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It’s terrible timing, really.
The bulb in Eddie’s closet died the night before with a stuttered fzzt-clink, which sounded a lot like fuck-you, and plunged him into partial darkness while he was half-bent and mid-rummage for his sleep shorts. Which was fine. Eddie is, if nothing else, a man of contingencies. He had a spare—multiple spare bulbs, in fact—a professionally stocked toolbox, and a perfectly good flashlight in the kitchen drawer.
His truck, meanwhile, was at the shop for an HVAC repair—which, again, was fine. Buck had all but vaulted at the opportunity to appoint himself as Eddie’s personal chauffeur, ferrying Eddie to and from work and even waking up at ungodly hours on his days off to drive all the way to 4995 S. Bedford, then drive Christopher to school, then circle back again to drop Eddie off, before doing the exact same routine the very next day. And the next. And the next.
Buck smiles and waves it off every time Eddie protests—truth be told, the protests were mostly half-hearted; Eddie quite enjoyed starting his mornings with Buck greeting him at the door, then lounging in the passenger seat like a cat in the sun while his ears found comfort in the steady stream of conversation between Buck and Chris, and then just from Buck on the drive back.
“I want to,” Buck always says in the face of Eddie’s protests, bright-eyed despite the dark shadows beneath them. “Besides, I get plenty of sleep.”
The statement would perhaps have been more convincing had it not been interrupted, on several occasions, by yawns so massive they nearly dislocated his jaw. Eddie’s a better man than pointing it out though, grateful for the undeserved sacrifice, and so compensates in the only currency he knows Buck will accept: breakfast, just the two of them, at their favorite hole-in-the-wall on the way back from school drop-off.
Then there was Shane next door, a man so permanently indebted to Eddie’s past mechanical help and exorbitant repair-fee rescues—of which there are surprisingly many, given Eddie barely sees him using the car—that he may as well hand over the spare keys to his Corvette with the amount of times he says, “I’m serious, Eddie, anytime you wanna take her for a spin, just say the word.” Eddie appreciates the sincerity of the offer; Shane certainly ranks higher up on his list of accommodating, well-meaning neighbors than the now-incarcerated Jim.
There was also Marta across the street, whose revolving door of romances left in its wake a curious surplus of objects she neither required nor remembered acquiring, but was more than happy to offer either way. A lug wrench, once, after one of Eddie’s tires mysteriously flattened overnight while sitting parked in his driveway—Marta, notably an Uber-holic of sorts, did not own a car, but she had very helpfully knocked on his door to give him a heads-up, with an enthusiastic follow-up offer to lend him her tools, and oh, while he was there, did he want some coffee and a fresh pastry? A grill brush, another time, coinciding precisely with Eddie unloading a brand-new grill from his truck—Marta, again, did not own a grill, but she did possess a thousand-megawatt smile. Eddie really was so blessed to have such friendly neighbors.
Point is, these were all isolated incidents-slash-observations, harmless in their singularities, right up until the flashlight that’s presently clenched between his teeth starts flickering.
His neck is tipped at an angle that would alarm even a chiropractor, jaw aching faintly as he tries to keep the beam trained on the light fixture while also, inconveniently, needing to see what his hands are doing. The beam flickers again, and as all living things and one unreliable flashlight does, it dies. Far too young, if you ask Eddie.
He swaps out the batteries for new ones, swaps those out for another pair of new ones just in case, and swaps those out for yet another fresh pair just to super-positively-triple-check, and all the while, the flashlight remains, dead, dead, and yep—dead.
So it’s terrible timing that his closet light is out, his flashlight is a lost cause, he doesn’t have a truck to get to the hardware store. Shane’s used his car to take Marta on a date—which, and he cannot stress this enough, is fine. Shane’s allowed to date who he wants, and Marta’s an amazing woman, and Eddie is surprised they’d never crossed paths until Marta wandered over to Shane’s driveway searching for Eddie and found him, sweaty and hunched over the popped hood of Shane’s car, oil-stained t-shirt clinging uncomfortably as he diagnosed the problem. They clicked instantly, Eddie slinking away mid-sentence with a dimpled grin, and, well— the rest was history. He’s beyond happy they found each other, if not for the fact that now Eddie can’t knock on either front door to bother them for a flashlight. And that leaves—
“Buck,” Eddie says as soon as the line clicks open, preempting even the possibility of a greeting.
“Eddie,” Buck returns in a near-identical tone. There’s the murmur of voices in the background: the TV, most likely one of his sitcoms, his reward of choice once the day’s mandatory errands have been checked off his list. Or, y’know— a distraction from them. It’s fifty-fifty.
“Hey, man, listen— You doin’ anything today?”
Buck hums, drawn out in a way that suggests he’s not really thinking so much as nudging the vague plans around in his head to give Eddie the answer he wants. And Eddie, for all his better instincts, is not about to object when Buck says, “Nope. What’s up? You, uh, wanna do something?”
“Not... exactly. Or, I guess, yes? I was trying to—” He shakes his head; the long-winded saga of the faulty machinery scourge can wait ‘til Buck’s here. “Not important. You have a flashlight, right?”
“Wh— uh,” Buck stutters, followed by what sounds like a thick swallow. The TV is still blasting in the background, but it sounds like it got turned down a bit. Maybe he’s imagining things. “Ye-yeah, I have one. Why do you…?”
“Mine crapped out on me,” Eddie quickly adds, and modestly does not grumble and say, right in the middle of using it. “I was gonna ask if I could get a ride to buy a new one. Then figured instead of doing all that, I could just borrow yours instead? Leave the purchase for another day. Not in the mood for any of that research right now, anyway.”
Someone exclaims in the background, but Buck’s voice cuts through louder when he asks, “You… you want to borrow my…?”
“Flashlight,” Eddie supplies with patient emphasis. It is not, strictly speaking, a leap of faith to assume Buck of all people would have one, but he did move recently, so— who knows what’s still lost in Packed Box Limbo. “Please tell me you have one I can use.”
“I…” there’s a lengthy pause on the other end, Buck’s voice weak and tapering off at the end. “Y-Yeah, okay.”
“Great!” He’s already moving, drifting out of the bedroom to tidy up a little before Buck arrives. He left a mess of tools spread out on the dining room table in his efforts to conquer the light fixture. It’s his house, okay? “So I can use it? Honestly, it won’t even take that long. Might even be quicker with your help.”
There’s a lull, some rustling, and then the noises click off. Sitcom officially turned off or muted, Buck’s voice now comes through the line crystal clear. “You want… my help?”
“Sure, why not? You’re handy, aren’t you?”
“Shit,” he hears Buck curse, low enough that he only catches the initial sh, but he can fill the blank. “Eddie, you’re serious?”
Eddie frowns. Why is he being such a weirdo about this? Buck has helped him around the house before. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
There’s a heavy pause, palpable over the phone even in an otherwise empty room. Eddie impatiently lifts his brows and waits for a response, looking around like there’s an invisible audience waiting, too. “Right,” Buck finally says, distant and almost curt. “Yeah. Yeah, I can, um, give you a hand. Just let me— I need to clean it first, and then I’ll head over. To, uh. Help you.”
“Clean it?” Eddie repeats, brows knitting further in mild confusion as he moves through the dining area. He swipes his abandoned mug from the table, carrying it with him to the kitchen. “You don’t have to do all that. It’s just me. Not like I’m fussy about your stuff.”
