Archive of Our Own

When Eddie was younger, he had a friend. His name was Andrew Millers.

He had blue eyes that seemed almost translucent in the sunlight, his shaggy blonde hair always falling into them. His cheeks were painted with a dusting of freckles, and his teeth were crooked but his smile was still perfect. He had long blonde eyelashes, pink chapped lips, and when he was fifteen, he had awful acne.

Calling him a friend seemed almost like he was undermining just who Andrew was to him. He was sunshine bright, awkwardly long limbed, quiet until you got to know him. He was Eddie’s best friend, from the age of ten to sixteen. 

He moved away when they were both freshly sixteen. They had said that they’d keep in contact, writing emails or letters to one another. They’d even sworn to go to the same university, one that was far enough away from their families that they could be free from the expectations and iron fists of their parents. Eddie had been left in the dust of the U-Haul van, his heart aching as he held a slip of paper with an address scrawled on it in his hands.

After he left, Andrew never answered any of his emails or letters. 

It stung a lot more than Eddie ever wanted to admit. Days waiting for the mail to arrive, running out to see if a letter addressed to him had been delivered, only to be left empty handed and disappointed. 

There were a lot of lonely days after Andrew moved away; his father always working, his sisters busy with their own friends, his mother far too overbearing. Eddie didn’t really have many friends outside of Andrew, and he had been okay with that– they’d practically spent all their free time together, so did it really matter to have other friends? Well, it does when your only friend moves away and never contacts you again.

The rest of high school was…okay, after that. He had Shannon, after all, and they had reconnected in Andrew’s absence. But things fall apart, things change, and before Eddie knew it, he was eighteen and married, a son on the way. It was all too much, too overwhelming. Too much confusion, too much lost. He also gained, yes– he could never regret Christopher– but he still ran in the end. He’d never regretted anything more than that. Eddie always runs.

The familiar tone of the FaceTime ringtone quietly trills from Eddie’s iPad as he waits impatiently for Chris to pick up. They had scheduled a call originally for Saturday, but had had to delay it until Monday, and he’s been waiting anxiously ever since. His lip is torn from biting it, and his hair sticks up in odd directions from running his hands through it.

There’s sharp relief in his stomach when Chris finally picks up, his face made out of too big pixels and lagging, jerky movements that settle after a few moments.

“Chris! Hey, bud!” Eddie can’t help his smile, can’t help the way his heart swoops into his stomach, happy-nervous-relieved.

“Hi, dad.” Chris’ voice, flat and bored, floats through the speakers. He doesn’t know which is worse– if Chris’ voice is flat because he’s still mad (he probably is), or if his voice is flat because he’s a teenager talking to his dad (how has he grown up so quickly?)

“How was school? You get up to anything interesting today?” Eddie tries, his smile feeling more painted on by the second.

Chris shrugs, “It was school.” 

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek, tries not to sigh. He’s trying, he really is.

“Any new assignments that you’ve been working on? Homework? New gossip?” Eddie forces another smile, his grip on his iPad tightening. It’s awkward, stilted. He feels like he’s being forced to play a role in a production that he doesn’t want to be in. He doesn’t want this fiction to be his reality, he doesn’t want to have to muster painful smiles, pretending that the wetness in his eyes is just bright happiness from talking to his son rather than the burn of grief and mourning that it really is.

On screen, Chris pixelates for a few seconds, a sigh that sounds more like feedback from a microphone coming tinnily from the speakers, “We’re doing poetry in English.” He says, and Eddie latches onto it, even if it’s not the olive branch his son probably means it to be.

“Oh, really? What poets are you looking at?” His voice is too eager, he knows it, but he can’t help himself. He hasn’t seen Chris in months and it hurts, it feels like he’s missing a vital part of himself. He is missing a vital part of himself. He was a dad long before he was an adult, and now he feels like he’s less of a dad, and a lot more lost. He feels like he’s sixteen again.

“Walt Whitman. Maybe Sylvia Plath, too, tomorrow.” His son– his sweet, caring son– extends the maybe-olive-branch further. Eddie grabs onto it as much as he can, holds as tightly as he can.

“Yeah? We studied those when I was in school, too. Though I can’t really say I was really all that into poetry, I didn't really have the ear for it.” Eddie smiles, a little lopsided, a little fake, but still relieved. This feels like it could be progress.

“Yeah,” Chris waves a hand distractedly, “Listen, dad, I’ve got to go. Dinner’s ready.” And just as Eddie’s opening his mouth to say goodbye, to tell Chris he loves him, the screen fades to black and he’s left with the hangup tone dialing in echoes in his head. Eddie sighs.

He grinds his teeth together briefly, his iPad discarded on the side of the couch as he drops his head into his hands, pushing the heels of them into his eyes. He feels rotten; he feels like he can’t get a grip on anything that’s happening in his life. Everything is just slipping between his fingers like sand. Some of it is sticking to his clothes, clinging onto him, but nothing concrete, nothing he can grasp and keep for himself, and the last time he felt like this had been so long ago, and it was never to quite this level of hurt.

The thing is, though, Eddie craves control. He likes to have things sorted in a specific way, a specific order. He keeps his thoughts in boxes and he arranges them how he likes– memories he holds dear, memories he has of Christopher, his sisters, Buck, they all have their own little cardboard boxes front and centre in his mind. Easy to open and close whenever he needs. Other memories? Ones of his mom and dad when he was younger, ones of Andrew Millers and waiting eagerly by the mailbox, the fights with Shannon? They all have their own boxes, too. They’re more…heavy duty, than the ones at the front. They’re locked tightly, and he threw away the keys to them long ago. 

There’s some other boxes, too. Ones that he can’t quite keep under lock and key. Ones that burst open despite Eddie pushing them down, sitting on them as if he’s trying to close a too-full suitcase of repression. Shannon dying, him getting shot, the well, Buck’s body suspended in air, Christopher leaving. They burst open sometimes, when everything’s too much, and Eddie can do nothing but watch those moments play out again, as if they were happening in real time, right before his eyes once more. It doesn’t happen often, but it does more so now that he spends more of his free time alone than not.

Everyone else in his life is so much more busy. Christopher is in Texas and hardly replies to his messages– and if he does, it’s usually just one word replies– Buck is with Tommy, Hen is busy spending time with her own family, Athena and Bobby are house hunting, Chimney and Maddie are busy with Jee-yun. And it’s fine, Eddie is fine, he’s just never lived alone before.

He’s always had someone with him. His parents and sisters, Shannon, other soldiers, Shannon and Christopher, and then just him and Christopher. Never just Eddie. 

But he’s adjusting. Like he said, he’s fine.

With a groan, Eddie pushes his fingers through his hair and then back down over his face. He looks to his iPad, and then his phone, picking it up briefly to send an, ‘I love and miss you, enjoy your dinner,’ text to Christopher, before staring at the blank screened television. Eddie runs over the conversation with him in his mind.

Mentioning poetry, that has to be some sort of olive branch, right? What else could it be? He’s been given something, and something is always better than nothing. Eddie smiles briefly, sucking in a deep breath. Maybe he should take a page out of Buck’s book and do some research.

As it turns out, research kind of sucks.

Eddie isn’t giving up or anything, but he just can’t seem to click with any of the poetry he tried to read the night before. It feels like he’s reading something in a completely different language, or maybe like he’s trying to read Hieroglyphics. Anyway, he’s just not connecting with it, it’s not sticking in his mind like it should, and before he could find anything that he does understand, something that he could talk to Chris about, he has to leave for his shift at the station. Maybe Buck will have recommendations or suggestions on poets– the likelihood that Buck hasn’t had a poetry deep dive is pretty low, really.

The drive over to the station is quiet, as always; he hasn’t much felt like listening to music lately, so the radio typically stays off. Thankfully, he doesn’t live too far from his work, so the early morning drive is quick.

Eddie parks in his usual space, slams his door shut after grabbing his bag, and wanders into the station, watching as the B-shift wraps up. Some of them wave, smiling politely, saying quick hellos. Eddie smiles back and tries to pretend that his smiles are a lot less fake than they truly are.

The changing room is empty when he enters, and he opens the locker he and Buck had started to share at some point, though Eddie can’t quite recall when. It’s got pictures of himself, Buck and Christopher, some of just Buck and Christopher, some of Eddie and Christopher, and a single photo of the two of them, Buck and Eddie, together. He remembers the day that he opened the locker, finding that photo there. His stomach had dropped pleasantly, and he’s sure his face was tinted pink for the rest of his shift. 

The photo itself is innocent in nature– the two of them at Bobby and Athena’s, some gathering or other, possibly the fourth of July. Their cheeks are bunched up in matching smiles, Eddie’s cheeks dimpling and Buck’s smile blindingly bright as if someone was shining a spotlight on him from up above. The sun is setting, they’ve got beers in their hands, and they smile at one another.

Eddie puffs out a breath, a smile flickering on his lips at the memory before falling away as he changes into his uniform swiftly.

He feels guilty as he hopes for a busy shift. He doesn’t want even more time on his hands to think about his life. He doesn’t want more time for good meaning meddling from his friends. He doesn’t need nor does he want their pity, even if they only want to help. All Eddie wants– all he needs– is a distraction.

It’s probably not the healthiest way to cope during this time in his life, but he’s going to therapy, and all he does outside of work is think. Eddie thinks and thinks and thinks, over and over again. He thinks about the look on Christopher and Marisol’s faces when they walked in on him and Kim. He thinks about the look Buck gave him when he found out Christopher was leaving. He thinks about the looks on his friends’ faces when they found out Christopher had left. He thinks about Shannon’s face, far too still, almost peaceful, little flakes of her blood on his hands. He thinks of Andrew Millers’ face the day he left for a new school, a new city, a new state, and the way his mouth formed oddly around wrong shaped words. Words that he never would have said unless Eddie didn’t know him as well as he thought.

But Eddie doesn’t want to think anymore. He just wants silence.

No, that isn’t right. He doesn’t want silence. He wants his son back. He wants Christopher back home, where he belongs. He wants to be able to hear him playing video games in his room from across the house. He wants to listen to Buck and Christopher making enough noise to cause their own earthquake while they’re cooking in the kitchen. Eddie hates the silence, he hates living in his house. It all just feels so cold, and everything reminds him of when his life was so much happier.

Frustrated, Eddie slams the locker shut, and the noise bounces off the glass walls of the changing room.

“Oh, someone seems cheerful.” Chimney stands in the doorway, his own bag slung over his shoulder. He smacks his gum and Eddie raises an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah,” Eddie grunts as he walks past Chim, “Cheerful.”

The shift, mercifully, is a busy one.

Part of Eddie feels guilty for being thankful that they’re so busy, but all of their calls are smaller accidents– fender benders, someone getting their arm stuck in a vending machine, two people stuck in an elevator, an empty warehouse on fire. It’s low stress, but it takes up all the room in Eddie’s mind. Forty-two hours of nothing but mindless static and repetitive movements he’s done hundreds of times already.

When the shift is ending and C-shift are filing in to take over, Eddie makes his way over to Buck, a question on the tip of his tongue that he’s been wanting to ask all shift.

“Poetry? Why do you want to know about poetry?” Buck’s body is half twisted towards their shared locker, and half towards Eddie. Both of his eyebrows are raised in surprise. Eddie gets it, he doesn’t really seem like the type to read poetry– he isn’t the type to read poetry.

Eddie shrugs, “Christopher is learning poetry in English right now.” He looks down at his shoes when he says it, unwilling to see the quick flash of pity on his friend's face– hearing Buck’s sharp inhale is enough, thank you very much.

“Well,” Buck starts almost awkwardly, turning back towards the locker to continue getting changed, “I really think your best bet would be going to a bookstore, or maybe the library. I don’t really know too much about poets, aside from what I learned in school. Though I did do a deep dive on the history of poetry, if that helps at all?” Buck turns to face him again, smile eager and bright, and Eddie can’t help but smile back.

“Yeah, sure, Buck. Tell me all about the history of poetry, then.”

“Okay, so…”

When Eddie gets home after his shift, the first thing he does is let himself crawl into bed and sleep. It’s seven in the morning, so it isn’t that bad to be sleeping at that time.

He’s tired. With the amount of calls they’d had on their shift, he’d hardly gotten four hours of sleep, so obviously that was the first order of business. The second, after he woke up four hours later, was to heat up a can of soup and sigh miserably each time he had a spoonful. The third? Looking up bookstores near him. He’d go to the library, but he wants something tangible that he can keep, something he won’t have to give up. Maybe something he could give to Christopher to borrow.

There’s one with good reviews that’s a ten minute drive from him, and Eddie spends a good five minutes staring at their empty and sad looking website, scrolling up and down aimlessly. He’s not sure why he’s so nervous to go to a bookstore. The photos make the place look calming, soothing, cosy. The reviews praise the staff and the large collection of books they have. But he also feels so stupid, going into a bookstore and asking for poetry recommendations because he can’t find anything he ‘connects with.’ 

But still, in the end, this is for Christopher, so Eddie gets up off of his ass, grabs his keys and wallet, shoves his shoes on his feet, and heads for his car.

LA traffic is, as always, a complete nightmare. He really should start adding an extra twenty minutes onto any sort of driving time frame because it's thirty minutes before he’s at the bookstore and another five before he’s found a good parking spot. 

Eddie groans and rubs his face, looking at the quaint little shop. Even from the outside it looks homey. He feels like an idiot. And then he repeats to himself, ‘You’re not stupid. This is for Christopher.’ 

A bell jingles quietly above him when he opens the door, and then again when it shuts with a ‘woosh’ behind him. The store smells of incense and parchment. It makes his nose itch.

It looks almost maze-like inside– towering warm oak shelves, books piled onto each one until they’re almost overflowing, rugs overlapping and covering the floors, and warm orange lamps in the corners and by the shelves. He’s pretty sure he can also see a little reading area in the corner, too. The sun lazily drifts into the store from between the heavy curtains that cover the windows and there's a cat quietly purring, contentedly asleep, on a small couch with blankets covering all of the original fabric. There’s a quiet bustle around the shop. It’s not busy, but it's very obviously well loved. 

Eddie lets his gaze wander, sure that he’s looking completely lost between the shelves. He has no possible chance in being able to navigate this place for the kind of thing he’s looking for– wouldn’t even know where to start– so he’s definitely going to need to ask for help. Looking for help is another problem on his long list because he hasn’t even seen anyone.

His feet carry him around the store, almost silent on the carpeted floors. There’s so many things to look at, so many colourful book spines, so many titles and authors he’s never heard of– it isn’t exactly surprising, seeing as he’s never been much of a reader. Eddie’s always preferred watching a movie or a show over a book; he never seems to be able to find the time to read one. He’s determined to make time now, though.

Then, there’s a muffled thud and a quiet hiss of a curse to the left of him, hidden behind some shelves. Eddie immediately reroutes, making his way toward the sound in hopes that it’s someone who works there.

He turns the corner, and it’s a young girl. From the vest she’s wearing, she does in fact work there. Probably a teenager with an after school job to make a little bit of spare money. The fact she’s so young makes him even more nervous– teenagers are so judgemental, and he can’t be so sure he isn’t about to get the ‘can-you-hurry-up-and-finish-talking-to-me-now,’ look that all of them seem to have perfected.

Eddie makes his way over to the girl, eye catching on the little trolley full of books that's in front of her, and clears his throat awkwardly. She spins around, and he waves. Hasn’t even said a word and he’s already making a fool of himself.

“Uh, hi. Sorry to bother you,” Eddie clears his throat, takes a quick look at her name tag where ‘Claire’ is scrawled in neat print with a small butterfly next to it, “I was hoping you could help me with something?” 

The girl, Claire, tilts her head, “Sure. What can I do for you?” She’s got a soft voice, braids in her hair and is dressed in warm tones. She seems a lot nicer than he was expecting.

“Do you guys have much poetry?” Eddie asks, and resists the urge to scuff his feet on the carpets and duck his head like a little kid who’s getting in trouble.

“I mean, we have a pretty decent amount. It really just depends on what you’re looking for– genre, author, style. There’s loads of options.” She steps away from her trolley and gives him a shy smile, “Here, follow me.” 

Claire leads him through several different aisles of shelves, and Eddie can’t help himself from trying to spy out anything that sounds more familiar. He hates himself to admit that it’s a startlingly low number– he should really try and read more. Maybe this could be his turning point into the world of reading.

“We only have a few shelves of poetry, but we have a lot of different and diverse poets. We can also order in specific books, if there’s one in mind that we don’t happen to have in stock.” She smiles kindly, and Eddie musters up one to give back to her.

“No, no. I don’t really have anything in mind…” He trails off, “Honestly, I’ve been trying to get into poetry, but everything I read just doesn’t really…” He stops, thinks, “It doesn’t not make sense, but I want to read something that I can connect with more. I clearly haven’t been able to find anything. I don’t really know if that makes sense.” He explains, and Claire nods like it does. Eddie feels a little less ridiculous.

“Well, I obviously don’t know what exactly you’d be into, but if you’re wanting suggestions, I have a few favourite poets that I can recommend to you, if that works?” Eddie smiles and breathes out a relieved breath.

“Yeah, yeah. That’d be amazing.” He nods.

Claire smiles back, obviously pleased, “Awesome, just give me a couple seconds to grab them for you.” Eddie nods again and watches as she scans the bookshelves, a finger pressed to her mouth in concentration.

There’s a glint in her eyes, this quiet type of glee almost, that makes Eddie maybe a little worried when she grabs a book off of the shelf after a few moments of scanning. 

“I was going to give you two different books, but I think it’d be best to just start with one,” She holds up the book. The cover is in black and white, and it’s a man’s lower face, a hand against his mouth and the word ‘Crush,’ in black print at the bottom, “Richard Siken’s poetry literally changed my life. His work is really beautiful. He might not be what you’re looking for, but I definitely recommend giving him a try.” She waves the book and smiles, and the glint’s back in her eyes again. Maybe Eddie should feel suspicious of the way she smiles, but he’s far too relieved to even care at the moment. Claire holds the book out to him, an eyebrow raised.

With careful hands– far more careful than he probably needs, but this feels almost like something big is being handed to him, something grander than he realises– he takes the book from her grasp, hands gently running over the smooth surface of it. The corners of his mouth tick up and he lets his shoulders relax; he hadn’t even known they were tensed in the first place. 

“Yeah, I think maybe I’ll give this a try. Haven’t got much to lose.” Claire shoots him a blinding smile, almost a little like she's hiding some secret from him. Eddie chooses to ignore it; it's just poetry, after all.

“Really?” She sounds happy, and he smiles back at her, small and hesitant but quietly pleased. He nods in reply. “Amazing! If you like it, you have to come back here and tell me what you think! He has another book, too, and a third coming out. If you like this, you’ll definitely like his other work.” 

Eddie laughs and follows as she starts leading the way to the till, listening to her as she chatters on about a few other poets that he might like depending on how he feels about Richard Siken’s work. He takes it all in, and can’t help but ache because he just knows that Chrisopher and Buck would love it here. 

After paying the fourteen dollars for the book, and a quick stop to pet the cat– his name is apparently Brick, of all things– he heads out the door. It jingles behind him, and Eddie looks down at the book in his hands and thinks, ‘Please just make sense. Be something I can understand so I can talk to my son.’

He’s on a seventy-two off after his shift, but he doesn’t actually get around to starting to read the book until two days later– a day before his next shift.

His other days off are filled with messages that go unanswered from his son, single serving recipes from Linda at Dispatch, a few calls with Buck that always end up lasting an hour or two to stave away the loneliness, and a therapy session with Frank.

They talk about Shannon. Again.

Eddie always finds his thoughts somehow drifting back to her, like his mind is made up of train tracks and she's always the final destination. He can’t seem to escape her, doesn’t really want to– or maybe he does, but he really just wishes that each memory didn’t come with this horrible swell of guilt-pain-grief-disgust-anger. He’s stuck in a constant cycle of the stages of grief, unsure how to pull himself out of it because does he really deserve to? He was an awful husband, friend, and father in the end, so why should he be able to escape her ghost when he hasn’t made up for all the mistakes he’s made in the past? She should be allowed to haunt him. Eddie isn’t really sure if he can make up for all of them, really. The sins are piled too high, and he feels like if he dislodges one, deals with it, finds some type of absolution, the only thing he’ll really succeed at in the end is just toppling the tower down on top of himself. He isn’t sure he wants to be buried under his own sins– doesn’t want to find out what's hidden in those boxes he keeps locked tightly. 

Frank is settled across from him, a notepad in his lap, and he’s silent. Eddie looks anywhere but Frank, and bites his lip. He’s silent, too.

The clock ticks loudly.

A car speeds past the window.

There’s a bird quietly chirping on the branch of a tree.

“I want to forget.” Eddie says. It bursts out of his mouth like a gasp of air, and it isn’t really what he wants to say. He doesn’t know what he wants to say, or how to say it, doesn’t know why he said it. Frank stays quiet still, aside from an inquisitive noise. Something in Eddie's gut, or maybe chest, or maybe something tucked behind his ribs, between his lungs and his heart, curls up and bares its teeth. He doesn’t know why it does that, either.

It’s quiet again, until:

“Sometimes I want to forget all about Shannon.” He tries again, “The way she’d smile, the way she’d dress. How she’d say my name when she was angry or upset, how she’d sound when she was making a joke. Sometimes I think it would be better if I could just erase her from my memory.” Eddie rubs at his mouth with his hand, something like shame curling in his gut.

“And why do you want to forget?” Frank asks, tone neutral. Face neutral. He never reacts to anything, and Eddie doesn’t know if it frustrates him or makes him feel relieved.

“I don’t know. Maybe it would hurt less?” Eddie sighs and slumps in his chair, “I don’t want to have never met her. I loved her, I love Chrisopher and every day I’m thankful for him, but it still hurts.” He shrugs halfheartedly, “It’s not just her death that hurts; I think it’s also all of the moments that were spent fighting, or running, or hiding. Did you know I refused to let Christopher and Shannon see each other for months? I took that away from them. They could have had so much more time together,” His voice wavers, and he clears his throat, shakes his head, “I have so many regrets– from missing out on Christopher’s life by running away, not being there for Shannon when she needed me, not saving her, and now this whole mess– but I just wish I could have given them more time together. I wish Chris could have more memories with his mother, but he can’t. She’s dead. And I wish that I could forget that sometimes. If I forgot, I wouldn’t have to grieve just Shannon, but also all of the what-ifs.” He groans, “It’s stupid, I’m sorry. It doesn’t make sense that I want more memories but I also want to forget. I don’t even know why I said it.”

“It’s not stupid, Eddie,” Frank reassures, “You’re still grieving, it’s not meant to make sense. And still, it makes sense, why you feel this way. You’re saying that you want to forget Shannon because you can’t have more memories with her. You’re still processing, and that’s okay. You don’t have to have all of this figured out. It doesn’t make you a bad person to have feelings and grieve.”

“It’s been years since she died, so I don’t understand what there is left to process.”

“Well, have you ever really had the time and space to actually let yourself grieve for her, or have you just been repressing it?” Frank asks. Eddie opens his mouth to refute him, then closes it again. He shakes his head, slightly shameful, “I think this is you finally starting to let yourself mourn. All of these complicated thoughts and feelings? It’s something I think you’ve been pushing down because you didn’t feel as if you had the freedom and time to let yourself feel them. It’s a good thing, Eddie.”

“How is wishing that I could forget my dead wife, the mother of my son, a good thing?” He laughs incredulously, scoffing.

“Because you won’t forget. You’re hurt by her death, you deserve to let yourself come to terms with it. Have you visited her grave recently?” 

Eddie shrugs, “Not since Christopher left, no.”

“Well, maybe you should start there.”

Eddie decides that, after his upcoming twenty-four hour shift, he’ll go to visit Shannon’s grave.

He doesn’t want to push himself too far mentally that he breaks, and he has a feeling that visiting her grave will be a lot more than he can take after getting stripped raw during therapy. Instead, that night he finds himself folded into the corner of his couch, his new book resting in his lap. He feels unsure where exactly to start: the beginning or should he maybe open a random page?

He’s being stupid. Obviously he should start at the beginning.

Just before he cracks open the book, he sends Chris a quick goodnight text, telling him he loves him and misses him, briefly telling him that he’s about to start reading a new book. And then finally, carefully, he flicks through the first couple of pages until he lands on the first poem, ‘Scheherazade.’

‘Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again.’

The book is closed so swiftly that it feels like, for a moment, it was never opened in the first place. Eddie is silent as he swallows. Something scratches between the rungs of his lungs. He clenches his fists, opens the book again.

He devours the poem, pours himself over the words, ‘Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.’ He reads through the second poem, the third, the fourth. He stops there. His chest is aching, his lungs feel like they’re burning. He’s dizzy, almost sick to his stomach and he isn’t quite sure why. Eddie wants to read more, he wants to keep going until he has nothing left to read through, but his mind is on a loop of, ‘Tell me you’re not miserable,’ ‘I want it back now, baby, I want it back,’ and he’s not sure what’ll happen to his mind if he continues.

