Chapter Text
Bobby guides them to the truck, the sun peeking over his shoulder and bathing him in orange, crystalline water glimmering behind him like glass. The sky is a vivid blue. Everything, all at once, is colorful and bright. Buck grins wildly and bounces across the pavement, one hand on Eddie’s shoulder and the other at Eddie’s belt, fingers hooked in the loop there.
Eddie, of course, doesn’t comment. He holds Buck back, in that way of his: a sturdy grip on the nape of Buck’s neck, hand occasionally sweeping up toward that broad stretch between Buck’s ears. He squeezes there, pulsing, almost a pattern with how regularly it comes.
The whole world is beautiful. It’s perfect, it’s— he never thought it would be like this again. He thought— but here Eddie is, and here the world is, and it’s still flawless and strong and standing next to him. Ocean waves crashing, gulls and horns and cigarette butts in the sand. Buck wants to do— something crazy. Cartwheels, maybe, or a ten-mile sprint. An obstacle course, like the ones him and Eddie went to back when they first met, a training competition that was mostly showing off.
Hen and Chim went back to their families twenty minutes ago. Eddie was checked over by Chim first, then Hen for the sake of thoroughness, and then Bobby took a turn, even though he doesn’t have half the experience or training. Probably it was just to make himself feel better. It made Buck feel better.
And Buck had sat, hugging Eddie against his body, and felt happiness swelling inside his ribs, inflating like a balloon with every breath. He had snuffled against Eddie’s neck and hair, scraping his almost-bearded chin— when had he last shaved?— against Eddie’s drying skin.
And now they’re going home.
They’re going home!
Buck yanks Eddie to him, joyfully, and feels their hips and chests slam together. He spins Eddie around, still tucked tight under Buck’s arm, and hears Eddie laugh. It doesn’t rumble, Eddie’s voice isn’t quite deep enough for it, but it buzzes against Buck’s skin. It feels warm. It feels— Buck feels—
Thank you, thank you, thank you, Buck thinks toward nothing, or everything, or God or otherwise the universe, because now it’s sinking in. It’s really, finally sinking in.
He feels like— it’s like a clean breath of air, mask off, after a five-alarm fire. Smoke everywhere, no end in sight until, suddenly, there is. Or maybe that’s not right. Maybe Buck was put to the test, given a Grecian quest requiring Herculean effort. Have faith, and he had. He’d done it, he did it, it’s done, it’s done—
He feels like Orpheus, except better, because Eddie’s here, and what was the line? Everything is beautiful, Eurydice. His heart is a bird, or whatever.
Buck isn’t really thinking straight. It doesn’t matter.
Nothing in the whole world matters other than Eddie. Eddie under his arms, alive, his cheeks still red and full, grinning, that precious curl swooping down his forehead. Dark eyes, dark hair, his eyelashes long and sweeping. Eddie, oh, Eddie, and Buck doesn’t have other words. He doesn’t.
But he doesn’t need them, anyway. Not with Eddie.
“Hey,” Eddie says, each of his teeth glinting— sharp canines, precious and familiar to Buck, he’s got such big teeth, perfectly arranged, Buck wouldn’t change a single thing about him— “Hey, Buck. Hey.”
And maybe Eddie doesn’t have any words either.
They’ve staggered to a stop in the middle of the closed parking lot, the entrances blocked off with caution tape like a crime scene, and Buck hauls Eddie in closer. Five bodies out of the water, five bodies, but not six. Not six, not Eddie, never Eddie, of course not Eddie, hadn’t Buck told them? Hadn’t Buck said?
Buck would’ve known. Eddie is here, he’s here, and Buck has to bury his face back in Eddie’s shoulder. Something is shaking and distantly Buck wonders, Earthquake? But it’s not. It’s his own body, twitching and trembling, and maybe he’s crying again. He’s sort of been crying for the past hour, off and on, but it feels so good. The crying. He’s getting it out, that horrible feeling, each tear leeching it away.
Eddie shifts. He brushes his head against Buck’s cheek, his hair gently catching Buck’s tears, because Buck is still buried in Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie’s hands slide around Buck’s waist, up his back, and then Eddie— it’s not dancing. But he pushes Buck backward and Buck goes easily, of course he does, and then there’s metal against Buck’s back.
Bobby’s truck, identifies Buck, and it’s clinical, the way he might think, fifth street is closed to traffic. It doesn’t matter to him.
He slumps against the door, the handle digging into his spine, and Eddie crowds against him. Now it’s Eddie who burrows into Buck, tipping Buck’s head back so he can put his mouth by Buck’s throat. Buck accidentally slams his head into the glass to give him more room, but it’s fine, it doesn’t matter. How could anything other than this matter?
It doesn’t. Fuck, he almost didn’t— Eddie—
Eddie. Jesus Christ.
“Jesus Christ,” Buck whispers into Eddie’s hair. He clutches at Eddie’s back and shuts his eyes. Feels Eddie against him, their chests pushing together tighter on every inhale. “Jesus, Eddie, thank you. Thank you.”
“What’re you thanking me for,” Eddie mumbles into Buck’s skin. His breath is hot. It’s hot and moist and alive.
“For— for— swimming. I don’t know. I don’t know, Eddie, I just— Jesus, I can’t—”
“Hey, I’m right here— Buck, hey—”
And they’re both incoherent. Buck knows it. It doesn’t matter, though, because he can… he feels it. Right here, right against his breastbone. He feels it like warm honey, sticky against his chest. It’s not about the words. They’re not having a conversation. It’s about that horrible feeling oozing out of Buck and alchemizing in the air into joy.
An hour ago, Buck bit Eddie bloody, settled behind him, and hardly said thirty words. He held Eddie’s stomach and breathed. And now it’s— it’s like each calm minute transformed into something heavy, and now it’s crushing him, everything overwhelming all at once— but not in a bad way— just— Eddie is— and Buck needs to—
Buck needs.
“Eddie,” Buck breathes.
He hauls Eddie in. It’s mostly a hug, even though Buck is pinned against a truck door. Eddie presses his cheek to Buck’s shoulder, arms around Buck’s waist. Slowly, Buck’s shaking stops— Eddie presses it out of him, gently, like a lemon against a juicer. His body turns into lemonade; all liquid limbs, all sweet thoughts.
The sigh comes again, instinctive, emotional: oh, Eddie. He’s said it before. In his own head, out loud. All sorts of situations and places. He means it every time.
There’s a click. The pull of a door opening on the other side of the truck; Bobby, probably.
Warmly, Bobby says, his voice drifting across the hood of the cab, “Ready, fellas?”
Eddie breathes against Buck’s shoulder twice before pulling away. Buck clings but Eddie grabs his wrists and pulls at them, until they’re only connected by Eddie’s loose hold. Eddie’s fingers are around Buck’s wrists like handcuffs.