He places the mug in the sink and catches sight of the empty drying rack— courtesy of Buck, who was stubbornly adamant about putting everything away after dinner last night, neat freak that he is— and adds with a smile, “And hey, promise I’ll wipe it down for ya when I’m done.”
Buck is uncharacteristically quiet, save for a small, strangled sound that escapes. Eddie turns, idly, and his gaze lands on the scatter of batteries strewn across the kitchen island—casualties of his earlier, ill-fated resurrection attempts. He should probably pick up one of those battery testers while he’s at it.
He knows he doesn’t need to bargain; Buck has already agreed. Still, habit, or perhaps Eddie’s fondness for a theatrical sweet treat, nudges him into adding, “How ‘bout I throw in some batteries, hm? Sweeten the pot.”
“That’s,” Buck starts, clears his throat, and restarts, “That’s not— That’s okay. Mine’s, uh, corded. All— all charged up.”
That makes Eddie pause. He had not, until this moment, entertained the possibility of a flashlight that requires a wall socket—counterproductively designed to illuminate the absence of electricity by, what, relying on electricity? It’s a frankly ridiculous purchase, so of course Buck owns one. Buck and absurdity go hand in hand like cookies and milk.
“Didn’t know they sell those,” Eddie comments, masking his judgment with something politely neutral.
“Yeah, um. They do. Don’t have to worry about batteries, I guess.”
Eddie can’t help but snort. “Tell me about it.” He nudges one of the dead batteries with a fingertip, and it rolls in a lazy circle. Modesty goes out the window; he’s complaining about this, actually. “Mine just died on me in the middle of it. Not exactly ideal timing.”
“Wait,” Buck says, suddenly alert. “You were… just now? Y-you didn’t, uh— did you finish?”
“No,” Eddie sighs, letting the word drag a little for emphasis, for melodramatic effect. “And I really need to. So, you gonna get over here, or should I call someone else?”
“No! No, I-I’m coming,” Buck rushes out, the words tripping over themselves in their haste. “Just—give me twenty.”
“‘Kay,” Eddie grins. “Thanks, bud. Promise I’ll make it worth your time.”
In the time that it takes Buck to arrive, Eddie busies himself with the last few bits of tidying. There isn’t much to do apart from nudging a few stray things to their rightful places: Christopher’s shoes back to the rack, iPad returned to the coffee table, batteries corralled into a case for Buck. He even folds the throw blanket and drapes it over the armchair, despite the fact that neither he nor Buck nor Chris have ever treated that blanket with anything remotely approaching respect.
Eddie knows he doesn’t need to tidy; Buck has seen this house in every shade of disarray, from the aftermath of school projects and celebratory evenings to breakdowns that led to a baseball bat through drywall. Buck has been here for all of it. Sleeves metaphorically rolled, Buck has always helped with Eddie’s mess. But there are times, seldomly, when it feels like Buck does it simply because he thinks he needs to earn his keep. There’s only so many times Eddie can attempt to drill I want you here, I like you here, you don’t owe me anything to be here into Buck’s thick head before he runs out of drill bits. So Eddie resorts to removing what temptations he can, sparing Buck from that nagging compulsion to prove he belongs here. There’s nothing he needs to contribute other than himself.
He’s smoothing the last reluctant wrinkles from his military-neat bedsheet when the familiar rumble of Buck’s truck rolls up the driveway. Buck is already walking up by the time Eddie reaches the door. He pulls it open to greet his guest, leaning one shoulder into the frame, arms loosely folded, watching the approach as an amused audience of one.
Buck, for reasons known only to himself, is carrying what must be the flashlight in a paper bag, clutched tight between both hands as if it's contraband. His shoulders are tight, chest puffed like he took a deep breath and is holding on to it, fearing release. Buck’s eyes are wide when they skim Eddie down in a quick, furtive gesture, lingering briefly on the basketball shorts, before they snap back up to meet Eddie’s eyes.
“Hey.”
The smile that follows is a little tentative, a little awkward, like Buck isn’t entirely sure what expression he’s meant to be wearing. He looks kind of like an alien wearing a skin suit.
“Hey,” Eddie repeats, helpless to smile at the frazzled picture Buck presents. He can’t help himself. It’s just so endearing sometimes.
The smile soon enough twists into one of confusion when Buck just seems to… stand there, hovering in the doorway. Which is beyond strange, because on any other day Buck treats the threshold of Eddie’s house like a minor suggestion—barging in with groceries, coffees, dry cleaning, unexpected but not unwanted pastries, and perhaps Eddie’s favorite, all of Buck’s half-formed thoughts and ideas. Buck inhabits the space with the confidence of a man who has never once questioned his place here, more at home within Eddie’s four walls than Buck’s own. Or at least, Eddie likes to think so.
“You coming in?” Eddie asks, shifting back and angling his shoulder to widen the doorway.
“Right,” Buck says, suddenly remembering the basic mechanics of forward motion, then remembering he’s just as capable of it. “Coming in.”
He crosses the threshold, though not quite with Eddie—more like around him, deliberate in the distance he keeps as he toes his shoes off. The living room gets a thorough, almost anxious inspection as Buck’s gaze sweeps past; it snags briefly on the neatly folded throw blanket, which, ha—Eddie’s got him beat.
Eddie watches in mounting levels of amusement as Buck’s attention slides down the hallway toward Christopher’s room, lingering there as though hoping he might materialize and rescue Buck from whatever bizarre internal crisis is currently unfolding. Then, finally, almost reluctantly, his gaze drifts back to Eddie.
Or rather, toward the general vicinity of Eddie’s left shoulder.
There are limits to this specific genre of avoidance, however. Experience has taught them both that much. Eventually Eddie tilts his head slightly, patient and expectant, until Buck caves and meets his eyes properly.
“Chris…?” Buck ventures, the question trailing off.
“He’s at the movies,” Eddie says. Then, checking his watch, amends, “Well— he’s at Nick’s now, but they should be heading out soon.” He looks back up and adds, “Can’t risk missing the beginning,” which is emphasized with a pointed finger and a look to match.
Buck winces on instinct.
Years ago—due to an unfortunate combination of misplaced keys and miscalculated traffic—they had, despite Buck’s optimistic faith in lengthy trailers and advertisements, missed the opening of Dune. Safe to say, Eddie had not forgiven easily. Not even in the face of Buck’s apologetic glances or the conciliatory mountain of buttery popcorn and cherry-flavored licorice he’d ducked out to procure. Though, in fairness, the latter had helped.
“Right,” Buck says, still holding onto the bag for dear life.
Eddie dismisses his own pointed finger with a flick of his wrist. “Anyway, Chris won’t be back till later, and I’ve got the day to myself, so I figured why not seize the opportunity?”
“Yeah, that’s—” Buck falters, a strange little flicker crossing his face, quick as the spark before a struck match. “Yeah. Um, good. Carpe diem, right?”
“Exactly,” Eddie says, already turning down the hall. “Come on then. Sooner we get this done, sooner we can earn a couple of cold beers. Seriously, man, I can’t thank you enough. Thought for sure I’d have to pick this back up another day, and you know I hate leaving things halfway.”