This is his own fault, in the end. He wanted poetry that would make him feel something, and he’s found it. He just isn’t quite sure what he’s feeling yet.

Waking up for his shift the next morning is difficult.

It feels as if words that don’t make sense when strung together are mudding around his thoughts. He feels off balance, and there’s something squirming inside of him, something nudging its head between the chambers of his heart and whispering to it, telling him to think about just what he’s doing here, about what he’s going to do when everything falls apart– but everything already has fallen apart, so he’s really not sure what his mind is telling itself. 

Eddie drags himself out of bed and absently rubs his shoulder, fingers pressing over pale, filmy-smooth scar tissue. He needs to get something quick to eat, drink a cup or two of coffee, then head out for work, or else he’ll end up late. It’s not like he has Christopher as a reason for why he’s ten minutes late for a shift anymore.

His morning routine, notably wrong with the absence of his son, is quick and efficient. He aches for the days where he was dragging Christopher out of bed, maybe with Buck in the kitchen, cooking blueberry pancakes just to get him dressed and ready that bit quicker, always eager for his Buck’s cooking. Instead, his house is deafeningly silent, absent of the two most important people in his life. Eddie sighs from where he sits at his kitchen table, toast and coffee tasting like nothing more than ash in his mouth.

The hands on his clock tick by slowly and he impatiently waits for the hands to strike twenty minutes to seven before he drains the rest of his coffee, places his mug and empty plate in the sink, and then heads out of the door.

He’s careful to keep his focus solely on the road, but his mind keeps drifting back to what he read last night. It’s all on a loop around his head. Obviously he doesn’t exactly have the words memorised, but it’s the feeling they invoked, too. It’s sitting uncomfortably in his gut, in his chest, he can feel the pound and beat of the words in his heart. Each time the blood passes around his body, the words leave their mark. In his arms, his fingers, down his legs and to his toes; he feels unmoored, unsettled. Something in his mind has cracks in it, and he doesn’t quite know what.

It doesn’t make sense for just a few poems to make him feel like this. Eddie isn’t an unfeeling guy by any measure, but when it comes to literature? Well, he isn’t exactly well versed in it, but from what he has read, none of it has affected him like this. He feels jittery, like he’s drunk too much coffee, maybe mixed in an energy drink with it, too. He feels like he’s pent up with all this anxious energy that has no reason to be there– no reason that he can understand, at least. 

When he pulls into the station, it’s a relief. He goes through the usual motions– waving hello, saying good morning, smiling. Standard. If his smile is more shaky than usual, nobody mentions it.

Eddie changes quickly, dumping the stuff he doesn’t need into his and Buck’s locker, and jogs up the stairs to greet everyone.

Bobby, to nobody's surprise, is in the kitchen, bacon popping on the stove. Chimney is sitting at the table with Hen, popping gum while Hen scrolls through her phone and talks with Chim. Buck isn’t there.

“Morning, Eddie.” Bobby greets him with a smile. Chimney and Hen echo the sentiment, sending him a quick smile. Eddie looks around a little and to Bobby with a questioning glance, “Buck called, said he was stuck in traffic and would be a couple of minutes late.” Satisfied with Bobby’s explanation, Eddie nods and grabs a seat next to Hen.

When he sits, she looks up from her phone. Her eyes scan judgmentally over his face, a small frown tugging at the corners of her lips.

“You okay?” She asks. Chimney’s head swivels towards him, while Bobby’s eyes take their own turn in looking him over.

Eddie squirms slightly under their combined gazes and shrugs his shoulders, “Yeah. I’m fine.” He says back, very convincingly. Hen raises an eyebrow.

“Convincing.” 

He rolls his eyes and sighs, “I’m fine, just didn’t sleep well is all.” 

She hums sympathetically and nods her head, her hand giving his arm a quick squeeze, “Okay.” 

And with that, it’s dropped. Everything settles into a comfortable silence; the rhythmic tapping of Hen’s nails against her phone screen, Chim chewing his gum, and Bobby rustling around in the kitchen. And then, the stomping of feet coming up the stairs.

“Sorry I’m late, guys! I swore I left early enough to beat the traffic, but apparently not.” The station seems to brighten with Buck’s sheepish smile as he appears. He rushes across the floor and settling into the seat next to Eddie in a fashion not unlike a tornado passing through an empty street. Eddie can’t help but smile.

Eddie listens to the hush of conversation between everyone as Bobby serves up breakfast, the rest of them quick to offer their help. Hen and Chim talk about Mara and how she’s adjusting to being back home with herself and Karen, Bobby chiming in with his own comments now and then. He listens, happy for his friends, but his heart twists with jealousy, with envy, something green spearing its teeth into one of his heart chambers, and part of him wants to look down to check he hasn’t been shot again.

He loses himself in his own thoughts for a moment as he clears a space on the table for the sausages to go, when he feels his side radiate with warmth, Buck pressed against him in a line.

“How did the whole poetry thing go? You never sent me an update.” He whispers, his breath hot against Eddie’s ear, fanning to his cheek.

Fighting down a shiver and thankful that Buck was being discreet about his ventures into literature, Eddie can’t help but lean into his touch slightly, “Found something that seems to have promise, haven’t had a moment to read it yet.” He doesn’t know why exactly he lies, or why he omits Richard Siken’s name. Maybe it’s embarrassment for how much the poetry’s been affecting him, maybe he just wants to keep this close to his own heart for now. Maybe it’s the whisper of, ‘Tell me we’ll never get used to it,’ that runs through his head, but he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t know where the voice is coming from or why it feels like some part of him is screaming when he thinks too hard about the words he had read last night.

So, instead of letting himself get caught in a lie or being torn open before he’s ready to, he smiles. It’s not hard to smile for Buck, it feels so much less like a chore than when everyone else expects him to smile. It helps that Buck always smiles back, easily, openly, and kindly. He never expects anything  from Eddie other than his time. And to have his back, but that’s always a given.

“That’s great.” His voice is heavy with relief and honesty, “I really hope this helps with you and Chris.” 

Eddie nods, “Me too.” 

“Oh! I was also thinking, what are you doing after this shift?” Buck perks up, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet as he ferries another plate of food onto the table– crepes, it looks like.

“Hm? Well, I have to go visit someone, but that should only take an hour, two at most. I’m free after that?” 

Buck blinks, his face shuttering oddly, before he smiles again, shrugging it off, “Who are you visiting? Pepa?” 

Eddie shakes his head, “No, no. I’m uh,” He looks around as he pauses and leans further towards Buck, “I’m visiting Shannon, actually.” 

“Oh.” He’s worried now, face ernest and eyes big and wide. Eddie’s heart thumps hard against his ribs.

He laughs breathily, just for a second, and rolls his eyes, “Buck, I’m fine. Frank and I were talking and he suggested visiting her is all. I think it could be good for me.”

Buck nods seriously, “Yeah, I think it could, too.” He thinks for a second, feet shuffling, “Well, if you want…I was thinking maybe I could come over later? I could grab take out, or I could make us dinner, we could have some beers.” He suggests, “We could finally catch up on that telenovela that we’ve been watching! God, we’ve missed so many episodes.”

Eddie snorts, nodding his head before Buck even finishes talking, “Yeah, yeah. That’d be really nice, actually. If you order take out, though, can it be from that Thai place? The one near your house?” 

“Uh, duh? Where else would we order from?” Buck clicks his tongue, puffs out his chest a little. 

“Quit doing that, you look like some weird peacock trying to preen and show off.”

Buck squawks loudly, “Excuse me? You’re saying this to me, right after I offer to come to your house and bless you with my presence? I see, so this is how it is now, huh? This is how I’m getting treated?” He scoffs playfully. Eddie can’t help the grin stretching on his face, and nudges his shoulder into Buck’s.

It’s like he can’t help himself from gravitating towards him when he’s near, shoulders or knees brushing, bodies twisting towards one another.

“Oh, I don’t know, it seems a bit more like you’re trying to curse me here, more than anything.” Eddie tries to deadpan his way through it, but the corners of his lips twitch with the effort to not smile, and small huffs of laughter fall from between them which he tries to chase away by clearing his throat.

“Nice, nice. Well, I can see when I’m clearly not wanted, so maybe I’ll take myself and my amazing Thai food somewhere else tomorrow.” Buck pouts, petulant and teasing. He manages to keep a straight face for a beat or two before the beginnings of a bright smile is splitting his face, their shoulders bumping and brushing over and over again as they seat themselves at the table for a much better breakfast than Eddie managed to make for himself this morning.

“Guess I’ll just have to eat the tres leches cake that Pepa made for me all to myself too, now, huh?”

“Woah, woah, now don’t be too hasty there, Eds. C’mon, sharing is caring!” 

Eddie hums, pretends to think about it, “Well, I mean, you did start it, didn’t you? Threatening to keep me from my favourite green curry, after all.” He quickly serves himself and Buck some bacon, and watches Buck serve them both some scrambled eggs.

“Awh, you know I didn’t mean it. You can’t keep me from Pepa’s tres leches cake, that’s just cruel.” Another bump of the shoulders and a pout, big blue eyes all wide and sincere, and Eddie feels something inside of him melt, or maybe crumble apart.

“Alright, alright, enough with the eyes, you’re making me feel like I’ve kicked a puppy. I’m probably going to be back home around two, so come over then?” The smile Eddie receives in answer shines like sunshine, and Eddie is so glad that he managed to get himself out of bed this morning.

Work is work, and going home is going home. 

Well, going home also comes with the ache knowing he’s coming home to an empty house, but on top of that is also the anxiety that visiting Shannon’s grave is stirring inside him.

Eddie feels guilty that he hasn’t been to visit her in the past few months, she deserves better than that, has always deserved a lot better than what he gave her; he knows she's dead, but maybe there’s still time to fix it. Maybe he can start visiting her grave more, upkeep it and always make sure that her favourite flowers decorate it. He’ll fix things with Christopher, he’ll take him here more, too. Eddie will remember that she’s gone and he’ll respect it, respect her memory instead of tainting it like he did with Kim. He doesn’t know if he can ever forgive himself for that whole mess, really.

But with those thoughts in mind, he heads to the small flower shop just down the block from the cemetery where Shannon is buried, and purchases a bouquet of her favourite flowers. On the walk down to her grave, he wipes a clammy hand down his thigh and tries to breathe through the nerves fluttering in his stomach. He doesn’t like cemeteries, doesn’t like visiting graves. It always feels much easier to do when he needs to be brave for someone else, for Christopher. Maybe that’s somewhat part of the problem– the fact he’s never really visited her just for himself.

When he arrives where she’s buried– her name carved into stone, the startings of moss slowly climbing up the sides of it and sinking into her death date– he places the flowers delicately in the empty vase sat beside her gravestone. He clears his throat.

“Hey, Shannon. Sorry I haven’t been around in awhile.” He stands silently for a few seconds, scuffs the grass with the toes of his shoes awkwardly, “I’ve made a real mess of things since you died, you know? God, I bet you’re watching from up there and are cursing me out right now. It’s honestly pretty impressive how much I’ve been able to fuck up.” One of his hands idly strays up to his neck, and he rubs it a few times, feels his pulse against his fingers, “I miss you. A lot. I was talking about you in therapy again– yeah, I know. Me? Going to therapy?” Eddie scoffs humourlessly, “But I talk about you there. I talk about you a lot, nowadays. It feels like it’s all I ever do. I feel so lost without you.” He sighs, “The first time I lost you, when you left Texas and came here, I was mad, even though it was pretty hypocritical of me to be so upset. I was so mad, but I knew that you were still out there, and if Chris and I really needed help, you’d be there.

When you died, though? I was so fucking angry. I was so angry at you, Shannon, and a small part of me still is. Why did you have to leave again?” Eddie huffs a breath, voice wavering. He shakes his head, “Chris, he loves you so much. He had nightmares about you, and Christmas isn’t the same without you there. You were my best friend, and you’re Chris’ mother, but you left again. I know you didn’t want to, I know you didn’t mean to, but I was just so angry.” Another kick to the dirt and Eddie’s eyes burn; he pretends that it’s the wind, or maybe allergies, “When I saw Kim for the first time, I wanted to throw up. The two of you could have been twins, I swear,” He laughs breathily, “I just…I had to go back and see. I didn’t mean for it to spiral like it did, but when the anger faded, I missed you so much that it felt like someone had torn off one of my limbs. It still feels like that.

I told Frank that sometimes I wished I could forget you. I feel so…so awful for saying that, wishing it. But you’re gone. You’re gone, and I needed to be strong for Christopher, but everything fell apart and now he’s gone, too.” His voice breaks this time, and he blinks up at the sky, his breath heavy and shaky. Eddie clears his throat again and waits for the burning in his eyes to ease before he starts speaking again, “Now that he’s in Texas, I’m just left here with nothing to do but think. And it sucks. All I can think about is how quiet it is. How quiet and lonely it feels to live alone. I’ve never lived alone before, and I’m so used to the noise of someone else being near that I feel desperate for just someone to be around, but there isn’t anyone. I miss you, Shan.” He sighs, body deflating, “That’s all this has ever been in the end. I miss you.”

When Eddie gets home, he feels heavy and tired.

His mind is blissfully empty, full of this crackling static that makes him feel so numb that he doesn’t have space to feel anything else. The house is quiet, because of course it is, and Eddie embraces it unwillingly. 

He yawns suddenly, eyes bleary, and stares at the book on his coffee table. He thinks, ‘You swallow my heart and flee,’ and part of him cracks open. The tears fall silently, intermittent huffs of breath alongside each small sniffle. He does nothing to stop it, lets all of his grief fall over him in waves and waves; it waterfalls. He doesn’t want to cry, he hates crying, but part of him knows that he needs this. It feels like something inside him is yowling, clawing at his lungs as it begs him to let it all out, to heave sobs into a pillow as he pulls at his hair. To fall apart so completely that the shards he used to be made of have scattered everywhere, razor sharp and impossible to pick up without turning your hands into ribbons. Eddie feels like he’ll never be whole again. He isn’t sure he really wants to be. Maybe he was made to be broken.

Sitting on his couch, crying silently and watching the blank TV screen is exactly how Buck finds him approximately half an hour later. He comes barrelling into the living room with his usual bright exuberance and a bag of takeout, and Eddie is silent. 

“Hey, man! So I grabbed our usuals, but they also have a new appetiser and dessert I thought would be cool to try so I grabbed those, too!” Buck whirls around the room, searching, and Eddie is still. Buck pauses, and then looks over. He frowns immediately, dropping the bag of food onto the table carelessly as he rushes to sit on the coffee table across from Eddie, “Eds? Eddie? What happened?” Buck asks and then pauses, suddenly horrified, “Did something happen to Christopher? Is he alright?” His tone is alight with panic, eyes wide, lips parted and chest heaving with a sharp exhale. 

Eddie scoffs a laugh and shakes his head, “No. No, Chris is fine.” Eddie rubs his face, wipes away his tears, “Just…Just a long day, is all.”

Buck’s eyes lose the panicked edge, his shoulders relaxing from where they were hunched up by his ears. He reaches forwards and places a hand on Eddie’s shoulder and squeezes gently; his heart skips a beat, which Eddie quickly dismisses, blaming it on his current mental state because why else would he react like that? 

Buck’s lips twitch into a sympathetic, understanding smile, “You visited Shannon. Did it…Well, you’re crying, so I feel like asking how it went is a stupid question.” 

Eddie laughs lightly and gives Buck his own brittle smile, “It really wasn’t that bad. I said some things to her that I needed to say, and that’s what matters, right? I think this was just a long time coming, really.” He sniffs, trying for another laugh. It sounds more like glass smashing.

“So you’re okay? Well, as okay as you can be? It must’ve been rough, I can leave if you want? Give you some space?” Buck’s eyes are soft as he offers to leave, and something in Eddie twists so violently that he almost lurches forwards to grab onto him– to make sure that he doesn’t leave, or maybe pull him closer, Eddie isn’t sure.

“No!” Eddie coughs, embarrassed by his quick and sharp answer, “No, stay. I want you here.” He says, calmer this time. Buck smiles gently, “The company is nice. It’s too quiet around here, you know?”

“Okay. Always happy to stay and hang out with you. Let me go grab some plates and cutlery, we’re eating on the couch tonight, I think.” And with that, Buck speeds off to the kitchen with a quick smile.

Eddie’s eyes stray around the room, before finally settling on the book still sitting on his coffee table. A quick vice of panic snares itself around his neck as he rockets forwards and grabs the book– he knows Buck hasn’t seen it– he would have already mentioned it, knowing him– so, with a speed that he didn’t know he possessed during mid mental breakdown, Eddie hides the book inside his bedroom.

Just as he’s leaving his room, closing his door behind him, Buck appears back in the living room. He has two plates and forks and knives in his hands, and he smiles easily at Eddie as he places them down on the coffee table, unpackaging the food.

“Alright, so, we still wanting to catch up on those telenovelas you pretend you don’t love?”

“Oh, like you can speak.”

And just like that, Eddie already feels much lighter than he did when he arrived home.

That night while Buck is passed out and snoring away on the couch, Eddie reads some more.

It’s quiet in his room, but he can hear the echoes of Buck’s snores faintly coming through the walls. He feels so much less anxious and jittery, knowing that at least someone is in the house. But, even with the sound of Buck’s lulling breaths, he still can’t quite feel tired enough to sleep. So he finds himself cracking open Crush again.

Each poem makes him feel almost dizzy, or maybe a little bit like his brain is swelling, pushing against the constraints in his skull. There’s so much feeling in Richard Siken’s words, and it all translates so beautifully that Eddie finds himself swept away in each line. His eyes scan eagerly over the words. He reads through The Torn-Up Road and holds his breath, stomach sinking through each word of Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out. 

He keeps reading and reading, eyes burning from how little he blinks, and the sun has set long ago, his room barely illuminated with a single warm lamp, and he's sitting cross-legged in the centre of his bed. He reads through Visible World, through Boot Theory, and then he flicks onto the next page– A Primer for the Small Weird Loves. And he starts reading.

‘And you are ready to die in this swimming pool because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means your life is over anyway.’

‘You know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut.’

And Eddie feels ice cold. Frozen water has been poured over him, and he suddenly feels sick to his stomach. His world view has narrowed to just the words on the page, ‘You wanted to touch his hands and lips,’ and, ‘A boy who likes boys,’ and he can’t breathe quite right. There’s a rope around his neck and the floor beneath him is gone. Something's tail is constricting his lungs and squeezing tight. 

Eddie thinks of a sunshine smile and crooked teeth. He thinks of waiting by the mailbox. He thinks of two boys sharing a bed, legs and feet bumping and pressed together during the night with secret smiles and messy bedhead. He thinks of unruly blonde hair falling into bright, bright eyes. He thinks, ‘A boy who likes boys,’ And then shuts the thought down. He closes the book swiftly, not even bothering to mark his place. It’s thrown carelessly into a drawer, somewhere he can’t see it unless he chooses to.

The lamp is switched off, the room engulfed in darkness. Moonlight peeks out between half drawn curtains. Eddie lays in bed, listening to Buck’s snores; they seem so much louder than they did before.

Eddie thinks, ‘You are weak and hollow and it doesn’t matter anymore.’ 

He doesn’t sleep.

In the morning, Eddie feels anxious.

He didn’t sleep well, spent most of the night tossing and turning instead of getting any solid sleep. He watched the sunrise through the gap in his curtain, watched the light shift and change across his bedsheets, and tried desperately not to think. It wasn’t particularly successful.

His thoughts are storming, demanding attention with streaks of bright light that almost blinds him. The thoughts come in flashes– a mouthful of dirt and dust as he smiles across at a blue eyed boy, an aching heart as he sends another email that goes unanswered, school field trips spent sitting next to each other on buses, heads pressed together as they whisper. Each memory makes his chest ache and stomach twist; makes him feel like he’s been ruthlessly chewed up and spit out. He wants to take the thoughts, the moments and memories, and shove them so far down inside of a box that they’ll never have a chance to see daylight. Eddie wants to lock the box, wants to cast it in cement, wants to lock it over the cement, too, and then throw away the key. He doesn’t want to think about it all.

Eventually though, he has to drag himself out of bed.

Eddie groans as he stretches himself out, rubbing idly at tired eyes. He can hear Buck puttering about in the kitchen, hopefully with coffee already made.

Just as he’s getting changed and making himself more presentable, his phone pings. Eddie huffs, his head popping through his t-shirt, messing up his already awful bedhead. He makes his way slowly over to where his phone is charging on his bedside table, running a hand through his hair to try and control it a little more. The screen flickers on as another text message comes through.

Christopher: oh nice.

Christopher: what book are you reading?

Oh shit.

“Oh shit!” Eddie repeats, practically yells, “Oh my God, it worked!” Something bangs in the kitchen, but he hardly notices, far too absorbed in the fact that Christopher, albeit two days later, responded to one of his texts that wasn’t just a mandatory scheduling for a Facetime. 

“Eddie? What happened?” There’s a thud of something hitting a wall, “Fuck, ow!” Or maybe someone running into one, “Are you okay? I heard yelling.” The door bursts open and Buck appears, half falling inside, sleep rumpled with a small red spot on his head.

Eddie snorts, amused, “Your head okay?” Then remembers why he was yelling, and laughs gleefully. He holds out his phone to show Buck, “Chris messaged me.” He’s smiling wide– wide enough to content with Buck’s replying smile that almost blinds Eddie with its intensity.

“No way! Oh my God, Eddie! This is great!” Buck’s hands reach out towards the phone, covering Eddie’s own as he reads the messages. The two of them laugh, and something in Eddie’s chest is singing. He feels more alive than he has in…fuck, in years.

“Fuck, okay. I need to be normal about this. I don’t want to scare him off. Should I wait a little to reply? He’s only just sent them, after all.” Buck curves closer towards him, their hips bumping.

“Maybe? Yeah, I think maybe wait, like, ten minutes.” Buck suggests, eyes finding Eddie’s easily. Eddie nods in agreement, “In the meantime, breakfast should be finished and I’ve brewed coffee. You coming?” 

With a smile and a nod, Eddie follows.

In the end, after breakfast, Buck and Eddie spend a good five minutes deliberating over what to send in reply to Chris.

“Well, he asked me what I was reading, so I’ve got to start with that, right? The real question is how I segway it into another conversation after that.” Eddie comments.

Buck hums, “Maybe you just ask him what he’s doing today?”

“That has the potential to end quickly, though. It could bore him.”

“That’s true. Well maybe in the first message, you tell him what you’re reading, and then you ask him more about school, and in the second message…” Buck sighs, thinking.

“What about clubs? I could maybe ask him if he’s joined any new ones?” Eddie suggests.

Buck nods, considering, “You definitely could. He has mentioned chess club a few times, right?”

“Exactly.” Eddie replies, “But that could end up with a short conversation, too.” He groans loudly, and then drops his head onto the table, “This is so ridiculous, Buck. What am I even trying to do here?” 

“Hey, this isn’t ridiculous,” A warm hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing gently, “You’re trying to show your son you love and care about him. That’s important.” Buck’s voice is so sincere, so sweet. Eddie melts.

“Yeah,” He sighs, “I just wish it wasn’t so difficult.” 

“Sometimes you have to work for the best things in your life, and maybe it might be frustrating, but good things come to those who wait after all.”

“Really, Buck? Good things come to those who wait?” Eddie lifts his head from the table, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

“What? It’s a solid statement!” He squawks. 

“It’s been almost three months, I’m sick of waiting.” 

Buck shrugs, “So fight even harder, then.”

Eddie pauses, considering. Maybe he should be fighting harder.

With new found and steady determination, he picks up his phone, swiftly making his way to his and Chris’ messages. He stares at the two he received just this morning, lips twitching upwards.

Me: I’m reading ‘Crush’ by Richard Siken. It’s really good, I think I might keep up with this whole reading poetry thing. Have you been reading any more poetry in English? How’s school been outside of it?

Me: I love you, Chris. And I miss you so much, please don’t forget that.

Eddie breathes out slowly, setting his phone down on the table. He and Buck stare at it in silence for a few beats before Buck shakes his head.

“Okay, we can’t just sit in silence and stare at your phone all day. We should do something.” Eddie looks at Buck, waiting for him to continue. He doesn’t.

“Well, I have some grocery shopping to do? I don’t have anything else that needs done aside from that.” Eddie stands and looks into his empty fridge, “I’ll probably need to make a list, too.”

“Great!” Buck swiftly grabs a pen and a sheet of paper, already scrawling down the foods he knows Eddie likes to keep in his house. Something in his chest squeezes tight, something in him burns, but he tries to breathe through it. He thinks of blonde hair, blue eyes, a sunshine smile, and can’t quite tell who it is. Eddie’s stomach sinks and he throws the thoughts into a box. Not right now.

Eddie’s phone pings.

Both of their heads whip towards the device, and then their eyes meet. Eddie looks back to the phone, and then to Buck again.

“Should I…?”

“Answer it, answer it!” Buck grabs the phone, eagerly passing it to Eddie and peering over his shoulder.

Christopher: haven’t heard of him. i’ll have to check him out. i think having a hobby would be good for you. 