We should get some of those, Buck thinks. Deliriously, he imagines handcuffing his hand to Eddie’s, and them going through each day that way. Together from sunset to sunrise and back again. They’d go through their shifts that way, too, and so neither of them would ever be dangling alone from a crane again, or buried away from the other.
It’s such a perfect idea that Buck says, “We should get handcuffs,” the same instant Eddie responds to Bobby, saying, “Ready, Cap.”
Hopefully, Eddie’s voice covers up Buck’s. Belatedly, Buck realizes it’s— sort of an insane thing to say. Eddie will understand what he means. Maybe not Bobby, though. Maybe he should have saved that for later.
Bobby’s door swings open then shut. Buck hears it. He can’t bring himself to move back to open the passenger door.
“Maybe not handcuffs,” Eddie tells him, still smiling his beautiful toothy smile. “We could get one of those backpack leashes, though.”
“For me or you?” Buck asks.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
Eddie just shakes his head, huffs something that turns into a chuckle, and pulls Buck off the door by his wrist. He opens it slowly, so that it doesn’t hit Buck’s spine, and Buck— he rolls his eyes.
It’s crazy, but he does. It feels— it’s—
It’s normal. It’s normal again. The world is still here and Eddie is still here and they’re going home.
Buck climbs in the truck.
He slides into the truck and flips up the cupholder so that it becomes a middle seat. Eddie climbs in behind him, slamming the door shut, and Buck can’t help it. He sidles close again, until they’re pressed together. Eddie stretches his arm across the back. It doesn’t cover Buck’s shoulders. Buck is too tall for it.
This time, when Bobby starts the car, and the radio comes on, Buck hears the song easily. A crooning, early-2000s classic. Maroon Five, maybe. Something like that. I drove for miles and miles and wound up at your door. Cheesy and soothing. An easy beat.
I don’t mind spending every day out on your corner in the pouring rain, the radio says, and Buck shuts his eyes. He tips his head back. Feels Eddie’s arm behind his neck.
The truck rocks. Bobby is saying something, his voice low, and Eddie is responding.
Suddenly, Buck is dozing, like hitting the snooze button on a ringing alarm. All at once that buoyant, frantic joy collapses. His body goes heavy. He has half a dream, again, except that"s a lie. He"s just thinking.
He"s thinking about three months ago: Buck slumped over Eddie’s kitchen table, a beer near his knuckles. Gray sweatpants on, crumpled blanket left on the couch. It was late. It was dark.
They were alone. Really alone. This was before Chris started texting, or calling. Before he was coming home.
Buck had snuck away from Tommy. Or, well, it wasn’t sneaking. He’d told Tommy he was at Eddie’s. He just… maybe had lied, too. Maybe he’d implied the situation was more urgent than it was. There wasn’t really a situation at all. Eddie was— it was a good night, not a bad one.
The beer was cold, condensation creeping down his knuckles. The oven’s clock flashed 1:03am.
Eddie came up behind him. Eddie put a hand on his shoulder, which was normal, has always been normal. But then the hand stayed there. Heavy, warm. It slid toward the nape of Buck’s neck. Eddie scruffed him there with a gentle squeeze.
Buck went limp in the chair. His breathing turned heavy.
It wasn’t— Eddie let him go. Too much time later, maybe, but he did. They didn’t talk about it.
In the morning Buck went back to Tommy and pretended it didn’t happen even while he planned ways to make it happen again. Calculated the time on the oven clock, the outfits they had been wearing, how many beers they’d each drank. Added them all together and thought, maybe next time he will—
But Buck didn’t let himself finish the sentence. He’s never, not once, finished the sentence.
He thinks maybe Eddie has. Thinks maybe Eddie got there before him. Long, long before him. Last will and testament before him. Nobody I trust with my son more than you before him.
But then again, maybe Eddie hasn’t. Maybe it’s—
Buck still can’t think it. He can’t stare at it straight-on.
Half-asleep, Buck decides, it doesn’t matter. Stick to the plan: shower, sleep, apology, pancakes. Or maybe pancakes then apology. He slumps further into Eddie. He breathes into Eddie’s shoulder.
The truck turns, turns again, and Buck knows exactly where they are. Knows the route even half-asleep after the worst day of his life. Bobby turns the truck off and Buck opens his eyes.
Eddie’s house is dark inside but it doesn’t matter. He knows it effortlessly. Knows the scraggly bushes Eddie agonizes over during drought season, which is practically year-round, now. The left edge near the garage, which Chris scuffed up with his crutches after a nasty fall. Every piece precious to Buck, each part familiar.
“You boys gonna be alright?” Bobby asks.
Buck looks at him for the first time in… a while. Bobby looks tired, and pale, but happy. Obviously, glowingly happy. And relieved. Maybe more relieved than happy, now that Buck is looking.
“Of course,” Buck says. He feels Eddie nodding behind him.
“Right,” Bobby says. He hesitates, takes a breath, and seems to choke something back. After a moment, he says, “I’ll be over in the afternoon tomorrow. Call if there’s anything you need, alright? Either of you.”
“Thank you,” Eddie says, his voice heartfelt. It trembles, just once, when he says, “It means a lot. That you were looking. So, thanks. We’ll let you get some rest.” And then he puts his hand on the handle, heaving himself up with an effort that looks tremendous.
Buck scrambles after him, obviously, then backtracks to throw himself at Bobby. He clutches Bobby around the shoulders, whispers, “thanks, Pops,” because it feels right to use it. Just one more time while the world still is sideways-leaning.
Bobby clutches at him but lets him go when Eddie leaves the truck completely.
Buck doesn’t say anything else. Just follows after Eddie, fast enough that it’s more falling than anything, and returns his hands to Eddie’s body. Because that, too, feels right. It’s good and natural, touching Eddie.
Eddie doesn’t have his keys, obviously. They’re still somewhere in his truck, or maybe at the bottom of the ocean. It doesn’t matter. Buck kicks up the fake rock where they keep the spare and Eddie retrieves it. Unlocks the door and ushers Buck in with one hand on his back. Buck goes easy. They leave Bobby in the driveway; the truck remains for a long moment before pulling away.
And then Bobby is gone, and him and Eddie are alone in the foyer, and Buck just— doesn’t think about it. There’s nothing to think about. It’s bright inside. A little bit magical. They don’t need to turn on any lights. They stand in the sunshine together. It’s streaming through the windows in ribbons, almost solid.
Shower, Buck thinks. He needs a shower. And then sleep, where Buck will watch him, just as a precaution, and Eddie will wake up in the late afternoon for dinner, which will be pancakes. Buck puts each step in meticulous order, drawing careful boxes in his mind. No checks on the list yet. But it’ll come. They have time.
Jesus Christ, they have time. They do. Right? They do.
Why does it still feel like they don’t have time? It’s like he’s running out of it. But he’s not. Of course he’s not? Buck has— definitely today. He can swing the rest of the week, even. Nobody would think twice, if he spent the rest of the week here. They might encourage it.