He’s talking as he walks, words drifting easily over his shoulder, but he only makes it a few steps before the silence behind him registers. Well, not silence exactly, but the absence of a familiar gait thumping against the hardwood floor no matter how inconspicuous it always tries to be. Eddie pauses, glances back— only to see Buck still rooted to his spot, paper bag clutched close to his chest.
Eddie lifts his brows, then spreads his hands in a loose, incredulous, well? You coming?
“Right,” Buck jolts, head and body shaken out of its stupor, and steps forward. “Sorry.”
Eddie’s a few paces ahead of Buck, first to step into his room and stop before the open closet. He pivots just as Buck turns the corner, hovering just beyond the threshold, eyes darting between Eddie and the bed in repeated movements of what can only be categorized as nervous.
That, more than anything else so far, is what finally tips Eddie off.
Between his series of unfortunate events—shorted lightbulb, dead flashlight, a comedy of logistical failures—and the sheer relief of Buck arriving to save the day like a knight with shining flashlight, Eddie had mistaken the weirdness for Buck’s usual eccentricity. The thing about Buck is he’s perpetually a little squirrelly; he buzzes with energy and carries secrets for all of five minutes before a lull in the conversation has him spilling them all over Eddie’s kitchen. Eddie had simply assumed this was more of the same, that he could patiently wait Buck out before he finally got his explanation.
Now, he’s not so sure.
“Hey,” Eddie says gently. Buck’s eyes snap to him at a speed so alarming it does nothing to quell Eddie’s concern. “You okay?”
“Uh, yeah. Fine. Why?” The words fire out from Buck’s mouth in quick succession, all four syllables meshed together to sound like a lavish French delicacy.
Eddie bursts with a short laugh, “Yeah, real convincing.” He lowers his chin, raises his brows, and shoots a meaningful look. Buck swallows, instantly identifying the expression as one of many in Eddie’s arsenal. Christopher, unfortunately, is growing immune to it as he grows up, but Buck always, always folds within seconds. “You wanna talk about it?”
Buck’s eyes, if it were even possible, blow wider. “Talk about—? What, no. That’s fine. I’m good. Not that I’m good at— I mean, I am but— I-I know what to do. We should um…” He gives the paper bag a single shake. “...start.”
“Okay,” Eddie allows for now. If there’s one thing Eddie has absolute confidence in, it’s his ability to eventually coax the truth out of Buck. Eight years of friendship has turned it into a perfected art form. Well— if he’s being honest, Eddie had the fundamentals mastered within the first few weeks: chin ducked just enough to peer up at him, steady eye contact, a firm, open hand on Buck’s shoulder or bicep, and a generous amount of patience until Buck inevitably freed whatever was rattling around inside him. He seems to like that reassurance. “We’ll talk about it after, then.”
Buck nods slowly. Keeping his tone oddly neutral, he says, “If… that’s what you want.”
“I want,” Eddie confirms, then beckons Buck closer. “Okay, let’s see what we’re working with.”
Some of Buck’s hesitation clears. Not entirely, but enough that he crosses the remaining distance without dragging his feet. His gaze stays pinned determinedly somewhere around Eddie’s sternum. The second he’s close enough, Eddie hooks a finger into a lip of the paper bag and pulls it open.
Inside is—
Well.
If Eddie hadn’t already known it was a flashlight, he’s not entirely sure he would’ve guessed correctly on the first try. The thing is swaddled in enough bubble wrap to survive atmospheric reentry, which is not an entirely surprising result from someone who wraps Christmas presents with layers upon layers of aggressive thoroughness. Part of the fun is in the two hours spent unwrapping, as they say.
Through the translucent plastic, Eddie can make out a dark handle; the barrel is longer and thicker than what Eddie’s used to wielding. It’s big. Bigger than any flashlight has legitimate reason to be, really.
Thing is, Eddie is extremely familiar with Buck’s spending habits: overpriced sweaters that should realistically only be a third of the price, his twenty-or-so New Balances to color-coordinate said overpriced sweaters, imported fruits that have no business being that pricey, and now this; a military grade flashlight that probably moonlights as a weapon of fatal blunt force trauma. Always good to be prepared, Eddie supposes.
Eddie glances up slowly, one eyebrow cocked. “Bit big, don’t you think?”
“Wha—?” Buck blinks around a sputter. “I’m, uh. Well, it needs to-to fit. And I’m—y’know.” He gestures awkwardly at himself. “Big. So…”
Eddie snorts, shakes his head softly. “Okay, big guy.”
He pats Buck’s arm, partly affectionate, partly to calm Buck’s nerves before he works himself up into a full-fledged short circuit. Beneath his palm Buck feels absurdly tense, muscles wound tight as piano wire. He’d make a joke about how Buck is acting like he’s marching Eddie towards a firing squad instead of helping repair a dead wire, but he doesn’t think it’s going to ease Buck's tension much. He’ll wait until after.
Smiling faintly to himself, Eddie steps into the closet and leaves Buck to wrestle with the packaging. Eddie suspects he’d have better odds cracking a Japanese puzzle box than whatever industrial-strength wrapping job Buck has engineered here.
Behind him comes the rustle of paper and the squeak-pop of bubble wrap protesting as Buck fishes it out of the bag. Eddie is just setting one foot onto the chair he set up beneath the dead light fixture when Buck suddenly says, alarmed:
“Wait—you mean in here?”
Eddie twists around, neck frozen in place as his eyes dart back and forth between the broken light fixture and Buck’s nervously wringing hands. “Uh, yeah?” he says, bewilderment drawing out the vowels. It’s not like he chose where to install the faulty wiring. He’s actually being a model renter by taking care of it himself, if you think about it. “Where else?”
“Well, I mean…” Buck glances into the closet, then the bed—which for some reason, he’s looked at an awful lot the past few minutes—and back to the closet again. “It’s not exactly comfortable, is it?”
“Hey,” Eddie frowns in mock offense to the criticism, seeing as the closet was very much his own handiwork. “It’s not that bad in here.”
“No, I didn’t— Obviously, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“I know, Buck, I’m just kidding,” Eddie cuts in with a fond eye roll, even though Buck doesn’t look all that convinced. “Look, don’t worry, we’ll be quick,” Eddie assures, finally climbing onto the chair.
From his elevated vantage point he can see the crown of Buck’s head bent dutifully over the flashlight. Buck’s holding it by the curved base now, the heavy end angled downward while his blunt fingernails work uselessly at a stubborn strip of tape.
“Need a hand?” Eddie asks, unable to wipe the smile off his face.
“No,” Buck mutters without looking up, picking harder now, surely having heard the tease in Eddie’s question. “I got it.”
And, eventually, he does. The tape gives in with a little snick, and Buck immediately sets upon the bubble wrap, unwinding it layer by layer in slow, laborious rotations. Once. Twice. Three times—Jesus Christ. Come the fourth unravelling, Eddie begins to suspect the tool may have been smuggled internationally. The black flashlight is finally revealed in full on the sixth rotation.
“You ready?” Eddie asks.
Buck looks up, meets Eddie’s eyes, and takes a breath so deep Eddie sees the rise of it stretch through his chest, filling out his t-shirt. Something settles into place behind his expression as he exhales, almost resembling self-assurance. For the first time since Buck walked in, he doesn’t look nervous.