Christopher: we were looking at sylvia plath yesterday. and school’s been fine. boring. the usual. hows work?

Christopher: yeah. you too, dad.

Eddie’s heart constricts in his chest at the messages. He doesn’t understand what’s so suddenly changed, why Christopher is suddenly reaching out to him, but he’s definitely not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

He thinks of how to reply, what he should say, and finds himself focusing on how Buck’s chest, expanding with each inhale, presses against his back. He resists the urge to reach behind him and grab his hand for stability– is generally unsure where the thought came from in the first place. He dismisses it, and then starts typing.

Me: Yeah, I think a hobby will be good, too. Who knows, maybe I’ll start writing my own poetry, I think I could get a knack for it.

Me: Work’s okay. Nothing too exciting the last couple of shifts. There was this one guy, a grown adult, with his hand stuck up a vending machine, it was pretty funny, and I don’t know if you saw the whole ‘bee-nado’ thing on the news. Pretty insane.

Eddie heart reacts to Chris’ last message after Buck shows him how, and he can’t stop the face splitting smile from fighting its way onto his face. He turns to look at Buck, their faces so close that he can almost feel his breath on his lips.

Buck grins sweetly, “Progress.”

“Progress.” Eddie agrees.

Time moves on, and Chris keeps messaging back.

They don’t talk about anything serious, but they talk, and that’s what matters, in the end.

Eddie also doesn’t touch ‘Crush’ again. Can’t bring himself to even look at the cover without feeling like his heart is about to beat out of his chest, breath stalling. So instead, like usual, he runs from the problem and keeps the book hidden in a drawer that hardly sees any use.

Another week means another therapy appointment, and another therapy appointment means wrenching himself open to an uncomfortable degree until he feels like he’s been scraped raw. He doesn’t know just what it is about Frank’s silence that splits him open so easily. Maybe it’s the way he’s always so calm– never visibly reacting aside from a few questions or hums of acknowledgement while Eddie speaks. Eddie always tries to resist the quiet, but in the end the silence always gets to him.

For once, they’re not talking about Shannon.

“You seem more nervous today. Can I ask why?” Eddie abruptly stops moving, stops pulling on his hands and picking at his nails and wiggling his knee. 

“Uh.” He replies smartly, “I don’t…I don’t really know. I just am, I guess.” Frank looks down in his notepad and briefly writes something. Eddie can feel his face heating up, “I was thinking about my ex this morning.” He blurts. Frank looks up at him, hums that same hum he always does. “I don’t know if I really mentioned it before but she used to give me panic attacks.” This time, Frank’s eyebrows furrow in worry, “Not- not because she did anything bad or anything! She was…She was fine. I guess. That was sort of the problem. She was fine, until she wasn’t. We were dating for a while, she was the one who I was dating when I got shot.” He remembers looking up at Buck covered in blood, terrified that he could be hurt, “She tried to help with recovery but I just didn’t really…” He trails off, presses his lips together in a flat and humourless smile. Frank hums questioningly, and Eddie cracks once again, “I didn’t really want her there, all that much.” Eddie pops his knuckles, stares down at his feet and knocks the toes of his boots together a few times. He can hear Frank writing, can hear each line his pen makes.

“You said you were having panic attacks?” Frank prods gently.

Eddie clears his throat, “Uh, yeah. People kept thinking she was my wife. That she was Christopher's mother. The first time it happened, I thought I was having a heart attack,” He scoffs a laugh, “I mean, it doesn’t really happen anymore,” He thinks of the tightness in his chest when he thinks about poetry, about the way the world tilts to the side and he feels so hot that its almost cold again, “Well, sometimes it feels like I can’t really breathe right, like my throat is swollen, and maybe my stomach feels tight, and I get that nervous feeling in my stomach, but I can still breathe, you know?” 

“Just because you’re not hyperventilating doesn’t mean it’s not a panic attack.” Eddie looks up at Frank, eyes wide.

“Oh. I don’t- I don’t think that this is what that is. Is it?”

“I can’t tell you that, Eddie. What else do you feel when that happens?”

“I feel nauseous, sometimes. I get shaky, and I have to do those breathing exercises you taught me– not because I can’t breathe, but I don’t know, it helps the anxiety.” Eddie inhales sharply, “I feel like I’m just running away again.” He mumbles, hopes that maybe Frank doesn’t hear him.

He does, of course, “Running from what?”

“Myself, I think.”

He stares at the book when he gets home from therapy. 

Eddie doesn’t dare open it, but he hears Frank’s words echoing in his head.

“You can only keep running from yourself for so long. Eventually, it catches up to you.”

They play on repeat, over and over. They play over grainy memories of Texan summers, acne scarred cheeks, blonde curls, crooked teeth, and the smell of smoke sharp in his nose. The cover of the book, the placement of the hands, the way the man's lip is pulling back, the stubble, the shadows– they’re all burned into his mind, printed on the backs of his eyelids. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see the imprint.

Something inside him is rattling, a box is overflowing, the locks are breaking under the pressure. Eddie doesn’t know what to do anymore.

The noise of blood rushing in Eddie’s ear is all that he can hear. There’s a pounding in the back of his skull, a steady thump-thump-thump that beats in time with his heart. Each inhale of breath makes the pain expand and his hands curl into the edge of the kitchen table, nails digging into the wood.

It feels as if something is causing his brain to swell, pushing against the cage of his skull. He feels empty, like the life has been sucked out of him so easily that he never really stood a chance against it. 

His mom had called.

She wants Christopher to stay with them permanently, was asking about Eddie possibly sending over his stuff in boxes sometime in the future. Like Eddie would ever do that. He’s not stripping Chris’ room bare– he’s not going to tear down all of the decorations, the posters, dismantle the desk, take the books off of the shelf. He won’t take apart the only room in his house that has life in it, even if it’s been vacated for months now.

A lot was said during the phone call, but once his mom got started on the topic she really wanted to talk about– the way Chris has settled in El Paso, the clubs he’s joined, how all of his family is there, as if his own father isn’t over eight hundred miles away. As if Eddie doesn’t even exist anymore– he’d stopped listening pretty early on, if he’s honest. There’s only so much Eddie will tolerate from his parents.

She’d gone on and on about how just because Christopher was talking to him again, doesn’t mean he’s going to want to come home. How just because they’re healing things between one another doesn’t mean that he forgives Eddie. And he isn’t naive enough to think that things have been fixed or forgiven, but the only way this story ends is with Christopher coming home. At the end of all things, Eddie’s his dad, and his mom isn’t Chris’ mom. She isn’t the end all, be all, despite what she thinks. She has no authority here. And if Chris really doesn’t want to come back home to LA? Well, Eddie will just have to follow, as much as it would feel like he’s halfway killing himself by leaving the family he’s made here. In reality, how is Eddie meant to let go of his son who has only just started speaking to him again, when a week ago he was evaporating like smoke between his fingers?

His dad wasn’t around much in his childhood, and that shaped a lot about Eddie. His view on how he’s meant to act, how he’s meant to ‘be the provider’ and always stay stoic, calm. There were so many expectations piled on top of his shoulders when he was younger– look after and protect his sisters, be hardworking and respectful, find a wife and have two and a half children, find God wherever you can and follow behind him, blah, blah, blah. He doesn’t want that for Chris. Eddie wants to do better, and he doesn’t want to miss out on him growing up. He wants to watch him flourish into himself, and wants to be by his side and support him through whatever it is he chooses to do with his life. He doesn’t want his son weighed down by expectations when he’s only just starting to grow into himself.

Eddie will always try to respect Christopher’s wishes. He’ll allow him the space he needs to heal, will allow him the time he needs, too, but he won’t let himself become a stranger to his own son.

It’s a Tuesday, and work is busy.

Well, not busy busy, but there’s a steady stream of calls.

There was a car crash on the corner of a street, no injuries, just two angry men yelling at one another from where they were stuck inside their cars. There was a woman who fell in the shower and broke her leg, a concussion and a broken arm during an apparently very intense game of tag between four different teens. It was call after call, but Eddie would take anything to get his mind off of the phone call with his mom from earlier that morning.

Now they’re currently at a house which has suffered from a small stove fire that got out of hand. No major injuries, thankfully, and everyone made it out alive and well, the fire put out easily.

Eddie sits with a man, checking over his vitals quickly, before looking over the burns on his forearm.

“Oh, ouch. That looks like it hurts.” Eddie huffs out a breath, hands gently turning the man's arm. The man laughs– he has a pretty smile.

“Yeah, can’t say it feels too good. Hurts quite a bit, honestly.” Eddie smiles back at the man sympathetically. The man hisses as Eddie carefully starts to wrap the wound in gauze.

“Well, if it hurts, that’s a good thing; means that the burns didn’t have a chance to damage the nerves, even if it does sting quite a bit.” 

“True. Certainly helps having someone so nice helping tend to my injuries, huh?” The guy smiles again, almost shy this time. It’s a really nice smile. Eddie smiles back this time, eyes flicking up from where he’s wrapping his arm to his eyes, then back down again. “So what’s the verdict? Going to live?”

“Hm,” Eddie pretends to think, “Well, you’re certainly going to live, though the arm might have to go.” The guy laughs, and he thinks about asking him his name, maybe about his job. 

The man flicks brown hair out of his eyes with a soot covered hand, “Pity, I quite like having both my hands. I’ll have a fun story to tell the kids at school, at least– teacher accidentally left the stove burning and tried to put out the fire with a dish towel but tripped and landed in it instead! I can get one of those cool prosthetics– the kids’ll eat that up.”

He laughs, “Oh, they definitely would,” Eddie grins cheekily, “Though I’d maybe suggest leaving out the ‘tripping over’ part, you might lose some cool points there.”

“Shit, you’re right. They definitely would make fun of me if they knew the real story. I’m honestly surprised you haven’t. It’s pretty funny.”

“Don’t worry, I’m just keeping nice because my boss is over there– can’t be caught making fun of the injured now, can I?” Eddie winks, and the guy flushes, smiles again, and Eddie feels his own flush in response.

Eddie stands and looks around, checking to see if there’s anyone else in need of medical attention but, again, no serious injuries thankfully, and everything seems to be getting packed away.

“Hey, I was just wondering–”

“Diaz!” Bobby yells, standing by the engine, “We’ve got to go! Small pile up on the freeway!” 

“Got it, Cap! Just coming!” Eddie swiftly grabs his pack, sending the guy he was treating a quick grin, before tossing a, “Sorry, got to go!” Over his shoulder, and then jumps into the engine. 

It’s late, and everyone else on shift is tucked away in their bunks, probably asleep.

Eddie, though, is wide awake. Of course.

The sun had set– has been down for hours– and no matter how long he spent tossing and turning, he just couldn’t fall asleep. Instead, like he always seems to be doing lately, he thinks.

Every now and then, water from the faucet in the kitchen drips against the sink, the quiet sound abnormally loud in the empty room. Every time Eddie finds himself alone in the loft, it feels wrong. He’s so used to all of the noise that comes with his friends and coworkers. He’s used to footsteps squeaking on freshly polished floors, the sound of Bobby cooking, Hen tapping on her phone, Chimney smacking gum, Buck by his ear rambling about whatever research binge he’d gone off on the night previous that had him staying up all night. He’s used to so many people cohabitating the station that it feels like some sort of liminal space when there’s nobody there but himself.

Eddie has the prayer book that Bobby gave him sitting in front of himself, and he idly fiddles with the edges of the cover.

Ever since his mom had called, he’s felt so off. Shaken. It’s not really all that surprising, but he’s already been feeling unsettled since he read part of that poem, since he bought the book, since Christopher left, since he saw Kim in that window and, for a split second, was left breathless because Shannon’s alive? But no, she wasn’t. She never would be again, and Eddie’s trying, he’s really trying, to wrap his head around that now, it can’t be ignored anymore. But the more he thinks about Shannon, the more he thinks about the piles of sins he’s left in his wake, about his childhood, all of the guilt that he’s kept stored in his mind unknowingly, just waiting to burst open.

When he was younger, his parents made him go to confession all of the time. He isn’t sure why, seeing as he wasn’t exactly the kind of kid to act out very much, but he sees what his life is at the moment– takes a look in the mirror, sees what he’s become, and maybe it makes a little more sense. Maybe now, he’s seeing himself for what his parents have always seen him as. It aches, a bit. Makes him feel sick, a lot.

He strokes over the etched words of the prayer book. Thinks about the wooden confessional and the noisemaker outside of it to offer some thin veil of privacy. Thinks about the rough curtain that acted as a door, another thin veil that he used to rub idly between his fingers as he unloaded his innocent sins– the type that only comes from being naive and a child, the type of sin that isn’t actually a sin– unto the priest. 

‘Forgive me Father, my mom said I was playing too rough with my sisters. I only pulled her hair once, I swear! She tried to steal my ice cream again!’

‘Forgive me Father, I accidentally crashed the car, but mom was in labour! I thought she needed my help.’

‘Forgive me Father, I snuck out of bed and ate the last few cookies from the package. I was hungry.’

Over and over again, just simple things like that. The motions are a familiar thing in his mind, and he’s sure that if he went to confession today, it would be like fitting into a malformed role. A malformed role that, even though it made him itch, he would bear with ease that came from experience.

There were two stand out times that he went to confession, though. Most of the time that he spent there sort of blurred together– he can’t really tell each memory from one another, aside from those two. 

There was one night, when he was fourteen years old, where he tried to sneak out of the house. It, unfortunately, ended up in him falling off the roof of their house and breaking his arm. He had spent so long just calling out for his mom and dad, crying from the pain in his wrist, that his voice was hoarse when they finally rushed outside to see what was happening a good ten minutes later– it had felt like a lifetime. Sophia had woken up in the middle of the night from a nightmare, and she always said that looking at the stars calmed her down. Instead she saw Eddie crying in the grass and clutching his arm, and woke his parents.

They were worried maybe for a few moments as his dad called an ambulance, but the worry soon evaporated in face of their anger. Almost as soon as he was released from the hospital, arm casted and in a sling, as high as a kite, he was carted off to confession to slur out exactly what he had done.

‘Forgive me Father, Tried to sneak out the house last night. Wanted to…go see the stars. Missed them.’

He’d purposely failed to mention the real reason– Eddie liked the stars well enough, but he could see them easily from his window. 

The entire situation was pretty ridiculous, looking back now. Andrew had laughed and laughed at his stupidity the next day while visiting him before he scrawled, in capital letters down the entire side of his cast, a big ‘ANDY’. It had pleased Eddie a lot more than he wanted to admit, at the time. He was taught to be stoic, so he acted stoic. He had raised a single eyebrow at Andrew, and tried to ignore the easy way his lips twitched upwards in fond amusement.

The other time he remembers was one of the last times he went to confession. He was maybe fifteen at the time, and he was learning to drive. 

His dad had taken him out to practice, and it had been going pretty well, really. It was one of the only times his dad was almost happy, content to be around Eddie because Eddie had taken to driving like a duck to water. That was until a car had sped past them, overtaking Eddie, and took one of the side mirrors off of the car. His dad, well. He’d been furious. Actually, furious almost feels like it isn't fitting enough. Eddie swore he could see steam coming from his dads ears.

He’d gotten lecture after lecture about the incident, told that he should’ve been paying closer attention– that if he was paying closer attention, he would’ve been able to move out of the way in time, but he apparently had his ‘head in the clouds, boy, just like always,’ and was soon shipped off to confess at the church.

He received no penance that day. If anything, the Father seemed confused as to why he was there– it wasn’t his fault, he’d said. He hadn’t been the one driving so recklessly, the other driver should be the one in Eddie’s place, trying to find absolution in almost causing harm through reckless stupidity.

When he had gotten home, his dad had asked what his penance was. Eddie had lied, and told him it was five ‘Our Fathers’, just so he wouldn’t be mad at him even more.

Looking back on it all now, from the perspective of who he’s become through all of that, he still doesn’t really understand how he ended up in confession so often. His parents weren’t that religious– just your standard Catholic family, really. And he doesn’t understand why they were always so eager for him to find absolution through hundreds of acts of penance. Eddie had always tried his best for them. He still wonders now why that's never good enough.

He sighs deeply, and strokes over the cover of the prayer book again. He flicks through the pages, feels the slight breeze they create on the tips of his fingers. There’s no point in stopping on a page, the words mean nothing to him now. He doesn’t think they’ve ever really meant anything to him in the first place; the only reason he has the book– the reason that he takes it with him to and from work– is because Bobby gifted it to him, so therefore that means something to him.

“Can’t sleep?” Speak of the Devil. When Eddie turns to look at the stairs leading to the loft, Bobby is just stepping up the final one, still looking a little sleep rumpled.

“No. Kept tossing and turning. Can’t get comfortable.” Bobby quietly steps into the kitchen, “There’s still some coffee left over. Should still be warm, at least.”

Bobby nods his head, “Yeah. You need a refill?”

“Please.”

In a few strides, Bobby makes his way to the table, one hand grasping his own mug of coffee, and the carafe of it in the other. He fills up Eddie’s cup before sitting down, placing the carafe on the table between them. Bobby looks down, eyeing the prayer book silently, then his gaze flicks back up to Eddie. Bobby waits patiently.

Eddie taps his fingers, feeling over the worn cover, thinks about what he wants to say, “I was raised religious, which I know you already know, but I never really have had faith of my own,” Eddie starts, taking a long sip of his coffee, “My parents, they were pretty lax with some stuff, strict about others. I couldn’t possibly tell you the amount of times I’ve had to confess, and sometimes for the most stupid stuff, too. Sneaking out, arguing and fighting with my sisters, eating all the cookies. Stupid stuff. Kid stuff. I think maybe that played a large part in why I don’t really believe. Why would God care so much about the little things, but not the larger picture? Why am I confessing sins that aren’t really sins so much as a kid being a kid, when there's people out there who do much worse? When there’s people out there who act out of sadism, cruelty, and hatred?

It never made sense to me then, and it still doesn’t now. It makes less sense now, really. This world is shrouded in so much…I don’t know. There’s a lot of good, but there’s just as much bad, maybe even more. So why was I the one paying penance, when they don’t have to?” Eddie’s hands curl around the mug, seeking the heat from the coffee, “Sorry, Cap. I know you still have your faith. This book? I may not believe in God or whatever, but you gave me this, and that means more than any God ever could to me.” He looks down at it again, at the indents and marks of a well loved item, “I always make sure to bring it with me to my shifts. Feels right to do that.”

Bobby smiles across from him, leaning over and placing a hand over his wrist, “I’m glad. And don’t worry about censoring yourself for me, Eddie. We both have different experiences when it comes to religion, and that's okay. I won’t ever judge you for something like that. You have other things to believe in, though, and that’s really what the book is for– to remind you that you do have things to help you, people to help you. We’re all here for you, Eddie. We all care for you, want you to be safe, to be happy. You’re in a tough spot at the moment, it happens to everyone. It doesn’t mean it can’t be fixed. This situation isn’t forever, and we’ll be with you here through it.”

For the first time in what feels like months– since Christopher left without ever really saying goodbye– Eddie breathes easy, “Thanks, Bobby. That…That really means a lot, you know. I’m so thankful, everyday, that you fought for me to come here. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. I’m just hoping that Christopher realises that, too. That he comes home soon.”

“He will, I’m sure of it. He just needs a little more time to heal, and that's okay. These things take time, but the time will always pass. The day will come, and you’ll feel whole again.” Bobby squeezes Eddie’s wrist and then pats it, “And until then? Well, Hen and Karen have been talking about hosting a little party for Karen’s birthday, if you want to come along. I know we’ll all want you there.”

Eddie laughs lightly, “Yeah. Maybe I’ll come. Would be nice to see everyone outside of work again.”

Bobby gives him another small smile and they both lean back in their chairs, silence blanketing over them. He feels lighter, looser. He really is so thankful for his team. His family.

“So, what would you like to talk about today?”

Another week, another therapy appointment, another day of tearing into wounds that haven’t even had the chance to scab over just yet.

Eddie does have something he wants to talk about. It’s been looming above him, haunting him. He just never quite knows how to bring it up in conversation because, well, how do you? 

Eddie bites at his lip, decides to bite the bullet, because maybe that's the only way he can go about it.

“I know that you know that Chris left because of something to do with his mother, but have I ever told you what actually happened?” Eddie asks, and watches as Frank leans forwards slightly, hands folded in his lap across his notepad.

“You haven’t, no.”

Eddie nods, and then slips his phone out of his pocket. He spends a few moments scrolling through his photos, searching for the right one. When he finds it, he leans towards Frank, holding it out.

“This is Shannon. And Chris, obviously. I don’t really have many photos of the two of them from when we were all in LA before she died, but this one is my favourite.” It’s the two of them at Christmas, by the large tree they had decorated outside as a surprise for Chris. Eddie pulls the phone back and spends a few moments staring at the photo, a small and aching smile pulling on his lips. He scrolls through his photos again and then finds the one of him and Kim at the lake, “And this is Kim.”

Frank’s inhale is audible and his eyebrows raise as he stares at the picture.

“Wow, that is…quite the resemblance.” He seems shocked, and Eddie revels in finally getting a reaction out of the man. 

Eddie scoffs a laugh and nods, “Yeah. I saw her in a shop one day when I was with Christopher and Marisol. I ended up going back there because I just- I had to make sure that maybe I was just going crazy, seeing my dead wife in some random woman who would look nothing like her up close. Except that she did. And so I asked her out on a date.” Eddie puffs out a breath, tries to ignore the way his stomach twists with guilt and sickly self hatred. He continues, “I know I shouldn’t have, but she just looked so much like her. So much like Shannon. Maybe some part of me felt like this could be some sort of twisted do-over, but I don’t know.

Shannon and I’s first date was a rowboat date on a lake, so that’s what I did with Kim. We went on a couple more after that, but Buck eventually found out and he talked some sense into me. After that, I told Kim the truth, showed her some pictures of Shannon, and she left.” Eddie takes a deep breath and rubs at his chin, “She showed up at my door a few days later with a haircut. She had bangs, her hair was darker. She was dressed like Shannon.” He hears Frank’s sharp inhale, “She said-” Eddie swallows, “She said that it would be good for me to maybe get some closure through her. I kept trying to tell her no and to leave, but she kept pushing and pushing and I just broke. She looked just like her.”

The room falls silent, Eddie’s chest ripped open to bare his heart. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears. He wants to somehow take it all back– take the words that brought this heavy blanket of shame down on his shoulders and somehow shove them back in his mouth before he ever says them. Wants to go to his past self and shake his shoulders, yell at him, ask him what he thinks he’s trying to accomplish by picking at an infected wound that just won’t heal.

“Obviously Christopher and Marisol had to walk in. That was the only way this was ever going to end.” Eddie laughs, sharp and self deprecating, “He was horrified, thought she was his mom. Then, he was angry. And then he left.” The wound feels fresh, he feels as if it’s just been dealt, over and over again. It hurt, when it happened. It somehow hurts more, retelling it. Frank looks mildly horrified for a second, before schooling his face. Eddie understands.

“That is quite the situation.” He comments carefully.

Eddie snorts, “Yeah.” There’s no reply, and he feels like he’s shrinking in on himself, or maybe the walls are closing in on him. Everything looks as if there’s film over it, grainy and not quite in focus. Eddie breathes, chest rattling.

“I think,” Frank starts after a minute or two of silence, shifting in his seat, “What she did to you was quite irresponsible.” Eddie blinks rapidly, the world coming back into focus abruptly, “And also did not have your best interests at heart. It seems almost manipulative, coming to your house dressed like your dead wife when she knows that you sought her out because she looks like her, especially when there was a chance that your son could be there. This wasn’t any sort of way to handle the situation, because what you needed was space and time, not a push. You said you asked her to leave, correct?”

Eddie is silent for a few beats, still confused, “Yeah. She just kept pushing. I broke down.” He says slowly.

“She should have left the moment you told her no. There were lots of different ways that situation could have played out, and some of them could have been very damaging. The one that did play out was very damaging, and I’m sorry that happened. You should have been given the space you asked for, she shouldn’t have pushed like that.” Frank shifts in his seat after he finishes, and Eddie is wide eyed.

“Uh, hold on, I’m sorry,” Eddie shakes his head to try and clear it, “Why are you sorry? It’s my fault this all happened. I sought her out, told her about Shannon and showed her pictures. I allowed this to happen.” He stresses, “And all I did was make things worse for myself and hurt Christopher in the process.”

“Eddie, this isn’t your fault. No, you shouldn’t have sought her out, but you’re grieving, there’s nothing logical about grief. You did something illogical, but you were truthful in the end, you told her it was over, but she didn’t take no for an answer. Pushing you until you broke down was not a good thing, was not you saying yes to what she was trying to do– it was rather the opposite. It could have been very unsafe for your mental health, and again, that’s not taking Christopher into account. You’re not at fault for the actions of other people.” 

Eddie blinks again, gaping, “But Christopher left.”

Frank sighs quietly, “He did, because he was hurt. Does he know you tried to turn her away? Does he know the full story?” Eddie shakes his head, “Well maybe you should think about telling him it. Maybe it’ll clear some things up for him.”