Five days. It’s an eternity, a luxury, compared to what he might have gotten. If Eddie hadn’t… but he had. But he had. And so Buck should be grateful, right? He should be happy. Five whole days.
And it will be five days of just him and Eddie. Something in Buck"s chest flutters, silk in the wind, colorful and light. They’ll lock down the house, get groceries delivered. Play cards and get drunk and wake up and make each other toast and coffee. Buck will have all the time in the world to put his feet on Eddie’s lap and watch that swoop of hair curl over Eddie’s forehead, because he doesn’t put gel in when he’s not leaving the house.
Buck is the only one who sees him like that. He’s the only one who’s earned it. Nobody else deserves it like he does. Buck will sit at the kitchen table, the only one allowed here in the middle of the night, and feel Eddie’s hand creep up into his hair. Feel his broad palm against the back of his skull. The cradle of it. The way Eddie’s hand will skim his shoulder and back as he walks away.
Eddie has never, not once, told Buck to get out of his house. Buck is a special case— more special than anyone Eddie’s ever been with. So there, he thinks spitefully, except he can’t decide who he’s thinking toward. The ghost of Ana, maybe, or Marisol. The much sadder, more real ghost of Shannon, who Buck always tries really, really hard not to hate.
It’s just that she had everything Buck has ever— and she didn’t want it. Or she didn’t keep it. Or she tried to keep it but did it wrong. Buck’s not… it’s not his place to think about it. Eddie defends her to everyone, Buck included. Defends her like an animal, honestly; all teeth and tense muscles. So, Buck doesn’t hate Shannon. Obviously.
Eddie won’t let him.
But that doesn’t matter right now, because there are five days, maybe even seven, if Buck is really pathetic when people come to visit. If he’s particularly fragile when Bobby shows up tomorrow. So: maybe even a full week of just Buck, and Eddie, and the heat of Eddie’s body pressed against his in the kitchen, and on the couch, because Eddie abandons personal space as soon as they’re alone. He always has, which is right and good, because Buck wants him to never, ever be out of reach.
A whole week of this, time like a stack of gold arcade coins which Buck will spend until he runs out. It’s— all Buck could ask for. All he’d ever want. He never thought he’d— but he is. Eddie is here and they’ve barely begun day one. Real life has to start again eventually, anyway. Not too soon, but it’s good to keep in mind. It’s good for him to think: Eddie will still be here, in this house, even if Buck isn’t. And that has to be enough. Because Buck can’t— he would, if he could, but he can’t just—
It’s just.
Seven days isn’t very long.
And seven is a longshot, anyway, it might be six, or five. Realistically, after day four they’ll have to allow visitors, and Bobby is already coming by tomorrow, and it’s— it’s not enough time. It’s not enough fucking— why isn’t it ever enough? And the worst of it is that it’s Buck’s fault, because.
Because Eddie would let him stay. Is the thing. Eddie would let him stay forever and Buck knows it.
He keeps asking, asking without words, and Buck keeps pretending to not understand him. Eddie keeps allowing it. Over and over it happens, in a million little ways. A shared calendar at Eddie’s house, which Buck keeps track of. A spare key Buck knows the location to. A permanent divot in the couch cushions. His name typed in black ink in Eddie’s will. I’m not really a guest, and Since when do you knock?
But Buck can’t stay. Obviously. Because— because.
He has a reason, right? He’s always had a reason. He has one. Clearly he has one.
He can’t recall it. He tries. He stares out into the bright living room, at the streaming morning light with Eddie breathing beside him, and tries to remember. He fails. It’s like he reaches and closes his hand on empty air, or otherwise like he puts his hand on cell bars, a prisoner, and feels the door swing open effortlessly.
There isn’t anything. There is no reason for him to leave.
I’m going to stay, Buck thinks, flabbergasted. He blinks very fast at the sun. At the bright windows. Turns his head to blink at Eddie, who is tired and still damp, and gets caught on Eddie’s glistening eyes. Shimmering brown. Cow eyes, Chim called them once, and Buck had said, You know in Greek mythology Zeus’s wife was called cow-eyed? Like, as an appellation, or whatever. So, obviously it’s a huge compliment. It had spilled out of him, uncontrollable. Hen shook her head at him.
Cow eyes, Buck thinks to himself.
“Buck?” Eddie says.
Buck turns to stare at him, his curved nose, his red lips. The place where his cheek flexes, no dimples, exactly, but still a crease. A happy fold. Buck wants to touch it.
“Alright,” Eddie says, as if Buck had responded with words. His voice is rough but still easy, rolling, that calm firmness which comes naturally to Eddie and never Buck. “Up and attem, cowboy.”
And suddenly Eddie’s hands are on his shoulders, guiding him forward again, and Buck lets it happen. Eddie’s moving them toward the bathroom, and as they walk Buck realizes— oh. Eddie is using him as a crutch, resting most of his exhausted weight on Buck. Buck straightens, proud, then immediately changes his mind and hunches down, so that Eddie’s arm rests easily across his shoulders.
Like blinking, they appear in Eddie’s bathroom. Buck takes in its familiar shapes. The linoleum tile, the white porcelain sink. The glass-walled shower, frosted enough to blur but not conceal. They turn the shower on like one person; Eddie draped over Buck’s shoulders, Buck holding him up. Buck slides the door open but Eddie starts the water.
When Eddie leans back, he doesn’t go far. He strips his wet layers off, naked skin brushing against Buck’s clothed spine.
Buck wants to be shirtless. More than that, he wants them to be… skinless, or something. Wet veins pulsing together, all nerve endings exposed. Maybe they’d get tangled up. Maybe they really would transform into one person.
When Eddie is naked, he climbs into the shower. Buck gently closes the bathroom door while Eddie tips his head into the spray. He flicks the fan on then leans against the bathroom counter, crossing his arms. Warmth, bubbling and steady, builds in Buck’s chest. Yes, he thinks, and from nowhere a sigh bursts from his stomach. Absolute contentment.
White haze is already starting to cover the mirror behind him. Buck stares at Eddie, at his narrow waist and strong legs. The long line of his profile. That dramatic tilt to his nose, the way his hair slicks down to his skull. It covers his forehead in dark bangs.
Buck’s chest hurts, seeing it. It makes Eddie look like a kid, his hair halfway to a bowl cut, dripping down into Eddie’s eyes like he’s been playing in the pool. And then Eddie reaches up, brushes it back, and he’s himself again. The grown version of him which Buck has known for years and years.
Sometimes Buck really wishes he and Eddie knew each other as kids. Fuck, what Buck wouldn’t give to travel back and find Eddie, alone in Texas the same way Buck was alone everywhere else in the world, and change both their lives for the better. Buck had needed a family; somewhere to belong. And Eddie had needed help so bad it was like drowning. Buck knows it.
