie can feel Buck's breath against his mouth, warm and uneven, like he has already realised what is about to happen. Eddie waits in that space for half a second too long, heart climbing up his throat, giving Buck every possible chance to say no without saying it out loud.

Buck doesn't move. If anything, he stills. Like he, too, is waiting.

So Eddie closes the distance.

It's barely a kiss at first. Just a soft press of his mouth against Buck's, careful and light, like he's testing something fragile, like if he pushes too hard it might break. It lingers there for a second, maybe two, long enough that it is definitely on purpose but still gentle enough that it could have been a mistake if either of them needed to be.

Eddie starts to pull back, initiates the retreat to restore the safety of their platonic baseline, subconsciously building this massive safety net of plausible deniability before he cam even make the jump.

And Buck follows him.

Just a little. Just enough.

But it changes everything.

Eddie feels it, that tiny shift, and something in him settles and unravels all at once. Because of kinesthetic empathy (Buck taught him about that once) and the disruption of the expected script, Eddie knows with such absolute certainty that Buck isn't just shifting his weight, that microscopic movement from him translating into a definitive answer. For eight years, their interactions have followed an unconscious script, a pat on the back, a shoulder bump, a quick hug—standard bro stuff. In this moment, Eddie introduces a completely new variable. The retreat from a kiss. The expected platonic script dictates that Buck should allow the withdrawal, maybe even lean back himself, to reestablish normal personal space. To go back to security. But by leaning forward, by following the pull back, Buck completely breaks the script. It is an act of pursuit. Psychologically, that forward movement transforms the kiss from a cautious, terrifying question asked by Eddie, into a definitive mutual choice. The ambiguity is instantly destroyed.

His hand comes up to Buck's jaw without really thinking about it, thumb brushing there like he needs to ground himself, and when he leans in again it is not a question anymore.

Buck answers it immediately.

His hands are on Eddie before Eddie even fully registers moving, gripping at his shoulders, then sliding like he cannot decide where to keep them, like nowhere is enough. He pushes closer instead of away, and Eddie lets himself go with it, back hitting the arm rest with a quiet thud as the kiss deepens into something warmer, something that does not feel careful anymore, something that feels like it has been waiting longer than either of them wants to admit.  

And then Buck shifts, all at once, like a decision clicks into place for him too, and he climbs into Eddie's lap.

It's not smooth. His knee knocks awkwardly against Eddie's thigh, his balance goes for a moment before he catches himself, but then he is there, fully there, straddling him, and Eddie can feel the weight of him, the heat of him, real in a way that makes his head spin a little. Eddie's hands land on Buck's thighs on instinct, steadying, holding, like he needs to make sure Buck is actually there and not just something he made up.

They break apart for half a second, just to breathe. Just to look at each other.

Buck's eyes are wide, a little unfocused, like he is still catching up to what they are doing, but he doesn't move away. He leans in again, first this time, and Eddie meets him halfway without thinking.

It turns into something else entirely, something messy and a little desperate, now that they have started neither of them knows how to stop. Buck's hands are in Eddie's hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch, and Eddie's grip shifts from his thighs to his sides, then his back, pulling him closer every time Buck presses in like there's still distance between them that needs to be closed. It feels like too much and not enough all at the same time, as if Eddie doesn't know where to put his hands because he wants them everywhere, wants him everywhere, wants to hold onto this moment before it can slip away or turn into something complicated or real in a way that ruins them later. Buck shifts in his lap, closer, and Eddie's fingers tighten without him meaning to, anchoring him there, and it hits him somewhere in the middle of it—this intense, disorienting realisation that this is Buck, that this is actually happening, that he crossed a line he can't uncross and doesn't want to, not even a little bit.

It's a decent make out session before either of them even thinks about stopping.

And then—

The movie explodes, the external world violently intruding, the sound crashing through, the perfect external shock to a closed system.

It's loud enough to make them both flinch, the sound crashing through the room and snapping everything apart in an instant. They break apart the kiss at the same time, like they have both just remembered where they are. Neither of them moves for a moment.

Imagine a supercooled liquid. You can cool liquid—like water—below its freezing point, but if it's perfectly pure and undisturbed, it won't actually turn into ice, it will stay liquid. It remains in this impossible, highly unstable liquid state. But the moment a single impurity is introduced, or just tap the side of the glass, it freezes. A shock wave of crystalisation vigorously rips through the entire container in a fraction of a second, freezing it solid. That explosion on the tv was the tap on the glass. They were in this insurmountable, supercooled state of suspension, and the noise forces reality to instantly form crystals around them. And that crystalisation is the instant frantic scramble for psychological armour.

Buck lets out a laugh. It's a little breathless, a little disbelieving, but it is still a laugh. "Jesus." He shifts, sliding carefully back towards his spot on the couch, off Eddie's lap, but still close, shoulder brushing against the backrest. His hand goes through his hair, tugging at it. "Okay. Wow. That—"

Eddie exhales, a quiet huff that is part laugh, part frustration, dropping his hands to his thighs as though he is letting gravity take some of the tension with it. "Yeah," he says, small, clipped, trying to ground himself.

Buck's gaze flicks to him, searching, scanning for something. And when he does not find it, his shoulders finally loosen. A fraction. Not enough to call it fully relaxed, but enough that Eddie feels the weight of it lift ever so slightly.

"Must be the alcohol," Buck says, nodding vaguely towards the evidence of the drinks on the coffee table, a flimsy excuse to laugh it off, a shield they can both hide behind.

Eddie accepts it as gospel a little too quickly, because he needs the shield just as much as Buck does. "Yeah. That makes sense."

There is a pause, both of them breathing through it, letting the sound of the movie fill the room while they adjust to the new distance.

"Or the full moon," Eddie adds, smiling now, lighter and teasing. "That has to be it. Weird stuff, right?"

Buck snorts. "Yeah, yeah, blame the moon."

"I'm serious. You're always going on about how the full moon makes people do things they wouldn't normally do."

"Yeah, but it's only waxing gibbous tonight."

Of course he would know that.

"So," Buck says after a minute, nodding towards the TV, "you think he's actually dead this time, or…"

Eddie exhales, slow, letting some of the tightness in his chest go. "No. That guy is definitely not dying. No chance."

"Thank you. That's what I've been thinking."

When it ends, Buck stretches, rolling his shoulders, giving a quiet groan. "I should probably head home. Get some sleep."

Eddie doesn't offer the couch. He's not had to in years. It's usually just a prerequisite of their late night hang outs. A frown creases in his brow, disappearing as quickly as it came. He nods. "Yeah. Early shift."

Buck grabs his things, hesitates at the edge of the couch, just long enough for Eddie to notice, then stands fully.

"Night, Eddie."

"G'night, Buck."

The next morning starts wrong. Eddie knows it before he even fully wakes up, before his eyes are open, before he's anything more than a pulse and a dull awareness of sunlight pushing through the curtains. It's there, sitting heavy in his chest, something unresolved that followed him into sleep and refused to let him forget.

And then he remembers.

Not all at once. Not like a clean replay. It comes in flashes—Buck's mouth, the weight of him, the way he'd leaned in first that second time like it wasn't even a question anymore—and Eddie groans, dragging a hand down his face, a classic thought suppression maneuver, as if that might physically wipe it out of his brain. (It doesn't.)

If anything, it makes it worse, because now he's fully awake enough to think about it properly, and that is the last thing he needs.

It was just—

Nope. Bad start. Abort that thought immediately.

Eddie swings his legs out of bed and forces himself upright, hoping that movement alone might keep him from spiralling. It won't. He knows it won't. But at least if he's busy, if he's focused on getting dressed, grabbing his keys, doing literally anything else, maybe his brain will—

Buck climbed into his lap.

Eddie stops mid-step.

"God," he mutters under his breath, scrubbing at his face again, harder this time. 

Yeah. No. He's screwed.

By the time he gets to the station, he has exactly zero semblance of a plan. Which is fine. Great, even. Plans are overrated. Totally unnecessary when you've just fundamentally altered the dynamic of your closest friendship and have to see that person for a full twelve hour shift.

He pushes through the doors anyway.

Buck is already there. Of course he is.

Eddie spots him immediately, which—annoying. He doesn't mean to. It just happens. Some kind of automatic tracking system he has apparently never noticed before. Buck's by the lockers, back half turned, talking to Ravi about something, hands moving in quick, restless gestures.

He looks normal.

Too normal.

Like he didn't spend half the night slipping his tongue into Eddie's mouth.

Eddie's brain helpfully supplies the memory again, crisp and vivid. He considers turning around and walking straight back out, calling in sick or something. Maybe even pathetically using his son as an excuse.

"Hey," Ravi says, catching sight of him first. "There he is."

Buck goes still.

Not a full freeze. Most people wouldn't notice it. But Eddie does. Of course Eddie does. He watches the way Buck's shoulders tighten just slightly before he turns, like he had to think about it first.

"Hey, bro," Buck says.

Bro? After climbing into the man's lap the night before?

Cool. Great. Awesome.

"Hey, man," Eddie replies, almost like a question.

There's a beat. A weird one. Too long. So tense it practically has its own gravitational pull.

Ravi looks between them, slow and deliberate, eyes moving back and forth, watching like they would the world's slowest tennis match. And he's thoroughly enjoying it. "Wow," he says, dragging the word out. "It is way too early for… whatever this is."