Eddie thinks about it for a second, and then nods his head, “Yeah…maybe.”

“Hey, bud!”

“Chris!”

“Hey dad, hey Buck.” 

Chris is almost smiling on the screen, and gives a little wave. Buck and Eddie wave back. Hope snarls in Eddie’s chest, his lungs feel tight with relief, his heart beats a little harder against his ribs.

“How was your day? Anything interesting happening at school at the moment?” 

Chris smiles wide, this time, “Yeah! Buck, you’ll never guess what we were learning about in biology today! Did you know that the smallest mammal is actually a species of bat called the bumblebee bat? They’re so small!” Buck lights up under Chris’ excitement, and Eddie sits back on the couch, watching them both as they start on their fun facts tangent. They take turns sprouting off facts, always asking, ‘Did you know…’ before going on a tangent, and Eddie has missed this so much. Both of their eyes are so bright, smiles curving at their lips and Eddie feels the weight of today's therapy appointment fall off of his shoulders as his boys talk.

He’s spent the entire day after his appointment thinking. Thinking about the situation with Kim, thinking about how Frank had said that what she did was also wrong, that Eddie doesn’t deserve the full blame for the fallout. That Eddie should think about trying to tell Chris the full story– or at least give more clarity as to what happened. The problem is that he doesn’t want to burden Chris with it, but hasn’t he already been burdened by having walked into it? Shouldn’t he get to know the parts he doesn’t? Shouldn’t he know that his dad tried to do the good thing, but he broke in the end? He’s still broken, still mourning. He doesn’t want to weigh his son down even more, but maybe Chris needs the truth.

He’ll have to think about it more because for now, he’s listening to Buck and Chris’ chatter, and it’s like he never left in the first place. The noise fills the room, fills the house, and it doesn’t feel so lonely anymore. Everything feels brighter, warmer. Eddie feels like he can breathe easy, his lungs finally taking their first deep breath in so long that it’s like he was starved. He’s a man in the Sahara, and he’s found his water.

“Well, your dad and I are planning on having dinner together. Maybe you can help us choose what to have– we still haven’t decided on getting take out or a home cooked meal, though. What do you think, bud?” Buck asks, and Eddie blinks back into himself. He looks at the screen, watches as Chris thinks.

“I think you should order in.” He eventually settles on.

“Yeah? Why’s that?” Eddie chimes in, and Chris smiles cheekily.

“You can’t have Buck’s cooking without me, duh.” Chris rolls his eyes, but the beginnings of a smile still press into his cheeks.

Buck and Eddie both laugh, their shoulders pressing together, “Oh, really? So you would be pretty bummed out if I decided to cook lasagna tonight instead?” Buck grins.

Chris gasps dramatically, “Buck! You wouldn’t.” 

Eddie’s face hurts from smiling so wide. It hurts and it feels so good. It feels like no other smile he’s ever had before. His chest feels full, his head is quiet, and Chris looks happy. Buck looks happy. Eddie feels happy.

He still misses his son as if he’s missing a limb– there’s a gaping hole in his chest that he’s so desperate to fill in again– but for now, this is enough. It’s enough, because he didn’t have this a month ago. All he had was an echoing silence, but now he has Buck and Chris’ bright laughter, dinner plans, and his best friend by his side. And maybe, if all goes well, his son by his side sometime soon, too.

The rest of the call is much the same– teasing, fun facts, Chris telling them about what Abuela had been teaching him in the kitchen, ‘She promised she was going to teach me how to make her tamales soon, dad! Her tamales!’ and how he has a school trip to the science centre on Friday. 

There’s a lightness in his chest, and Buck seems to have it, too. Even after the call ends he’s still glowing, a beam settled on his face as he scans through the take out menus Eddie keeps in the drawer next to the fridge, since Chris had wheedled out a promise that Buck wouldn’t cook his lasagna until he comes home. Until Chris comes home.

Eddie is pretty sure he might actually be floating, really. He feels so full of life that it’s almost unbearable.

“He’s going to come home, Buck.” His voice is soft, full of wonder.

“He always was, Eds. His home is here with you.”

“His home is here with the both of us.” And Buck is smiling again, eyes shining.

“Yeah.”

The BBQ at Hen and Karen’s is nice.

Really nice, actually. It isn’t too busy, mostly full of people that Eddie knows, is good friends with. There’s a few people he doesn’t recognise, family and friends from Karen’s work, but everyone else? He’s probably had at least a couple of conversations with them.

Bobby and Athena, Buck, Maddie, Chim and Jee-yun, Josh for some reason– Eddie has no idea how Karen knows Josh, but he won’t question it. The point is, there’s plenty of people for Eddie to talk to, but he instead finds himself standing alone, a beer bottle in hand, staring at a tree in the backyard. 

It’s pretty riveting stuff, really. The yellowing leaves falling onto the grass, the smell of whatever Bobby’s cooking on the grill, the warm fall sun starting to dip into the sky, the decorations. The BBQ at Hen and Karen’s is nice. Theoretically.

Eddie had been riding a high for awhile, but his steam had to run out at some point, and it’s unfortunate that it had to be now. But it’s fine, he’s got to be fine.

He should be celebrating with everyone around him, but all he can really think about is the abandoned book in his drawer, still untouched from weeks ago. He thinks about, ‘A boy who likes other boys,’ and ‘Your life is over anyway,’ and he feels his chest tighten, some creature inside of him sinking his teeth into his lungs because why else would he be feeling like he’s drowning when nothing has pierced his chest? But he’s not drowning. He is standing, untouched beer in his hands, and he is physically okay, so why does it suddenly feel as if he’s dying– suffocating, drowning sluggishly as his own blood creeps up his throat? His world is falling to pieces before him and he doesn’t quite understand why. Or maybe he just refuses to really look at it. He’s okay with that, because he’s sure that if he does take the time to try and piece together just why he’s feeling the way he is, the way he’s feeling now would feel like nothing more than a pinch. A small blip in his radar. This would feel like nothing if he looks too closely.

Across the yard is Hen and Karen, and Eddie’s eyes hone in on them. The way that they lean into each other, eyes sparkling and a small smile exchanged. There’s so much love there– so much history, care, affection. It feels palpable, something Eddie could reach out and touch, but never have as his own. There’s a quiet sort of intimacy to them like this, with string lights twinkling on the fence above them, reflected in their eyes as they shine. The hand Hen has placed around Karen’s waist, the way she presses her lips to the spot just above Hen’s jaw. It feels like he’s intruding on something so special, and maybe he is, but it also seems so natural, like it's as easy to do as breathing. Or maybe not, seeing as at the best of times, Eddie struggles with that himself.

He jumps when Hen’s eyes meet his own, and he watches her frown slightly. She bends to whisper in Karen’s ear, and Karen nods, giving Hen a smile and a kiss as the hand slides off of her waist, squeezing gently just before she lets go. Then, Hen starts beelining towards Eddie.

He stands still, frozen, caught in the act. But what act? Has he been caught for doing something bad? He isn’t doing anything bad, is he? So why does it feel like he’s committed a crime? An act of violence. Maybe against himself.

“Hey, what’re you doing standing here alone?” Hen’s interrogating him immediately once she’s only a few steps away, confused, maybe a little worried. 

Eddie shrugs, “Just thinking.”

Hen raises an eyebrow, “Some pretty intense thinking going on, then. Want to share with the class?” She asks, but her tone is gentle– careful and considerate.

He’s silent for a few beats, before, “I’ve been reading poetry.”

Hen blinks, clearly not expecting that, “...Poetry?” She repeats, the question clear in her voice.

Eddie kicks at the grass with the toe of his boot, “Yeah. Poetry.”

“No offense, Eddie, but you really don’t seem like the poetry type.” She chuckles slightly, but she still looks worried.

“Yeah, I’m not. Or, I wasn’t. Or maybe I’m still not, because I can’t seem to read past this one poem. I can’t even look at the cover without feeling like my chest is caving in on itself.” Eddie swallows loudly, breath shudders faintly, and he hopes Hen doesn’t notice. He hesitates, looks at Hen for a long moment, and decides that maybe being truthful would be okay, “I think…I think it might have broken something open inside of me. I don’t know what to do.” His voice wavers, and his eyes burn, and this is not the place to be doing this.

Hen’s eyebrows raise, and a warm hand cups his shoulder, “Eddie…What’s going on?”

“I told you, I’ve been reading poetry. Now I can’t because it scares me.”

“Well, what about it scares you, then? Do you know why?” She inquires, soft and eyes earnest.

Eddie thinks again about, ‘You wanted to touch his hands and his lips and this means your life is over anyways,’ and swallows down the tears that burn.

“No.” He lies, or maybe almost lies, because the words are in his head, but he won’t– can’t– let himself look at them, “I don’t know, no. I think if I read the poem, something in me will shatter, and I’ll be left with having to look at the pieces to try and understand why it happened, and I don’t want to do that.” And Eddie’s not the type to open up so easily, but he can’t stop the words from breaking free of his mouth.

“What poet is it? What poem?”

Eddie shakes his head, huffs a breath, hopes she doesn’t recognise the name, “Richard Siken.”

Hen hisses a breath. Obviously his hope fell on deaf ears.

“Ah,” Hen clicks her tongue, “His poetry can be…hard,” She chooses the word carefully, rolls it on her tongue, treats him with kid gloves. He doesn’t know if he hates it or not, “His stuff can be eye opening for a lot of people when they read it. But it’s worth it, in the end, Eddie. Even if you do break, there’s people here who will always help you to piece yourself back together. If having this revelation scares you, maybe you just need to run headfirst into it. Maybe you need to break in order to become truer to yourself. You can’t keep letting yourself live a lie just because you’re scared of the truth. You need to overcome that, and if there’s anything you need to talk about when you figure the truth out, I’m here for you, our friends– our family– they’re here for you, too.”

Eddie smiles, brittle and frail, and then nods, “Thanks, Hen. I’m here for you, too.”

And he thinks. He thinks, ‘Maybe it’s time.’

The book is in front of him, and something inside his chest cries out– in pain or relief, he really can’t be sure. All he knows is that it climbs the rungs of his ribs and settles itself down, curled around his heart, tail around his lungs, waiting for the moment to squeeze, or maybe bite, or maybe claw.

Eddie looks at the shadows of the cover– the way the fingers bend, the stubble dark against the light grey of the skin. The way the lip is pulled, the way that Eddie feels his stomach twist.

He wants to read it, he does. 

He’s terrified to read it.

First, he lets his fingers trace over the cover. He follows the bend, each mark of stubble, traces the man's lips, and follows the shadows. He flicks carefully through each page, not letting the spine crack. He reads over the words that stand out to him– ‘You can tell I’m about to burst into tears, right before I burst into tears,’ and, ‘I swallow your heart and it crawls right out of my mouth,’ and, ‘You’re trying to smile. And they’re trying to smile,’ and he wants to rip his heart out of his chest, spit up his own lungs because, ‘He is trying to kill you, and you deserve it, you do, and you know this,’ And because, ‘A boy who likes other boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut.’ 

Did Andrew keep his mouth shut?

The damn breaks.

Eddie heaves out a painful sob, eyes burning, chest tight because no, he can’t. It hurts, and everything is burning. The boxes he has carefully kept locked for so long have burst at the seams and he can’t hold it all in anymore.

He thinks of Texan hot summers, crooked teeth, sharing a bed, legs bumping, secret smiles. He thinks of, ‘I haven’t kissed anyone before. I’m nervous I won’t be any good at it, Eddie,’ and of, ‘What if you practiced with me, then?’ and it’s like something inside of him is being torn apart by a wolf, or a lion, or maybe some sort of predator that was after the sharp scent of misery masked with blood. It’s a wounded thing, inside of Eddie. Wounded and feral, mouth foaming at the scent of his sharp and aching loss. His world has tilted on his axis because Andrew left, and Eddie had loved him. 

He had loved him so much. Loved the way he always shined like the sun, even when it was cloudy out. The way he’d always have skinned knees or elbows, proudly showing them off and telling the story to anyone who listened. The way the two of them would whisper secrets to one another in the middle of the night, when everything was still and quiet like time had stopped, and the only people that existed in the world were the two of them. Eddie and Andrew– best friends for life, they’d always said.

And the thing that hurts the most? Eddie isn’t naive. He can’t look back on those memories and say that Andrew didn’t love him back like that, because it’s so glaringly obvious that he did. The way he’d blush under Eddie’s attention as he cleaned up the scraped knees and elbows, always there to witness the fallout of whatever stupid ideas he got up to, so he was always there to wash away the blood. The way that sometimes he’d wake in the morning to bright blue eyes– shuttering and shining like silver wedding rings when the light hit them just right– and a hand gently holding onto his own, twisting together to intertwine. The way he’d always save a seat next to himself for Eddie, the way their legs and feet bumped, the way he smiled, laughed, sometimes cried. The way he was always so truly himself, never afraid of what Eddie would do or say. The way he trusted him, cared for him, listened to him. The way he was so gentle in his own wildness whenever he was with Eddie.

Eddie had loved and been loved, and had never let himself see it because of his own fear.

He still wishes he hadn’t because now, with a hand uselessly covering his mouth to try and muffle gut wrenching sobs that made his throat burn, Eddie hurts.

He hurts and hurts and hurts, and it feels like it’ll never end. 

And instead of stopping, he continues reading. He reads, ‘And no one can ever figure out what you want, and you won’t tell them, and you realise the one person in the world who loves you isn’t the one you thought it would be, and you don’t trust him to love you,’ and he feels sick. He reads, ‘You do this, you do. You take things you love, and tear them apart,’ and now he is being torn apart himself, which is funny because that’s where his love lacks.

He’s digging his own grave, and he can taste the gravel, can feel it tear at the flesh of his throat as he coughs it up. And he is the shovel, and also the dirt, and it's caked under his fingernails as he tries to claw his way to the surface, but the dirt keeps falling and falling on his head and he can't breathe, can't escape. The pile of sins has dropped onto him and everything bursts open, and there is nothing he can do anymore. He's suffocating under the weight of revelations too big to even look at. Under revelations that have been buried for so long that they don’t feel much like a revelation, and more like a reckoning. He is falling apart by his own hand. He is nothing anymore. He is too much, he’s become himself, but he’s also shattered. He’s no longer recognizable in the crash. He’s dirt stained, muddied. He is the handle of the shovel and the dirt he dug up. He is at fault here for causing this destruction, because it's all he knows how to do. He was buried under all the dirt, and he was the one to dig himself up.

How does he fix this?

How? How does he sort his thoughts back into their boxes and lock them back up again? The towers of sins came tumbling down, and now it feels more like a grave than something that he did to protect himself. He’s his own ruination. 

Eddie looked love in the eyes, and let him drive away. Where do you go from here– finding out you were in love fifteen years too late? What do you do when you find out you loved another boy?

Unanswered emails and letters suddenly burn more than they ever have before. The messy scrawl as he begged Andrew to, ‘Please answer me. I miss you, it’s just not the same without you here,’ and he sobs harder, because maybe he wasn’t missed as much as he missed-yearned-pined. He loved too much instead of not enough, for a change. 

More things make sense. The dread of being married that caused a pit in his stomach that he’d mistaken as nervousness, the way it never worked out– wouldn’t have ever worked out. The stilted way he tried to love Ana and Marisol, but could never quite bring himself to kiss them easy and slow like they deserved. The way he never really wanted to be around them, slowly found himself veering towards resentment of them, despite the fact they never did anything to deserve it.

He feels rotted, like a corpse that was masquerading as a living creature for far too long. But the flesh has peeled back from his face, and he is staring into a mirror to look himself in the eyes for the first time since he was sixteen and left on the side of the road– dust in his mouth, tears in his eyes that he had blamed on the dust because they couldn’t be tears, Andrew was just his friend, his best friend, why would he be so sad to cry like a little kid who’d been yelled at? His best friend. His best friend who he was in love with. His best friend who was his first love. His best friend who was a boy. He had left and never talked to Eddie again. Was it because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut?

Eddie almost wants to grab his phone and search for Andrew on Facebook or whatever other social media he can find, but he can’t see anything because of the tears that are steadily dripping from his eyes, blurring his vision. Can’t move from the heaving sobs that have him choking and gagging on his own breath. He wants to do something other than cry, sob, hold back a scream, but he can’t quite get a grip on reality anymore.

The animal that sits in his chest squeezes tighter and tighter, and Eddie gags again, hand held tight against his mouth as he mourns and sobs and tries to stop the sound from reaching any of the ghosts that live inside his own head. Tries to stop it from reaching memories of Shannon, of Ana and Marisol and Kim. He tries to not think about it but it all just comes in wave after wave, and his hold on his own composure slipped out of his hands the moment he fucking bought this book.

There’s a soft thud, and Eddie can’t see much, but the book is on the floor, and he is still crying. He doesn’t think he can move, probably won’t for a while, so it just sits there. It closed upon impact, the shadows blur together. He sobs again.

He thinks of bright eyes, short curls, a grin with straight teeth, and then a grin with squint ones, the two front teeth overlapping. He thinks of skinned knees, of the siren of a fire engine. He thinks of blue eyes and silver wedding bands and a soot covered face, the sound of a monitor beeping.

There’s something freeing in the way he can’t stop crying. He’s suffocating slowly, his lungs torn to ribbons, but he’s never breathed like this before. His left shoulder burns almost as much as his throat as he lets a wounded noise slip between his lips, between the cracks of his fingers, and it echoes.

He wants to know where to go from here. He wants to know how to settle and soothe his own cries, calm the waves of missed out moments, missed out time, crashing over him in the form of grief. Eddie feels like maybe he’s gotten some things confused, some wires crossed over and twisted, because why is he mourning for himself? Why is he feeling this grief for his own past, when someone is already dead?

He loved Shannon, still does, so much it feels like it could overflow, but he doesn’t think he was ever in love with her, so maybe he’s mourning that too. It feels dystopian, almost, to be grieving his past when there’s still so much future. He’s always been the type to suck it up and move on, all thanks going towards his dad for that one, but this isn’t a stumble in the road. It isn’t some easily filled pothole he can just swerve out of the way of. This is a roadblock. This is neon signs and loud sirens telling him to stop, to hold on for a moment and think, process, let himself feel.

Eddie comes to the conclusion that it feels like he’s feeling a bit too much.

He hiccups a quiet sob, exhales a shaky breath, and he feels raw. The skin has fallen from the corpse, the grave has been dug, and Eddie has been buried. He has dug himself up from the grave, and he has masqueraded as living. The skin has fallen. The grave is dug. He’s crying, grieving, rolling his past over and over in his mind.

Sunshine smile, skinned teeth, crooked knees and elbows, wedding eyes, blue bands.

He’s getting it all wrong. He’s in overdrive, something isn’t quite right. Nothing is right. There’s a poetry book on the floor, and Eddie likes boys. Men. He doesn’t think he ever hasn’t. Doesn’t think that women were ever a real possibility. 

Something went wrong along the way. Maybe it was the day that Andrew left, or maybe the day he met Shannon, but that couldn’t be right because meeting Shannon was never wrong, never a mistake. Maybe it was the day he met Andrew, or one of those mornings waking up beside him. Maybe it was the day Eddie ran away for the first time. Or maybe he was just born to never get anything right.

Maybe his parents were right all along, and Eddie’s only just finding out why he carried so many sins as a child.

Maybe he should have learned sooner, and found absolution in begging Andrew to stay.

Eddie’s at work, and he’s quiet.

He can tell everyone is worried, but every time he’s asked what’s wrong, he manages to dodge the question.

Sometimes, he’s able to do it rather skillfully– smoothly changing the subject, a shaky grin that feels wrong on his face, and his friends are easily moving onto the next topic. 

Other times? Not so much.

Buck is staring at him oddly. Has been staring at him oddly for almost the entire shift, really. As soon as Eddie had walked into the station without a smile, hardly mumbling a word, Buck’s eyes had been lasered onto him. There haven’t been many calls, so there’s nothing to distract Buck from his staring, and it’s slowly driving Eddie mad.

He’s already exhausted from a sleepless night, so he’d really love if Buck– and everyone else, they’re not innocent either– would just drop it. They all look worried and confused; concerned that maybe something has happened with his parents and Christopher. Well, that's what Eddie’s guessing, at least.

All of them, except for Hen.

She looks at him knowingly, sympathetically, like she can read his mind and knows just what Eddie was doing last night as he cried. It unsettles him, makes him feel like his skin is crawling as she sends him a small smile that he tries to return. From the look on Hen’s face when he gives it a go, it's definitely more of a tired grimace than anything.

But everything is fine. They’ve all been trying to gently probe at Eddie to help, but there’s nothing they can do for him. He’s just tired now. Doesn’t really have the energy to even think about what he’s learned about himself, or his past, or about poetry. There’s TV static playing over and over again in his mind, and if he didn’t feel like a ghost just watching his body go through the motions, it’d be nice to have a break from the constant onslaught of thoughts.

But instead he feels like some sort of entity, or maybe a spirit. He’s haunting the fire house and staring blankly at walls, waiting for his soul to repossess his body. He feels empty. But he has a job to do, so he continues anyway.

Eddie hates slow days. He hates that he hates them, because shouldn’t he be thankful that there aren’t emergencies– people possibly hurt, dying, already dead– that he needs to go out and help? He loves his job, but there’s a small pool of guilt growing larger and larger in his stomach the more that he wishes that there was an emergency he could be at.

It’s dark out, the sun having set hours ago. Most people are still awake, but half dozing on the couches, their eyelids heavy. There’s a mindless show playing on the TV, something Chimney’s been talking about the past few shifts. There hasn’t been a call in hours and Eddie is finally on the cusp of sleep. He blinks slow and heavy, body sinking back into the cushions of the couch. Buck is warm beside him, half leaned into him in a warm line down his side, his head leaning on Eddie’s shoulder and his curls tickling his nose. Eddie halfheartedly puffs out a breath, trying to move the curls, but all he succeeds at is making the itching worse. Mindlessly, he reaches up and pushes Buck’s curls back, flattening them down, and gets a questioning hum in reply.

“Tickles.” Eddie mumbles, and gets another hum in reply.

“Sorry.” Buck replies, voice breathy with sleep. 

Eddie sinks into the pull of sleep further and further, his head dropping towards his chest and then jerking back up as he tries to pay attention to the show playing on the TV– not that there’s much point in that anyway, seeing as he’s been half asleep for most of it and missed almost the entire plot. And just as his eyes close, refusing to open again no matter how hard he tries, the alarm goes off.

The siren does its job in waking everyone up, and they’re all shooting off towards the engines without a moment's notice. Eddie takes a moment to rub his fists into his eyes to clear away the heaviness and listens to Bobby as he reports what's happening– a third alarm fire at an abandoned warehouse, kids inside that apparently were hanging out there, and are now stuck in the building and lost. 

The drive there feels quick as they speed down roads. They’re all quiet as they drive, still tired and reeling from the sudden wakeup, but when the smoke comes into view, they all suck in sharp breaths. The smoke rises high, and the flames on the roof lick at the sky, snapping and crackling and popping. They’re the first on scene, and they all launch themselves out of the engine and towards a small crowd of kids, gathered together near the door of the building. There’s four of them– young teens, maybe thirteen, fourteen years old. They’re all frantic, and barrel themselves towards them in a flurry of voices and panic. They all try to herd them further from the building.

“Please! Our friends are still inside! We lost them when we were trying to get out!”

“Please help them!”

“I don’t want them to die!”

“Please! Please, my little sister is in there! She’s only eight!”

Bobby holds out his hands placatingly, “Okay, how many people are still stuck inside?” He asks, voice gentle but firm.

“Three!” They all chorus.

“Okay, and where were you when you saw them last?” 

“I- I don’t know. The fourth floor, I think?” The tallest of the kids replies, and Bobby nods, “Please, my little sister.” He continues, eyes wide and wet, tears tracking through the soot on his face.

“We’ll do our best to get them out.” Bobby soothes, and then turns towards Buck and Eddie, “Okay, I want you two inside looking for the kids. Keep in contact, and don’t take stupid risks. Find those kids.” Eddie looks towards Buck, and they nod at one another before darting off, listening to Bobby’s voice as he directs Hen and Chimney to check over the kids that made it out.

“You ready?” Buck asks, securing his gear over his face. Eddie does the same, nods.

“Ready. You?”

“Yep. Let’s go!”

The two of them dart off towards the warehouse towering above them– it’s maybe about five stories high, and the fire is starting at the third floor; they’ll have to be quick with getting the kids out. They speed up the stairs of the warehouse, the air thick with smoke, flames licking at the walls, the heat almost smothering in nature.

Each door they open is either empty or on fire, or even both. There isn’t any sight of the kids they’re looking for until finally, faintly, there’s a, “Help! Please help! She’s stuck!” And Eddie turns to look at Buck, before they’re both running towards the noise.