They’re the same age, him and Eddie. He’s always known it but sometimes he really understands it. Draws the parallel lines in his mind. He’d been surfing in a puka shell necklace while Eddie checked his gun for ammunition. Been doing shots on the beach while Eddie huddled down into different sand, hiding from artillery fire a thousand miles away.
The thing is—
The thing is, they would’ve been so good at it. Just— life. Living together. Being a team. Doing wound care, making dinner, driving Chris to appointments. Holding Chris between them, his tiny toddler body, his tiny wriggling fingers. They would’ve done it like breathing— they would’ve done it happily. They would’ve been so happy. Buck knows because they are. They have been. Buck stepped into that empty space two weeks after they first met and never left it.
God, he wishes he found Eddie sooner. He thinks about it more than he should.
Buck shakes his head. Tries to shake the thoughts loose.
He can’t fix it so he stares at Eddie instead. Two strands have fallen into his eyes again, like a movie star from the ‘50s. He’s very James Dean, very Marlon Brando. He’s standing naked in the shower and Buck counts each breath, traces his eyes over the hazy peak of Eddie’s nipples. The bite mark is still at the base of Eddie’s neck. It’s red. Eddie must have taken the bandage off to shower, though Buck hadn’t noticed him do it.
Buck breathes. He forces himself to breathe and not move. Not speak. There’s nothing to even say.
There’s not any awkwardness. Or there shouldn’t be. They shower at the 118 all the time; multiple times a shift, even. There isn’t a part of Eddie that Buck hasn’t seen, hasn’t gotten a hand on— not even his dick. Those first few days after Eddie came home from the shooting… that cocktail of drugs, the blurred haze to his eyes. The pain, the staggering steps. Of course Buck had helped.
Of course Eddie will do the same, if Buck needs it. It’s not even worth thinking about.
At least, it hadn’t been. Before. But maybe it’s weird, now. It shouldn’t be, but maybe it is. Buck held Eddie’s dick in his hand. Felt his pulse, the twitch and jerk of hidden muscles. His warmth. Eddie is always so warm.
Buck swallows heavily. His thighs itch. Or maybe they don’t? He’s not sure what he’s feeling. He wants to reach down and scratch. It’s the salt water, probably. Irritating his skin through his jeans. He reaches down and scrapes his nails up then down, edging near his inner thighs. He erupts into a full-body shudder before yanking his hands back.
Hastily, he undoes the button of his jeans and yanks his pants off. He kicks them into the corner. It doesn’t matter; he’s getting into the shower directly after Eddie is done. Maybe the steam will help? Buck scrapes his nails up his inner thighs again, edging up toward his boxers, and it still feels— it itches. Right? It itches. That’s what he’s feeling.
He yanks his hands away and stares at Eddie— Eddie, the long stretches of smooth skin, exposed and wet. Dripping. Water falling down.
Maybe Eddie will need him to do it again? It was necessary at the time, and they’re both first responders. Eddie hadn’t been weird about it; of course he wasn’t. A former military medic and a man who had seen his wife through labor, knew the messy bodily process of it. Neither of them thought twice.
Or maybe that’s just the convenient explanation. It’s vulnerable, helping someone like that. If Buck is honest, he knows it still would’ve been humiliating if they weren’t them. If they weren’t BuckandEddie.
Why is Buck thinking about this?
Probably because he can see Eddie’s dick.
Eddie is in profile, so it’s not a clear image, and hidden by the haze of steam and the frosted glass. But it’s there: the thatch of dark hair, the long flushed shape. His dick. Eddie’s dick. Which Buck has seen and held before.
What if Eddie needs his help again? Maybe he’ll be— really tired. Maybe. And Buck will have to hug Eddie close, like he did those five or six times after Eddie was shot. His chest to Eddie’s back. His hand down Eddie’s pants, gently cupping his dick and pulling him free. The kick when Eddie started pissing. Eddie’s got to be really tired. Buck might— and Eddie shouldn’t be embarrassed about it. Buck will reassure him, if it happens.
And who else will do it? Nobody else could do it right. Nobody really touches Eddie like that, only four people in Eddie’s whole life. Buck knows them by name. Shannon, Ana, Marisol. Him. Eddie doesn’t do casual hook-ups. Buck’s always known this. So, obviously, Buck is the only one who— Buck does it right. Right enough that Eddie isn’t shy, or ashamed. It’s not even a big deal.
Is there a way to ask? Should he ask? Buck wants… it would just be— like. Obviously, him and Eddie are closer to each other than anyone else in the world. Obviously Buck can touch him like that. And he wants to feel it. Eddie between his arms, alive and warm, his skin velvet-smooth and maybe even getting a little hard. Right? That happens sometimes. After a harrowing experience. It happens to Buck, so it has to happen to Eddie.
Obviously Buck would never judge Eddie for that. He wouldn’t say anything. He’d just keep holding Eddie. Keep his hand on Eddie’s dick. Maybe he’d squeeze a little, just because sometimes it feels nice. Even if jerking off isn’t on the agenda. He could even give Eddie a pull or two. Just a handful of solid strokes, so that Eddie can feel good. Eddie’s spine would probably go loose. He’d probably tip his head back onto Buck’s shoulder.
Eddie would get harder in Buck’s hand. Because he would be feeling good, right? Buck would be making him feel good. That’s just how it works. Eddie would get harder. But Buck couldn’t leave him like that. So, he would keep going. He would squeeze. He would be so smooth, his hand would be gliding, it would make Eddie feel so good. And Eddie would tell him that. He’d say so.
He would lean his head back and nuzzle up under Buck’s jaw and tell him, yeah, Buck, just like that. And Buck would— Buck is—
Buck is panting. He’s leaning against the bathroom sink, his shoulders against the foggy mirror, staring at Eddie and breathing fast.
He’s itching again except, no, he’s not. He’s just hard and he wants to touch himself so bad it feels like an itch. He’s so fucking stiff and he doesn’t even have his jeans on and he’s—
And Eddie’s getting out of the shower.
He leaves the water running, because that’s how this goes: Eddie showers first, efficient but relaxed, and then Buck climbs in behind him. Or— not behind him. After him. And Eddie takes his place by the mirror so that neither of them are alone.
Eddie steps out and drips onto the white bathroom rug, naked, bruised, Buck’s bite still low on his neck. His cheeks are candy red, his mouth slick and— and his eyes, his eyelashes— his hair wet and dripping and loose on his forehead—
“All yours, bud,” Eddie tells him steadily. He smiles with his teeth, sharp canines showing. There are bags under his eyes but it doesn’t matter. Eddie looks him in the face and his smile shrinks into something gentler. “You alright, Buck?”
“Ye-yeah,” Buck says. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll just—” And then yanks his shirt and sweatshirt over his head, draping it in front of himself as he slides his boxers off.
Eddie steps to the side and Buck holds his clothes until the last second, dropping them and then scrambling into the shower. He keeps his back to Eddie, facing the wall. His heart slams against his ribs, over and over, like it’s trying to escape. Leap out of him and land in Eddie’s hands, or something.