“Yeah,” Buck says, determined. “Ready.”
Eddie reaches up towards the top shelf, fingers brushing past loose screws and spare nails until he finds the pliers he’d abandoned beside the replacement bulb. “Alright,” he says, turning back toward the fixture overhead. “Let’s do this.”
“‘Kay,” Buck answers quietly.
At first, Eddie barely registers it; it’s a ghost of a sensation, a faint loosening at Eddie’s waist. And then he does register it, the subtle release of tension as a drawstring is tugged free from its knot.
Eddie glances down.
Time, as far as famous phrases and one song goes, stands still. He watches then, in painstakingly slow motion, as Buck releases the aglet pinched between thumb and forefinger, watches his drawstrings flop down free of its noose, falling limply against Eddie’s shorts. Buck’s hands—free of the flashlight, but Eddie can vaguely make out the shape of it poking out from where it’s clenched beneath his left armpit—rise to the elastic waistband, thumbs poised to hook into—
Eddie jerks back. The movement of his hips ripple through his entire body, down to the uneven chair. His arms fly out instinctively, scrambling for balance as the chair wobbles with a little rock beneath his feet. For one vertiginous second, he’s certain he’s about to crack his skull open in the world’s most humiliating domestic accident. Eddie Diaz: Firefighter, father, fumbling floundering fool.
He doesn’t have to worry about his balance, as it turns out, because the hands that were previously en-route to pull Eddie’s shorts down—if Eddie’s right in that theory, that is—have now settled firmly against the exposed strip of skin at his waist, holding him in place, wobbly chair be damned.
“Jesus, Buck,” Eddie gasps. Buck is staring straight ahead, seemingly transfixed by the placement of his hands where they curve around Eddie’s waist. He looks shaken by the contact himself, frozen so completely that for one absurd moment Eddie imagines him preserved forever like this in amber: broad-shouldered, wide-eyed, palm splayed against Eddie’s bare skin. Will that glitter in his eyes be preserved, too?
Those hands— Eddie knows Buck’s hands. Knows them perhaps better than he has any business knowing another man’s hands. Knows that they are as strong as they are soft; it’s fairly impressive given their sixty-hours-a week day job that involves handling coarse rope, scaling ladders and dragging people bodily from catastrophe. Often, those hands return home nicked and bruised and reddened by friction, and yet—soft. Buck has a ridiculous dedication towards keeping them that way, maintaining them with a level of devotion people usually reserve for a beloved vintage car.
He’ll forget a haircut for weeks, letting his curls run wild and loose, wander around half scruffy and unevenly shaven, but never does he skip whatever elaborate hand-care ritual that keeps his palms supple as a baby’s. Eddie has seen the lineup of moisturizers crowding Buck’s bathroom sink, the exfoliating scrubs, the tiny bottle of cuticle oil that looked ayurvedic and cost, according to Buck, “way too much, honestly,” which, to Eddie, means it goes right in the sweaters-New Balances-exotic fruits categorization.
Those hands once cradled Christopher, and now they fuss endlessly over Jee and baby Nash, stroking delicate heads and brushing crumbs from chubby cheeks. And Eddie too has felt them before, of course. Their friendship permits touch by way of a clasped hand, fingers around his arm, on his shoulder, rubbing the back of Eddie’s neck that one time, and his calves when Eddie bitches about sore muscles post-leg day and Buck insists on a massage.
But he’s never had them on his waist. Never against this vulnerable sliver of skin that’s lighting up under Buck’s touch like a live wire. Every point of contact feels magnified: the broad spread of Buck’s palms, the contrast of thick fingers against Eddie’s narrower frame, the involuntary tightening and loosening of Buck’s grip as though he cannot decide whether to hold tighter or let go altogether. The pressure zings clean through him. Delicate. Eddie feels delicate.
Buck finally looks up, eyes wide.
The closet suddenly feels too small, too stuffy. The air presses dense and wool-thick against Eddie’s skin.
“What are you— why did you…” Eddie starts, then loses the thread, the words, loses his breath entirely. Buck’s hands on Eddie’s waist, Buck’s face far too close to the drawstring he’s just untied, and Eddie’s thoughts are a fractured mess of why’s and what’s and when’s and how’s that ricochet around his skull too quickly to catch hold of properly.
What are you doing?
Why did you untie that?
Were you trying to—
Questions pile up faster than he can blink. Questions, questions, questions that Eddie doesn’t have nearly enough breath in his lungs for, already stuffed to capacity and struggling for more.
Buck’s frowning at him, faintly puzzled, as though Eddie’s reaction is the outlying behavior here. It almost makes him want to laugh, but it would come out a little manic, he thinks. Borderline hysteria.
“Sorry, you— I thought you wanted me to start?” Buck asks, slowly, as though not to spook Eddie. Fat load of good that’s doing; Eddie’s heart feels like it could hammer hard enough to break free from his ribcage any moment now. He feels like a deer that escaped by mere inches, only to look around and realize the tall grass surrounding him is still swaying with the lion’s hidden shape.
“...Start what?” Eddie asks faintly, afraid of the answer. His arms are still twisted up above his head, braced against the walls of the narrow— now borderline claustrophobic— closet. He’s got his sights set on Buck with laser-focus now, eyes drying out at the rate he’s blinking. If he’d been paying attention, well— maybe he would’ve noticed the way Buck was staring at his crotch. The way he’s… still staring at his crotch, darting back and forth between Eddie’s eyes and his limp dick in his shorts, mouth open like he’s still working through the shock. His very— pink mouth, light catching on the smear of moisture left behind from his tongue, and oh, yeah, Buck’s eye-level with Eddie’s groin, huh? He’s at the perfect height to just lean in and…
A loud, decisive slam reverberates off the walls of Eddie’s skull, metaphorical metal screeching on concrete as he slams the bay door shut on that line of thinking. Lock it tight and throw the key in the nearest storm cellar. He blames Buck for implanting the idea in the first place, because he’s still got his hands on Eddie’s waist and he’s looking up at him like— what? Like he was going to…?
“Did… you not want me to use this…?” Buck asks, and then he’s peeling his right hand off of Eddie’s skin to reach for the flashlight under his left arm, flipping it around to show Eddie the end that was hidden.
Oh.
It is decidedly not a flashlight; plump, flesh-colored silicone overflows from the other side, the slit running through the center pointed directly at him, as though Buck is unintentionally beckoning his eyes towards it. Adrenaline spikes through his veins like the lash of a sharp whip, and as his mind scrambles to make sense of what went wrong it starts— very unhelpfully— replaying bits of their conversation with new, unfortunate clarity.
It won’t even take that long. Might even be quicker with your help. I really need to finish.
The flush that crawls up his neck from his belly feels like a five-alarm fire. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut against the shame that suffuses throughout his body, visceral and awful, and valiantly tries to shake it away. “You thought I…” he starts, fumbling for his words, stupefied beyond belief. He really feels like he’s been physically stunned, like someone slammed into his solar plexus and left him wheezing on the ground, cartoon birds circling his head while his eyes roll back. “You brought a…” a sex toy, he can’t bring himself to say, the vulgar word acidic where it remains trapped in his throat. “Because you thought I asked you to…?” to come over and jerk me off?!