They reach the fourth floor and there’s three kids in the room, one stuck under what looks like an old dresser, for some odd reason. The one stuck seems younger than the rest, and Eddie is by the little girl’s side in a second. The fire’s eating at the walls, getting closer and closer to where the girl is trapped and Eddie curses under his breath. All of the kids are coughing and choking, crouching close to the floor despite the fact that it probably isn’t doing anything to help them get away from the smoke.

“We tried to get her out but it’s too heavy!” It does look particularly heavy, bulky in weight, pressing down on her arm.

The little girl sobs, “I tried to pull my arm out, but it hurt too much to try.” 

“Hey, hey,” Eddie soothes, “It’s okay, we’re here now. My name's Eddie, and this is Buck,” He gestures towards him, “We’ll get you out of here, promise.” He looks over what he can of the injury pinning the girl down, suddenly remembering that he doesn’t actually know the girl’s name, so he asks gently, “What’s your name?”

“Emma.” She whimpers quietly, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Alright Emma, I'm going to get you out of here, okay?” She nods shakily, and Eddie turns to Buck, “Buck, you get those two out of here. I’ll get this thing off of her and I’ll be right behind you, okay?” The building creaks loudly, and Buck nods swiftly, herding the other two kids towards the door.

“Okay, be safe!”

“I will.” Eddie turns towards Emma again, “Okay, can you move the rest of your body? Wiggle your fingers and toes for me, sweetheart.” She does as such and Eddie nods, “Okay, I’m going to lift this dresser off of you, and what I want you to do is move out from under it when I say so, alright?”

She nods, “Okay.” 

Eddie curls his fingers around the edge of the dresser, getting a good grip on it, and then pushes it up, straining under the weight, “Alright, now!” He yells, and Emma moves quickly despite her obviously broken arm, and once she’s out of range of the dresser, Eddie lets it crash back to the floor. Emma sniffs behind him, and he turns towards her. Eddie looks around the room– the fire’s growing closer.

“Okay, we’re going to get out of here now. Sound good?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.”

“Do you think you can walk, or do you want me to carry you?” Wordlessly Emma reaches her unbroken arm out, and Eddie picks her up, careful around her injured arm. And then, as he’s scanning the room, something catches his eye. Before he can investigate, Buck is crashing back into the room urgently.

“Eddie, we need to go! The building’s unstable, looks like it’s going to collapse!” Eddie looks towards Buck as he speeds over, and promptly, carefully, hands him Emma.

“You get her out safely, I just need to check something really quick.”

“Eddie-”

“Buck, I promise I’ll be right behind you. She needs medical attention now.” Buck hesitates, a worried frown pulling at his lips. Eddie rolls his eyes and gives him a gentle push towards the door “Go.” Eddie stresses, and Buck gives him a long and unreadable look before nodding.

“Okay. I’ll see you out there.”

“See you out there.”

Buck disappears through the doorway, off to hand Emma off to Hen and Chim, or maybe some more paramedics are on scene, Eddie isn’t sure. Instead, all of his attention is solely on the blackened items in the corner of the room– fireworks? The floor below them is charred, and the ceiling burns above him. Eddie files away the information, and the building creaks again.

Eddie turns where he stands, and he can see the building shaking, cracking, beneath him. He’s wide eyed and frozen as the building gives one last loud creak, before the floor under him is gone, and he’s falling.

He hits the ground with a thud, and everything goes black.

When Eddie opens his eyes again, he’s in agony.

Everything is blurry and there’s something falling into his eyes. There’s a swath of orange-yellow-red flickering above him, and the air– the smoke– is choking him. Eddie sits up very careful and then coughs, but it immediately transitions into a howl of pain as his chest and shoulder burn. He chokes again, bile rising in his throat. He falls back to the floor with a gasped whimper of pain.

Everything is swimming, his vision tilting and turning each time he moves his head with the slightest movement. He still can’t really see, and he tries to blink away whatever's in his eyes, but it doesn’t work– if anything, it just makes it worse. He gingerly reaches his left arm, the side that doesn’t feel like it's on fire, to his face and tries to wipe it away. His hand is wet. His head is wet. 

He pulls his hand back, and can see the yellow-orange reflect off of the blood now staining his fingertips. Eddie groans, and it gets caught in his throat, sending him into another coughing fit. The pain flares again, and this time he can’t stop the bile, and swiftly turns his head as he vomits up whatever he had in his stomach. Everything spins and everything hurts. 

With awareness that Eddie isn’t sure he quite possesses at the moment, he tries to take stock of his situation. Dark room, only barely lit up from the fire above him. Shadows grow on the walls, towering over him like a beast laying in wait, ready to pounce on him. Something is wrong with his shoulder, or maybe his chest. Definitely his ribs. Head is bleeding, concussion? He doesn’t know, can’t quite think straight. He doesn’t really remember how he ended up here– there was a fire, and a little girl stuck, and then there’s just nothing. Definitely a concussion. He can’t still be in the building, can he? It doesn’t look like he’s on the first floor, he vaguely remembers what it looked like– it was empty, but not this empty, and weren’t the floors wood, not stone?

Eddie tries to push himself up, but all it does is make the pain flare more, more, more, and he lets out a hoarse yell as he falls back to the floor.

His ears twitch, he coughs. He loses his breath from the pain. There’s a popping snap-crackle as the warehouse burns, flames slowly making their way towards him and then–

“Diaz!” His radio crackles, “Diaz, come in!” Bobby’s voice is barely audible over the roar of flames, and Eddie tries to focus in on it.

Sluggishly, he reaches his hand, sticky with blood, to his radio, “Mh, Cap?” He groans.

“Diaz! What’s your status? Where are you?”

“Basement…I think. ‘M hurt. Don’t know how bad.” He slurs, words strung and held together with a fraying rope, “Think I need…help.” The last word is barely a whisper as Eddie tries to fit off the black spots crowding his vision, but there’s no winning.

The fraying rope snaps, and he’s pulled back under.

Waking up comes in stages.

First, the shrill beep of a monitor that causes his head to ache sharply more than it does already.

Then, the dull, low murmur of voices that he can’t quite make out. They’re far more easy on his head than the beeping. Almost soothing, if anything.

Third, the sharp smell of antiseptic. It burns his nose.

His mouth tastes foul, like stale vomit and blood.

Eddie groans when he opens his eyes, the bright fluorescent lights that you only find in hospitals aggravating his headache and burning his eyes. He closes them again and huffs.

“Eddie? You awake?” The voice is familiar. Buck, because of course it is. It’s always him.

“Mmmph.” Eddie sighs, “I’m awake.” He croaks, gingerly opening his eyes again. The lights have been turned down low, much easier on the eyes. He blinks a few times, to wake himself up more. Tries to keep them open.

Buck is just slightly out of focus by his bedside, eyes wide and probably worried, but he can’t quite make his face out. He’s holding a little cup of water with a straw and Eddie tries to reach for it before being stopped, both by a sling and Buck himself, his arm hovering just above Eddie’s shoulder.

“Hey, careful,” He puts the straw to Eddie’s lips, ignoring the dry look he gets, “Drink.” Eddie sighs but dutifully takes the straw into his mouth, taking slow, small sips of water. His body doesn’t really hurt at all aside from his headache, but he's assuming he’s been given some of the good stuff from the floaty feeling in his head.

When the cup is empty, Eddie lets the straw fall from his mouth. It no longer tastes like something’s died in there, thank God.

“So,” Eddie starts, voice croaking but throat much less dry, “What happened?”

Buck sighs, “The floor collapsed under you. Multiple floors collapsed under you. You fell through four of them, ended up stuck in the basement.” Eddie hisses through his teeth– his back is probably going to be bruised to Hell, “You have a concussion, two fractured ribs, a broken collarbone, and a lot of bruising. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

Eddie snorts, “Sure doesn’t feel lucky. Wasn’t exactly fun, from what I remember. How’d you guys get me out?”

“There was an entrance to the basement around the back of the warehouse, thankfully. Got you out, put out the fire. All the kids got out safely. Emma was asking about you. She wanted to know if the nice firefighter who saved her life was going to be okay.” Buck takes a seat finally, resting his elbows on the bed, “I was worried. You should have been behind me, Eddie.” Buck frowns.

Eddie shrugs– or, well, tries to, “Don’t really remember why I wasn’t, but I am sorry for worrying you. Never mean to.”

Buck deflates, “I know.” It’s silent for a few beats, “You’re not in any pain, are you? I should probably call a nurse in.” Before Eddie can say anything in reply or protest– he wanted just a few minutes more before his room was swarmed– Buck is pressing down on the call button.

The next hour or so is a rush of explanation, healing times, scoldings and walkthroughs of how to take care of his injuries. He won’t be released from the hospital until the next day, and only if he’s doing well enough. He’ll probably also be getting this lecture again tomorrow as well, but he tries to take in as much information as he can right now. Buck is by his side the entire time, taking notes dutifully and asking questions Eddie would have never thought to ask. Eddie appreciates him so much. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve Buck.

Eventually though, Buck says he has a phone call to make and rushes out of the room, saying he’ll send a few people in to keep Eddie company, and then disappears out of the door.

The team end up swarming his room this time, all taking turns to lecture and scold him, before telling him how glad they are that he made it out safe. He’s glad his team cares about him so much, but it does get old after the first few times. Still, he smiles through it, trying to push away the exhaustion that’s making his eyes droop.

Everyone files back out again when Buck peeks his head through the door, phone still held to his ears.

“Hey, you up for one more visitor? Well, sort of. And only for a few minutes, you shouldn’t be staring at screens.”

“Hm?” Eddie questions sleepily, “Yeah, yeah, sure. Who is it?”

Buck smiles gently and takes the seat next to Eddie’s bed, lowering his phone and tapping a few buttons. 

Then, in front of him on Buck’s phone, is Chris.

He looks worried and tired, from what Eddie can make out, lips pulled down in a frown. Eddie smiles tiredly, his chest lightening at the sight of him. It must be late in El Paso.

“Hey, buddy.” Eddie lifts his head slightly, trying to see the screen better. Buck gently pushes him back down, tutting. He tilts the phone accommodatingly.

“Dad. You look awful.” Chris replies, and Eddie breathes a laugh.

“Yeah? Happens when you fall through a few floors. I’ll be okay though, fixed up in no time.” 

“Are you sure you’re okay? It’s nothing serious, right?” He asks, leaning closer to the screen.

“Nothing serious, I promise. If anything happens, I’ll let you know.” Eddie looks to Buck, who looks almost guilty. Eddie should probably wrap this up quickly.

“I’ll be checking in with Buck every day. And with you.”

“With Buck?”

“Oh, you think you’re getting rid of me that easily, Diaz? I’ll be taking up residence on your couch for a few weeks. I’m not going to just let you recover on your own.” And now Chris looks almost guilty, and Buck sheepish. 

Eddie sighs, “I probably have to go now, Chris, shouldn’t be staring at screens with a concussion, but I’ll talk to you soon, okay? I love you.”

“Love you too, dad.” And then he simply hangs up as if he hasn’t made Eddie’s heart squeeze painfully in his chest.

Buck smiles down at him, “You’ll be better in no time, and before you know it, Chris’ll be home too. Just wait.”

“Well I better be better in no time, I do have one of the best nurses looking after me during my recovery, don’t I?” Eddie hums, eyes fluttering closed.

Buck laughs breathily, “Get some sleep, man. I’ll be here in the morning.”

“Kay…Night, Buck.”

“Night, Eds.”

The first few days back home with Buck, Eddie spends in a daze.

He’s on pretty heavy pain meds, so it isn’t exactly a surprise. Buck has taken some paid time off, saved up from the last year or so, and is dutifully taking care of Eddie.

He cooks and cleans, reminds Eddie to take his meds on time, helps him get dressed in the morning. It would be embarrassing, if it both hadn’t already happened once after the shooting and he hadn’t already done the same for Buck after the bombing. So it was almost familiar territory. An annual tradition, almost.

When his dosage of painkillers is lowered after a few days, Eddie’s more aware of both his surroundings and the way his ribs and collarbone ache deeply. And he’s sick of the sling already, but that has to stay on for at least three weeks unfortunately. Again, used to it from the shooting, but it was definitely not something he wants to relive. Yet here he is, reliving it anyway.

When his mind is clearer, just before he has to get his last dosage of meds at night and just before his first dose in the morning (if he’s awake before Buck), Eddie goes back to ‘Crush’. He doesn’t let himself think too deeply about his revelation from nights ago, not while he’s healing. He really doesn't have the mental stamina for that, but he lets himself enjoy it nonetheless. The way Siken writes is hypnotising almost, like you get sucked into the words on the page until they’re all you see, and even when Eddie’s head aches, he still tries to read until Buck is knocking on his door. That’s usually the point where Eddie stuffs the book carefully under his pillow. He’s not sure why he doesn’t want Buck to see what he’s reading– well, no, that's a lie, but it falls into the category of, ‘things Eddie is currently not thinking about,’ so he’s just going to let himself continue to pretend to not know instead. If Buck knows who Richard Siken is, Eddie feels like maybe he’ll look at Eddie, and see right through to the core of him. Buck will find out what he’s hiding, and he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

Maybe when he’s ready, Eddie can show him the book. And maybe Buck will know who he is, and they can talk about their favourite poems, or maybe he won’t, and Eddie can witness him experiencing them for the first time. It could be nice, talking about it all with Buck, because he would understand what it’s like finding this out about yourself later in life. But there’s a big part of Eddie that just isn’t ready for it– the part of him that howls and barks and snarls whenever he thinks of what he’s ignored about himself, the part of him that panics every time he thinks too hard about poetry.

Maybe in time, he won’t. Maybe when he’s able to find the love for himself that he doesn’t currently have, he’ll be able to open his mouth and the words will come out with ease, instead of the sick feeling of bile rising in his throat and soot sticking to the walls of his lungs. Maybe he’ll be able to look people in the eyes and be true, instead of continuing to let himself live another lie.

Because that's all he’s ever known, ever been– a lie.

Four days after the accident, Eddie still hasn’t had a shower.

He’s been putting it off. His hair is greasy, slick and sticking up in all sorts of directions, and he’s sure he doesn’t exactly smell the best. It’s just…Well, showering with fractured ribs and a broken collarbone doesn’t exactly sound like a good time, if he’s honest.

Quite the opposite, really.

They’re eating breakfast when Buck finally broaches the subject. There’s a sheepish smile on his face, one hand rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he places his spoon into his bowl.

“Okay, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but…”

“I need a shower?” Eddie interjects.

Buck nods and laughs lightly, “Yeah. You kind of stink, dude.” 

Eddie sighs and nods his head, spooning more cereal in his mouth, “Yeah, probably. Just don’t think I’m going to be a fan of trying to wash my hair one handed and with fractured ribs.”

Buck nods, “That’s fair. I can stand outside the door though, in case something happens?”

“That’s probably a good idea. Thanks, man.”

And then they’re back to eating in silence. 

There’s been a lot of silence and also a lot of not-silence, the past three days that Buck has been staying with him. Everything feels brighter, a lot less lonely. Eddie feels fuller, happier, even if he is in a miserable amount of pain some of the time when his meds wear off and it isn’t time for another dose yet. And even in the quiet moments, everything feels better. In the moments where they’re both just sitting beside each other, doing their own things. There’s solidarity in the domesticity of it all. Buck fits so perfectly in his home, that it feels like he’s just always been there. Eddie doesn’t want to think about the ringing silence of when he leaves. He likes waking in the morning to Buck with bedhead, holding out a pill and a glass of water to him. He likes watching him cook breakfast and trying to help even if he only has one arm, he likes watching mindless TV, their thighs pressed together and knees knocking. He likes how the TV glows on Buck’s face, reflecting in his eyes as they watch whatever documentary has caught his attention that day. Buck’s like a puzzle piece of his and Chris’ little family, slotting perfectly in place from a hole they didn’t know they were even missing.

It’s perfect and Eddie hates it, because he doesn’t get perfect things. He misses out on them, instead. He loses them.

But for now he has Buck, and maybe that’s good enough.

So, when breakfast is cleared, Eddie dutifully gets ready for his shower, letting Buck help him remove his sling and carefully undress him down to his boxers.

“Okay, I’ll leave the door open just a crack, and I’ll be out in the hallway. Shout if you need me, alright?” Buck checks, probably for the fourth time.

Eddie playfully rolls his eyes, fighting back a small smile, “Yeah, yeah. I’ll shout. Now get out and let me shower in peace.” Buck smiles back at him and disappears out into the hall, leaving the door open the slightest bit just as he said he would. Eddie shakes his head and smiles to himself, gingerly stepping out of his boxers and switching on the shower.

Steam slowly fills the room and Eddie carefully climbs into the shower, his right arm cradled into his body. The hot water is bliss, and he sighs dreamily under its spray as it washes over his lower face and neck, closing his eyes and tilting his head up. He carefully makes sure to avoid getting the stitches in his forehead wet.

He takes his time washing his body in fear of jostling his wounds too much, taking care in each swipe of the washcloth. There’s a few moments where he stretches awkwardly to try and wash his back, but Eddie struggles through them. The real problem starts when he tries to wash his hair.

He very cautiously wets his hair and then reaches for his shampoo, and just as he's giving it a shake to make sure he’ll get enough product out, it slips out of his grip and lands on the floor with a clatter. It’s impossible for Eddie to pick up without making his ribs flare up. He grumbles to himself, staring forlornly at the bottle.

“Eddie?” Buck calls out, voice worried, “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, Buck,” He continues to stare at the bottle, “Dropped my shampoo. Can’t pick it up. Don’t think I’ll be able to wash my hair anyway.” Eddie admits, frustrated.

It’s silent, and then, “...You want a hand?” 

“Please.” Eddie sighs.

He listens to the door squeak open, and thinks about asking Buck to maybe pick up some oil for the hinges at the store next time he goes.

“Okay, uhm. I’m coming in.” Buck moves the shower curtain out of the way and steps into the shower, and Eddie turns his head to face him, and then double takes.

“Why are you fully dressed in the shower?” There’s a small smile pulling at Eddie’s lips, and he can feel his eyebrows raise in amusement.

Buck flushes pink, “I don’t know! I thought it’d be weird if we were both naked.” He ducks his head, and Eddie is helplessly endeared. He smiles wider.

“You’re wearing socks. Why are you wearing socks in the shower?” Eddie aske, gesturing towards Buck’s socked feet with his good arm, laughing. Buck flushes red now.

“Shut up!” Buck hops slightly and rips his socks off one at a time, chucking them at Eddie’s back, “You’ve already embarrassed me enough!” He whines, a petulant pout on his lips.

Eddie snorts, “That was rude,” He kicks the socks, “Plus, why are you embarrassed? You’re not the naked one.”

“Yeah, and this is a shower. The whole point is to be naked.”

“Oh my God, just take your jeans off at least. Denim and water seriously can’t be a good mix– you’re going to chafe.” 

“Wow, if you wanted me to strip that bad, you only had to say so.” Buck remarks as he unbuttons his jeans, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Yes, hurry up and strip. I’m expecting a premium hair washing treatment here, and instead you’re wasting my time.” Eddie clicks his tongue.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be getting the full experience– wait, hold on, that sounded–” Eddie laughs loudly, watching Buck’s cheeks flush red again at the flirty tone he’d accidentally taken on. He covers his face with his hands, “Eddie! Stopping laughing at me! I’ll swap shifts if you don’t, I swear.”

Eddie gasps, “You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.” Buck says, a smug smile in place.

Eddie shrugs with one shoulder, “You’ll be the one missing out on Cap’s meals, then.”

“Oh, fuck, wait no! You bastard!” Buck laughs and Eddie can’t help but laugh along with him, spitting out the water that gets in his mouth, “Okay, okay. Serious now. We can’t stay in this shower forever.” Buck bends to pick up the shampoo, and oddly, Eddie almost wants to stay in the shower with Buck forever. He shrugs the thought off briskly.

Buck works up a lather in his hands, Eddie dutifully staying turned towards the shower head and tries to not melt into the touch when Buck starts massaging the shampoo gently into his hair. He takes care to work around the gash on his forehead, not letting suds accidentally slip into it, and Eddie feels warm. Maybe the shower’s just too hot.

“You made sure to not get your stitches wet, right?” Buck mumbles the question into Eddie’s ear. Eddie hums back in affirmative, presses back into Buck’s hands. Buck laughs quietly, almost inaudible over the shower spray, “Okay, watch your eyes, going to rinse now.” Buck places his hand on Eddie’s forehead, shielding his eyes and the gash with it, and tilts his head forwards so it’s under the water, his other hand carefully washing out the suds, “Okay, conditioner now. You doing okay?”

“Yeah, all good.” Eddie sighs, eyes still closed. He sways slightly and suddenly a warm palm is on his waist, steadying him. 

“Careful, Eds.” It’s gotten so quiet all of a sudden, Buck’s voice barely a whisper in his ear and the sound of water hitting the tiles is white noise. Buck’s breath is damp against Eddie’s shoulder and his hand squeezes it gently, “Don’t need you falling and hitting your head again.” Buck says and Eddie nods in agreement– he really doesn’t want that.

Slowly, Eddie blinks his eyes open. He takes in the stark white tiles and the shining metal of the shower head, water steadily pouring. He looks down, and Buck’s socks are still on the floor, the light orange now wet and dark against the blindingly white floor. He sways again, back bumping into the front of Buck’s chest. It keeps him steady. It feels too bright in the room. It feels like it should feel warm, whereas now it feels almost clinical. Maybe he should change the tiles, paint the bathroom. His house feels all one colour.

“You sure you’re okay, Eddie?” Buck asks, his hand cupping his left shoulder this time.

“Yeah, just tired.” He pauses, “Do you think I should paint the house?”

He feels Buck move away slightly, reaching for the conditioner, “Yes.” Is Buck’s immediate answer, “This feels sudden, though. What makes you want to paint it?”

“I want it to be warmer. The bathroom feels cold.” Buck snorts quietly, and Eddie can hear him squeezing out the conditioner from the bottle.

“The walls are pretty plain. I think it would be nice, adding some warmth. Maybe we can paint the kitchen, too.” And Eddie’s heart pounds hard against his ribs, something inside of him purring contentedly by his heart as Buck starts working his hands through his hair, almost stroking it. Eddie thinks, ‘Maybe we could paint the kitchen, too,’ and he feels warm all over. He feels soft, cosy, despite the cold tones of the bathroom.

“Yeah. I think we should. Would be nice for Christopher to come home to a painted house. Or maybe the three of us could paint it together.” Buck’s hands keep stroking through his hair after freezing for a moment, massaging his scalp. Eddie pushes further into the touch.

“I definitely think we’ll have to wait for Chris to come home, he’ll want to help pick out the colours. Plus, I’m not too sure how much I trust your own colour choices, Mr. Beige Walls.” Buck teases, mouth just by his ear and breath dampening the shell of it further. Eddie weakly swats at Buck from behind, hand meeting his already damp shirt from where Eddie’s still leaning against it.

Eddie shushes him, “The house came like this.”

“And you’ve been here for how long and just left it unpainted, hm?” Buck asks, voice lilting.

“I’m a busy guy.” Eddie smiles for himself, resisting the urge to press further back into Buck.

“Oh, clearly. Busy enough to have me doing the cooking and cleaning, yeah?” He can hear Buck’s smile, “You’re lucky there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“I am.” Eddie mumbles, voice suddenly serious. The tension seems to thicken and he peeks his eyes open, turns his head to face Buck. They’re so close, like this, and Eddie feels his heartbeat speed up a few notches, “I’m really lucky to have you in my life, Buck. Thank you.” He says sincerely. Buck’s eyes are so wide and blue, shimmering wetly. Eddie can’t quite tell if it’s a trick of the light or not. Buck’s mouth opens and closes, and Eddie’s chest squeezes tighter and tighter with just how much he really does appreciate Buck, “You don’t have to be doing all of this for me, but you’re here anyway, even though you have your own life. I’ll never be able to repay you for this.”

“I don’t want you to repay me, Eds.” His voice is soft, almost wondrous, “You letting me do this for you is enough. You deserve to be taken care of.”

“And so do you, Buck. I can’t do much myself right now, but I can at least say thank you. I can at least tell you how much it means to me.” Eddie isn’t sure if it's the heat of the shower– or maybe having Buck so close and caring for him so gently– that’s made Eddie’s lips looser than they usually are, but the words that would be difficult to say under any other situation slip past his lips with ease. Eddie breathes as deep as he dares, “Really, Buck, thank you.”

“You never need to thank me for this, Eddie, but still, you’re welcome.” Buck smiles again– soft and intimate, just for Eddie. His eyes are bright and wet, flashing in the clinical white bathroom, and Eddie’s never felt so warm in his life.

Eddie had thought for a good ten minutes about cancelling his therapy appointment.

He decided, in the end, that he shouldn’t. It would probably do him some good to get some things– the things he can talk about– off of his chest. Plus, Eddie’s slowly learning that maybe therapy is good for him when he actually tries with it, instead of seeing it as something to be checked off on a list.

And now, as he sits across from Frank, arm still in a sling, stitches still in his head, body still bruised and sore, he almost regrets it– he’s tired just looking at Frank.