Humiliatingly, Buck just gets harder. He pantomimes their normal routine— uses Eddie’s shower gel, his shampoo, tips his head back into the hot spray— but it’s not relaxing. Or, it is. It always is. He can hear Eddie behind him and he didn’t think Eddie—
Eddie is here. Thank God, Eddie is here.
And Buck is hard. Fuck, Buck is so hard, and he can’t do anything about it. He feels like a butterfly pinned beneath glass, or maybe a zoo animal. Buck shifts from foot to foot except, well, that doesn’t help, because then his dick sways and his thighs brush his balls and it’s just— can Eddie see it? See him? Buck definitely tensed up just now. His naked ass flexing.
Is Eddie looking? What if he is?
Fuck, what if he isn’t?
It would be worse. Buck wants Eddie to— Eddie should— Buck wouldn’t look away. If it were Eddie. There wouldn’t be anything for Eddie to be embarrassed about, Buck wouldn’t let this break their routine. So, Eddie won’t have looked away from him. Right? Because they’re them, and they always understand each other. So, Eddie is looking.
Just to be certain, Buck peeks over his shoulder. And— yes. Yes, Eddie is there, and yes, he’s looking, his dark eyes gazing unblinkingly at Buck. He’s staring. His lips are parted, just barely, and his cheeks are still red.
Good, that’s— Buck knew it. He knew it.
A hot rush tingles through him, overwhelming like a wave, like he’s being pulled under and tumbled around. Relief follows it, cooler and more soothing. Buck shivers. He’s breathing hard because it’s all overwhelming, his skin is humming, and his dick is so hard the skin feels tight, like he might split open. He’s pulsing. His heart racing, and each throb feels— it’s starting to feel really good, is the thing. Eddie is here. Eddie is watching him. Eddie is safe.
Nothing could be wrong, nothing in the whole world, and even this strange torture feels wonderful.
“Buck,” Eddie says. “Time’s up. Get out here, I’ve got towels.”
When Buck turns his head, the cabinet under the sink is open. Eddie’s already got a towel around his waist and another in his hand. He shakes it at Buck, his eyes dark and wide, and his face is— Buck has seen that expression a handful of times.
Another rush carries Buck away. He flings a hand out and shuts the water off, slides the glass door open, and steps onto the bathroom rug. He shakes himself a little, flinging water off his hair and spraying Eddie, who huffs.
Eddie holds out the towel. It’s green with a blue stripe. Buck grabs it and dries his hair first, then his chest and shoulders, his pits, because part of him wants— he wants to be sure that Eddie sees it. Him. And he doesn’t know why, but he thinks maybe— if Eddie sees it, maybe Eddie will understand, because Buck doesn’t— Buck can’t say it. He can’t even think it. But maybe—
He ducks his head and peeks up at Eddie.
Eddie licks his lips. He stares at Buck, his dark eyes darker than Buck’s ever seen them, and licks his lips. Red tongue against sharp teeth. Like a lion in front of— an antelope with a broken leg. Or something. Buck’s head is a little fuzzy.
Breathing in deep, Eddie says, “Finish drying off, Buck.”
So Buck does. He slides the towel down his chest, over his stomach. Uncertainly, he glances at Eddie, who still isn’t looking away, then commits. He dabs the towel over his sensitive dick, the towel scratching in a way that feels really— it feels really— but he doesn"t linger. Hurriedly, Buck dries his thighs. Slides the towel down his legs to his feet then back up.
And then, like he’s caught in a current, Eddie takes him by the arm and leads him out of the bathroom. He pulls Buck into his bedroom and deposits Buck by the dresser, where he opens the top drawer and pulls out their most comfortable pajamas— the ones with the pill-balls starting to form. The ones Buck thought about, hours ago, before Eddie was home again. Eddie hands the soft pants and softer shirt to Buck and it’s—
Perfect. It’s so, so perfect, and Buck feels his eyes turn hot and blurry. His throat feels tight, and thick, and so do his sinuses. His lip wobbles a little but he doesn’t do anything other than take the pajamas and put them on. Soft shirt, stretching familiarly across his shoulders, because Buck is wider than Eddie is, these days, and this shirt was Eddie’s first. The sweatpants are pulled on and up, carefully edged over his dick, which is still hard, and he ties the strings tight. No underwear, which is different from their norm, but not bad. Not bad.
When Buck blinks his tears away, he discovers Eddie is dressed, too, in his familiar gray sweatpants and white t-shirt. The shirt has a hole near the collar. It’s a little stretched. Eddie’s hair is fluffy and gel-free, half stuck to his forehead and half jutting out in clumps. Already drying crazy, which is the reason Eddie gels it so often.
“Are th— the sheets are still clean, right? In the cabinet? I’ll get them onto the couch,” Buck says. “You should lay down, I’m sure you’re really— it’s been a long night, I can set it all up, don’t worry about anything. Okay? You should lay down and let me, uh, let me get everything ready. And when you get up I’ll make breakfast, Eddie, okay?”
Eddie stares at him. Buck’s heart pounds.
Buck continues, “It’ll be pancakes. With blueberries. I know we usually have them with chocolate chips, but you like the berries better, right? So that’s what we’ll have.”
“You don’t have to sleep on the couch, Buck,” Eddie says.
“I know,” Buck responds, because he’s always known, deep down, that if he only asked— well. He wouldn’t be on the couch. “But it’s tradition, right?” Buck grins, and mostly it’s sincere. He likes the couch. He loves the couch. It’s safe on the couch, for him and for Eddie, and what he wants more than anything is for Eddie to be safe. To feel safe. For Buck to make him feel safe.
“Okay,” Eddie says. He hesitates, staring up at Buck. Buck stares back and thinks, just tell me what to do.
Hesitantly, Buck shuffles backward. Just one step, but he does it. He widens the gap between them.
And then Eddie blurts, “But you should stay in here. With me.” The sentence jerks, starts and stops, and Eddie finishes it with, “For tonight.”
“Right,” Buck says. “Sure, of— of course. If that’s what you want?”
“Yeah,” Eddie says.
“Cool,” Buck responds. The single word trembles in the air.
Eddie frowns at him. “Because it’s not like we haven’t before.” He stares at Buck. “Unless you think it might… with Tommy. I guess he, uh, might think about it differently.” He licks his lips, red tongue flashing, and it’s so bright in his room.
The curtains are open. Outside, it’s broad daylight. It should be nighttime. This feels like a conversation that should happen in the dark. But also— of course it’s not. Of course it’s bright, Eddie’s eyes lit up golden in the sun. There’s never been anything to hide, not between the two of them.
And, anyway, Buck doesn’t know what Eddie is asking.
That’s a lie. He knows.