"There's nothing," Eddie says, at the same time Buck says, "Nothing's going on."

They both stop.

Ravi raises his eyebrows. "Uh-huh."

Eddie scoffs, a little too sharp. "Drop it."

"I didn't pick it up," Ravi shoots back easily. "You walked in like that."

"Walked in like what?"

"Like," Ravi gestures vaguely between them, "that."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Yeah," Buck adds quickly. "It's just… normal."

Humans experience something known as somatic leakage. When someone is actively concealing a massive secret, especially one tied to intense emotional and physiological arousal—meant in the clinical sense of the nervous system being intensely activated by a novel, high stakes stimulus—the sympathetic nervous system is highly energised. Heart rate will go up, pupils will dilate, muscles will tense, and the voice can even be forced to sound more casual or a fake smile can be plastered for all to see. But the micro-expressions cannot be. Nor can the sweating. Or the slight hand tremors. Nor the rigidity in posture. The body will scream the truth even while the mouth whispers a lie. Eddie feels every sensation in his body betraying him.

Ravi stares at them for a long while. Then he shrugs. "Sure." He does not look convinced at all.

Eddie doesn't care. Or, he tells himself he doesn't care, which is basically the same thing. He turns to his locker, yanks it open harder than needed, and focuses intently on getting ready. It should be easy. It's always easy. Muscle memory. Routine.

Except now Buck is right there, moving around him. Close enough that Eddie is hyper-aware of every shift, every sound, every brush of fabric. He keeps catching glimpses—his hands, his mouth, the stretch of his neck—and every single one feels like a problem.

Stop it, Eddie tells himself. It does not stop.

"Dude," Ravi speaks again, quieter this time but no less amused, "if you're both going to lie, at least be good at it."

"We're not lying," Eddie snaps.

Buck, at the same time, says "We're not—" He cuts himself off.

Ravi grins. "Okay, this is actually incredible."

"Shut up," Eddie mutters.

"Make me."

Eddie slams his locker shut.

The shift, once it begins, does not get any better. If anything, it gets worse somehow.

Because now, it's not just the locker room. It's everywhere. The kitchen. The truck bay. The gym.

Buck is everywhere.

And he's acting… off. Not wildly. Not in a way that anyone else would clock unless Eddie were to walk in and things get weirder. But Eddie sees it. The restless energy, the way he keeps moving, bouncing from one task to another, making sure he doesn't stop long enough for something to catch up with him.

Eddie knows the feeling. He's having it too. Just. Differently.

Where Buck is all motion, Eddie feels stuck. Trapped in his own head, every thought circling back to the same place no matter how hard he tries to redirect it.

The kiss. God.

He exhales sharply, scratching at his jaw as he leans against the kitchen counter, staring at absolutely nothing.

It didn't mean anything.

Alcohol. The moon. Whatever.

He should just accept that. Move on.

So why does it keep replaying? Why does he keep getting stuck on the way Buck followed him the first time, like he didn't want it to end? Why does he keep thinking about the way Buck fit in his lap like it w—

"Eddie."

He jerks lightly, snapping out of it.

Hen is watching him, arms crossed, expression somewhere between concerned and unimpressed. "You good?"

"Yeah. Fine."

She hums, clearly not buying it, but lets it go. For now.

Across the room, Buck is talking to Chim, words coming a little too fast, hands moving as he gestures towards something on the tablet. Chim listens, nodding occasionally, but his gaze flicks past Buck at one point, landing briefly on Eddie. It lingers. Just for a second. Then it's gone.

Things are going so well!

As if on cue, Ravi appears at Eddie's side, Harry trailing behind him like a shadow with terrible intentions.

"So," Ravi says, the epitome of casualness.

"No."

Harry snorts. "We didn't even ask anything yet."

"You were going to."

"Okay, yeah," Ravi admits, "but still."

"There's nothing to ask."

"Right," Harry says, nodding seriously. "Because nothing is happening."

"Exactly."

Harry leans slightly towards Ravi, not even attempting to be subtle. "It's definitely something."

"Definitely," Ravi agrees, just as quietly.

"I can hear you," Eddie says flatly.

"Yeah," replies Ravi, "that's kinda the point."

Eddie closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, Buck is looking at him from the couch. Not obviously. Not that anyone else would see it. But Eddie catches it—the barely there glance, the way his gaze falters the second their eyes meet. And something in Eddie's chest tightens.

This is a mess. A complete, unavoidable mess.

And it's only the beginning of the shift.

The gym is loud in a way that should make it easier to stay present—paddles knocking sharp and fast over the ping pong table, Ravi and Harry arguing over a point while Chim calls it clean, Hen laughing under her breath as she lines up her next shot. But Eddie still ends up somewhere else entirely.

It happens mid rep. One second he's counting, focused on the burn in his arms, the steady rhythm of movement, and the next his mind slips, dragging him right back into it, no gaps, no mercy, just the full memory unfolding exactly as it happened. The slow lean in, calculated, giving himself time to stop and choosing not to anyway. The first press of Buck's mouth, softer than he expected, warm enough to make his stomach flutter, even now. The way Buck didn't pull back, didn't hesitate, just stayed here and then followed when Eddie started to move away, turning the whole thing into something intentional. After that, it had shifted, no more careful edges, no space left for second guessing. Eddie remembers his hand at Buck's jaw, the brush of his thumb, and Buck's hands on him in return, unsure for a second before they settled, holding on tighter the longer it went. The taste of him, faint beer and greasy pizza, and something else underneath, something familiar that made it worse, made it harder to pretend it meant nothing. The way Buck moved closer, climbed into his lap without a word, graceless at first before it wasn't, before it just fit. Weight and heat and something that made Eddie's hands land on Buck's thighs to steady him, to keep him there.

He remembers how it deepened, how it turned sloppy, wanting, Buck's fingers in his hair, his own hands moving without direction because nowhere felt enough. The smell of him, clean and close, grounding in a way that only made it all feel more real. And that small, specific detail he can't shake; the birthmark above Buck's eye, darker and darker the longer they kissed, more visible, as if the moment itself had drawn it out.

Eddie remembers the exact moment it hit him—this is real, this is Buck, this changes everything—and the way he didn't stop, didn't even try to. Not until the movie crashed back in, loud enough to tear them both apart. Buck laughing after, out of breath, brushing it aside with something easy. Eddie going along with it because it was simpler, because it was safer.

"Out!" Chim yells sharply.

The sound snaps Eddie back into the room, the weight in his hands suddenly noticeable again as he racks it a little harder than necessary. He exhales, and—oh, fuck, he's half hard at work. Can this day get any worse?

He forces himself to focus on the game of table tennis directly in front of him. Anything to calm down his oversensitive system. Hoping nobody notices.

"Bullshit," Ravi argues without hesitation. "That was on the line."

"It was not," Chim shoots back. "Hen, back me up."

Hen barely glances up from where she's already getting ready for the next serve. "It was out."

Ravi scoffs. "You're biased."

"I'm winning."

"We are winning," Chimney corrects. Hen rolls her eyes.

Harry grins, bouncing lightly on his feet. "Score's still ours."

Eddie wipes his hands on his shorts, turning just enough to see Buck across the room, by the equipment rack, methodically re-racking weights that are already in order. He moves from one end to the other, adjusting plates, straightening bars, wiping down handles that don't need it, then starting over again like the system isn't quite right yet.

"Okay," Hen says, bouncing the ball once against the tabletop, "what are you two fighting about?"

Eddie stills.

A few feet away, Buck pauses mid-wipe.

"We're not—" Eddie starts.

"We're not fighting," Buck cuts in, not looking up, going right back to scrubbing the same spot on a dumbbell.

They both go quiet.

The game stalls, all four of them looking between Buck and Eddie like this is way more interesting than whatever point they were arguing about.

Hen raises an eyebrow. "Mm-hmm."

"We're not," Eddie adds casually, grabbing his water bottle to take a swig from it.

"All good here," Buck agrees. "Everything is fine."

"Right," Hen says. She doesn't sound at all convinced.

Harry leans on his paddle, glancing between them with open interest. "You guys do know you're being weird, right?"

"We're not being weird," Buck says, finally turning to look at them.

Snorting, Ravi says, "You're absolutely being weird."

"No, we're not."

"Okay, then," Ravi says, pointing between them with his paddle, "explain... this."

"There's nothing to explain."

"Uh-huh."

Eddie exhales, dragging a hand down the back of his neck. The gym suddenly feels too small, everything pressing in a little too close.

Harry leans towards Ravi. "They're worse than when they were upstairs."

"Way worse," Ravi agrees.

"We can hear you," mumbles Eddie.

"Good."

Hen watches them for another second, then sighs lightly, like she's already tired of the runaround. "If you're not fighting, then what is it?"

"Nothing," Buck says a little too harshly.

Chim spins the paddle in his hand, looking directly at Eddie. "You know we're not gonna drop it right?"

"Yeah," piggybacks Ravi, "this is way too entertaining."

"It's not." Buck looks tired, and he's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

God, why did he have to screw all this up? Now Buck can barely stand to look at him.

"It really is," Harry replies.

"Can you just leave it be?" Buck doesn't wait around for a response. He just turns and goes.