“I see you’ve been busy.” Frank comments, vaguely gesturing towards Eddie’s injuries.

Eddie sighs, “You could say that. Accident at work, fell four stories, broke my collarbone, fractured a few ribs. Concussion. The usual.”

“The usual?” Frank raises an eyebrow. Eddie pauses– is Frank teasing him? That’s a first.

“Yeah.” Eddie says straight faced and shrugs as best as he can.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nothing to really talk about, if I’m honest. Buck’s staying with me at the moment, to help me and help around the house. Christopher’s been calling daily to keep an eye on me, which is nice. I’m glad we’re talking more, I’ve missed him.” Frank nods, and then writes something down. It falls quiet and Eddie sighs, tries to adjust his sling into a more comfortable position, “There’s something else I wanted to talk about, though.” Eddie bites the bullet. Maybe talking about this in some way will alleviate some of the weight on his shoulders.

“Oh?” Frank prompts.

There’s a careful balance that Eddie needs to find here, between explaining what he needs to and not explaining too much that Eddie confesses something he’s still not ready to face. He’s not sure how well he’ll be able to maintain the balance, but he knows he needs to for his own peace of mind. He’s not ready yet.

“When I was younger, I had this…friend,” Eddie starts, “He was my best friend. His name was Andrew Millers.” He breathes out slowly, tries to ignore the flare of pain in his chest that has nothing to do with fractured ribs or a broken collarbone, “We did everything together,” He thinks of riding bikes down the street, of crooked smiles, wiping away the blood on skinned knees, swimming in lakes, passing notes in class, “We were pretty much inseparable from the day we met at ten years old, all the way until we were both sixteen.” Eddie drums his fingers on the arm of his chair, thinks of dust in his mouth, maybe in his eyes if he feels like lying to himself, “He moved away suddenly. Like, really suddenly. I hadn’t seen him in a few days, which was weird. His parents were really strict, and even more so religious, so I think I had just assumed that he’d done something to get in trouble and got grounded for a few days, or maybe he was sick. And then he didn’t turn up to school.” He feels anxiety rise in his chest and he squirms in his seat slightly, feels twisted limbs wrap themselves around his lungs, sharp teeth pressed to the beating chambers of his heart just waiting to draw blood, “He always turned up for class. He was late most of the time, yeah– he was a total troublemaker– but he always showed up in the end. His parents would lose their minds on him if he didn’t, and he wanted to get into university. Again, his parents were very strict and doubly religious. They had high hopes for him.” Eddie pauses, looks at Frank for a moment.

He doesn’t know how to go about explaining this story in the right way. It all feels wrong. It feels like he’s going about it all wrong, like he’s not doing Andrew justice. So Eddie starts over, from the beginning.

“Andrew had really bright eyes. Like, I’m talking probably some of the bluest you’ll ever see. And his hair was always falling into them. His teeth were squint, but he never cared, always smiled brightly and with all his teeth– a little scary sometimes, if I’m honest. He was wild and reckless, and always had stupid ideas that ended with him skinning his elbows or his knees, or injuring himself in some sort of way. I’d always clean his wounds for him, wash them out with disinfectant, put a bandaid over them. He was an idiot,” Eddie smiles fondly, “We’d sometimes sneak out to see each other in the middle of the night– one time I even fell off my roof and broke my arm. My parents were not happy about that particular wake up call. But despite all of that, he had a huge heart. One time, there was an injured kitten in the middle of the road– we were pretty sure she got hit by a car– and Andrew’s mom hates cats, but he still took her home, hid her in her room for weeks after he stole money from his parents to take her to the vet. They found her in the end, and sold her. Andy was really upset that day. I remember him suddenly appearing in my bedroom window, and he was crying. Sobbing, really– he was a mess. It broke my heart to see him like that. He loved that cat so much, even though he kept calling her Roadkill. I called her Rosie.

He always stuck up for me when someone tried to pick on me, and he’d get into fights because of it. I’d always patch him up after, bandage his bloody knuckles. I’d always ask him why he’d do it, get into fights because of me, and he’d just give me this wide, shining grin and shrug his shoulders. He’d say, ‘Well, you’re just so good at patching me up, might as well put your skills to use,’ but I know he just hated people trying to make fun of me. One day, someone even broke his nose during a fight. The other guy was in a much worse state, but I couldn’t exactly fix Andrew’s nose for him, I was only fifteen at the time. He’d told me that it didn’t matter because he knew I’d be there while he healed. That I wouldn’t cringe away from the blood gushing from his nose, or the awful bruising around his eyes. He knew I’d always stick by him, and he swore he’d always stick by me. So, every day for three weeks, I’d change the bandages. He still had a scar over the bridge of his nose, last time I saw him.

When we were sixteen, nothing had changed. We’d been the same as we always had been. Andrew and I would sneak out to meet up when it was night, I’d clean up his knees, or his elbows, or his knuckles. He’d fight anyone he looked at me wrong, and he’d always try and send me a bright smile while doing it. Then, it was a long weekend, sometime in the fall– close enough to summer that it was still hot out, but starting to cool down. We didn’t exclusively make plans for that long weekend, we never made plans really, we just sort of…gravitated towards each other. It was inevitable that we’d spend every moment we could together. But I didn’t see him the entire weekend. He dodged my calls, he was never home when I went to visit him– according to his parents, that is– and at night, he was never at our usual meetup spot. I just assumed that maybe he was sick and didn’t want to give it to me. I didn’t care if he got me sick, it would be worth it to see him. Anything would have been. And then he didn’t show up to school.

Unlike Andy, I wasn’t really the type to cause trouble. I was usually somehow dragged into it, but I never caused it– especially not without him by my side. But when he didn’t show up to class, I knew something was wrong. So, instead of sitting through the rest of school and worrying, I packed up my stuff and ran out. He lived maybe a twenty minute walk away, and I sprinted the whole distance in eight minutes. I had counted. I didn’t care if his parents tried to stop me at the door, I needed to see him, needed to make sure he was okay. When I made it to his house, there was a U-Haul van there; it was full of boxes. I remember it so vividly. I remember the way the sun was bright in the sky. I remember how my clothes stuck to my body because I was sweating so much– both because of the heat and because of how far I had run. I wasn’t really the most athletic back then. I remember what Andrew was wearing– khaki shorts, and a dusty blue-green polo shirt. His hair was shaved to the scalp, his eyes were dull. He looked nothing like himself. It was like seeing some fake clone of him that his parents had dressed up. The son they always wanted but never got.

His dad was already in the van, and he looked angry. He glared at me. His mom saw me, and she looked disgusted. I didn’t understand why. I hadn’t ever really talked to them that much, but they’d never looked at me like that before– never looked at me like I was dirt staining their pristine white shoes. I didn’t hear what Andrew said to his mom when he saw me, but she’d been silent, looking between the two of us for a long moment before whispering angrily at Andy. I don’t know what she said, but his face had fallen. He looked miserable. He had dragged his feet when he was walking over to me, and he didn’t even let me say a word. He stood a foot away from me, mumbled out a few words and sent me this…this look, and even though I had always prided myself in being able to read him like a book, I still don’t really understand what he was trying to say. He handed me a piece of paper. And then he and his mom got in the van, and they left. I never saw or heard from him again.” Eddie finishes, and his shoulders deflate, his breath whooshing out from his lungs. He feels almost dizzy.

Frank seems to be a little in shock, clearly not expecting Eddie to have talked so much. Eddie himself hadn’t expected to talk so much. And even in all that, he still missed out on the most important part of the story. Eddie remembers it all. Every word.

‘We’re moving,’ Andrew had said, ‘To Ohio.’ It was so far away, and Eddie wonders if he’s still there now, or if he moved again, ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s sudden. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave you.’ Each word had been hardly more than a mumble, and Eddie– a younger, more naive Eddie– had gaped in shock, ‘It’s over one thousand miles. I checked. I keep checking to see if maybe it changes, but it never does. Stupid, I know. Distance doesn’t magically change, no matter how much you want it to,’ Andrew had kicked up the dirt beneath his feet, and finally looked up at Eddie, wedding ring eyes unreadable, ‘We were made wrong. What we are is wrong. Bye, Eddie.’ His mouth had formed oddly around the words, and Eddie was rooted on the spot, just watching him go. He understands now why Andrew said what he did.

He isn’t sure if it’s what Andrew believed though. He doesn’t think it is; or at least he hopes so. Eddie so desperately wants to believe that it was just something his mom made him say, but he doesn’t know because Andrew never listened to his parents. He wasn’t the rule-following type. The only real reason he did show up to class was because Eddie always showed up to class, and they wanted to go to the same university, not because his parents would be mad. Couldn’t go to university if one of them didn’t get in. And it’s not like it mattered anyway because Andrew was already gone before Eddie ever knew begging him to stay was an option. Not that it would’ve worked, but they at least could have tried. Run off towards the Texan sunset together, hands intertwined like those early mornings spent together, giggling quietly and whispering in bed. Feet and legs bumping.

Everything about that day feels bigger now, feels more significant than it already felt. ‘We were made wrong,’ Eddie thinks, and then shakes his head. He hopes Andrew doesn’t truly think that. Eddie hopes he got away from his parents. Almost desperately, uselessly hopes it.

Frank clears his throat across from him, and Eddie is suddenly back in his own thirty-two year old body, and not his sixteen year old one.

“That is…quite the story. You two seemed rather close. I imagine it was really difficult, never seeing or hearing from him again.” Frank's face is back to the same neutral expression it almost always has.

Eddie nods, “It was the-” He starts, praying his voice doesn’t waver. He clears his throat, “Well, it sucked– watching him leave like that. I didn’t really have any other friends at school, either. And then Shannon and I reconnected, and then she got pregnant. I went to Afghanistan, you know the rest. I still think about him, though. I still wonder how he’s doing. I hope he’s okay.”

“Have you ever thought about maybe trying to find him on social media and reach out? You could see how he’s doing for yourself.” Frank suggests.

Eddie huffs out a breath, “I don’t know. I feel like it would just…dig up things for him that don’t need digging up. And part of me is sort of scared of what I could find. It’s like Schrodinger’s Cat, you know? If the box is closed, the cat is alive and dead. It’s the same rule with Andrew. If I don’t look him up, he’s alive and dead; okay and suffering; rich and poor. Happy and miserable. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. Plus, I doubt he’d want to hear from me.”

Frank writes something down, “Why do you doubt that?”

“I think…I might have been the reason he had to move away.” Eddie confesses quietly, and Frank blinks a few times in confusion.

“And what makes you think that?” He prods carefully, gently.

“The looks his parents gave me the day they left. The way he never answered my emails or letters.” Eddie shrugs, “It seems pretty obvious that it was something to do with me in the end.” And he knew it was to do with them, because Eddie was in love with a boy, and a boy was in love with Eddie. And maybe the boy’s very religious parents found out.

“Well, have a think about it at least. You never know, reaching out could be good for you.”

“I’ll think about it, yeah.” Eddie agrees. And maybe he will think about it. Maybe he will reach out. Maybe he’ll find something good, or maybe it’ll be bad, but at least he’d know in the end. And maybe he’d be able to find out what really happened those days leading up to the move.

When Eddie gets home from therapy, Buck is on the couch and he’s fidgeting. The TV is off and the house is quiet.

“Buck?” Eddie calls out, and he jumps, twisting around to face Eddie quickly, “What are you doing? Why are you just sitting in silence?”

“Eddie! Hey, welcome home! How was therapy?” Buck leaps off of the couch. His tone is bright and exuberant, but his eyes don’t match his smile.

“Therapy was fine…What’s wrong? Did something happen to Christopher?” Eddie sucks in a quick, panicked breath, “Is he okay?” Eddie asks, eyes wide.

“No, no! Chris is fine! Why would you assume something’s wrong?” Buck laughs, harsh and awkward, and Eddie raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“Why are you being so weird then?” 

“I’m not being weird.” Buck says weirdly.

“Yes. You are.” Eddie says slowly, then gives him a stern look. Buck suddenly deflates, wilting under his gaze and slumps back onto the couch. Eddie walks over and settles down beside him gingerly, giving him an expectant look.

Buck mumbles something under his breath.

“Sorry, what? Buck, I can’t hear you when you mumble like that.” Eddie sighs, worried, “Just tell me what’s happened, it’ll be okay. We can fix it.” He soothes.

Buck groans, rubbing his face with his palms, “Me and Tommy broke up. Nothing to fix about that.” He finally admits.

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, “What? You broke up? Why?”

“We just did.” He huffs from behind his hands defensively. 

“That isn’t a reason, Buck. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, though. We can have some beers, watch TV and bitch about him and all his flaws all night if you like.” Eddie offers placatingly, squeezing Bucks shoulder with his good arm.

That startles a laugh out of Buck, and he peers up at Eddie from between his fingers, “Yeah?” He smiles, and then suddenly frowns, “You can’t have any beers, though. You’re on painkillers.”

Eddie sighs pitifully, “Yeah, I know. I guess I’ll just have to stick to water while you get to have all the fun without me.”

“Aw, don’t say that. I’ll make you your favourite for dinner as compensation for me drinking all your beers.” Buck smiles, and Eddie’s chest flutters. He rubs absently at his sternum, ignoring the feeling.

“You don’t have to do that, man. You and Tommy just broke up, let me cook for the night.”

“Oh yeah, with one arm? Your non-dominant one at that? I hate to say it, but I’m definitely not letting you go near a knife anytime soon, Eds.” Buck snorts and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, be mean to the poor, injured guy, why don’t you.” Eddie grumps, “We can order in on me, then. Throw a real pity party. Plus, I’m craving something greasy tonight.”

“Yeah? Me too. I think we’ve earned it. What are you thinking? Pizza?” Buck questions, a little hopeful gleam in his eyes.

“Yeah, why not. You want it from that one little place with the–”

“Alfredo pizza and olives? Yes. Please.” Buck interrupts, and Eddie makes a face.

“God knows why I’m friends with you when that’s your favourite pizza. Fucking disgusting is what it is.” Eddie sticks his tongue out, fake gags.

“It is not!” Buck squawks, mouth gaping.

“Yes it is! And your breath always stinks after, I swear!” Eddie complains, borderline whines.

“Says the one who likes pineapple on his pizza!” Buck accuses, pointing a finger at him.

“Yeah, because pineapple on pizza is good! Who the hell likes olives on their pizza? It should be illegal!” Eddie exclaims.

“You’re just jealous because my palate is more refined than yours.” Buck sniffs imperiously, nose in the air like a spoiled child. A total brat.

“Oh really? And who was it that ate all of the turkey dinosaurs that I had in my freezer last month, hm?” Eddie shoots back, fighting down a fond smile.

“Pft, not me, that’s for sure.” Buck lies, just like the lying liar that he is.

“Yeah? So if I went to check my freezer right now, the turkey dinosaurs that I bought last week would still be untouched?” Eddie moves to stand and Buck’s arm whips out, pushing him back to the couch gently, still mindful of Eddie’s injuries.

“Obviously they would. No need to check when it’s such a stupid question.” Buck rolls his eyes, tries and fails to fight away the little huffs of laughter between each word.

“Oh, yeah, definitely no need to check. Christopher isn’t here, so who would possibly eat the turkey dinosaurs? Not someone with such a refined palate as yourself, of course.” Eddie nods sagely, lips twitching valiantly.

“Of course.” Buck sniffs again, then  breaks, laughs, loud and bright. And Eddie really can’t help but laugh with him, stomach aching, his ribs protesting each shake, but he really can’t bring himself to care when Buck smiles the way he does. Eyes so bright– bright enough that they shine like wedding bands in the sunlight that drifts sluggishly through the window.

The more Eddie heals, the more he’s able to think.

The more he’s able to think, the more overwhelmed he gets by recent revelations. He tries to not waste his thoughts on what ifs, because is there really a point to that? It’s been, what, sixteen, seventeen years since he was sixteen? The time has gone and passed him by, and he never really knew just how significant it all was.

He takes a break from reading ‘Crush’ for a week or so. He gets his stitches removed, and the wound on his head looks better. His ribs feel better, his collarbone is starting to feel better. He still aches, he’s still bruised, but they’re all fading into a nasty yellow colour now. He’s healing.

The book is, as it always is when he’s not actively reading it, hidden inside of the drawer by his bed, laying on top of maybe five or six pairs of spare socks that he has. It sits there, and some days when Buck is at work, all Eddie can do is think about it. He thinks about, ‘always the same running from something larger than yourself story,’ and tries to not think about Afghanistan or the way he ran to LA. If he doesn’t look too hard, he isn’t able to relate it to himself.

Five days after he told himself to take a break from reading– the day after his therapy appointment to let himself process, maybe to let himself stop reeling from it all– he gives it up and sits himself on the bed to read. Buck’s at the grocery store picking up a couple of things, so he has time to at least read the next poem or two.

He’s always so careful with the book. Careful to not stain or rip it, accidentally crush the pages. Careful to not let anyone else see it. He doesn’t really know why the book feels so private to him, almost sacred in nature. He wants to hide it where nobody else will ever see it, bring it out only when night has fallen, despite the fact the sun is high in the midday sky. It's his own secret that he can clutch to his chest, the spine still unbroken despite how often he flips through the pages– any signs of it being read is too much, too telling. This is his secret.

He flips to the current page he’s on, and looks at the title; ‘You Are Jeff.’ 

He’s not afraid to admit that as he starts reading, he’s a little lost at first, but he keeps going. Sometimes he doesn’t find himself connecting to every poem in some way and that’s okay. It happens. It’s not his poetry to truly connect to, just something that he’s sometimes able to find himself in– in between the words and the lines, sometimes he can see himself sitting there, wide eyed and exposed, ribs torn open, heart on display.

Then he reads, ‘He invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around you in an act of faith against the night,’ and sucks in a quick breath. He thinks of Andrew in that moment as his eyes scan the words. Wild blue eyes and messy bedhead falling into them. A small and private smile on his face, so much different from the others he would send him– the ones with a viciousness and all of his teeth as if he was snarling and baring them during a fight, the ones that would have his eyes alight with mischief when he was about to do something stupid. The ones that would split his face in half as he laughed. He can’t tell which one was the most beautiful.

And he reads, ‘ Telling you you’re home again, home? He’s next to you, right next to you in fact, so close, or…he isn't,’ And he thinks about dust in his mouth, his eyes, the way Andrew’s mouth shaped around the words, ‘We were made wrong,’ and Eddie hisses out a quick exhale, something pressing teeth to his heart and whining.

‘Don't make a noise, don't leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. I will come back from the dead for you,’ This time, something in him shakes and rattles loudly, and Eddie’s breath shudders as it leaves his lungs. He thinks of a street in the middle of the day, or maybe he’s looking at it wrong, not squinting his eyes the right amount, not tilting his head in the right direction, because maybe it’s actually a house with a well. A house with a well, and there’s a kid in the well, and then forty feet of collapsing mud, and Eddie’s lungs are burning, water at the back of his throat. 

He shakes the thought off. Now isn’t the time to be remembering those memories.

‘You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you've done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you're tired.’ and Eddie feels like he’s choking. There’s not enough words in any language, he’s sure, to describe the feeling that is raging in his chest right now. It’s this horrifying mix of yearning, loss, fear, craving, and he doesn’t really understand it, but he feels it. It presses down on his chest, brands his heart with possession of feelings he hasn’t ever really felt, over and over again. He reads the poem over and over again. ‘You are in the car with a beautiful boy. You are in the car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you he loves you. And you’re tired. A beautiful boy. You’ve done something terrible,’ Eddie shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut and breathes deep for a moment. He flicks back to the first page of the poem, and starts rereading the entire thing.

He absorbs himself into the words of the poem, letting it cloud his mind as he eagerly reads over the words, mouth parted slightly as his fingers absently stroke over the page. He doesn’t hear the car park in the driveway, or the front door open. He doesn’t hear the faint call of his name, or the rattling of grocery bags. He doesn’t hear the second call of his name, this time with some worried urgency. The knock on his bedroom door is little more than silence to him, and when his door opens, Eddie jerks back into his body with a loud gasp.

“Hey, you okay? You didn’t answer me when I called you, I got worried.” Eddie swiftly throws himself across his bed, shoving the book as carefully as he can under the pillows there, jostling both his ribs and collarbone as he does so.

Eddie groans, face planted into his covers.

“Uh…” Buck’s voice is closer now, “Eddie?”

“No.” He groans again, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to breathe through the pain harshly. 

“What was that about? What did you put under your pillow? Was it porn?” Buck’s voice takes on a teasing tone, and suddenly the broken little wild animal that sits in his chest bares its teeth and snarls, curling away in defence, eyes wide and rabid. It snaps and bites the air, teeth clicking together and Eddie breathes harsh, loud, through the pain in the silence.

“No.” He pushes himself up, eyes shuttering, a hard look on his face, “Please get out. I want to be alone.” He says each word carefully, still aware, even in his defense, that Buck means well. Buck doesn’t know and Eddie wants to keep it that way. But still, Buck’s face falls. He looks hurt, and Eddie feels sick.

“Oh, sorry, man. I didn’t mean to-”

“Buck,” Eddie sighs, and Buck’s mouth snaps shut, his teeth clicking together, “Not like that. I just need a little space. And no, it’s not porn. I’ll…I’ll tell you what it is eventually. But not yet, okay?” He tries to gentle his tone, but his heart is still racing in his chest, feels like it's going to crawl its way out of his throat. Something in him is still growling and scared.

Buck nods, trying to paste on a smile, “Okay. Whenever you’re ready, I’m here for you, man.” And it’s like a stab to his chest, like his heart has been pierced, or maybe just scooped out from where it's snug between his lungs and behind his ribs. Each bone has been pulled open, snapped broken again, and now his heart is gone and all he’s left is with this awful guilt taking its place. Buck is gone and the door is closed softly behind him before Eddie can open his mouth and say anything more. Before he can apologise.

He really doesn’t deserve Buck.

They’re at work and it’s sunny.

It isn’t a busy day, quite the opposite. It’s sunny and Eddie’s doing much better now. The station is filled with laughter and everything is glowing golden, like a shimmering veil has been placed over the world.

Everyone’s eyes are bright, nothing weighing down on their shoulders like it almost always feels like there is. There’s this spark in the air that has them all smiling as they sit down to eat Bobby’s baked mac and cheese, and Eddie’s never felt this free in his life. Buck is next to him, and Buck is smiling. Their elbows and knees knock together playfully, and they both smile down at their plates, eyes darting across at one another for brief periods, blushes staining their cheeks. Everything feels like it’s rolling on old camera film.

Everyone takes their turns serving themselves. Buck and Eddie serve one another like always. Their hands and fingers brush, and their eyes meet, and there's a magnetic pool that Eddie can only just resist. He was pulled into Buck’s orbit long ago though, so he’s used to it. Used to drifting around Buck like he’s the sun and Eddie’s a star about to go supernova, just happy to be bathed in Buck’s light. It’s been like that since the moment they shook hands, since pulling a live grenade out of a man’s thigh, since the moment Eddie first saw him.

It’s just how things are. The sun sets every day, the ocean is vast, the sky looks blue, Buck shines, and Eddie wants to bathe in it. It’s unequivocal.

They eat lunch, and they talk. The conversation rushes over Eddie like water in a shower, and maybe he says something, maybe he doesn’t. Everything blurs, and he can’t tell himself from Buck. Can’t tell if his right arm is Buck’s left, or if his eyes are Eddie’s, or maybe they’ve swapped torsos, swapped hearts. It’s nice, though. Buck’s heart is warm, large and pulsing where it sits in Eddie’s chest.

Then, when all of the dishes have disappeared into the dishwasher and everyone leans back in their chairs, the sun outside sets, the rain pours, and the alarm goes off.

They’re in the fire engine now, and the roads look slick with rain water. There’s a fire, and Buck is suddenly climbing the ladder and Eddie is on top of the engine. There’s static in the air and Buck has the hose, and it’s daylight and Buck is across the street from him, not in uniform. This isn’t their call. And there’s a gunshot, a lightning strike, and Eddie’s body burns, and Buck falls to the ground, shoulder bleeding, and Buck falls from the ladder, body hanging.

He’s not responding when Eddie calls his name– his eyes are open, but they’re glossed over, unblinking, unresponsive. And maybe Eddie yells, but he has Buck’s heart in his chest and it’s slowing down. But if Eddie has Buck’s heart, and Buck has Eddie’s, why are they both dying? Why did Buck-with-Eddie’s heart die first? From the moment the bullet hit to the moment the lightning struck, he was gone. Or maybe they were gone. Eddie has Buck’s heart, after all.

Buck’s body is heavy where it hangs, and Eddie’s climbing the ladder. Eddie is slowing down, breathless, on the ladder. He feels each beat of Buck’s heart, feels it slow in his own chest. Feels it stop and he’s falling off the ladder now, his stomach is dropping and–

Eddie gasps, eyes opening abruptly. 

His breath is caught in his throat, and it feels as if it’s swollen shut, his airway blocked.