“Tommy?” Buck asks anyway, because he needs to pretend. He’s not certain. He doesn’t know what Eddie wants from him. And until he knows what Eddie wants, he needs to keep all the options open, because Buck would do… anything. He wants to do anything. Eddie just needs to tell him what ‘anything’ is, because Buck can’t mess it up. He can’t guess.
Eddie shakes his head. “Come on, Buck.”
“You come on,” Buck responds, a little petulant. “It doesn’t matter. It’s never mattered before. Right?”
Eddie doesn’t respond immediately. He just looks at Buck for a while, then says, “I think it probably still mattered.” He shakes his head. “Whatever. Nevermind. Get into bed, Buck, I’m so tired I might fall over.”
“Sure,” Buck responds, and then, half-stumbling, “What do you mean, ‘it probably still mattered?’”
“Don’t worry about it,” Eddie says. “At least not today. Just— let’s get some rest, huh?”
“Okay,” Buck says. Because— okay. If Eddie wants him to let this go, of course he will. Besides, it’s probably not the time.
Turning down the comforter, Eddie climbs in on the right side, Buck shuffles in on the left, and there’s a swarm of movement while they arrange pillows and sheets.
Buck lays on his back hesitantly, folding his hands on his stomach over his shirt. He breathes and tries to lay extremely still. At his side, Eddie does the same. They lay like a pair of felled trees, and Buck… it’s never been like this.
Twenty, thirty, a hundred times they’ve slept together, just like this. Why is it different now?
It feels like watching sand trickle down the hourglass, the pile getting smaller and smaller, disappearing faster with each passing second. Like watching a lit fuse shrink, the spark racing down its track.
Buck breathes in, deep, and Eddie echoes it. Outside, the sky is blue. Clouds are drifting.
Then, like magnets, they collide in the middle of the bed.
There’s a sensation like something breaking, or— or fire igniting, maybe. They slam into each other and it’s like throwing off a weight. Something transforms and is, suddenly, right, where before it was wrong. It’s— fuck. Fuck, Eddie pressed against him under the comforter. His arms snapping like bands around Buck’s waist. Buck squirms until their foreheads are crushed together, pressure so strong it almost hurts.
Suddenly, it’s like they’re back in that tent, grappling with each other, needing to get closer than skin, deeper than is possible. Buck wants everything in the whole world and then he wants more of it, and he wants Eddie to give it to him, and he wants to give it to Eddie.
“Fuck,” Buck hisses, because he can’t say anything else but needs to say something. Needs the release of it; steam escaping from the pressure valve. “Fuck!”
Eddie grabs him by the hair and jerks his head back, then forward, like he isn’t sure what to do, either.
“Jesus, Buck,” Eddie breathes, like he did before.
Except this time it’s like Eddie feels it, too. This crazy rush. Or maybe he allows himself to feel it. Now that it’s just them. Now that they’re alone, in Eddie’s house, hidden and warm and dry. Nobody looking at them. He smashes his face against Buck’s, rubs his cheek down Buck’s face, and Buck gets his teeth on the edge of Eddie’s jaw. He hooks them and bites down, holds Eddie in place, and Eddie’s other hand grabs Buck by the pit of his knee. He hitches Buck’s leg over his waist, getting them closer, and Buck says, “yes,” so breathlessly it’s almost— something else. A moan, maybe.
Not that it matters. It’s just him and Eddie.
“Please, Eddie,” Buck says. He doesn’t know what he means. He doesn’t know what he wants— the easy answer is ‘sex,’ but it’s never felt like this. Wanting has never been like this and it’s almost frightening, how out of control his body feels. Like he’s in the passenger seat, not driving. His blood racing and hands clutching without his permission.
Buck stutters, “Ed-Eddie, Eddie, fuck, we need to—” But then he can’t finish the sentence, because his mouth is just moving, also out of his control, with no forethought to give it purpose.
He doesn’t want sex, or he does, he does, but mostly he wants Eddie to crawl down his throat and never come out, like an alien from a horror movie. He wants to be inside Eddie’s brain, chewing on his liver. Buck’s mouth is watering, every limb twitching, and his fingers are clawing down Eddie’s back like he’s trying, again, to split the skin open.
And Eddie isn’t stopping him, Eddie is panting against his cheek instead, his breath warm and wet and alive. Eddie is holding him by the back of the knee, grinding their hips together, his other hand fisting Buck’s hair. It’s all deep pressure, squeezing, and it fucking hurts, actually, but Buck is thankful for the feeling. Because he’ll get to keep it, for hours and hours, maybe days, if he’s lucky. If he can goad Eddie into holding him tighter.
“What are we— Eddie, what are we—” Buck pants. But he wrecks it by biting Eddie midway through the sentence, because he can’t— just can’t, he’s not sure what he can’t do but he can’t do it, he needs his mouth on Eddie, needs it immediately, so he puts it on the other side of Eddie’s neck. He puts the tendon between his teeth and he isn’t gentle about it.
Eddie groans, loud, and his mouth is so close to Buck’s ear. It’s loud like the crack of a branch breaking. And then Eddie is hoisting him by his grip on the back of Buck’s leg, pulling him by the hair, until Buck is underneath Eddie. Flat on his back and stunned about it.
Suddenly, Eddie is over him, his hands still in Buck’s hair and on Buck’s knee. He’s working his core, keeping himself above Buck, and Buck pants up at him.
They freeze. Stare at each other.
It"s almost frightening, this sudden explosion. The uncertainty of it, the instability. Buck should probably slow them down, should climb out of bed and onto the couch. Because he doesn’t want this to ruin something precious. This is exactly the kind of shit he pulled before he became this new version of himself.
It’s the same, on the surface. An upheaval, resulting in a Buck who is shit-scared and reaching out to find skin to shove himself against. Creating artificial closeness.
Except no part of this is artificial. It’s real, down to Buck’s core, down to who he is at the center. He knows Eddie. Knows every last tragic, sharp, beautiful piece of him. And Eddie knows him back. Knows him in storming rain, fire and lightning and dirt coming to swallow them whole. It’s not artificial closeness. It’s fucking real, and Buck wants more of it.
He stares up at Eddie, at Eddie’s ruddy round cheeks and soft hair. Dark stubble against his jaw. His eyelashes arcing, almost brushing against his eyebrows, because Eddie is staring back at him, holding his body still and quiet while Buck thinks. Eddie is waiting for him. All at once, Buck understands: Eddie has been waiting for him.
Buck’s heart seizes in his chest and, before he knows it, he’s saying, “Kiss me.”
Eddie doesn’t hesitate. Swooping down, he covers Buck’s mouth with his own.
Buck flings his arms and legs around Eddie, pulling him in, and Eddie collapses onto Buck’s chest with their lips still crushed together. Eddie shoves his arms under Buck’s back, so tight they almost circle around to his stomach.