Buck speaks fluent Eddie, it seems, because he can fill in the blanks where Eddie’s buffering mind is lagging behind on the whole English language concept. “Yeah,” is all he says.
Yeah. Yeah. Eddie’s tempted to mock him. He feels a little too lightheaded for that, though, so all he squeaks out is, “And you were gonna?!” Screw the lion metaphor— Eddie now feels like the predator chasing him is human, a hunter who is crying out badgering insults while he cocks a loaded gun. Eddie doesn’t have the stamina for this. He really should get down from this chair, actually.
He remains frozen in place. Stay still, and maybe he can remain hidden.
“Yeah,” Buck says, shrugging nonchalantly, and Eddie’s head is spinning. Has he stepped into an alternate dimension? He thinks he’d notice if he lived in a world where— where Buck would drop everything just to run over and— and give Eddie anything he asked for—
Oh, he thinks. Huh.
Amidst all the panic and the stuttering and the one-word answers in an attempt to make sense of the miscommunication, Eddie finally notices that they’ve forgotten perhaps the most important step: stop touching each other. Buck’s still got one warm palm on Eddie’s hip, the drag of his thumb smooth from the aforementioned expensive moisturizer, and when it gently caresses the jut of his hip bone Eddie startles back into his body. His thighs clench up, as if his muscles are bracing him for something, when he feels a little kick in his shorts, too.
Oh, god. His dick is getting hard.
It’s just the adrenaline, he thinks, shoving down the panic that’s starting to bubble up. It’s a flimsy excuse at best, but he’s never been short on those. His wires are getting crossed because they’re talking about sex, and because his body feels trapped in this musty little closet, stretching up on the balls of his feet to angle his dick away from the mouth of the toy. It’s been a while, too, over a year since Marisol, and he’s been kind of depressed, actually, so he hasn’t really made the time—
Buck blinks up at him, the fan of his eyelashes slow and heavy, morse code that only his dick can decipher. And, boy, is it deciphering it; a thrumming sensation zips up his back and leaves a hot-weird tingling in its wake, sending a shudder down that settles at the base of his spine. He tries and fails not to fidget, forgetting that Buck still has his hand on him, writhing up into the touch, and it feels so wrong and weird that it only makes the shame and the confusion burn hotter, white-hot, cranking the heat up from the inside out.
His cock throbs, once, so faint Eddie almost thinks he’s imagined it. The slowly tenting fabric at Buck’s eye-level says otherwise.
“I’m not—” he starts, unsure of how to finish the sentence. Even just thinking about how to finish the sentence makes him woozy; all the blood that should be in his brain is very obviously elsewhere.
“I know,” Buck reassures.
“I’ve never…” Eddie swallows, Buck is so close, too close— has he inched even closer?
“I know,” Buck says again. His voice has gone a bit raspy, pitched a little deeper, a little quieter— is this how he sounds with someone else? When he gets someone in a cab, two or three drinks deep, with a warm hand on their thigh? Does Eddie get the full show?
Not that he wants the full show.
“Buck,” Eddie says, his throat thick with saliva where his tongue is swelling up. He’s floundering a bit at the sudden role reversal; where Buck was once the stuttering, pearl-clutching scandalized one, Eddie has now firmly taken up the mantle. Buck is just— blinking up at him, surprisingly calm, eyeing the obscene tent of his shorts with glassy eyes.
“Yeah,” Buck rasps. The fingers of his left hand inch down, hooking into Eddie’s waistband again. Just that one small barrier between Eddie’s dignity and Buck’s eager hands and mouth. “You want me to?”
Eddie can’t breathe, despite the rapid, shallow heaving of his chest, every rough gulp of air like knives in his throat. Expensive knives, something finely honed and tempered for pinpoint precision, far too pricey— Buck’s probably got a set of those, too. God, Eddie feels faint. Did he splurge on this toy, too? Paid top dollar for the finest, smoothest, tightest silicone to shove his cock into, and then washed it in the sink and drove it over to Eddie’s house.
Fuck. He wonders when the last time Buck used it was. Weeks, collecting dust in a packed away box, unearthed at Eddie’s request? Days, freshly scrubbed and sitting in his nightstand, rolling around next to a half-empty packet of tissues and the latest issue of National Geographic? Hours— last night, or maybe even this morning, leisurely pumping his cock while the sun tickles his sleep-warm skin, flaxen eyelashes falling against rosy cheeks, face screwing up as he chases his pleasure.
Buck had said, on that tragically misunderstood phone call, that he needed to wash it, and Eddie can’t stop his brain from hooking into those words and reeling it forth: maybe Buck was in a hurry—he’d shown up quick, hadn’t he?—and maybe he wasn’t thorough. The water could’ve run quick, could’ve run careless, and maybe there’s still traces— traces of—
Arousal surges through him, tingling through blood-warm veins. His cock throbs, hips flexing up towards Buck’s slack mouth, his own face burning hot to the touch like he’s just been scalded. He feels dangerously keyed up, near trembling with anticipation, and he hasn’t even been touched yet. “Y-Yeah, okay,” he concedes, trying not to sound so desperate and off-kilter at the prospect of being touched, jolting when Buck tears his shorts and briefs down with one fell swoop.
Eddie’s cock bobs between his legs, heavy and half-hard, and Buck reaches down to start fisting it like— like it’s nothing. Like they do this all the time. It startles him again, his spine going rigid as he fucks into the tight pressure of Buck’s fist, instinct guiding his hips. His nerves feel shiny and brand-new, overly sensitive at even the most basic of touches, lighting him up like he’s been struck with like a cattle prod, but fuck, he just can’t help himself.
“Come on,” Eddie begs, his voice thin and shaky around the edges, nudging his hips up with shallow, insistent little pumps. He’s filling out Buck’s fist now, blood aching and throbbing between his legs, fingers curling and blunt nails digging into the paint on the walls. He hopes he doesn’t mess them up too badly, but he wonders; will someone notice them one day? Fine lines etched into neat paint, perfectly spaced.
“I got you,” Buck says, low and husky, and then he’s squeezing the o-shape of his fist just right around the spongy head of his cock. “You got any lube?”
His tongue drags over his teeth, the roof of his mouth, saliva sticky-sweet where it clings like syrup to every crevasse of flesh. “I— ah— no, I don’t,” Eddie manages, brows pinching together when Buck’s thumbnail digs in right under the tip. He’d had half a bottle, maybe, months ago, but decided to toss it during the move— he wasn’t sure how old it was, anyway, and the memory of who he’d used it with dredged up a whole slew of emotions he honestly didn’t want to deal with. He hadn’t bothered to replace it.
“You jerk off dry?” Buck scoffs, lips quirking up at the corners like he finds it terribly amusing. “Shoulda guessed.”
“Hey,” Eddie says, ready to defend himself— he mostly jerks off in the shower, really, and also he had a nosy teenager, and isn’t lotion or body gel good enough anyway?— and then Buck twists his lips and spits down onto Eddie’s cock without any fanfare, one thick glob that lands on the head with a vulgar splat.
“Fuck,” Eddie garbles, staring down at the mess with wide, fever-bright eyes. It almost slides right off onto the floor, but Buck catches it before it can escape, smoothing his fist over the glob and smearing the wetness around. It’s a devastating image that his mind etches onto the back of his eyelids, Buck’s wet mouth gaping at Eddie’s wetter cock, and then he’s lifting his hand off completely to hold it cupped under Eddie’s chin.