It's hurried, almost abrupt. One second he's there, jaw tight, hands flexing like he doesn't know what to do with them, and the next he's halfway to the bunks. His steps are uneven and heavy, not quite angry but not controlled either. He's doing his best to hold it all in but it's leaking out anyway. He drags a hand through his hair on the way, rough, frustrated, and he doesn't look back. Doesn't look at Eddie.

"Well," Ravi says, breaking the silence, "now I feel bad."

Chim rolls his shoulders like he's shaking it off. "Okay, what the hell was that?"

Eddie ignores the question. It's fine. They're already moving on.

Like that didn't mean anything. Like Buck storming off isn't… everything.

Eddie presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, jaw tightening.

He did that.

The thought lands heavy and thick, no way around it. This—whatever the hell this is—that's on him. He started it. He leaned in. He didn't stop. He let it turn into something bigger, something neither of them could turn a blind eye to, no matter how much they tried.

The irritation is there, sitting under everything else, constant and harsh. The way this has thrown everything off. The way he can't think straight, can't focus, can't stop replaying it. But that's manageable. He can deal with that.

And now Buck.

Buck can't even stand to be in the same room with him. He looks like he's coming apart at the seams. And no one else seems to notice. Or if they do, they're not taking it seriously.

To them, it's just tension. Something weird to poke at, something to joke about until it sorts itself out. They don't see the way Buck hasn't stopped moving all morning, like standing still would be a problem. They don't see how tight he's wound, how his voice keeps going rough around the edges, how he keeps picking at things that don't need fixing just to keep his hands busy.

What is Eddie supposed to do with that?

"Hey," Ravi calls to him, "you wanna jump in?"

Eddie blinks, hauled back just enough to register the question. "What?"

"Game," Harry says. "We need a fourth if Chim taps out."

"I'm good."

He grabs his towel instead, like that settles it, like it gives him something to do that doesn't involve thinking too hard. Doesn't involve following Buck.

Because he should. Probably. He should go after Buck. Say something. Fix it. Or try to, at least.

But the thought stalls out before it can fully form.

What would he even say?

Hey, sorry I kissed you and now everything's weird and you can't even look at me for more than a passing glance anymore?

Yeah. That'll help.

The game starts back up, the knock of the ball cutting through the space again, laughter and chatter following suit like nothing ever happened. Like Buck didn't just walk out. Like Eddie didn't just realise how badly he might have screwed this up.

And the worst part? The tones still haven't gone off.

No distraction. No interruption.

Just sitting, building, stretching tighter the longer it's left alone.

Hour ten settles in with that same bloated, uneasy qu—tranquility—that's been hanging over the whole shift. Except now it's established itself as something almost convincing. Not real normal, Eddie knows the difference, but close enough that if he didn't know any better, he might buy it.

The kitchen is where most of the noise is. Buck's at the stove, one hand moving steadily as he stirs, then shifting to the counter to check something, then back again. Never still for long, but not frantic either. Controlled. Harry's beside him, drying dishes and talking the entire time, words spilling out easily, jumping from one thing to the next without much direction. Ravi's perched on the barstool opposite them, one leg hooked around the rung, phone in hand, only half paying attention until something catches his interest and he looks up, throwing a comment that gets a reaction out of Harry almost instantly. Buck responds when he needs to, short and easy, enough to keep the conversation moving. It all sounds normal. It looks normal.

At the dining table, Chim's got paperwork spread out in front of him in neat stacks, pen moving in short, studious strokes. Every now and then he pauses, taps the pen lightly against the page like he's thinking something through, then flips to the next form and keeps going. There's a soft rhythm to it. Paper shifting, pen scratching, the occasional low exhale when he hits something that requires more effort than the rest.

Hen's on the big couch, back to the kitchen, one arm resting along the top, the other holding her book open in her lap. She turns a page slowly, unbothered, settled in like this is just another slow shift with nothing much going on.

And Eddie.

Eddie's in the armchair to her left, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them. His thumbs move against each other in a tedious, absent pattern, the only thing keeping him from sitting completely still.

He's not part of anything happening in the loft. He's just… there. Thinking. Or trying to think. Because he needs to fix this.

That thought has been sitting at the forefront of his mind for hours now, cycling through different versions of the same problem without ever landing on a solid solution. Every option he comes up with feels wrong before he can even fully form it. Say something. Don't say anything. Pretend it didn't happen. Acknowledge it. Act normal. Give Buck space. Close the distance. None of it works. None of it feels like something that won't make this worse.

His gaze drifts without him meaning for it to, catching in the kitchen. Buck's shifted again, moving from the stove to the counter, wiping his hands off on a towel before reaching for something else. Harry is still talking, waving the dish towel around for emphasis until Ravi reaches over and tugs it out of his hand without looking, earning a half-hearted protest and a quick laugh. Buck huffs a breath at that, shaking his head, and for a second, just a second, it looks easy.

Like it always is.

Eddie looks away.

Because that's the problem.

He wants that back.

Not this stretched, careful version of things. Not the way everything has felt off all day, like one wrong move will break everything completely.

He wants normal. Real normal. Before last night. Before he knew.

Eddie's jaw tightens slightly, his hands stilling briefly before his thumbs start moving again.

That's a lie.

Or—

Not a lie. Not exactly.

He does want things to go back. Just… Not all of it.

Because now he knows what it's like.

Knows what it feels like to have Buck that close, to feel him climb into his lap like it was something natural, something simple. Knows what it feels like to hold him there, both hands on his waist, steady and sure. Knows what it feels like to have Buck lean into it, into him, melt into him. Knows the way Buck's hands feel like in his hair, gripping, tugging him closer, like he didn't want to let go either.

Eddie swallows hard, gaze dropping back to his hands.

He wants that again.

The thought is pressing. Clear.

Again.

And again.

And again.

It hits him properly then, not something he can skirt around or ignore or push to the side.

He's in love with his best friend.

The realisation roosts deep within him, not sudden so much as undeniable now that it's there. He thinks somewhere deep down he's always known. Always noticed how Buck has been… more. The way Eddie's always come back to him, relied on him, trusted him in ways he doesn't with anyone else. He's just never let himself follow it all the way through. Until now. Until he acted without thinking for once.

And now—now he might've ruined it.

That's the part that sticks. That's the part that matters.

Because wanting Buck—wanting more, wanting that—doesn't mean anything if it costs him Buck entirely.

And it could. It is, maybe.

Eddie looks towards the kitchen again, quick, almost involuntary.

Buck's still there, moving between the stove and the counter, answering something Ravi says without looking up, shoulder set in a way Eddie recognises, even from across the room. He's not handling this well. Not really.

To anyone else, this is just… whatever it looks like on the surface. A weird mood. Something off that'll pass. They don't see the rest of it.

Eddie does.

And somehow that makes it worse.

Because this—however bad Eddie feels about it, however much it's been playing on his mind all day—that's not what he's worried about. He'll deal with his side of it. But Eddie crossed a line and now Buck is stuck trying to figure out what the hell to do with it.

If the only way to fix this, really fix it, is to go back… Back to before last night, to what they were… Then he'll do it. He will take that version of Buck. The easy one. The familiar one. The one that doesn't come with this weight sitting between them. He won't settle for this strained version. The distance. The carefulness. He wants normal. And if that's the only way he gets to keep Buck, he will take it. He has to.

Because the alternative is losing him for good. And Eddie isn't sure if he would be able to deal with that. Especially not over this. Not over something he started.

Hen lets out a tired sigh beside him.

It's subtle at first, easy to miss under the hum of the kitchen and the gentle scratch of Chim's pen at the table, but Eddie feels the change anyway. He looks over just in time to see her pick up her bookmark from the cushion next to her, slide it neatly between the pages, and close the book with a soft thud against her palm. She doesn't rush it. Just sets it down, adjusts her position, and then shuffles across the couch until she's closer to his side of the room, angling herself towards him.

"Hey," she says, tender.

Eddie straightens a little in the armchair. "Hey."

She's looking at him properly now, not distracted, not half paying attention. There's a crease between her brows, concern sitting in her expression "I know we've been giving you crap all morning," she starts, voice low enough that it doesn't carry past the couch, "but seriously… are you two okay? Did you have a fight?"

The question lands easy. No edge to it. No teasing. Just care. And for a second, it knocks the wind out of him. 

Because the words are right there. He can feel them, sitting on his tongue, ready to tumble out. He could tell her. He could just say it, get it out, let someone else hold it instead of carrying it all on his own. Hen would listen. She always does. She'd have something to say, something grounded and kind that might actually help him make sense of it all. He opens his mouth.

"We just… I mean, last—"

The rest catches. Stops halfway up, his throat clamping down on it.

Eddie shakes his head slightly, inhaling shakily, backing out before he can say something he can't take back. "No. No, we're fine. It's nothing."

Hen doesn't move.

Then, one eyebrow lifts, just a little. "Eddie."

He looks away, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. "We're fine."

"Mhm." She leans back slightly, not buying it. "You know I wasn't born yesterday, right?"

Eddie huffs out a humourless laugh.

"Everyone can see something's up. You don't have to tell me what it is. I'm not gonna force it out of you. But if you need to talk…" She shrugs one shoulder lightly, creating a safe, non-judgemental space for Eddie's panic to exist, essentially saying I recognise you are in distress, I am not going to force you to expose the wound, but if you need to bleed, I'm here.