Everything is fuzzy in the darkness that surrounds him and Eddie blindly tosses out his good hand, aimlessly trying to find the light switch to his lamp. It flickers on, the colour dull, and Eddie stares at the ceiling. There’s a film of sweat over his body and he feels too warm, so he kicks away his blankets.

He feels suffocatingly warm, actually. He can feel his– his, not Buck’s– heart racing in his chest. It’s his heart and he’s still alive– and so is Buck, because Eddie can hear him snoring from the living room, laying on the couch. He’s asleep in the other room. Buck is okay. He’s okay, he’s alive. Eddie repeats it, over and over in his head like a mantra, and tries to breathe through the panic; he imagines his body is jello. He is lime jello.

When it works, but not enough, Eddie slowly sits himself up further in bed. He rubs his hand up and down his sternum to try and soothe away the ache in his chest. Buck continues to snore. Eddie closes his eyes, and breathes as deep as he can. It’s stupid, it’s so fucking stupid, but before he knows it, Eddie’s out of bed and quietly opening his door.

The snores get louder when he does, and he creeps down the hallway towards where Buck is sleeping on the couch. He feels his chest relax when he sees him with his own eyes. Too-long legs awkwardly splayed, blanket twisted around them, mouth open, probably drooling slightly– Eddie would know after sharing a bed with him during Covid– as he snores, face half stuffed into his pillow. His eyes flicker under his lids and he snuffles. The moon dreamily drifts in through the gap in the curtains, and Buck looks pale under its beams. He looks peaceful, and Eddie melts, struck with a warm adoration because oh.

Eddie suddenly feels liquid smooth. He feels soft and fond and gentle. He feels each quiet, slow exhale of Buck sleeping on the couch. He feels ruined and lovesick. He feels nauseous and anxious, stomach fluttering, rolling, tightening. He feels stuck, locked up– he feels freer than he has ever felt before. He feels raw and broken, he feels like his feet can’t touch the ground. He feels awake, he feels tired– ‘and you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shovelled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired,’ and Eddie feels lost and empty and tired. He wishes he could curl up in the space between Bucks ankles, spend the night sleeping there. He wouldn’t even need to crawl under the blanket, he swears. He’ll be good, he’ll be quiet, he promises. But the embarrassment would be too much. The shame would be worse than the peace he might have found in moments stolen. Where the moon is out and no witnesses are around to see him, his shame, his quiet agony tearing away at his skin. Where he would be put on display, the light shining on everything he’s kept secret since he was young– young and shy and clumsy, arms and legs too long and wiry for his body. When his eyes kept straying to Andrew Millers’ lips, wondering, without really thinking, what they’d feel like on his own, and then finding that out. The little broken creature inside of him howls, begging for just one second of love that he wants, craves, needs. But nobody wants to see his rotten wanting, not even himself, because oh– of course he’s in love with Buck.

It makes sense, really, because how could he not be? How could he not be in love with him when it's just as easy as breathing? When it’s so obvious that it became natural to him; not even spared a glance because it was always where Eddie was heading– to Buck.

Part of him wants to freak out, and part of him will in the morning, but it’s night now. It’s the time for quiet secrets and revelations. It’s time for gentleness and soft pining, and Buck is so beautiful under the moonlight. He’s the sun and he’s meeting the moon, because even it can’t help itself to him. 

He snores and snuffles, and Eddie walks towards him quietly, bending at the knees and sitting on the floor by his feet. He leans his head on the couch cushion, mere inches away from his legs, and he thinks, ‘A beautiful boy,’ and ‘I will come back from the dead for you,’ and Eddie’s heart lurches in his chest. He thinks of laying in his own blood after being shot, reaching for Buck uselessly, and Buck coming back to save him. He thinks of the well and Buck clawing at the dirt. He thinks of the lightning strike and trying to pull Buck to him, feeling his heart starting under Eddie’s own hands. He thinks of him having Buck’s heart inside his chest, and wonders if Buck has Eddie’s.

He doesn’t. Eddie knows this, but it’s nice to imagine, to pretend. Pretend that maybe one day Buck would come to him, smiling softly, blushing faintly, and tell him how he loves Eddie, too. Has always loved him, too. That he was repressing it this whole time, just like Eddie has been. Because that’s exactly what Eddie’s been doing; he doesn’t know the exact moment when he fell in love with Buck, but it’s been in motion since the very day that they met. If Eddie believed in such things, he knows Buck would be his soulmate. There’s no doubt about it in Eddie’s mind. And even if somehow Buck wasn’t, Eddie would still be selfish and try to keep him anyways.

Eddie thinks back to the smugness he felt when Buck told him he and Tommy had broken up– it’s the same angry-satisfied feeling that’s followed him since Ali got scared and ran, leaving Buck because his job was ‘too dangerous for her’. She knew what she was getting into, and Eddie reserves the right to still be mad at her for hurting Buck like that. He hates the parts of himself that seem to celebrate Buck’s breakups. He deserves to be happy. Eddie thinks he’d do anything to make Buck happy.

Buck huffs in his sleep, eyelashes fluttering as his nose twitches. He mumbles sleepily under his breath and shoves his head further into the pillow. Eddie smiles helplessly into the cushion, even when he feels a pool of sadness open up in his chest. His heart pangs, squeezes tight, as he imagines Buck in his bed next to him. He hogs the blanket, Eddie already knows this, but he still wonders about what else he’d be like– would he be the cuddly type? Would he latch onto Eddie’s side and stuff his face into the side of his neck, nose pressed to the hinge of his jaw as he drools all over Eddie? Or would he want Eddie’s head on his shoulder or chest, an arm wrapped around his waist to hold him securely. Is he the big spoon or the little spoon? Eddie likes to imagine Buck’s the little spoon, even if just only because he wants to be able to wrap his hands around Buck’s waist and press his nose into the soft curls at the top of his head, their feet bumping and legs tangling together. The blanket would be raised to their chins despite the fact that they’d both wake up sweaty and too hot in the morning, because Eddie can’t sleep as well without a blanket covering him fully. Buck would probably toss and turn, kicking accidental bruises into Eddie’s shins that he’d later rub Arnicare into with a sheepishly apologetic smile.

Eddie thinks and imagines and wonders while he stares, head by Buck’s shins, slumped over the cushions. He doesn’t notice when his eyelids get heavier and heavier, mouth cracking open in a large yawn. He smiles to himself again, sleepy and heavy, and twists to get more comfortable. His head softly bumps into Buck’s ankle and from the other side of the couch, Buck smacks his lips. Eddie stays there, Buck’s sleep warm skin against his forehead, and Eddie yawns again, eyes slipping shut for longer and longer each time he blinks. Buck shifts again, groaning.

“Eddie…?” He mumbles, a quiet question hidden in his sleep heavy voice.

“Mmphf.” He presses his head against Buck’s ankle, and Buck presses back.

“‘Kay.” And with that, he’s snoring again.

Eddie turns his head slightly, looks up at Buck and smiles. His cheek presses into the pillow, and he closes his eyes, thinking, ‘He’s next to you, right next to you in fact, so close,’ as he drifts off to sleep, warm and calm, by Buck’s feet.

Neither of them said anything the next morning. Eddie had woken up with his neck and back aching, still on the floor, but there was a blanket draped over him. Buck was cooking breakfast in the kitchen. He didn’t ask why Eddie had slept next to the couch, and Eddie’s eternally grateful because of it– it’s embarrassing enough just knowing that it happened, nevermind talking about it.

Eddie sort of…avoids talking to Buck in general actually, after his revelation.

Well, he avoids it as much as he can. It’s much more scary in daylight, far more real that it felt when he was fuzzy with sleep after a nightmare where they died– together but still separate. Buck seems to be able to tell there’s something wrong, and he tries to bring it up a couple of times, but Eddie dodges his questions with a new subject paired with a shaky smile that begs Buck to stop asking, and he does.

He still tries to spend time with Buck, though. He can’t quite help himself from wanting to be around him– just like in his dream, Eddie gravitates around Buck. They go out grocery shopping together, silently walking through the aisles and occasionally debating over what brand of cereal to buy, or if red bell peppers are better than yellow– the answer is that red are better, obviously. Or one day, they go on an easy hike with Chimney, one that won’t push Eddie too far while he’s still healing. They sit out in Eddie’s small, shitty little garden. They meet up with the rest of the team and their partners at the karaoke bar, and everyone drinks aside from him and Bobby. Both of them nurse a club soda and watch everyone get more animated and sloppy as the night goes on.

But moments where Eddie is completely alone with Buck? It’s like his throat just closes up. He feels like a shy and awkward kid again. He feels lovesick and weighted, and he wishes that he could euthanise the horrible animal in him that wants Buck so desperately. He wants the quiet moments to last forever, wants Buck to stay, wants to watch him cook breakfast every morning. Wants to brush their teeth together, so close that their shoulders bump as they share toothpaste-grins in the mirror. But once Eddie heals, Buck will be gone again and the house will be too empty. Too quiet. At least Buck will still visit. They’ll still paint the house together, and it’ll be warm colours– one that makes the house really feel like home.

Some nights, when he can’t really sleep, he thinks about Buck and he thinks about Andrew, and sometimes he can’t tell the difference between them. Blonde hair, one with straight hair, the other curly. Blue eyes that always lit up with a smile. A big heart, animal lover, ever passionate and a bit wild. Fearless. Golden.

They have a lot of similarities, but also a lot of differences, but maybe that’s because Eddie only remembers Andrew from when he was a teenager. Maybe he grew up and turned out to be a bit more like Buck. Maybe Eddie really does have a type.

Sometimes, he thinks about normality. Or maybe what it could be. Sometimes Eddie desperately wants to feel normal, just for one second, but he doesn't think it's possible anymore. He doesn't think he’s ever been normal in the first place. He thinks of blonde curls and blue eyes and wide smiles and can’t quite tell who it is– is it Buck, or is it Andrew? Where does one start and the other begin? Where does the difference lie? Where’s the line in the sand, and why can’t he find it?

And then he thinks of the way Buck makes him feel now, and the way Andrew did back then, and thinks maybe he’s already normal. Maybe this is his normal, as new as it is to him. Maybe he needs to let himself move with the change instead of letting it ruin him. Maybe he needs to accept the fact that what some people class as ‘normal’ isn’t his normal. There’s so many different nuances in the human experience, so could anything ever really be considered normal in the first place?

Eddie thinks, ‘A door had been opened and could not be shut and then it was shut,’ and Andrew comes to mind. Shy, stolen glances, his heart taking flight in his chest, the way it would pound against his ribs. How Eddie would run from a room whenever Andrew would enter it when they first were getting to know each other, until nothing. He was gone and Eddie’s chest was a vacuum, hollow, heart without wings.

He thinks, ‘This is the Moon. This is the Sun. Let me name the stars for you.’ And Buck is there, with blushing smiles and ducked heads to hide them, knees bumping when they sit across from or next to one another. There’s home cooked meals, sleepy sunsets after them where their stomachs are full, eyes drooping, watching TV. There's drinking beers together, and ‘I could take you,’ ‘You wanna go for the title?’ There’s clawing at dirt, walking through water, crawling under fire engines and bleeding out. There’s a broken, crushed leg and holding hands, whispered words of ‘It’ll be okay, Buck. We’ll get you out of here, we’ll get it off of you. You’ll be okay.’ Eddie thinks about a crash of thundering lightning, a body hanging, trying to pull it up to him uselessly, and then a heartbeat starting under his own palms. There’s so much history, so much death, and Eddie doesn’t think there’s anything he wouldn’t do for Buck. They’ve both defied death, and maybe Buck had other motivators, but Eddie has only ever had two. Coming home to Christopher, and coming home to Buck. 

Maybe it’s selfish to hope that Buck has walked through all of that for Eddie, but the self-centred creature inside of him wants that, that craves it, and Eddie isn’t used to letting himself want. He’s never really wanted before, not until Christopher left, and then when he realised he was in love with Buck, had been in love with Andrew. Or maybe he’s been wanting this entire time but didn’t know what that twist in his heart really was. He’s never let himself really think about it all before because he isn’t someone who’s supposed to want– he’s someone who has always needed to provide. He gives and he tries so hard not to take. He thinks about Ana, about Marisol, and he thinks about wanting. He finds that those three things don’t line up, and his stomach knots with both relief and regret.

Eddie lays in bed, stares at the white ceiling and the white walls and his cold blue duvet, and he thinks about hot summers. He thinks about blue eyes, wedding bands, wide smiles, some with crooked teeth, some with straight. There’s curly hair, and a buzz cut, and the words, ‘We were made wrong.’ But they weren’t. ‘We were made perfectly,’ Eddie thinks, and that makes his stomach gnarl again. He tries to really believe it without feeling a little sick, but it’s so foreign. He bites his teeth into his bottom lip, tearing the skin from it and pressing his tongue to where it bleeds. 

The sharp taste of copper soothes over the ache in his chest, distracting his mind from the way it keeps jerking from topic to topic. He thinks about the taste of it, the way it spreads over his tongue, but the distraction is futile as it devolves into memories of blood gushing from a broken nose or coughed up in a garden. Eddie groans and shakes his head, pressing his thumb and index fingers into his eyes. Everything is haunting him.

There are no distractions to be found when everything else is asleep. No ways to have his mind shuffling on to the next subject that doesn’t somehow relate to his experiences with love. He just wants to sleep . He wants to sleep so desperately, because maybe for a moment, he’ll be able to escape the constant barrage of thoughts of blue smiles, bright eyes, a curly buzz cut. Eddie shakes his head again and shoves his face into the mountains of pillows that are supporting his collarbone and ribs.

“Fuck.” He mumbles, and bites into his lip again. 

He feels halfway rotten, but also more alive than he ever has really felt before. There’s been this haze that's been weighing him down, one that he’s never noticed before. Now that it’s lifted, he can see clearly. It was a shade of grey, clouding him, pulling him down with the condensation because why couldn’t he love like everyone else? Why was it so impossible to do something right? To give Christopher a mother figure to look up to when he needed to? Why was he so incapable of loving these women, when they were so perfect on paper? And the answer feels so glaringly obvious now that he knows, lit up in neon signs around him. He feels stupid– he’s thirty two years old, how the hell did he not know he wasn’t straight this entire time?

Eddie deflates back into his pillows and squeezes his eyes shut. They burn and he’s not really sure why. And when he falls asleep, eyes finally heavy and thoughts slowing down, he thinks of Buck.

Eddie shifts anxiously in his seat, chest feeling as if it’s about to burst open

He got his cast off that morning, and now he’s at a therapy appointment. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this anxious before.

He had a dream last night. Not another nightmare, but Eddie partly wants to call it one anyway because it felt as if there was a hole carved into his chest. He felt sick to his stomach with grief when he woke up.

It was about Buck. Him and Buck. And everything was the same. Everything was the same except after a hard call at work, Buck would press his lips to Eddie’s forehead sweetly. Or they’d hold hands under the table when eating. Or they’d be cosy together on the couch, legs tangled and cheeks pressed together as they dozed. They’d wake up together in Eddie’s bed and share a quick morning kiss before brushing their teeth, three toothbrushes together in the holder. They’d kiss in the kitchen lazily, and Eddie would wrap his arms around Buck’s waist from behind as he cooked. Coffee would be shared every morning and Christopher would sit with them, devouring whatever Buck had made because he’s still growing– and quickly, at that. 

Eddie thinks, ‘I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want.’ and mourns the dream because none of it was real. It was just a dream. He’d woken up with a smile, had tiredly reached across the bed, searching and searching, only to find a cold spot that had never been occupied in the first place. It was as if an icy glass of water had been poured over his head, and he’d bitten his already raw lip so he wouldn’t cry instead because it was so cruel to dream like that. To have it in his hands, beautiful and shining and golden, and then to have it ripped away. He couldn’t look Buck in the eyes, couldn’t even say a word, just let him assume that Eddie had had a nightmare again. He wishes he’d been able to talk but he knew that when Buck called his name, it would be Eddie, and not something sickly sweet like baby or sweetheart. Just Eddie, and he has to be okay with that, because it’s good enough. It’s all he’ll ever get.

Frank is quiet, as always, and Eddie can’t speak still. There’s this pressure in his chest, working its way up through his throat and mouth and nose and head. It feels like he’s going to explode. His lungs are tight against his ribs, expanding but refusing to deflate. Eddie can’t speak or breathe, and he can’t really see, either. There’s a low buzzing noise, and maybe Frank’s speaking now, but he’s covered with black spots that keep multiplying and–

Eddie sucks in a huge breath, chest heaving.

“That’s it,” Frank soothes, leaning forwards, “Remember what we’ve talked about, the breathing exercises. In for four, hold for four, out for four.” Eddie nods dutifully, following along to Frank’s exaggerated breaths as he counts.

When the black spots have receded and his breathing isn’t laboured, it’s silent again. Frank waits patiently.

Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it. Tries to think of something to say, and then–

“I’m gay.” His mouth closes again swiftly, eyes wide and panicked. That was not what he was supposed to say. Not at all. Fuck. Just like that, the panic is back.

Frank reminds gently, “Box breathing, it’s okay, Eddie.” And Eddie nods again and closes his eyes.

“I didn’t really mean to say that.” He croaks.

“I assumed as such, yes. But it’s okay. I won’t judge you for anything, especially not for this. Just breathe.” 

“I’m breathing, I’m breathing.” And he is breathing, his heart is racing. He feels sick, sick, sick, but he breathes in for four, holds for four, and then out for four. Over and over. And then he tries, “I read this book. Finished it last night. It was a poetry book.” Frank nods, “It made me feel a lot of things,” Eddie scoffs a laugh, “And also realise a lot of things.”

“And you’re referring to…” Frank doesn’t say it, and Eddie appreciates him so much in that moment.

“Yeah.” He breathes, and he tries to hold it all in, he really does, but it’s like the floodgates have opened, “I was in love with Andrew. The boy who left. And I’m in love with Buck. And everything is a mess. I’m a mess. I had a nightmare a few nights ago about Buck, and we traded hearts, and we died. I slept on the floor next to him because I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Whenever I look in his eyes, I feel like I’ve been pinned in place like a particularly interesting butterfly, maybe. Or I feel like I’ve been given an electric shock and it jolts through me. And sometimes I just feel so full– I feel content, it feels like maybe everything could be okay.” He blurts out, blushing a bright red. He can feel the heat in his cheeks.

“And this realisation came from a poetry book?”

“Yeah. Richard Siken. Chris’ class was reading poetry, so I decided to give it a go, too. Went to a bookstore and was recommended his work, so…” Eddie laughs, self deprecating, “I really wasn’t expecting this. I feel so stupid. Who the hell takes thirty two years to figure out they’re gay?”

“A lot of people, actually. You’d be surprised. Didn’t you say Buck only figured it out recently, too?” Frank says, and Eddie shrugs.

“It’s different, though, because he’s bisexual– he is actually attracted to women. I don’t think I am at all. That’s why it never worked with Ana or Marisol, why it never would have worked with Shannon if she was still alive. And that’s another thing– I feel so selfish, and for so many reasons. I wasted all of their time. This is something I should’ve known about myself a lot sooner. I can’t stop grieving for the past, either. Even when I should be putting my focus into grieving Shannon, I’m thinking about myself.” Eddie sighs into his palms, rubs his face.

“Well, I don’t think you’re selfish. What you’re feeling is completely normal, in my opinion. You’ve found out something significant about yourself and you’re processing. And just because Shannon died, that doesn’t mean you can’t feel other emotions. It doesn’t mean everything else has stopped. Just because you’re grieving something else at the moment doesn’t negate what you feel for her. And you shouldn’t let this news taint anything– you still have good memories with all of these people, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I can never feel guilty about Shannon– she gave me Christopher after all– but Ana and Marisol? I hurt them. I keep avoiding Buck, and I’m acting weird around him, too. He knows something’s wrong and I can’t tell him, because if I tell him, I won’t be able to stop speaking. I’ll end up telling him everything. I can’t let something like this ruin our friendship, he means too much to me to do that to him. I can keep this secret, I can stop it from…from making things probably just unbearably awkward and strained, because Buck would never stop being my friend over something like this. But part of me feels so scared that maybe he’ll find out how I feel and he’ll just never talk to me again. I don’t think he would, but I also thought that Andrew and I were going to be by each other's sides for the rest of our lives, too.” Eddie sighs deeply, mind whirring.

“I think maybe what you need to do is talk to someone about this. Broach the subject in a place that isn’t here, find out what people who are around both you and Buck feel. There will be a lot of things that happen between the two of you that you might not see. Obviously I can’t speak for Buck at all, but he seems to care for you a great deal, and he really doesn’t seem the type to let a friendship die because of something like this.” Frank explains, shifting in his seat and absently tapping his pen on his notepad.

“But what if he does? How well can you ever really say you know someone? I like to think I know him really well, but…”

“But Andrew.” Frank confirms, and Eddie nods, “I think what you need to remember in this situation is that Andrew had outside forces making him leave– his parents were moving and they took him with them. That wasn’t his choice.”

“But it was his choice to never answer my messages.” 

“Was it, or could his parents have interfered? Would they have interfered?” Frank asks, and Eddie scoffs.

“Yes.” He says bluntly, “Like I said a few weeks ago, they left because of me. I’m pretty sure they found out that me and Andrew…we were, you know. We weren’t dating, but we also weren’t not dating, I guess. We never talked about it and I never really thought about it, but I never acted the way I did with him with anyone else– there’s a line in friendship, and Andrew and I crossed it somewhere along the way and that’s just how it was. There was no big confession, we just were. And maybe that’s where we went wrong, in the end. We never talked about it and then his parents found out, so they moved away, tore us apart. And maybe they did interfere with us staying in contact– maybe they burned the letters, deleted the emails, moved houses again– but I still don’t know that for certain. I can’t say that’s what happened when I don’t actually know the answer.” 

“Then find out the answer.” Frank says.

“It’s really not that simple.”

“But maybe it is.”

Eddie sighs, “It isn’t. I already told you about the whole Schrodinger's Cat thing.”

“And is that the truth, or are you just lying to yourself because you’re scared?” For a second, there’s a shock of heat, of anger, and it courses through Eddie, his shoulders tensing and his eyes hardening. Just as quickly, he deflates.

“I don’t know.” He whispers. His chest feels heavy and his head is swimming.

“Look, why don’t I give you some homework, okay?” Eddie looks up, unsure, “Try and talk to someone you know in your life about what you’re feeling and see what they think, okay?”

Eddie huffs out a breath, “Easier said than done.”

Eddie drops his keys into the bowl with a clatter and leans tiredly against the wall.

The house smells good, and his stomach rumbles, but he can’t quite make himself move.

“Eddie? That you?” Buck calls from the kitchen.

“Yeah. It’s me.” 

There’s a couple of thuds and a muffled curse before Buck’s head pops out of the kitchen door, a wide smile on his face.

“Hey! I made Bobby’s spaghetti and some homemade garlic bread! Should be ready in a couple minutes if you’re hungry?” Buck’s smile turns hopeful at the edges, and the tension eases from Eddie’s spine. Once again, he finds himself melting like butter under Buck’s gentle gaze.

“Sounds good.” Eddie smiles, pushing off the wall and heading towards the kitchen. Buck’s eyes are bright, and he holds the kitchen door open for Eddie to slip through, a hand squeezing his shoulder as he passes. Eddie looks up at him, covering Buck’s hand with his own and slips his fingers around Buck’s palm, “Thanks.”

“No problem, Eds.”

Finally, after four weeks of doing nothing– an entire month– Eddie is deemed well enough to go back to work on light duty. He’ll be helping out on the medical side of things, no heavy lifting or daring stunts allowed.

Everyone welcomes him back with hugs, and there’s a cake with, ‘Burning warehouses: 0, Eddie: 1’ written on top of it and a frosting painted burning building. Eddie laughs, chest warm.

It’s a relief to be back, and as the days pass where Eddie continues to get better and better, he keeps expecting Buck to bring up the subject of him leaving to go back to the loft. He never does. Instead, they start carpooling to work. They’re living together right now, so it just makes sense.

His first day back is slow, the next day busier. There was a guy trapped in his own attic, a woman who fell down her stairs, a street mime had gotten his head stuck– actually stuck, not pretend-stuck– in a fence. It felt so good to be back at work. 

They were all like a well oiled machine after years of working together. Even though it had been four weeks, they all fell back into routine with such ease that Eddie was always surprised by it. He falls into line with Hen and Chim, follows Cap’s orders with an ease he never felt when in the Army, and always watches Buck’s back, no matter what they’re doing.

During some down time, when Buck and Chimney are in the gym, Hen is on the phone to Karen, and Bobby is cooking a late dinner, Eddie makes a choice.

He slides his phone out of his pocket, opens up Facebook, and types the name ‘Andrew Millers,’ into the search bar. 

Several different people with the same name pop up but Eddie scrolls past them, eyes scanning over each profile picture and then disregarding them. Eventually, his eyes land on the fifth profile and he freezes because he knows those eyes. He knows that face, the hair, the scar over the bridge of his nose, because that's his Andrew. Was his Andrew. It's the same blue eyes, but they don't quite shine like they used to. They're still beautiful, but their glow is different, shining towards the man standing next to him in the photo. There's no rings in them any more. They’re just eyes.