Buck opens his mouth the same instant as Eddie, and they’re kissing tongue to tongue, close and wet and sloppy. Breathing in sharply, Buck twists his head to get a new angle, because there’s something he— he needs to— and Eddie rocks his head, too. All at once their faces are pushing against each other, until they’re barely kissing, or maybe that’s not right. Maybe they’re kissing too much, faces pressed together viciously, jaws bumping then slamming into a new angle, like they’re— it’s like they’re grinding, almost. Shoving faces and mouths back and forth.
Every time they shift, Buck makes a noise, and Eddie echoes it, until they’re both panting and moaning. Buck jerks his arm, and then remembers he has arms, then uses them to claw Eddie closer.
Eddie’s hips shove down into Buck’s. Buck locks his ankles around Eddie’s waist and then they’re really moving, a train picking up steam, rocking and rumbling, Buck panting around Eddie’s tongue.
And it feels— it’s like nothing ever has been. Like a wet dream coming to life, or otherwise like magic, the kind Buck used to believe in. Fairytales. Eddie, against him, moaning like he is. Eddie pressing Buck down, safe and held and warm, pinned between Eddie’s hips and flexing brown arms. Their faces grinding back and forth, mashed, mouths open.
Buck licks across Eddie’s mouth, licks his teeth, licks Eddie’s tongue. He’s not kissing. Eddie doesn’t care. Eddie lets Buck do it and makes happy, hot noises. Their hips twist together, squirming more than grinding. Like neither of them have ever done this before, overwhelmed, shocked when moving hips together feels good.
God, it feels good, it feels perfect, it feels like— it’s just— and he’s so hard, been hard since that shower, since— oh, fuck, oh, fuck, and now their dicks are—
“Oh, sh-shit, Eddie, oh, fuck, f-fuh—” Buck stutters, moaning, because their dicks are lined up, and they’re both wearing soft pants, and Buck is commando. And Eddie’s thigh is pressing, brushing his balls, squeeze-release, squeeze-release coming with each grinding thrust.
He presses his head into the mattress, because the pillow is gone, he doesn’t know where it is, and Eddie tears their mouths apart and latches onto Buck’s neck.
“Yes, y-yeah, yeah, please.” Buck sounds— God, he’s never sounded like this before. He’s whining, his voice high, moaning on every breath.
He wants Eddie to bite him. He wants a matching mark, puckered and deep, like a brand. A stamped set, do not separate. Ownership. Permanent belonging, more and better than a tattoo because it happened like this. His blood on Eddie’s teeth, too.
“Harder, Eddie, you need to— harder— bite me, please, please,” Buck says, rocking up against Eddie. He squeezes his thighs to Eddie’s waist and grinds back and forth, back and forth, the head of his dick smearing into the puddle on his sweats. Buck opens his mouth to speak again, tries to repeat the word harder, except all that comes out is, “Huh, uh, uh-h!”
Because Eddie’s really got him by the throat, now, his teeth digging in. There’s no blood but it’s still a deep, sharp pressure, and it feels crazy, Buck feels crazy, fuck, it feels so good. It feels so good, and it shouldn’t, but it does, and Eddie isn’t letting go, and Buck is still making noises. Uncontrollable noises, his hips thrashing.
In a flurry of motion, Eddie shifts and grabs the band of Buck’s sweatpants, right above his ass, and yanks them down. They get stuck because Buck’s legs are still around Eddie’s waist but that doesn’t matter, Buck can’t focus on it, he’s too busy clawing Eddie’s own sweatpants down, until their dicks are free and pressing together.
“Jesus, Buck,” Eddie gasps, lifting his head from Buck’s neck. “Jesus, you’re wet.”
“Yeah,” Buck moans, because those words, in that tone, prickle down his spine. He shivers with his whole body.
Eddie slams their mouths together, his hand reaching between Buck’s legs. But he doesn’t do the easy thing and touch Buck’s dick. Instead, while they kiss and rock and writhe, he reaches down and cups Buck’s balls, settling them into the dip of his palm while his fingers press back and rub against that long stretch of skin. Buck jerks and startles, clamping down on Eddie’s lip, and—
Blood, again. Eddie’s lip is bleeding.
Something erupts out of Buck, a high-pitched noise like a dog whining. Frantically, Buck drags his tongue across Eddie’s split lip, over and over, and he can’t— he can’t, he can"t.
His body is moving but he isn"t in control. He can’t feel his fingers. His head is spinning already, spinning like he’s off his face except he’s not, it’s just Eddie. Eddie presses his fingers hard behind Buck’s balls and Buck groans strangely, all throat, and then Eddie’s hand slides up. His fist closes around Buck’s dick and starts stroking. Buck can’t find words to describe it. He can’t quantify it. Doesn’t know if it’s sloppy, or smooth, or hesitant, or practiced. No idea at all. All he knows is that it feels good, feels better than anything ever has in his whole life, is better than any other fucking he’s done, because it’s— because—
“Oh-h, shit, Eddie, oh—”
It’s Eddie, it’s Eddie, and it feels like flying top-speed down a hill, arms stretched out on his bike, but also safe. Like he’ll never, ever crash. It will never hurt and that swooping joy will continue forever. He loves it, he loves, loves, loves, it’s so large in his chest; he loves Eddie, oh he loves Eddie, loves him, he loves Eddie more than he thought he could love anything.
“That’s it, Buck, Buck, yeah,” Eddie says, breathing hotly against Buck’s mouth. “Does that feel good? You feeling good, bud?”
And Buck just— fucking giggles, and then gasps and groans, because why would Eddie call him bud now, and why does it feel so good? It’s like the word scratches down his back, lighting up buttons he didn’t know he had. It’s such a gentle and loving humiliation and Eddie isn’t even doing it on purpose.
“Yes, yeah, y-yeah, Eddie, fuck,” Buck stutters between panting breaths. He licks his lips and finds Eddie’s blood lingering there, and that copper taste sweeps him away again. His eyes roll back with the roll of Eddie’s fist.
His legs are shaking. He can feel them, trembling all the way down his thighs and calves, his toes curling. He’s really gonna— it’s really, it’s really— and it’s never been like this, it’s just a fucking handjob—
“Eddie!” Buck moans. “Eddie, it’s c— I’m gonna— wait, wait, Eddie, wait—”
“Oh, shit, Buck,” Eddie gasps. He stops his hand but squeezes a few times, clench and release, and it still feels so good. Buck’s dick is burning hot, red and slick and angry. His belly feels wet, and it is, it has to be, his precum has been flying everywhere for the past few minutes. Fuck, fuck, but the thought makes his abdomen flex and his dick jump, each pulse of Eddie’s hand streaking through him like a shooting star, bright and burning and special. Amazing.
Helplessly, Buck laughs again, because his body feels sharp and bright, like he’s been edging, like this is the fifth time Eddie’s hand stopped instead of the first. Like they’ve been going for hours instead of fifteen minutes. He feels like a teenage kid— except, no, that’s not right. He’s never felt like this. It’s never been like this.
“Why’d we stop?” Eddie asks.