Staring down at his hands, thumbs pressing together, then apart, then together again, he thinks about it. Actually thinks. Runs through it the way he has been all day, but this time with her words sitting in the middle of it. What he could say. What he shouldn't. How much he can get away with without saying too much. Pros. Cons. If he tells her everything, it becomes real in a different way. Not just in his head anymore. Something spoken out loud. Something that exists outside of him. If he doesn't say anything, he stays stuck exactly where he is now.

"I.. did something," he says finally.

Hen doesn't interrupt. Doesn't push. Just waits.

"Last night," he adds, hushed, "I said something. Or did. I don't know. It just… it came out wrong. And now he's being weird about it."

It sounds flimsy as soon as it leaves his mouth. Incomplete. Incredibly vague, completely stripped of all romantic context. True enough not to be a lie. Nowhere near enough to explain anything.

Hen studies him. "Weird how?"

Eddie shrugs, eyes still on his hands. "Just off. Not how he usually is."

"And you?"

"Also weird," he admits after a pause. "I guess."

"Have you apologised?"

"No."

The confession sits there between them. He doesn't elaborate. Doesn't explain why. Doesn't even try. Because how does he say that apologising would mean naming it? Saying it out loud. Turning it into something real instead of something he can still pretend around. And he silently thanks the universe, thanks Hen herself, that she doesn't ask him to.

Hen hums as if she expected that answer. "Okay."

No judgement. Just taking it in.

Eddie finally leans back into the chair, head tipping against the backrest as he stares up at the ceiling. "I don't even know what I'd say."

"That's usually a good place to start," Hen replies gently.

It sticks. Because she's right. Of course she is.

Eddie goes silent again, the noise from the kitchen drifting back in around them, Buck saying something that makes both Harry and Ravi laugh, the clunk of something being set down on the counter.

Eddie presses his lips together, that gnawing feeling pulling his chest taut again. He can't keep doing this. Can't keep circling it, avoiding it, pretending it'll sort itself out if he just waits long enough. It won't.

And Buck deserves more than that. Even if it goes badly. Even if it ends with things changing in a way Eddie doesn't want. He owes him that much.

"I'll talk to him," he says, more to himself than her.

"Yeah?"

"After shift," he says, sitting back up and nodding once. "I'll talk to him."

Because he has to. Because he can't keep pretending the kiss didn't happen.

Even if part of him—a large chunk of him—wishes they could stay in that moment a little longer. Forever.

God.

It didn't feel like a mistake. Not then. Not now. It only feels like one when he looks at everything that came after. And even with that, even knowing how messy this is, how badly it could go, how much he has to lose here…

All he can think about is doing it again. Kissing him. Holding him there, hands on him, keeping him close.

Eddie's fingers curl slightly against his palm.

He wants more than that. Wants to reach out and take his hand without thinking twice. Wants to say it loud, let it exist in the open instead of locked up in his chest. Wants to tell him he loves him.

The shift ends the same way it started.

Quiet. Because he can dare to think that word now. Even if he doesn't fully believe in the power of a jinx in the first place, why risk it on a day like today? He's sure the team would figure out it was him anyway, and he doesn't think he would've been able to deal with that on top of everything with Buck.

No tones. No rush. No chaos to break anything up or smooth anything over. Just twelve straight hours of… nothing. Eddie's never had that before. Not once in eight years. Close, sure. Slow days, long stretches between calls. But not nothing.

It feels wrong. Like something should've happened. Like something did, just not the kind they're trained to handle.

By the time Eddie's halfway through pulling his shirt on, Buck's already gone. No hesitation, no hanging around. Just gone.

Eddie's jaw clenches, fingers pausing on the hem of the shirt before he forces himself to finish the job.

Right. After shift. That's the plan.

Ravi's next, heading out with his phone in his hand, grinning at something on the screen as he passes. He tosses out a quick, "Later," to everyone without really looking up, halfway through the engine bay in a flash.

Then Hen. She lingers just long enough to catch Eddie's eye, offering him a small, knowing smile. Good luck.

Eddie exhales through his nose. "Yeah," he mutters under his breath.

Harry follows Hen close behind.

Chimney finishes up at the same time as Eddie, grabbing his keys, shrugging on his jacket as they head out together. The air outside feels different after a day like this. Too still.

They walk in step for a few feet before Chim glances over. "You okay, Diaz?"

He rolls his shoulders, attempting to ease some of the tension that's been coiling there for hours now. "I will be after I talk to your brother in law."

Chim snorts. "Ah. One of those days, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Well," he says, unlocking his car, "try not to make it worse."

Eddie shoots him a look. "Helpful."

"I try," Chim replies easily, then pauses, a small grin tugging at his mouth. "Good luck, man. You're gonna need it."

Eddie shakes his head, but there's a faint breath of something that feels akin to a laugh.

"Yeah. Thanks."

Chim gets in his car, and drives off.

Eddie stands there for a moment, keys in hand, staring out towards the road Buck had taken moments prior. Then he moves. Gets in, starts the engine, pulls out of the station, and heads straight for Buck's house.

The drive feels shorter than it should, as if the road itself is giving way below him, carrying him forward without asking whether he is ready to arrive. Eddie barely registers the turns, the familiar landmarks passing in a blur of muscle memory and habit. His hands stay steady on the wheel, but everything else is elsewhere, already standing on Buck's doorstep, already bracing for something that can't quite be named.

He parks. Gets out. Walks up. Knocks.

There is a pause, short but heavy enough to ache in his bones.

The door opens.

"Eddie?"

Buck stands there with the kind of surprise that has not had the time to harden into anything else. His brows pull together slightly, his mouth parting just enough to form the name, and for a moment, he looks younger somehow, unguarded in a way that feels almost sacred to witness.

"We need to talk."

Buck blows out a breath, glancing past him, hand still on the door. "We really don't. It's fine."

It isn't.

Eddie steps forward anyway, not forceful, not delicate either, just sure. He passes him, crossing the threshold they way he has a hundred times before, like this is still a place he belongs.

The kitchen greets him in quiet familiarity. He goes straight to the fridge, opens it, and takes out two beers without a word. The motion is automatic, ingrained, something his body remembers even if everything else has morphed out of place. The sharp click of the caps breaking echoes in the room before he turns, offering one out.

Buck takes it.

Their fingers brush, fleetingly. Nothing lingers.

Eddie leans back against the counter, lifts the bottle, takes a slow drink, and then he looks. He lets himself look. Really look. In a way that he has not allowed himself to all day—or ever, for that matter—in a way that feels near reverent now that he has admitted to himself what this is, what Buck is to him, what he has always been without either of them naming it.

There's something achingly human in the way Buck stands there, the strain in his posture held together by sheer will alone. His shoulders are set but not rigid, his weight shifting just slightly from one foot to the other, as though stillness itself is something he cannot quite manage. The lines of him are recognisable, etched into Eddie's memory from years of knowing, of watching, of standing at his side. But now they feel sharpened, illuminated from within by something Eddie can't ignore anymore. His hair falls in uneven, curly strands across his forehead, pushed back and fallen forward again over the course of the day, careless in a way that only makes it more endearing in Eddie's eyes. There is a faint flush high on his cheekbones, whether from the heat of the kitchen or something else entirely, and Eddie tracks it without thinking, the way it deepens when Buck shifts under his eyes. His mouth presses together, then loosens, then presses again, holding back from talking.

And his eyes.

Eddie idles there the longest.

They are searching, uncertain, carrying something unspoken that flickers just beneath the surface. There is no ease in them now, no effortless openness. Instead, there is something quieter, something more fragile. It pulls at Eddie. It always has.

Eddie takes another slow sip, though he barely tastes it.

Because this is what he risks losing, what he will miss.

This exact moment, suspended between what was and what will be. The way Buck stands in front of him, close enough to touch, real and present and still his in all the ways that have mattered. The way the light catches in his hair, the way his chest rises and falls with each measured breath, the way his fingers tighten faintly around the bottle in his hands.

Beautiful is too small a word.

It does not hold the weight of this, the gravity of him, the quiet force Buck carries simply by existing in the space around Eddie. There is a warmth in him that does not fade, something firm and enduring that has threaded itself through Eddie's life without authorisation, without resistance. It is there in every glance, every laugh, every unthinking gesture that has built them into what they are.

What they were.

What they could have been.

Eddie looks over him again, slower this time, committing it all to memory with a kind of desperate care. The slope of his shoulders, the line of his throat, the way he stands just a fraction closer than he needs to, as if some part of him is still reaching. Even now.

It's too much.

And not enough.

Eddie sighs, the sound barely there, soft and breaking at the edges.

He allows himself this final indulgence. This one, fleeting moment where he does not pull back, does not pretend, does not deny the depth of what he feels.

Before he has to let it go.

It feels dangerous now, to look this long, this openly, but he cannot seem to stop. Buck shifts under it, shoulders pulling in for a second before settling again, his fingers adjusting around the bottle, his weight rocking back and forth in something small and restless. There is a flush across his face that has not faded, a quiet heat that lingers at his throat, and Eddie traces all of it without meaning to, committing it in a way that almost feels like a prayer.

The silence stretches, heavy and thick until it finally shatters when, "I'm sorry," they say at the same time.

The words collide, soft and surprised, breaking open the tension between them in a way nothing had been able to all day. Buck lets out a small, breathy laugh, shaking his head, and Eddie exhales, smiling around it, the weight lifting just enough to breathe fully.