“Spit,” he commands, and Eddie listens.
It’s not a hard task to conjure up saliva, seeing as it’s practically running in rivulets from the corners of his mouth, but it feels particularly vulgar to gather it up like this, thick and wet on his tongue before it splatters into Buck’s palm. “Again,” Buck says, and Eddie clumsily gathers up more, sloppy and foamy where it coalesces with the rest of the mess, clinging to his lips with one thick, wet string. It snaps against his chin when Buck moves his hand back down to get him even wetter, and Eddie tilts his head back and lets his brain and his body go fuzzy with the heat. God, it really has been way, way too long since he’s been touched with any level of care.
“Mm,” Buck hums, a pulsating vibrato that sends sparks through his guts, buzzing at his own ears, guttural and almost sleazy. He’s one earth-shattering second away from begging Buck for the toy when Buck lifts it up of his own accord, tonguing the slit and spitting down into the opening, and the flash of his pink tongue almost topples Eddie over completely. Buck moans, lapping at the fake lips and sucking the flesh into his mouth, wet tongue lathering up the silicone with gooey saliva. It’s like a sense-memory, almost; a Pavlovian response to smearing his mouth over a soft cunt, fucking it open with his tongue while he lets the drool slip down into the toy. Eddie’s stomach tightens at the sight, at Buck savoring what must be the wretched overly-fake taste of plastic, the obscene slurping sounds making everything inside of him spark like dead wood in a forest fire.
“Please,” Eddie begs, hips fucking up into nothing, and Buck grins up at him with glassy eyes and his tongue stuffed down into the sleeve. He hocks up one last mouthful into the toy before finally, finally, inching the now-wet opening towards Eddie’s cock, and—
Fuck. Eddie sighs, full-bodied, slumping forward into the feeling. He’s muttering it out loud, he’s pretty sure, over and over, but it’s hard to keep anything straight when he’s so overwhelmed with sensation. Soft, sticky silicone drapes itself over the head of his aching cock, inch by agonizing inch, and Eddie’s mouth parts open, dumbstruck by the sensations. His head falls forward to rest against his forearm, still braced against the wall where he’s holding himself up and panting. The air feels properly hot and stagnant now in that crowded little closet, a light dewy sheen slicking up his forehead and his armpits and the divot at his lower back. He suspects he’s generating most of the heat himself, his own head-to-toe flush acting as a radiator, his own breath coming back at him warm.
“Jesus,” he mutters, strained, when the mouth of the toy hits the hilt of his cock. Buck’s left hand remains firmly at his hip, his blunt fingertips dipping lower and lower until they just barely brush at the swell of his ass. “Jesus Christ, Buck.”
Buck nods dumbly up at him, his eyes still lit up with a sparkling gleam, wet mouth hanging open. “Yeah,” he breathes. Buck’s hand moves then, pulling back the toy and fucking it back down again with a faint squelch, working it smoothly over Eddie’s cock. “You like it? You ever used one before?”
Buck builds up a steady rhythm, his biceps bunching with the movement under that ridiculously tight t-shirt— god, does he own any shirts in the right size? It clings to him like it was molded directly to his skin, arms massive and holding Eddie’s body steady while he wrings the pleasure out of him like he knows exactly how Eddie ticks. Eddie’s eyelids flutter, eyes pinching shut against the onslaught of pleasure, static rumbling loud and fuzzy between his ears.
“No,” he manages to bite out, hissing between his teeth when Buck pulls the toy back to fuck over just the head, sensitive tip catching on the flaps of loose, silky silicone. His hips flex, seeking out the sensation, jaw dropping at the way the wet head rubs against the walls of the toy. It sends a dirty little thrill up his spine that makes his teeth ache, biting down on nothing and making his jaw pulse. Every pump makes the pressure kick up higher where it’s building in his thighs and his fluttering stomach, sore now at the helpless, instinctual clenching of his muscles. Buck’s fingers tighten on his hip, bruising the thin layer of skin that covers the bone, slowly bringing his movements to a halt, and Eddie bites down a whine at the cruelty. His whole body feels like one big, desperate throb.
“Wha— what’s—” Eddie gasps, fighting to get the words out. His lungs ache at how overinflated they feel, unable to catch his breath, unable to get out anything multisyllabic. His upper lip is wet with sweat; he swipes it away with his tongue and gulps, salt melting at the back of his throat. His hips flex beneath Buck’s fingers again, brainless, seeking a friction that Buck has not taken away so much as simply ceased to give. Buck’s vise-like grip keeps Eddie locked in place. “Why’d you— why’d you stop?”
Buck blinks up at him, slow and syrupy. His mouth is a perpetually open cavern, pink tongue resting against perfect white teeth. A tableau impossible to look away from. “Take what you want, Eddie,” Buck says, and then he’s digging his thumb into Eddie’s hip bone and encouraging his hips forward into the toy. Eddie’s head spins. “Use it. Use me.”
Eddie groans, fucked-out and overwhelmed. He swivels his hips forward in tight little circles, burying himself into the toy at Buck’s behest, picking up the pace when Buck nods approvingly and rasps, “atta boy.”
His mind clouds over with a hazy miasma, every thought and sensation like smeared watercolors on canvas. He fucks into the wet clutch that Buck holds still for him, still messy with their spit, and watches with unblinking eyes the way he buries his cock to the hilt over and over. It’s the kind of debauchery he doesn’t usually permit during sex, only allowing stolen glances or the occasional whispered promise of filth, too self-conscious to really let go. Eddie finds he doesn’t have that problem now; his gaze is glued down at the messy wet slosh of silicone, the blood-red flush of his cock that crawls down from the head the more he pumps his hips, the spit and sweat-soaked tangle of hair at the base that makes contact with the slit. It’s caught between that and the visage of Buck below him, staring up at Eddie like he’s something holy, something to revere, his full, plush chest heaving in that too-small shirt—
And that mouth. Lord almighty, that fucking mouth. Buck keeps licking over it and re-wetting his lower lip, bitten pink and showing off his restless tongue, thick and wet where it’s running over his teeth. It’s easy for Eddie’s sexdrunk mind to get all his wires crossed, and every mindless roll of his hips melts into a new canvas of watercolors, of Buck holding his body still and his mouth open while Eddie slips his sticky cock into that damp, fluttering throat—
He falls forward, suddenly unstable as his knees buckle, the chair rocking beneath his feet. Eddie manages not to topple over thanks to the wall his arm is braced on and the tight grip of Buck’s hand, tighter when Eddie had started to wobble, impossibly closer as if he were going to catch Eddie with the bulk of his body. His heart rate jacks up dangerously at the spike of adrenaline, and it makes the heat coil up tight where it rests in his lower belly.
“Whoa—” “I’ve got you,” they both exclaim at the same time, chests heaving in unison in the aftermath of the almost-fall. Strands of his hair brush over his forehead where they’ve been shaken loose when Eddie looks down at Buck. He gathers every evidence of arousal displayed there: the beads of sweat over Buck’s forehead, the stain of his increasingly purpling birthmark, the dark bloom of his pupils in the dim light, lips parted and flushed—and the heat surges upward through him like something molten. An urgent little noise escapes from the back of his throat.