Buck opens his mouth but can’t find an answer. Why did he stop Eddie?
Before he’s conscious of the answer, he’s already talking. He blurts, “Tell me… tell me we’ll do this again. Tell me this isn’t the only time.”
Eddie stares down at him with his deep eyes. Brown and glimmering. Hair on his face, because he hadn’t shaved in the shower. Oh, he’s so beautiful. It makes Buck feel hot and relaxed, like honey in the sun, like he might just slide away from himself.
“Of course it’s not,” Eddie says. “Of course it’s not, Buck, Jesus, I’m— don’t you know?”
“Know what?” Buck asks, but then he looks at Eddie’s face, his precious face, and the suddenly-scared clench of Eddie’s jaw, and he thinks, a direct echo of Eddie’s words: of course. Of course, of course. Of course it’s not the only time. The way Eddie is looking at him? The way Eddie, apparently, has been looking at him— because Buck recognizes the expression, has seen it from the corner of his eye a dozen or maybe a hundred times— of course this won’t be their only time.
Eddie says, gazing down with his right hand still on Buck’s dick, “It’s you. It’s us. I want you all the time.” He pauses, thoughtful, then shakes his head. “I want you forever.”
And it’s absurd. It’s so fucking absurd, Eddie saying this while his hand is slick from Buck’s precome, and Buck is still halfway to bursting everywhere, to snapping and gushing like a waterballoon. Even with all of that: Eddie is hesitant. His eyes are big and hopeful.
Buck’s heart leaps and aches, like a muscle flexing, trying to reach out. Trying to leap out of him and crawl into Eddie’s mouth, maybe.
“You’re— Eddie. Come on.” Buck shakes his head, baffled. “I want you forever, too.”
Eddie stares at him for a second, red cheeks flushed, sweat beaded on his forehead, and then laughs. Beautiful, his high-pitched laughter. Familiar and special. Buck grins back at him and traces a thumb over Eddie’s sharp canines. Still laughing, Eddie gently captures Buck’s thumb between his teeth. Nibbles. Slides his tongue out in a gentle lick, then twists his head to kiss Buck’s palm.
It’s romantic. Oh, Jesus, but Eddie is going to be so fucking romantic. And of course he is. He always has been. He’s been this way since the moment they met, or close to it, anyway.
“Sounds good,” Eddie says. “So, come on, Buck. Can we get you off now? Promise it’ll happen again. Plenty of times.” Eddie squeezes his hand around Buck’s dick, which obviously hasn’t softened, then drags his palm upward. Gently rubs his calloused hand over the slit of Buck’s dick.
Buck makes a noise. Eddie smiles. Helplessly, Buck smiles back, so hard his eyes squint and Eddie’s face blurs. But, wait, he needs to say—
“Touch yourself, too,” Buck bargains, because he doesn’t trust himself to do it right. Not with the way it’s been feeling: electric and wild, pleasure so strong he loses control of his arms and legs. Can’t feel his mouth or tongue. He won’t do it any justice. So, it’s better to not have the choice. He won’t be able to fuck up like that, and Eddie will come, and maybe it’ll get all over Buck— maybe he’ll be able to scoop it up with his fingers, after, and swallow it whole.
And why shouldn’t he swallow it? Another piece of Eddie, for him to keep. He wants everything he can get. And Eddie, like a miracle, is going to give it to him.
Eddie’s eyes get darker, pupils blowing wide even though it’s broad daylight in the bedroom. When he leans forward, he’s silent except for a puff of air, and then his hot mouth is pressed against Buck’s.
They twist together on the bed, Eddie shifting to kneel with Buck’s legs still wrapped around him. And then Eddie’s thighs spread wide, and Buck is forced to open with him, until their crotches are pressed close together and Buck’s legs are spread far enough to almost ache. Only almost, though.
Their dicks collide, sticky and burning, and Eddie wraps his fist around them both. He slides his fist slow, then quicker, until it’s flying and Buck is back to trembling. His knees shaking around Eddie’s waist, toes curling, moaning uh, huh, uh, uh each time Eddie’s hand cups the heads of their dicks.
All at once, Buck’s dick is on fire again, hot and tight and dripping, too. He’s not leaking. He’s squirting, small jets pulsing out with each stroke. He’s going to come a lot. Fuck, shit, but he’s really going to come a lot, and his hips are twisting, writhing up into Eddie, because he can’t handle it anymore, he can’t— normally he loves to drag it out, but not today, he needs it, he needs it, he can’t—
“Eddie, yes, yes, yesyesyes,” Buck gasps.
“Good, Buck,” Eddie tells him. He clunks their foreheads together, angled down like he’s staring between their bodies, watching his own fist flying. “Yeah, just like that, you sound so…”
“What?” Buck says, because Eddie needs to say it, Buck needs him to say it, oh, fuck, his dick is on fire, oh fuck, oh, oh, oh, oh—
“You sound so pretty, baby,” Eddie says, and Buck claws down his back jerkily. “Fuck, keep making those noises, Buck. Jesus, look at you— You’re doing so good, bud.”
And that’s it. That’s really, really it, something about that strikes through Buck like a hammer, and he’s coming in jets, long hot streams, hips thrusting up with each one. It goes and goes, the agonizingly good flex of his balls, the clenching in his dick. He’s moaning, shaking, and then Eddie does— his fist is still moving, and he does something, and suddenly it’s like it happens all over again, and Buck almost cries out. His body thrashes, and he’s drooling, and he doesn’t care because it feels so good, so good, really— really good, oh, oh.
Eddie lets go of his dick right when it starts to hurt and Buck whines a complaint. He forces an eye open and discovers Eddie’s hand flying, jerking himself so quickly it almost blurs, the muscles in Eddie’s neck and forearm straining. And then Eddie is gone, too, coming hot into his own hand. He hunches down, humping for a moment, his eyes screwed shut, and then trembles above Buck.
Buck stares. Eddie holds himself, his hand cupped around his dick, and Buck’s mouth waters. He wiggles his numb tongue around in his mouth, trying to get feeling back so he can ask—
Except he doesn’t need to ask.
Eddie lifts his head, eyes still midnight-dark, and reaches up with his own come sliding down his fingers. Pearly and white and thick. Buck’s lips part and Eddie slides his fingers inside, the taste bitter and strong, and Buck moans. Eddie reaches back, almost into Buck’s throat, and Buck sucks
He sucks Eddie’s fingers clean. When Eddie tries to pull away, Buck follows, licking over Eddie’s knuckles and palm, lapping his tongue down to Eddie’s wrist. Buck’s body feels hot again, and tight, but also somehow liquid. Like he’s been poured, boiling, into something very small. Or otherwise like Eddie is taking up space inside of him.
They stare at each other. The room is still very bright. It’s daytime. Eddie’s hair is flopping over his forehead.
When Eddie tumbles forward, Buck catches him, and they’re kissing again between one breath and the next.