"Wait," says Eddie, pushing himself off the counter slightly, "why are you sorry?"

Buck's smile fades, not all at once, and just enough that uncertainty begins to take its place. He glances down at the bottle in his hand, thumb dragging over the label before he looks back up. "For last night."

"Eddie frowns. "Buck. I kissed you."

"Yeah, but I didn't stop it."

"You didn't need to."

"But I should have."

The words fall and settle, firm in a way that leaves no room to soften them after the fact. Eddie feels the impact of it, low and steady, and he watches Buck carry it, watches the way he stands there with it sitting in his chest, unhidden.

"It wasn't nothing," Buck says, voice more measured now, like he's choosing each word carefully before he lets it loose. "Not for me."

Eddie's heart skips a beat, and a lump in his throat begins to form.

"I figured it out a while ago," he continues. Simple. Clear.

It lands heavier than anything else.

Eddie feels it unfold in his chest, piece by piece, each part slotting into place with a clarity that leaves him wobbly. Every look that lingered too long. Every moment that carried more gravity than it should have. Every time Buck stayed just a fraction closer than necessary. It had all been there. Eddie had just not let himself see it.

Buck breathes shakily. "Didn't think I needed to do anything about it," he goes on. "W—we were good. I didn't want to mess with that."

Eddie's mouth is so dry.

"Then last night…" Buck trails off, shaking his head once, like the memory alone is enough to undo him. "I didn't stop. I didn't even think about stopping." There's no regret in the way he says it. Only honesty.

"I should have," he repeats, softer now.

Eddie wants to argue. Wants to tell him that none of it felt wrong, that none of it should be undone, that if anything it felt inevitable.

But Buck keeps talking.

"I—I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you want."

Eddie's breath catches hard in his chest.

Because it is. It is exactly that. But Buck does not wait for him to say it.

"It's fine," he adds quickly, like he needs to outrun whatever may come next. "I can fix it. I can go back to how things were. It might take some time, but I can get there."

Eddie's fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle.

Back.

Before.

The words sit wrong in his stomach.

"I don't want things to be weird between us. You won't have to deal with any of it. I'll j—just handle it."

Eddie stares at him. Because that is the last thing he wants.

"And if that's not enough," he utters, "if you'd rather just… not be friends anymore, I—I get it."

Eddie's heart kicks painfully hard against his ribs.

Buck lifts his gaze again, and there is nothing guarded left in it now. "It'll hurt," he admits, "probably more than getting struck by lightning."

The words cut deep, slicing through everything else.

"But I'll do it. If that's what you want," he finishes, smiling sadly around the words.

Eddie stands there, rooted to the spot, the load of it pressing in from all sides, his pulse loud and insistent, because every part of him is pushing in the opposite direction.

Towards Buck.

Not away.

Then he goes for it.

"And what if I don't?"

Eddie sets down his bottle on the counter behind him, glass meeting wood with a soft thunk, and steps forward. He closes the distance in one clean motion, leaves them standing close enough that there is no space left to hide in.

Buck blinks. "Don't what?"

"Want to lose you."

The words rest between them, plain and defenseless.

Buck's expression changes, tension easing slightly at the edges. "Okay," he says, a small sound of relief winding through his breath. "Good. I don't want that either." He glances down, then back up again, looking Eddie in his eyes. "We can just… forget last night ever happened."

"What if I don't want that either?"

Buck stills, confusion pulling his brows together. He looks at Eddie like he's trying to read something that won't quite come into focus.

The kitchen feels smaller now, quieter, every detail sharpened around them, but Eddie's attention narrows to one thing alone. To Buck standing in front of him, close enough to touch, close enough to reach for, and the realisation that there is no version of his life that makes sense if he steps back from this. Not after knowing what it feels like to hold him there, to have him lean in without hesitation, to feel that certitude settle into his bones. It had not been something to dismiss or bury. It had been clear. It had been real in a way that everything else suddenly pales in comparison beside it. Eddie thinks of all the quiet ways Buck has been woven into his days, into the shape of his life, into every choice that matters, until there is no clean line where Buck ends and everything else begins. He thinks of the way his name sits differently in his chest now, heavier, fuller, carrying more than it ever has before. He thinks of how wrong it felt, all day, to stand apart from him, to let distance creep in where it has never belonged. And beneath all that, steady and undeniable, is the simple truth that he does not want less. Not less of Buck. Not less of this. Not a smaller, safer version that strips it down to something manageable and hollow. He wants it whole.

"Wait," Buck says, "I'm confused"

"Yeah?"

Buck searches his face, trying to find the answer before it's given to him. "Eddie…"

"Outside of Chris," Eddie declares, voice soft, "you're the most important person in my life."

Buck freezes.

Eddie keeps going, because he has come too far to stop now. "That's not new. That's been true for a long time. I just— I didn't understand what that meant. Not fully."

Buck's mouth parts, then closes again, his hands tightening around the beer in his hand. "You're into me?" he asks, the words careful. "But—"

Eddie huffs a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. "Yeah."

"No, it's just—" Buck chews at his lip, trying to find the right way to say it. "You've never— I mean, I didn't think…"

"Neither did I," admits Eddie. "Not until I did."

Buck studies him, something fragile flickering across his face, hope and doubt tangled together.

"And th—this isn't just because of last night?"

Eddie shakes his head. "No. I think I've known for a while, maybe since last year, or maybe I always have, but last night really put it into perspective."

Eddie reaches forward then, gentle but assured, taking the bottle from Buck's hands and turning to set it down beside his own before turning back to Buck. The space between them tilts again, closer still, until there's nothing left but the hush of shared breath.

He takes Buck's hands in his own. And for a moment, neither of them move.

Eddie's fingers close around them, warm and familiar, and something settles within Eddie at the contact. Buck's hands are solid, carrying the soft strength Eddie has always relied on like second nature. There are small callouses along his palms, the faint roughness earned from years of work, of showing up, of holding on when things get hard. Eddie traces them without looking down, feeling the shape of them, the way they fit so easily in his. It feels right in a way that doesn't need explanation, in a way that does not ask permission. Just a quiet recognition, something that has been waiting the better part of a decade to be acknowledged.

Buck swallows, voice barely above a whisper now. "What if it doesn't end well? What if we ruin everything?"

Eddie holds his gaze. "What if it does? What if we don't?"

Buck's breath catches, his grip tightening slightly in Eddie's hands.

"I'm scared," he admits.

Eddie nods, his thumb brushing lightly over Buck's knuckles. "Me too."

He's held a thousand things in his hands. Ropes and stretchers, the pull of strangers clinging to him, Christopher when he was small enough to fit against his chest with his head tucked under Eddie's chin. He has held grief. He has held fear until it etched itself into the lines of his palms.

He has never held anything that made his skin light aflame like this.

Buck's hands rest in his, warm and open, fingers curled with quiet hope. Their palms fit together in a way that feels discovered rather than built like the rest of their lives, something uncovered after years of not looking straight at it. Eddie lets his thumb move, a soft sweep over skin, grounding himself in the reality of it.

The kitchen light hums lowly overhead. Outside, the world keeps moving, cars passing every so often, neighbours living their entire lives. None of it reaches in here. Everything narrows to this. To Buck's breath. To the way his fingers curl when Eddie steps closer.

There's no rush in it. No need to fill the space with too many words. Eddie studies him, takes in the openness of his face, the way he stands there without armour, offering everything up without asking for guarantees in return. It lands somewhere deep in Eddie's chest, somewhere tender. He does not look away.

"Go on a date with me," declares Eddie.

The words come out quiet, simple, carrying more than he knows how to dress up. No flourish, no shield, just the truth of what he wants placed carefully between them.

Buck just looks at him, breath caught, eyes searching Eddie's face like he needs to make sure this is real, that he didn't imagine it into existence. Then, something breaks open, bright and disbelieving.

"You're asking me out?" Buck asks, voice quieter than usual, edged with fragility and hopefulness.

Eddie nods once. "I mean, yeah."

A smile pulls at Buck's mouth, slow and spreading, the kind that Eddie never wants to go a day without seeing again.

"Yeah, okay."

It settles into Eddie, that answer, easing the restlessness that has lived under his skin for longer than he cares to admit. He shifts a fraction closer, drawn in without thinking, their joined hands the line that keeps them tethered.

"Slow," he continues, careful with it. "We take our time. See where it goes."

"I want that." Then Buck's expression lightens, a spark slipping through, with a hint of a mischievous grin. "Just so you know, I fully intend to woo you."

"Woo me?"

"Yeah. I've got plans. You're not ready."

Eddie raises an eyebrow, though there's no hiding the small curve upward of his mouth. "I think I can handle that."

A beat passes, soft and full.

"I should probably," he gestures to the front door with his head, "go home."

The words hover there, light and reluctant, brushing against everything neither of them wants to disturb.

Eddie keeps his hands where they are, wrapped around Buck's, thumbs resting against warm skin. There is a pull in him, gentle and incessant, asking him to hold on a little longer, to stretch this out until it turns into something permanent.

"Yeah," answers Buck, "you probably should."

No one moves.

He should. Eddie knows he should. There is a line here, one they just agreed to walk slowly, carefully, and staying here like this feels dangerously close to forgetting every promise they just made.

Buck's mouth curves, small and fond.