“Buck,” Eddie pleads, not knowing what exactly he’s pleading for, blitzed out of his mind at the heat burning up his brain between his ears.
“C’mere,” Buck says, pulling the toy off of Eddie’s cock, groaning at the way it kicks in the air. The fleshlight gets tucked away into the pocket of his sweats, handle-first, the wet silicone mouth of it jutting obscenely from the seams. Buck steps back and holds out both hands for Eddie to help ease him down, and Eddie is beyond grateful for the help, dizzy and unsteady as he steps down onto the floor and kicks the tangle of his shorts away. Eddie’s hands languidly drag up to feel at Buck’s biceps, stomach tightening at the way Buck’s arms flex beneath his palms, a wall of sturdy muscle beneath a soft dusting of hair. Their difference in size isn’t usually that noticeable, honestly, but like this— Eddie weakly hunched over, shivering from the heat in his gut, Buck standing tall with his biceps flexed and his firm grip on Eddie’s hips— it feels like Buck is towering over him. It feels like he could completely eclipse Eddie.
“Buck,” he says again, like it’s the only word he knows, and his eyes dart down to that soft, pink mouth. A needle to north, a moth to a flame.
“Let’s sit you down,” Buck says, backing up towards Eddie’s bed, guiding him with those steady hands. Eddie follows him like he’s caught in his orbit, and when Buck’s knees hit the mattress he falls down onto the bed with a slight bounce, inching back to lay more firmly in the middle. “C’mere,” he encourages again, gesturing him closer with his hands, spreading his thighs just enough to create the perfect seat for Eddie to sit on. And what a perfect seat it is; Eddie crawls up the bed and straddles Buck’s lap in a haze, bare ass firmly and comfortably settling over thick, muscled thighs.
“Jesus,” Buck is the one to groan now, his plump hands finding purchase on Eddie’s thighs, his hips, the cut of his waist, restless like he doesn’t know where to settle on. He loosely pumps at Eddie’s cock once, twice, three times, and Eddie’s weight tips forward to rest his hands on Buck’s torso, hips jerking helplessly into the touch. Buck’s thumb digs in just under the head, rubbing at Eddie’s most sensitive spot and sending another wave of heat that shudders through his body. “You are so fucking hot, man.”
A laugh bubbles up out of Eddie’s throat, wet and bright and a little manic. Precome dribbles up out of his slit, cloudy and messy, and Buck spreads the moisture around with the pad of his thumb. “Yeah? ‘S that why you ran over here in such a rush?”
Buck huffs out a laugh too, and it melds into a soft groan when Eddie’s hands move up to caress his pecs through his shirt, puffing his chest up into the touch. “Can’t blame a guy for being eager,” he says, his voice husky and throaty. He spits into his palm again, twice, smearing it over Eddie’s twitching cock. “I was picturing you, all alone at home, aching and frustrated, and my feet just sort of moved by themselves. I’m pretty sure I teleported to your house.”
“Unbelievable,” Eddie breathes, mouth dropping open when Buck slots the mouth of the toy over Eddie’s cock again. His thighs start trembling where they’re spread around Buck’s body, knees digging inwards to tuck up into Buck’s armpits. “Fuck, ‘s so good,” he murmurs, clumsily pushing up towards the sticky-soft grip that smothers his cock. He writhes in Buck’s lap like it’s his throne, undulating his hips like the dancer that he is, pushing up into the toy and back down over the obscene shape of Buck’s cock, thick and straining in Buck’s sweats. Red hot want zaps through Eddie like— like a frayed wire, zipping up his fingertips and billowing out at the base of his spine, the phantom taste of copper where it licks at the back of his throat. He hadn’t noticed Buck’s dick in all of this, too hyper-focused on his own body and his own fever-hot ache, but now it’s all he can focus on, brainlessly fucking his hips up into the sleeve while his mouth waters. The shape of it is impossible to ignore now, solid and firm beneath him, the fabric separating them doing nothing to obscure the heat of it against Eddie’s skin. All of a sudden he really, desperately needs Buck to pull his cock out.
“Christ,” Buck mutters, eyebrows knitting together in bliss, pushing his hips up to meet the grind of Eddie’s ass. “Could come from this,” he adds quietly, moving his hand now to start fucking over Eddie’s cock with the toy, the other one reaching around to grab a shameless palmful of Eddie’s ass. The whine Eddie lets out is thin and thready, the heat spiking in his guts, building like a dam struggling to hold back the rush of the stream. “Might take a turn when you’re done.”
That mental image makes Eddie startle like he’s been shot, every muscle contracting like it’s bracing for impact; Eddie filling up the sleeve with his come, Buck scrambling to shove his sweats down, sinking his own cock in and rutting into the mess until it froths up out of the mouth, that pink tongue dipping inside to clean out their shared mess—
“Fuck,” Eddie garbles, swiveling his hips down onto the shape of Buck’s cock. “Pull it out, c’mon, bud, show me,” he begs, strung out and convulsing, words shaking where they struggle up out of his throat. He shoves one clumsy hand down between them to find where Buck’s tenting his sweats, digging the heel of his hand over the shape. “You’ve got such a big cock, then prove it.”
Buck sucks in air like he’s been struck, stomach clenching beneath his shirt, a strip of plush skin visible where it’s ridden up from Eddie’s wandering hands. Buck pulls his hand off of Eddie’s ass to grapple with the fabric between them, clumsily dislodging Eddie a bit where he’s still resting all of his weight on Buck’s lap, and then he’s pulling his thick cock out into the open air for Eddie to ogle as he pleases.
It’s big— Eddie knew this, in some abstract way, has seen glimpses of Buck soft in the showers at work and in his sweats at home, has heard every cheeky innuendo Buck has spit out when they vaguely talk around the details of their conquests with the aid of a few beers. He’s heard about his Firehose days. It’s just— seeing it in right in front of him, thick and wet and pink at the tip, resting against Buck’s stomach where he’s showing himself off, the shaft resting between his thumb and forefinger, a smug, sleazy grin stretching those pink lips—
Eddie’s throat works as he gulps, sweat trickling down his forehead and soaking into the patch of hair at his temples. He feels dumbstruck looking at it, mouth watering and confusingly, achingly empty.
“Like what you see?” Buck teases, tugging at the base. His stomach tightens at his own touch, fidgeting against the mattress where Eddie still has him pinned. Eddie’s hips shudder up into the toy, gently rutting into it where Buck’s hand has gone stationary.
He swallows again. “Yeah, bud,” he says weakly, licking over his dry lips. His mouth drops open with the force of his panting, working his hips up frantically now. “Surprised you can— nngh— you can even fit in th-this toy.”
Buck grunts, thighs flexing beneath Eddie’s body. He breathes out a soft little chuckle. “Definitely not with you in there,” he grins, moving up to pulse his fist over the head, dragging wet fingers down to cup at his full, swaying balls. “You’re not too shabby yourself.”
Eddie’s abdomen flutters, the wave cresting dangerously closer. “Not with that attitude,” he wheezes, aiming for something in the direction of lighthearted and playful, but Buck’s mouth drops open and he blinks up at Eddie and levels him with hot, glassy eyes.