"You're not helping," Eddie whispers, the flicker of his smile growing.

"I know."

Eddie etches this moment into his memory.

Then, slowly, their fingers loosen.

Their hands tighten once, instinctive, then loosen, Fingers slide apart slow enough to feel every inch of contact as it fades. Eddie's palms stay open after, empty and devastatingly aware of it.

He turns towards the door, steps measured, aware of Buck in tandem behind him without needing to look. The handle is cool under his hand when he opens it, the night air brushing against his face in a way he didn't know he needed. He pauses on the threshold.

"Tomorrow," Buck says.

Not a question.

Eddie glances back, meeting his eyes. "Tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Eddie."

"Night, Buck."

He steps out onto the porch, the door closing behind him with a click. And Eddie—

stops.

Just stands there, rooted to the spot, not reaching for the steps, not doing anything except existing in the narrow strip of porch light, caught between what he just left and what he hasn't stepped into yet. His hands hang at his sides, fingers slightly curled, the shape of Buck's still there in a way that refuses to fade.

The night presses in, cool against his skin, carrying distant sounds that don't quite land. A car somewhere down the street. Wind moving through the trees. None of it settles. None of it matters.

All of him is still inside that kitchen.

Buck's voice lingers, warm and low, threaded through every thought. The look on his face, open, directed at Eddie without walls, without deflection. The certainty of his yes.

It replays, not in fragments, but whole. Continuous. Unbroken.

A date.

The word sits restlessly. It moves through him, opening doors he has kept shut for years and not ever named why. Dinner across a table, Buck talking with his hands, eyes so blue and bright, words spilling over each other because he cares too much to keep them contained. Eddie listening, watching, letting himself lean into it instead of holding back. Time stretching.

Another evening after that, easier this time. Less distance held out of habit. Familiarity taking on a different shape, softer, something chosen with intention instead of falling into place without thought.

He draws in a breath, slow, deep, and lets it out just as carefully.

His gaze drops to his hands. The memory of contact lingers there, vivid enough that he almost expects to see it. He closes his fingers, holding onto it anyway, unwilling to let it slip away just yet.

There is a path ahead now. Not mapped out, not promised, but real in an inexplicable, unignorable way. It tugs at him, asking him to step forward, to trust it, to trust Buck.

To trust himself.

The thought unfurls slowly at first, careful and methodical, tracing along the perimeter of everything he has just allowed himself to imagine, letting each possibility rest in place with a soft reverence. But it does not stay contained for long because the more he lets himself see it, the more it sharpens, the more it demands. Not distant or abstract but immediate and real, something that exists just on the other side of a door he closed with his own hand, something warm and breathing and alive. And the distance between here and there suddenly feels unbearable, too wide for what it holds, too wide for the way his heart aches with it, for the way his pulse has started to climb, and for the simple, undeniable truth that none of those imagined futures begin anywhere else but right here. Not tomorrow. Not later. Not after careful planning and overthinking every step. But now, in the space still humming with Buck's presence, in the echo of his voice, in the memory of his hands still lingering against Eddie's skin.

And the realisation hits not gently, but all at once, clear and impossible to ignore, cutting through every instinct that has ever told him to wait, to hold back, to move with caution; this is Buck. And Buck is on the other side of that door, and Eddie is still standing here when he could be there, could be crossing that distance instead of letting it exist at all.

He turns.

The light above the door casts a muted glow across the wood, across his hand when he lifts it, fingers hovering only for a fraction before the door swings open not by his own hand in a rush. Fast, urgent.

They both stop short.

Buck stands there, breath caught, hand still on the handle, eyes wide at the same disbelief that hits Eddie. It mirrors back at him, the same realisation, the same pull, written clear across Buck's face.

Sometimes the absolute scariest thing in the world isn't the fear of losing the person you love, it's the terror of finally allowing yourself to have them completely. Eddie finds his voice first. 

"Actually, I don't wanna wait another minute for you." Because asking them to take the physical aspect slowly at this point is like asking a dam to leak slowly after the concrete has already completely dissolved.

Buck exhales hard, relief breaking through. It's dizzying to witness. "Good," he says, breathless. "Neither do I."

It comes on all at once—everything shifting in a single breath, as if the world decides, with barely a warning, to change.

They're moving, drawn together with a kind of urgency that has nothing to do with thinking and everything to do with need. And if, in the future, anyone were to ask who moved first, Eddie doesn't think he'd be able to give a sure answer. It doesn't matter, because suddenly Buck's mouth is on his and the world narrows to that single point of contact.

The kiss is hard. Not clumsy, not uncertain, but full of everything they have been holding back, everything that has been building under the surface without either of them giving it a name. Eddie's left hand comes up to Buck's cheek, firm and grounding, thumb pressing into warm skin, feeling the heat of him, the life of him. His other is already in Buck's hair, fingers threading through curls and tightening just enough to keep him close.

Buck answers it instantly. His arms slide around Eddie's waist and pull him in, strong and unyielding, until there is no space left between them at all, until Eddie can feel the ragged rise and fall of his chest, the press of him, the way he kisses him without faltering. There is nothing careful in it. No holding back. Only the inevitability of being here, of choosing this, of not letting it slip away again.

Their mouths move against each other with a kind of hunger that feels long overdue, each breath shared and taken in the same motion, each shift answered without pause. Buck tilts his head, deepening it, and Eddie follows, his grip tightening in his hair, his other hand sliding from Buck's cheek to the back of his neck, holding him there, keeping him close as if distance is no longer something he can allow. There is a rhythm to it, unspoken and indistinctive, the kind that comes from knowing each other too well, from trust built over years now turning into something sharper, brighter, and impossible to ignore.

Eddie feels it everywhere. In the heat of Buck's skin under his hand, in the way Buck's fingers flex at his back, pulling him closer even when there is nowhere left to go. In the way Buck gasps into the kiss, something soft and unguarded breaking through the intensity of it. Eddie presses in, holds on. There is a kind of desperation in it, but not fear. Not doubt. Just the need to stay here, to make this real, to take everything they have been circling around and finally let it exist.

His arms tighten around Buck's neck, crossing over one another, each hand gripping the opposite forearm, anchoring himself in the undeniable presence of him. The taste of him, the warmth, the soft sound he makes when he leans closer, when he refuses to pull away.

It's overwhelming in the best way.

Buck makes a soft sound into Eddie's mouth, something low and surprised that melts into heat. He deepens it. Not hesitant. Not asking.

Eddie's breath catches when Buck's lips part against his, when the kiss opens and morphs fuller, pulling him under without warning. Buck's mouth is warm and unrelenting, and when his tongue brushes forward, Eddie responds on instinct, meeting him there, the contact sending a sharp, dizzying rush straight through his veins. It's almost immediately all consuming.

Buck tilts his head, presses closer, and Eddie lets him, lets himself be guided into it, holding on as their mouths move together in a rhythm that builds too fast to track. It turns messy in seconds, breath slipping between them, lips wet and dragging, tongues meeting again and again with no patience left for restraint.

Exhaling into Eddie's mouth, Buck makes a broken sound, and Eddie feels it everywhere. "Buck—" he tries, but it dissolves instantly when Buck presses in harder, swallowing the word, chasing the sound right out of him.

A step backwards, another, Buck pushing forward until Eddie stumbles back, and hits the door with a dull thud that barely registers through the rush of it, the force of their collision slamming it shut. Buck follows him right there, crowding in, hands firm at his waist, keeping him pinned in place in the best possible way.

There's a laugh that breaks loose between them, sudden and breathless, slipping into the kiss instead of pulling it apart. Eddie smiles into Buck's mouth, unable to help it, the sound catching against Buck's teeth as they both try and fail to steady it.

"Shit," Buck murmurs, half a laugh, half something else, and then he's kissing him again before the word even lands.

Eddie's arms loosen from around Buck's neck, hands sliding down slowly, fingers dragging over the fabric stretched across Buck's chest, feeling the heat of him through it. The movement is unhurried, grounding, a quiet shift that makes Buck inhale sharply against his mouth. In response, Buck's hands move higher, threading into Eddie's hair, fingers curling at the base of his skull, holding him steady, keeping him right there.

Eddie's hands sit there for a moment, spread against Buck's chest, before gripping lightly, testing that he's real, that this is real. He glides his hand further down, fingers grasping at the hem of his shirt, before snaking their way underneath, and he finally feels the skin of Buck's torso under his fingers. Their mouths keep slipping, finding each other again, open and warm and uncoordinated in a way that only makes it better.

Buck pulls back just enough to breathe, just enough to look at him for a fraction of a second, eyes blown wide and bright, and then he's leaning back in again.

Not back to Eddie's lips.

To his cheek.

The first kiss lands just beside the corner of Eddie's mouth, warm and lingering, and Eddie's breath stutters. Buck doesn't rush it. He presses another just below it, then another, sluggish and meticulous, a trail that makes Eddie's grip tighten without meaning to.

"Buck," he breathes, softer now. But Buck only hums in response, already moving lower.

His mouth traces across Eddie's cheek, down along the length of his jaw, each kiss a little wetter than the last, a little less restrained. Eddie can feel it building again, the same pull, that same woozy rush, only edgier now, focused wherever Buck's mouth lands.

When Buck reaches the side of his neck, he pauses for half a heartbeat.

Eddie exhales hard, head tipping back on instinct, giving him more space without a second thought. Buck takes it immediately, mouth pressing in again, slower but no less intense, heat blooming under Eddie's skin with every second it lingers. Buck drags his teeth lightly over the spot where his pulse thrums, not enough to hurt, just enough to pull a sharp, small hiss from Eddie that he can't hold back.

"Yeah," Buck whispers, almost to himself, and then he does it again, softer, followed by another open mouthed kiss that stays a fraction too long.

Eddie's hands tighten at Buck's sides, head staying tipped back, throat exposed, offering more without hesitation. Buck follows the line of it, unhurried, pressing a slow trail downward, each kiss drawing another uneven breath from Eddie that fills the space between them.

Buck trails behind his kisses with the forefinger of his right hand, goosebumps erupting across Eddie's flesh in its wake, his other grips tight at Eddie's bicep. His knee comes up, pushing Eddie's thighs apart gently, and then he presses in. Hard. Right against his fattening cock beneath the layers of his pants and underwear.

He pulls back, and Eddie damn near collapses, his legs feeling like jelly, and vision going hazy. Buck holds him upright just by arm grip alone, biting at his collarbone, and then his knee is back there again, pressing even harder this time, and Eddie can't stifle the groan that slips past his lips, can't help the way his hips grind downward, chasing the friction.

A breath shudders out of him, head still tipped back, throat warm under Buck's mouth. The air feels thinner now, and it takes a second to gather himself enough to speak.

"As much as I'd love to—mmm—to never stop this," begins Eddie, voice uneven, "I'm not going to last long if you keep doing that."

Buck stops, just for a beat, then lifts his head and looks at him. Really looks at him.

That crooked, off balance grin tugs at his lips, swollen and kiss red, all warmth and astonished, and his eyes catch the light in a way that makes the rest of the room fall away. They shine, full in a way that feels earned, steady in a way that speaks of every choice that brought him here. There is something indiscreet in it, something open and unwavering, a softness that does not weaken him but reveals him, lays him bare without fear. It lives in the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, in the way his gaze does not flicker or retreat, in the way he stays close, present. Every version of him exists in that look at once. The easy charm that draws people in without effort, the tenderness he offers in pieces until, suddenly, it's all there. It gathers in his expression, in the expanse of his shoulders, in the space he holds without stepping back. And in that moment, standing there with their limbs all tangled together and his pulse still racing, Eddie knows it with a clarity that leaves no room for doubt; he's never been more in love with him than he is right now.

"Yeah?" teases Buck softly, the smile flickering into a more hungry look, like he's been starved his entire life and wants to devour Eddie more than anything he's ever wanted before.

"That is not a challenge, Buckley."

"Sure sounded like one to me."

His hands come up to Buck's chest, strong, palms flattening with purpose, feeling the sheer solidness of him under his touch, the quick rise and fall beneath it. He pushes. Not rough, not careless, but sure enough that Buck moves, stumbles back under the pressure, eyes flicking to his in brief surprise before it melts into understanding. One step, then another, until his back meets the wall with a resounding thud.

Eddie follows him all the way there, closes the space immediately, one hand still spread over Buck's chest, the other braced on the wall beside his head. It sends a sharp clarity through him, the awareness of what he's doing, of what he wants. He leans in and kisses him again.

His mouth finds Buck's and stays there, pressing in, learning quickly, adjusting without pulling away. It isn't practiced, isn't polished into anything perfect, but it fits. It works. It builds.

Buck answers him just as fast. Hands at Eddie's sides, pulling him closer, meeting every bit of pressure with his own. The wall behind him doesn't trap him. It steadies them, gives Eddie something to press him into, something to hold Buck against while everything else feels new and shifting.

Eddie feels it all.

The warmth of Buck's mouth, the uneven rhythm of his breath, the way his chest moves under Eddie's palm, fast and alive.

His fingers grasp at Buck's shirt, at his pec.

"Off," he says between wet kisses, pinching the fabric between his fingers, "now."

Unfortunately, this does mean breaking their mouths apart when Buck oh so eagerly obliges.

Eddie takes the opportunity to marvel at the sight before him, watches as Buck tears his hands away from Eddie to yank the grey material over his head, tossing it to the side, a new, muted pink flush adorning high upon his cheeks under Eddie's watchful eyes. The tattoos across Buck's chest and ribs catch his attention and hold it there, dark ink laid in deliberate shapes against skin that seems almost too warm, too alive for anything so permanent. The contrast unsettles him in the quietest way, the black lines deepening the golden tones beneath them, like night settling over something that still remembers the sunlight. There's a softness in the way Buck's chest hair curls and shifts around the ink, weaving through the designs in loose, natural patterns that make the whole thing feel less like decoration and more like something inevitable. Eddie can not decide what is more arresting, the boldness of the tattoos or the way they are softened simply by existing on Buck at all. It makes that thing in Eddie's chest tighten again, not painfully exactly, but aware, as if he is standing too close to something beautiful enough to change the air in the room.

"Your turn," Buck says, panting slightly. "I wanna see you."

And.

Well.

Who is Eddie to deny Buck of what he wants?

He slips easily out of his Henley, throwing it on the floor in the same direction as Buck's. Then he's leaning forward again, mouth meeting Buck's, fully. It turns fast. Heat, breath, the drag of mouths finding a tempo that is already changing as they go, learning each other in real time instead of circling around it. Eddie feels Buck's teeth catch lightly at his lower lip, feels the way Buck follows when he opens for him, the way everything between them becomes something close to demand answered with demand. His hand stays firm on Buck's tit, squeezing softly, feeling the way his heart knocks under his hold. The other slides higher, winding around the back of his neck, pulling just enough to keep him close when Buck tries to chase him back in.

Buck makes a sound into his mouth, halfway between a moan and a whine, that crafts something in Eddie's stomach, low and unfiltered, dick getting harder by the second, feeling it trapped between their warm bodies. Eddie answers the sound by kissing him harder. Not smoother, not cleaner, just more. Their breaths start to break against each other, mouths not always landing perfectly, catching, slipping, finding again, and every time they do, it feels sharper, more certain in its mess.

Buck's hands tighten at Eddie's hips, then loosen, then tighten again, like he can't settle on anything except staying exactly here. Eddie shifts his stance, angles them both slightly, and Buck follows without resistance, still pressed back into the wall but now meeting him with equal force, like he has decided the same thing Eddie has and is not interested in easing it down.

He lifts his leg up, mirroring Buck's earlier position, slipping perfectly in between his thighs like that's where it was made to be, knee bumping against the wall.

"Oh, fuck," Buck gasps, a moan filling the air around them.

Eddie smiles brightly against Buck's lips at that. He did that. He made Buck make that sound.

Buck's erection is hard against Eddie's thigh as Eddie pushes up into it, Buck meeting him halfway. He brackets his knee against the wall, making sure he is standing solidly on his other leg and has no chance of falling over, and he leaves it there, not moving, not pressing, just right there, waiting for Buck.

Eddie pulls back just enough for air to cut through, and Buck follows immediately, lips brushing his again before he can fully reset, dragging him back in with a small, almost impatient sound that has Eddie exhaling into something that feels dangerously close to laughter.

"So needy," murmurs Eddie teasingly.

"Oh, fuck you," Buck says through his heavy breathing, eyes dark and focused.

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" Eddie presses a kiss to the corner of Buck's mouth. Another to his collarbone. And then he's contorting his neck in a way he's probably going to regret tomorrow when it aches and twinges if he turns his head too fast, and his mouth latches onto Buck's nipple. It hardens at the sensation, perking up as he bites down on it, eliciting a yelp from Buck, followed by a low whimper when Eddie soothes it over with his tongue.

"Eddie, please… D—oh—don't stop."

Good thing Eddie doesn't plan on it.

Buck circles his hips, pressing down into Eddie's thigh, finding a well paced back and forth motion, his own pants becoming increasingly tight against himself, begging him to find some relief. Sooner rather than later. His mind fixates on the languid movements of Buck's hips, wanting nothing more than to have those thigh thighs wrapped around his waist as he grinds against the straining bulge in Buck's pants.

Maybe later, when they're laying in bed, limbs tangled together, completely and utterly blissed out, Eddie might laugh at how ridiculous it is that their first time was against the wall adjacent to Buck's front door, and how pathetic they were that they couldn't get undressed further than taking their shirts off, that they couldn't wait even just a few more seconds. Eight years of dancing around this thing between them, eight years of pent up sexual tension—all coming to a head in the entryway, half naked, lewd sounds filling the house.

Eddie doesn't slow down. His hands refuse to stay in one place, like they've spent too long learning restraint and now don't know how to return to it. One drags from Buck's chest to his shoulder, fingers digging in, mapping the line of him along the way, while the other drops from his neck and comes to rest at his waist, pulling him closer even though there is nowhere left to close.

Then he slides back up again, hand coming to rest on Buck's chest, cupping the tissue of the breast that isn't occupied by his mouth. He thumbs over the nipple, rolling it in between his fingers, and tugs.

"Ngh," he moans under Eddie. "Holy shit."

The overheated skin under Eddie's lips makes his cock kick up almost violently in his jeans, his hips stuttering in the air. Groaning around the flesh, Eddie suckles at it, like it holds Eddie's lifeblood and the only way to access it is through coaxing it out with his tongue. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if one day he can do this—and only this—and make Buck orgasm, completely untouched. That'd be a nice challenge.