“Fuck,” Buck breathes, looking down at the toy, eyes lighting up like he just received a brilliant idea. Eddie fights the urge to squirm uncontrollably as Buck reaches down with his other hand to aim their cocks together, lining his up with Eddie’s. He pulls the toy up until it’s covering just the head of Eddie’s cock, and Eddie holds his breath as Buck fumbles to get them positioned right, slipping when Eddie’s writhing knocks him away.
“Come on, come on,” Eddie babbles, reaching down to help, hands desperately fumbling over sticky, sweat-soaked skin. “I want— I want,” he says, face crumpling up in desperation and his inability to voice it, and then finally Buck sinks the mouth of the toy over them.
Fuck. Eddie cries out, thighs visible quaking as his stomach clenches restlessly. It’s too tight, silicone stretching to its limits trying to encase them both, jammed together in the soft, smothering toy. Their cocks are mashed together uncomfortably tight, wet head against wet head, and Eddie feels his stomach lurch violently when he feels Buck’s tip blurt out moisture where it’s kissing his own. They’re both panting like they’ve just run a marathon, red in the face with screwed up expressions, both sets of eyes glued down at their laps. “Buck,” Eddie groans, bordering on a whine, high-pitched and agonized. “Buck, ‘s not gonna fit, it’s gonna tear,” he gasps out, muscles contracting rhythmically.
Buck lets loose a throaty moan, shoving the toy down another inch, pleasure-slack mouth open in shock at the too-tight clutch. His eyes roll back, already overwhelmed, urgent little grunts buzzing low in his chest that betray just how close he is, which— god— he’s barely even touched himself. “‘M gonna come,” he hisses out, stomach jumping again as he squeezes his eyes shut. Eddie shoves his hips up, gasping at the way Buck’s cock lurches where it’s pressed up tight against his own. “I’m sorry, Eddie, shit, can’t hold it, feels too good, I’m coming,” he grunts, tugging the toy down frantically over their cocks.
“Me too,” Eddie nods, licking over his lips, head spinning as he tumbles towards the precipice. The pressure is building, building, building— “Me too, bud, I’m— shit— look at your— look at your thick cock fucking mine—”
Wetness gushes all around him, flooding the sleeve and overflowing the tight space, spilling down to make a mess of their pubes. Eddie is only a handful of seconds behind him, mouth parting open as he succumbs to the heat boiling in his guts, his keening cry pointed up towards the ceiling. Some of the pressure around them gives way as, inevitably, the silicone at the mouth tears open wider to accommodate their thrashing hips and lurching cocks, messy and hedonistic and oh-so-filthy as they rut through their orgasms like wild, untamed animals.
Perhaps neither of them is the hunter, after all.
Buck lets out a soft moan with every jolt of his hips, their cocks still jammed up against each other. His mess far exceeds Eddie’s, still pumping through the aftershocks long after Eddie’s have stopped, spitting out thick strings of come that drool out onto Eddie’s aching, sensitive cockhead. It sends wave after wave of electricity through his nerves, bordering on too much, a delicious bite of pleasure-pain as he writhes at the feeling, but Eddie slumps down in Buck’s lap and lets them wash over him until his limbs start to shake with the effort of holding himself up.
Buck finally collapses, pulling the toy off of them unceremoniously as he bonelessly splays out against the mattress, heaving out shuddering lungfuls of air from the effort. Eddie sucks in a breath at the way his half-hard cock falls limply against Buck’s hip, smearing his skin with come and drool and sweat that Buck seems to pay no mind to. If anything, he’s basking in the afterglow with a satisfied smugness, eyes closed while he grins up at the ceiling and caresses Eddie’s thigh.
Eddie’s elbows buckle a bit, and he slips and falls forward onto Buck’s chest, grunting out a soft oof at the landing that gets muffled into Buck’s sweat-soaked shirt. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, turning his head to the side to properly breathe, and Buck’s chest and stomach rumble with restrained laughter. He can smell Buck’s damp pits from here, ripe but not unpleasant, and he wonders what exactly that says about him and the whole heterosexuality thing.
His spent cock twitches against Buck’s hip. Well, plus there’s that, too.
Their bodies relax and cool down in increments. Soon enough, the rise and fall of Buck’s chest slows, and Eddie’s head, which had been rocked gently by it, comes to rest. His body has become an agreeable deadweight draped across Buck’s; he couldn’t move if he wanted to, and even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t. Buck radiates heat even through the thin cotton of his shirt, and there’s the firm give of him beneath it: a landscape of firm muscle softened here and there by a layer of fat Eddie could spend the rest of time cushioning his cheek upon.
His ass is cold, though. The cooling sweat there leaves in its wake an unpleasant chill that pricks goosebumps up his spine. He knows, distantly, that he should move. They should get up, should wipe themselves clean, should shower— and wouldn’t that be something? Showering together?
Not at work, not a clinical scrub down with politely averted eyes and generic LAFD-issued soap, soot and sweat and bubbles circling down the drain. A real shower in his own tub, warm and leisurely, free to look as he pleases. A fogged up mirror and the thick scent of their combined products, Eddie’s Old Spice and Buck’s tea tree conditioner and the lavish display of moisturizers.
Yeah, that’d be something.
“Eddie,” Buck murmurs, likely having reached the same conclusion to clean themselves up.
“In a minute,” Eddie answers, eyes closed.
Buck huffs a laugh, a little teasing at the edges. “Been a— been a minute for you, huh?”
Eddie opens his eyes, lifts his head just enough to level an unimpressed look at him, and gets rewarded with bright blue eyes and a grin so broad it splits Buck’s face into sunlight. It’s hard for Eddie to hold back his own smile in the face of that infectious delight. “Pretty sure I’m the one who held on longer, bud.”
Buck’s mouth drops in faux offense. “Oh—by like, a second!” Eddie laughs, and Buck wiggles beneath him, a half-hearted attempt to shake Eddie off of him. “Get off, I’m not entertaining this,” he says, meaning none of it if the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth is any indication.
Eddie relents with an “okay, okay,” still laughing as he sits up, because they do need to clean up. He sits back on his haunches, thighs bracketing Buck’s hips, and his eyes drift sideways to the fleshlight where it’s been tossed aside—a near-translucent thread of come slicking down its seam, pooling at the base into a small, opaque puddle. He huffs through his nose and looks at Buck, who’s smiling up at him all warm and easy.
“I do actually still need a flashlight, though,” Eddie points out, letting his eyes trail a slow path down Buck’s broad chest.
“What’s wrong with the one on your phone?”
“Hm?” Eddie isn’t really listening now. He’s looking at Buck’s t-shirt, considering it, and finding no compelling reason not to— Well. He slips his hand beneath the hem, palm flat against warm skin, fingers dragging lightly through the sparse hair scattered across his torso. Buck’s abdominal muscles clench attractively beneath his palm at the touch.
“The flashlight on your phone?” Buck repeats.
Eddie glances up. His fingers have found the swell of Buck’s pec and are conducting their own independent investigation. Buck’s words arrive from some distance, filtered through the hazy post-orgasm fog and the rather more pressing matter of Buck’s chest filling out his hand, and also, two words that as far as Eddie knows, have no relation to one another. His what now?
The silence that follows is too long, too damning, and Buck is thoroughly unimpressed.
“Eddie,” he says with a flat affectation. “Tell me you remembered there’s a flashlight feature on your phone.”
…Well. Eddie learns something new every day.