"God, Eddie—" Eddie could listen to that sound all day every day and never tire of it. "Don—ah, please…"

Please what? Eddie isn't sure. More? Less? He prays silently it's the former.

Detaching with a soft pop, Eddie trails kisses upward, over the jagged line of where hair is slightly more sparse, the follicles mildly fried from the lightning strike all those years ago, over the junction of skin where Buck's throat meets his collarbone, over the underside of his chin, the stubble rough and coarse in a way that ignites Eddie from the inside out, before finally pressing the softest of kisses to his lips. It's so soft that if Eddie didn't know any better, it may not have registered as a kiss.

"Please what?" he asks finally, feeling Buck's hot breath mingling with his own.

"Hey, you stopped," Buck complains, voice squeaky, hips picking up in speed, pressing hard down against Eddie's thigh. There's a wet patch blooming across the crotch of his pants, Buck leaking profusely, Eddie can feel it spreading across the denim cladding his leg, and fuck Eddie wants to see what Buck's dick looks like, wants to know what it feels like in his hand, wants to know what it tastes like as it shoots down his throat, stifling the oxygen in his lungs until he's choking on it and his eyes water.

"Please what?" Eddie asks again.

"More," is all Buck can muster up, eyes heavy lidded, lips parted around his ragged breaths.

Eddie pulls him back in, more force behind it this time, his hand now firm at Buck's jaw to keep him right where he wants him, and their mouths meet hard enough to steal the breath from both of them. It's rough at the perimeter, not polished, not careful, just real in the way their teeth clack, in the way their breathing breaks, in the quiet, wrecked sounds Buck lets slip that Eddie can't ignore even if he tries. It does something to him, hearing that, feeling it against his mouth, and he leans into it, chases it, lets himself have all of it. Buck tastes familiar in a way that sinks deep, something Eddie recognises without ever having experienced before. The feeling grows with every press of their mouths, every breath shared, every small sound Buck gives him, every sound that he gives in return, and Eddie feels it take root. Strong and undeniable, that this is only the beginning of it, that he could fall into this again and again and again and never reach the end, that maybe he already has, that maybe he always will.

Buck answers in kind. His grip shifts, one hand bracing at Eddie's hip, the other moving up his back, flattening there, spreading wide as though he needs more contact, more proof that this is real, before moving to Eddie's hair, holding tight enough that Eddie fears he may rip the hair from his scalp. He wouldn't mind it, if he's being completely honest with himself. It sends a pointed awareness through Eddie, the heat of it, the weight of it, the way Buck holds him without hesitation and pulls at him. His grip is tight, and before Eddie knows it, the length of his dick is slammed into Buck's hip bone. The sensation makes his vision white out for a moment, mouth dropping open against Buck's skin, moaning around it. It takes damn near everything in him not to cum on the spot, to not teeter over the edge. He wants to make this last as long as he can, wants to make Buck slowly come undone against him, wants to fuck him raw until they're both seeing stars and crying from being oversensitive at the end.

"Fuck," whispers Eddie, voice cracking around the word. Fire builds in the pit of his stomach, setting flesh and bone and muscle alight, coiling tight like a loaded spring.

Rutting against Buck's hip, he keens against Buck's open mouth with a repeated mmm matched in tandem with each movement. Their hips meet in the middle with each thrust, and Eddie can feel his own crotch getting wet where his cock strains against the material, long and hard and barely containable.

In the quiet spaces between breath and touch, in the way his hands still rest on Buck like they belong there, in the way Buck hasn't pulled away, hasn't hesitated, the reality of it begins to take shape, slow and undeniable, threading through everything else, making it impossible to ignore. They're doing this—not almost, not dancing around it, not something left unsaid or unfinished—this.

The truth of it presses deeper the longer he stays there, the feel of Buck turning to putty under his hands and mouth, the faint whining sounds he's making, the way he keeps choosing Eddie without pause, keeps meeting him with the same intensity instead of holding anything back. It feels unreal and it aches, like stepping into a life he never thought he'd be allowed to keep.

"I—I'm so c—close, Eddie," Buck whimpers. "Eddie…"

The words turn Eddie’s cheeks crimson, warmth spreading through his veins. Arousal pools in his gut, sickly sweet and molten lava, making his muscles feel all sinewy, and his dick pulses a droplet of precum out. He groans, the noise punching out of him like he's just been winded. And maybe he has. His breath catches in his lungs, sharp against his ribcage, and he listens to the soft, repeated moans of Buck while he's fucking down onto Eddie's leg.

"Shit," Eddie mumbles into his mouth. "Oh, fuck."

His movements are desperate, choppy, so pent up and already close to the edge.

"Keep going," Buck breathes, "please."

Eddie forgets how to breathe, forgets how to swallow, and drops his head to Buck's shoulder, the space where he usually rests his open palm, reassuring, comfortable. Their noises fill the room, the moaning and cursing is beyond scatological. It should sound gross. Vulgar and disgusting, even. Instead, it's the hottest thing Eddie has heard in his life. The filth of it turns him on even more than he already is, which he didn't believe possible until now. He bites down on Buck's shoulder, not caring if it leaves a mark, if it peeks out from his work shirt collar. In fact, maybe that's the goal. Maybe he wants everyone to know that Buck is his to claim like this, and nobody else's. Not ever again.

Hissing at the harsh clamp of Eddie's maw, Buck grips Eddie's hair tightly—not pulling him away, but holding him closer. Close enough that Eddie feels like he's suffocating, his vision going a little fuzzy at the edges in a way that's probably not a great sign from a medical standpoint. But honestly, what a way to go out. The cause of death report will read accidental erotic asphyxiation, and some poor intern is going to have to type that with a completely straight face, resisting the overwhelming urge to ask any follow up questions, before quietly deciding they do not get paid enough for this and clocking out early.

The burning behind his navel increases, building fast, breathing heavier, faster, hips canting back and forth in a frenzy, meeting Buck's own haphazard thrusts every single time. His stomach tenses, balls drawing tighter.

"Fuck, you're gonna make me—" and before Eddie can complete his sentence, in one swift move Buck stills his hips, and drives his leg up, hard. It hits Eddie's dick head on, and he shouts into Buck's collarbone as his orgasm hits him, cum shooting out of him, quickly filling his tighty whities, soaking through to his jeans.

Buck freezes, body jolting against the wall, and he whimpers again, a chorus of ah, ah, ah tumbling from his mouth. Then, "Fuck, Eddie. I'm—" his warning is cut off with a groan right as the first pulse of cum expels from what Eddie can only assume is Buck's beautiful dick, shuddering through every spurt as they both come down from their highs.

Eddie's forehead brushes Buck's temple for a brief pause, breath unsteady, centering himself in the closeness, in the reality of him right here, the overwhelming clarity of want, of having it returned without question, bores deep into his bones.

This is what he's wanted.

That realisation stretches backward, reaching into years of half formed thoughts and buried instincts, into every time he turned away before he could look too closely. It was always there, just out of reach, just out of sight, waiting for him to catch up to it.

And now Buck is right here.

Close. Real. His.

The thought arrives uninvited, fierce and unsoftened, curling tight and bright, too honest to reshape into anything gentler. There's a part of him that ignites possessively, that wonders how many people have seen Buck like this, open and unguarded and entirely theirs in the space between them. It isn't clean. It isn't selfless. It's want. Want, and the overwhelming certainty that it matters more than he knows how to say.

Air fills his lungs, burning, and he's close enough to still feel Buck there, still anchored around him, and he lets that feeling exist without forcing it away. It doesn't scare him the way it might have a few weeks ago. It doesn't make him step back. It keeps him there. With Buck. Exactly where he wants to be.

"Oh my god," Buck huffs, chuckling, tipping his head back against the wall.

"Did you come because I did?"

Nodding, Buck pants, "What can I say? You drive me crazy."

"That was so hot," Eddie whispers around a soft laugh, pressing a soft kiss to Buck's cheek before pulling back to look at him properly. Their faces stay close, close enough that Eddie can see everything. The damp sheen on Buck's skin, the uneven pull of his breath, the way his eyes stay wide, blown out but still the same clear blue. His lips red and swollen, parted, catching the light. Even the mark over his eyebrow is deeper now. All of it draws Eddie in without effort. His hand lifts, softer now, fingertips tracing along Buck's cheek with care, mapping each line as though he needs to keep it, as though forgetting isn't an option. And Buck just looks at him, gaze fixed and it feels too big to hold, like Eddie is the only thing that exists, like he's been placed somewhere impossibly high, and Eddie stays there, close enough to share the same breath, taking it all in and not looking away. "But now I want to fuck you right." A beat. Then, "Or you can fuck me, I'm not fussy."

Buck preens, tilting his head with a smile so bashful it would put Flower from Bambi to shame, the sight buckling Eddie's knees. Or maybe it's the fact he's still coming down from his orgasm. Either way, Buck makes him feel weak in the legs, like he can barely hold himself upright. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

We spend so much time in our culture drawing very strict, heavy, arbitrary lines between the concept of a best friend and a romantic partner. We put them in completely different sociological boxes with different rules. But what if the most profound, explosive, and enduring romances aren't the ones that are born with a manufactured spark across a crowded room? What if the greatest romances are simply friendships that finally ran out of excuses to stay polite?