Eddie clicks on the profile.

The picture is with another man, and Andrew stares at him like he’s the centre of his world, or maybe like he’s the gravity he’s pulled towards more than the centre of the earth. Eddie scrolls down, reads, ‘Married to Bryan Millers,’ and something inside of Eddie both breaks open and heals over because Andrew got away. He got away and he’s married. He’s married to another man, probably his best friend, and Eddie is so happy for him. And part of him is so jealous because maybe in some ideal world, that would have been him. Or maybe in a different world, Buck loves him back.

He’s in New York now, apparently working as a vet, and Eddie’s heart is so full. They have two dogs and a cat, and apparently a huge fish tank full of different breeds of fish, and he looks so happy.

Hen appears in front of him, almost as if she materialised from thin air. She raises an eyebrow, nods towards his phone.

“What’s got you smiling like that?” She asks.

Eddie shrugs, smiles at her, “Nothing…just an old friend.”

Bobby finishes dinner soon after that, and they sit down to eat together like always. Eddie’s mood is bright and high, and he feels like nothing could bring him down. It stays that way for the rest of his shift. And at the end of it, he and Buck get in the car together to go home, sharing small smiles over the centre console.

Sometimes Eddie feels like a liar.

He feels like he’s deceiving Buck, tricking him into a life he doesn’t want. Eddie doesn’t know how true that is, but sometimes it really does feel like it. Eddie can do things for himself now, doesn’t need help doing everyday tasks. He can cook, shower, wash the dishes and fold his laundry, but Buck is still here with him and Eddie, selfishly, never wants to let him leave.

It’s all so domestic, and he never really knew how addicting domestic could be when it was with the right person. How good it felt to wake up in the morning and have breakfast with Buck. To be able to hear him sing in the shower and knock over all of the bottles at least once, every single time. To make popcorn together and slather it in unholy amounts of butter and then try and wipe greasy hands on one another's shirts. To sit in silence as Buck goes on a research binge at the table as Eddie washes the dishes they’d eaten dinner off of. To put away the groceries they’d bought together. So much is said in the silent moments, and Eddie now understands why this is what people want in their lives– why this is the reason people date, get married, live their lives together.

Being with Ana and Marisol– while he did get on with them, and thought they were pretty– felt like a chore most of the time. like he was cleaning the house. It was something he felt he had to do, not wanted to do, and that’s just how he thought it was. He didn’t understand the enjoyment people got from domesticity. With Shannon, they never really got to be domestic together with Eddie away so much, and then with them fighting so much. He thinks the most domestic they ever got was when they would hide from his parents and then complain about the way they’d police their parenting, if you could even call that domestic. Eddie doesn’t really think you can.

But with Buck? It all feels so different. It feels both old and new, like they’ve stepped into a song they both knew years ago, but still could still recite the words off by heart. It was cosy, his house has never felt warm in quite this way before. The only way it could get even better was if Christopher came home. The three of them together, with newly painted walls and Buck’s clothes in Eddie’s bedroom. The empty bedside table decorated with another lamp and things Buck has collected over the years.

Eddie thinks all of that, and then curses himself because in the end, who would ever want all of his rotten habits, past, nature? He’s broken, and maybe he should maybe say something to Buck, tell him that he really doesn’t have to stay for Eddie, but he’s selfish. He won’t bring it up. Won’t talk about it as long as Buck doesn’t.

Sometimes, when it’s late and Eddie leaves his room to grab a glass of water, he sees Buck asleep on the couch and has to resist the urge to fall asleep by his feet again like a dog, begging for attention, begging to be touched. In his mind he repeats, ‘Tell me you’re not miserable, tell me you’re not miserable,’ like a chant, echoing and echoing until it reverberates off of the walls in his mind, the walls in his home. He wants to fall to his knees and clasp his hands together in prayer. He wants to beg, plead, cry, scream, until his voice is hoarse; tell me you’re not miserable, please. But he doesn’t. He gets a glass of water, tries to keep his eyes away, and he goes to bed. And he thinks.

In the car, on the way home from work, Eddie thinks, too.

He looks over at Buck. He has one hand on the wheel, elbow propped on the window, the other loosely holding the gear stick. He hums along quietly to the radio. It's white noise in Eddie's mind. ‘You are in a car with a beautiful boy, you are in a car with a beautiful boy.’ The sun is setting and Eddie can see the exhaustion pulling at the edges of Buck's eyes. He can see it where they droop ever so slightly. He can see it in the twitches of his lips, the way he bites on the bottom one to stay awake, stay aware of the road ahead. The sun sets on him, only for him. It casts shadows in sharp relief, the shadow of his nose across his cheek. His eyes are bright, bright, bright, pupils dotted. He has eyelashes fanning onto sunlit cheeks– washed in gold and tinged a gentle pink from the rays– each time he blinks, hair ruffled and curling, almost limp. ‘You are in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him you love him,’ And Eddie swallows, throat clicking. He darts his eyes away. He looks to the road instead, dragging his mind away from the words that keep burrowing into his mind like maggots feasting on a rotting body, bloated from too much greed, too much indulgence. He wishes Buck would reach over, just like in the poem, wishes he would touch him. But, well, Eddie is in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell Eddie he loves him– not like that, not like how Eddie loves him– because he doesn't. He doesn’t, and Eddie feels like the rotted, tooth-bared creature inside of him dies a little more with each breath sucked through a tight throat, tight chest, straining against ribs that break with each beat of his heart.

Being in the car with Buck is beautiful. The sort of beauty that he finds sometimes in the way the sunrises and sets, of old oil paintings created with masterful devotion, and finds it most of the time in the way Buck smiles– the creases in his face from his pillow in the morning, the way the morning sun illuminates him through the window in the kitchen as he hands Eddie his morning coffee.

Eddie stares at Buck in the car, and sometimes if he’s lucky, Buck looks back across at him and smiles back. 

“Chris! Hey, bud! How are things going?” Buck is out with Maddie and Jee-yun for lunch, so Eddie’s home alone. 

“Hey, dad. Things are okay. How are you?” Chris asks in reply, his face clear on FaceTime.

Eddie smiles, “I’m good. I, uh,” Eddie scratches the back of his neck, “I know we were meant to wait until Buck was back to call, but I actually wanted to talk to you about something important.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen at work again?” Chris asks, worried.

Eddie laughs breathily, shaking his head, “No, no. Uh, this is actually about what happened in July. When you left.” Eddie cringes, and Chris falls silent.

“So we’re talking about it now?” He eventually asks after a minute or two of tense silence.

“I think we need to, buddy. We can’t keep avoiding it forever.”

Chris nods, “Yeah, I know.” He says with a sigh, and then waits expectantly.

“You know that I loved your mom a lot, right?” Chris nods again, “She really was my best friend. She was there for me when another one of my best friends moved away suddenly. And then we had you, and the world got a lot brighter because of it,” And Chris scoffs, because he’s a teenager now and that’s what teenagers do. Eddie smiles slightly, “It’s true! It got a lot brighter. Obviously there were a lot of bumps along the way. With me being gone, then your mom being gone. And then with her dying.” Eddie sighs, “It was…it was awful. It still is, and I miss her every day. I’ve been visiting her grave every week, making sure she always has fresh flowers. Sometimes I talk to her, even if I feel a bit stupid when I do. Grief is a…really complicated emotion. It can be really overwhelming, and I never really dealt with my grief for your mom, I just pushed it aside instead. I ignored it, which is something you should never do.

When I saw Kim, it was like it all came rushing back, and I made some really stupid choices because of it. Buck talked some sense into me, so I stopped making those choices, but then she came to see me, and then…” He trails off, not looking at Chris– unable to.

“And then me and Marisol walked in.” Chris finishes.

“Yeah, and then you two came in.” Eddie sighs, shoulders deflating.

“You could have talked to me, you know.” Chris’ voice comes through the speaker, and Eddie laughs lightly, finally looking at him. He looks calm, if a bit sad.

“Hey, this is not something that should be placed on your shoulders. I was trying to deal with it, but I did it badly. I’m dealing with it in a good way now.”

“You are?”

“Yeah, bud. I am.” Eddie confirms. Chris smiles on screen.

“That’s good. I’m glad.” Eddie smiles too, “I read that book you were reading.” He adds, and Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Yeah? What did you think?”

Chris sighs, shrugs his shoulders, “It was okay. Makes sense why you would like it.” Eddie raises his mug to his mouth, taking a drink of his coffee and hums for Chris to continue, “I mean, you’re basically in love with Buck, so it makes sense.” He says matter-of-factly and Eddie promptly chokes on his drink. Chris laughs loudly as Eddie’s eyes bug out of his head.

“Excuse me, what?” He wheezes.

“Am I wrong?” Chris asks, smug.

Eddie splutters, “I- Chris, you can’t just say that!” Chris just raises an eyebrow and Eddie groans, head in his hands, “You’re not wrong, no.” He admits defeatedly.

“Yes! Knew it! Abuela owes me her tamales recipe now!”

“Chris!”

Eddie’s world has been shifted upside down several times due to ‘Crush’ and it’s just something he’s had to accept. It’s just a fact of the universe, now. 

It’s caused him so many different revelations, and he finds comfort reading over his favourite poems. He’s pretty sure he can recite several off by heart by now. The words have imprinted themselves in his mind, burned onto the backs of his eyelids.

It’s a perfectly average day when it turns his life on his head again.

Eddie had another therapy appointment. Another week, another therapy appointment. Buck had been living in his house for six weeks now, two weeks over what he needed to and he’s making no noise about leaving still. Eddie is still selfishly holding onto him. He’s doing more at work now, the pain in his ribs and collarbone only flaring when he stretches wrong. Every Wednesday morning they go grocery shopping, and Thursday nights are reserved for movie nights with the buttered popcorn and greasy hand prints on well worn shirts. Eddie’s never felt so stupidly domestic, and it’s intoxicating.

The drive home from Frank’s office is around a fifteen minute drive, twenty five if traffic isn’t great, thirty five if it’s really bad. Eddie doesn’t mind the drive– he has the radio playing, Buck’s favourite station, and hums under his breath along the songs he knows. Sometimes Eddie would call Buck the moment he got out of his appointment, just so he had someone to talk to or maybe just exist with as he drove back– it wasn’t one of those days today. Buck had mentioned this morning that he wanted to get some cleaning done, so Eddie left him to it.

Traffic was okay but not the best. A twenty minute drive, so definitely not the worst. When he walks in the front door, the house is still and quiet, and Eddie feels a pit of unease open in his stomach. He slowly makes his way through the house, scanning it over. Buck is nowhere in sight.

When he makes it to the back of the house, where his bedroom is, the door is opened half way. There's the noise of a page turning in a book, the sound of slow and even breaths. Panic quickly rises in his throat, his vision going white as his breath stalls. His mind is a loop of, ‘no, no, please no, not now,’ and he feels sick to his stomach. Eddie darts into the room, stumbling.

Buck’s sitting on the edge of the bed, head whipping up guiltily when the door smashes into the wall, reading a book– no, not just any book. The cover is familiar, one he's traced over hundreds of times, and Eddie is wide eyed, chest heaving, and wild panic snares behind his ribs.

“What are you doing?” He asks sharply.

“Uh. I’m reading? I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to snoop but–”

“But you did anyway.” Eddie snaps, the creature that sits between his heart and lungs squeezing tight and growling lowly. Buck’s eyes widen minutely and he drops the book onto the bed as if he was burned.

“I didn’t mean to…to impose, or whatever. Or go past your boundaries! I swear, it’s just, your sock drawer was full, so I opened another, and found the book, and I was curious, so I just–”

“You just…? What, you just decided to read it anyway? Invade my privacy?” Eddie hisses, and some part of him is crying out, screaming at him to just shut up and stop being so awful, so mad, but he’s scared. He’s fucking terrified, and he can’t stop the words from falling out of his mouth, “Why the fuck would you do that? Why the fuck are you reading that?” 

“Because it’s a book and I was curious!” Buck snaps back, his own defenses kicking into play, “It’s really not that big of a deal!” 

“Yes, it is!” Eddie stresses.

“No, it’s not! How the hell is it a big deal? How is me reading this such a big deal?” Buck exclaims, voice incredulous and loud. He picks up the book again, waves it around. Eddie’s heart leaps up into his throat and he feels like he could fall over at any moment. If he does, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get back up again.

“Because I didn’t want you to know!” Eddie snaps and Buck flinches back slightly. He feels sick with guilt but he still can’t stop, “Because it’s personal, because it made me realise some things about myself, because it opened my fucking eyes to what was right in front of me–” Eddie cuts himself off and curses under his breath. His lips press together in a flat smile and he turns away from Buck.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Buck asks, frustrated, “You’ve been hiding something, Eddie. We’re meant to be partners and you’re hiding shit from me. I’m meant to have your back, so why don’t you trust me?” Buck laughs sardonically, “Are you leaving? Is that what’s happening? Going to pack up everything and move to Texas? Obviously I can’t blame you– Christopher’s there, after all.” Buck sighs, and even though Eddie can’t see him, he can imagine the way his shoulders have deflated, the defeated look on his face, “Why didn’t you just tell me? Did you think I’d beg you to stay? You know I never would. I would never be so selfish to keep you from him, no matter how much I’d want you to stay.”

Eddie huffs a sigh, “I’m not leaving, Buck.” His voice is stilted, brittle.

“Oh, yeah?” He laughs again. It's as sharp as broken glass, “Then what? You’re sick of me? Want to transfer to another station?”

“What?! No, Buck. For fuck’s sake, why the hell would I leave when I’m in love with you ? ” Eddie asks simply, rolling his eyes as he turns to face Buck, his arms crossed. He’s so frustrated with Buck that he almost doesn’t realise what he’s said until it fully registers in his brain. Until it plays over again when he registers Buck’s shocked face. Fuck. Eddie freezes, his heart stalling in his chest. He doesn’t know if it’s still beating– he’s pretty sure it’s not, that it’s simply given up and is laying uselessly in his chest because he has to be dead right now. This can’t possibly be real.

“Eddie…” Buck whispers, mouth gaping and eyes wide. Eddie backs away as Buck reaches a hand out.

“No,” Eddie says, mostly to himself. His eyes are burning and his chest and throat feel tight, “No. I didn’t- that wasn’t-” He stumbles out the room, starts racing towards the front door.

“Eddie!” Buck repeats, starts chasing after him, but Eddie’s always been faster.

He has his car keys in hand, is out the door and slams it behind him in a moment's notice. He can hear Buck inside the house, watches the door open as he throws himself in his car. Watches Buck stumble onto the front yard through blurry vision in the rearview mirror as he drives away.

Somehow, he ends up standing outside of Bobby and Athena’s front door.

He isn’t sure how he ended up there, or why really. Eddie stands there and tries to bring himself to knock. He never does.

Just as he’s about to walk away, resorting to spending the night in his car, the door is yanked open and Athena is standing there, a single eyebrow raised.

“You just going to stand out there waiting all night, or are you going to come in?” She asks, and Eddie tries to muster up a smile, but he can’t quite get there. Athena frowns, herding him inside, “Now what’s that look for? You look like I just kicked a puppy in front of you.”

Eddie sighs, “It’s a long story.” And it’s not an exaggeration. He doesn’t think he could explain any part of the story without explaining it all.

She looks at him for a long moment, a hand holding his arm, and then hums, “I’ll go get Bobby.” And then she’s gone.

Eddie stands in the middle of the living room, feeling a little bit lost and a whole lot panicked. His heart is pounding still and he doesn’t remember the drive over here at all. He doesn’t even know what time it is. He had switched his phone off after maybe the fifth call from Buck and maybe the twentieth message. He really couldn’t bring himself to speak to him right now. Couldn’t hear reassurances of how, ‘this doesn’t change a thing, Eddie, just like you said,’ and give ones along the lines of, ‘don’t worry. I don’t think I’ll ever not be able to be in love with you, but I’m okay with you not loving me back, just please don’t leave me, just move in, stay where you belong.’ He’s pretty sure it would break him completely.

Behind him, someone clears their throat. Eddie spins around to face them with panicked eyes, somehow imagining it’s Buck. It’s not. It’s Bobby.

He looks concerned, eyebrows furrowed together and lips pulling down slightly, and Eddie’s pretty sure his own lip has started wobbling. He groans, hides his face in his hands as he tries to push away the desperate tears that are stinging his eyes. He hears Bobby walk over.

“Eddie? What happened?” There’s an arm around his shoulders now and Bobby guides him to a chair. Eddie sits, and Bobby sits down on the coffee table in front of him. Eddie’s throat tightens and he sort of wants to cry like he’s a little kid again.

“I messed up.” He shudders out weakly and sniffs. He refuses to take his hands away from his eyes, sure that they’re red and watering and far too obvious

“I’m sure you didn’t. Tell me what happened.” Bobby prods gently.

Eddie sighs deeply and puts up a halfhearted fight, “It’s a really long story.”

“Tell me anyway. I’ll listen; you know I always will.”

The floodgates open once more as Eddie folds easily. It’s Bobby, the last thing he’ll do is judge Eddie harshly, “I told Buck I’m in love with him,” He mumbles behind his hands and Bobby inhales sharply, “I’ve been reading poetry. Found out I was gay. Christopher is still in Texas, I yelled at Buck, and I told him I’m in love with him.” He pushes his teeth into the palm of his hands and dips forwards slightly, elbows resting on his knees.

“Okay. Let me make some tea and then we can talk about everything properly, how does that sound?”

“Okay.” Eddie whispers, and then Bobby is gone.

“And then you just left?”

“And then I just left.” Eddie sighs and curls his hands around his now cold mug, “I fucked up so badly, Bobby. I don’t know what to do.” He moans.

“You didn’t fuck up, Eddie. You were scared, so you lashed out. Should you have left after? No, but it happens. Fear makes us all act in self preservation, and that’s what you were doing.” Bobby squeezes his shoulder, and Eddie nods, pretends he believes him. 

“I can’t ever go back home. Or to work. I should flee the state.” And Bobby just sighs.

“You’re not going to flee the state and this isn’t getting you out of work. And you’re going to go home,” Eddie sends him a panicked look, “Tomorrow. You can stay here for the night, cool off, but we’re kicking you out after breakfast. You need to talk to Buck about this, you can’t just avoid this forever.”

“I mean, I could.”

“You won’t. We need you and Buck to watch each other's backs. You’re partners, Eddie. That’s not going to stop being true just because you told Buck you were in love with him.” Eddie nods weakly, ignoring his burning eyes once more. 

He sniffs, “God, I feel so stupid.” 

Bobby shakes his head, “You’re not stupid. Sometimes things can get confusing or overwhelming, and we say things in the heat of the moment. That doesn’t equate to your intelligence.” Eddie shrugs and Bobby pats his shoulder, “Come on, Athena’s prepped the spare room for you. You should get some sleep. After all, you have a big day tomorrow.” Bobby smiles and Eddie gives him a shaky one back.

“Yeah,” He breathes, “I do.”

“I think you should stay in El Paso and I could just…move there, too.”

“Dad, what? No.” Chris’ voice echoes oddly in the car, “You’re not moving to El Paso, and I’m not staying here. I’m coming home.” 

“Why not? I mean- hey, wait what? You’re coming home?” Eddie blinks in surprise, hope swiftly over taking the anxiety twisting in his chest, “When?”

“Me and Abuela have a flight booked for Monday.” That’s less than a week away.

“Since when?” And even though Eddie may have fucked things up monumentally with Buck, it’s put on the back burner for now because his son will be home in less than a week.

“This morning, duh. That’s why I called you.” Eddie laughs brightly, so happy, “Why did you say you were going to move back here? What happened?”

Eddie sighs as reality quickly crashes back down onto him, “It’s a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you later. I have to figure some things out first, but don’t worry. Everythings fine.”

“Everything clearly isn’t fine if you’re saying everything’s fine.” Chris remarks.

“Okay, everything will be fine, then.”

“So everything isn’t fine?” 

Eddie puffs out a breath, “Chris.” He scolds gently.

“Okay, okay. Well, just make sure that it’s fixed. And tell me what happened when it is!” He demands and Eddie rolls his eyes playfully despite the fact Chris can’t see him.

“I will, I will,” Eddie placates. His house comes into view, no Jeep parked in the driveway. He’s both relieved and disappointed, “Okay Chris, I’ve got to go now. I’ll talk to you later. Love you!”

“Love you too, dad. Bye.” Then he hangs up and the car is silent again. Eddie swallows audibly as he parks his car in the driveway. He leaves the space where Buck’s car was parked open and leans his forehead against the steering wheel. Of course Buck left, he didn’t know why he’d assumed any different.

It takes a few minutes but eventually Eddie manages to stumble out of his car, dragging his feet towards his too empty, too quiet house. He listens to the quiet way the lock clicks and the air is still when he walks inside. The clatter of his keys dropping into the small glass bowl by the door is loud.

He doesn’t bother with taking his shoes off, and instead makes his way to the couch and flops down onto it. It still smells like Buck. The blankets he’d used to sleep are folded neatly on the back of the couch, the pillows down the side of it. In the silence, Eddie thinks, ‘ This is where he trots out his sadness. little black cloud, little black umbrella,’ or maybe, ‘Sorry about the boney elbows, sorry we lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud.’ Because he did, didn’t he? He did ruin everything by saying it out loud and now Buck is gone. His house is just as empty as it is cold. Eddie had gotten so used to the warmth, but now he’s left shivering. 

It hurts and his chest aches so deeply that he can’t help but finally give into the burning into his eyes. It’s silent, no sobbing or yelling or heaving. Just a steady stream. He’s reminded of the time when Buck had come to hang out after Eddie had visited Shannon’s grave. It was so much more simple all those weeks ago, even if Eddie was completely naive about so much of himself.

He thinks about couches and of, ‘You do this, you do. You take things you love, and you tear them apart,’ And so he cries on his couch, where Buck used to sleep, and wishes that he had kept his mouth shut, or maybe thrown out the book. Or just never read it in the first place.

When the tears finally dry and everything looks just as bleak as it did before– if a little blurry– Eddie stands and sighs, slowly making his way to the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten much at breakfast, far too anxious to stomach anything, even Bobby and Athena’s cooking. It’s been an hour or so since then, and he’s suddenly hungry. He can’t tell if the pit in his stomach is hunger or dread, though. He assumes it’s hunger if only for his peace of mind.

Eddie tries to ignore the quick flashes of memories of him and Buck from the past six weeks here. He tries to block them out as he pulls a box of mac and cheese out of the cupboard, heating up water on the stove. Tries to forget the way that Buck would sometimes whistle– badly, because he never properly got the hang of it somehow– as he cooked, rocking his head from side to side to whatever song was stuck in his head that day. Eddie shakes his head to clear his thoughts and pours the dried pasta into the bubbling water, the cheese packet tossed on the too-white counter in the too-white kitchen.

He sits at the counter while it cooks, head leaning against his hand. He doesn’t think. Instead his mind is made up of loud static that absorbs all of his thoughts. Then, the timer off his phone goes off. He jerks up right and then settles, switching off the alarm with a sense of calm he doesn’t truly feel. Eddie stirs the pasta, now fattened up with the water, and then drains it in the sink. Every step is mechanical. Rehearsed.

He adds milk and butter, mixes again, lets it melt and combine. He adds in the powdered cheese and watches it clump together sadly as he mixes it. He mixes it harder, watches it finally settle into a sauce. He feels so drained now that he’s cried. Feels like maybe he could cry again at any second.

Eddie sits himself and his sad fucking pot of sad fucking pasta at the kitchen table. No need for a bowl, it’s not like he’s sharing it with anyone anyway. He spears some onto his fork, eats it. It tastes like ash and turns to mush in his mouth. He swallows, repeats. Over and over until he’s left with an unnervingly bright orange sauce staining the sides of the pot.

Then, there’s the noise of a key in the lock and the door clicking open. Eddie freezes where he’s now standing, on his way to put the pot in the sink to soak for a bit.

“Eddie…?” It’s Buck, “I saw your car in the drive.” He sounds nervous and Eddie still can’t move. Buck appears in the doorway to the kitchen. He looks tired, “I just want to talk.” His eyes are red and turned down at the corners. He’s frowning slightly. His forehead is wrinkled and all Eddie wants is to smooth it over. He has a book in his hands.

“Don’t know what you want me to say.” Eddie replies gruffly, and he looks away from Buck. It’s too unbearable.

“Nothing. I don’t want you to say anything.” He walks closer and leafs through the book– it's well loved, obviously read through many times– the spine is bent, the pages crinkled and dog-eared in several places, “I want you to read this.” He holds the book out, and slowly, Eddie takes it from him.

‘Self-Portrait Against Red Wallpaper.’

Eddie looks up at Buck through his lashes and watches him worry his lip between his teeth– imagines pulling it free and kissing it better. He shakes his head. Instead, he reads, ‘I surrender my desire to be healed. The blurriness of being alive,’ and, ‘There is no new me, there is no old me, there's just me, the same me, the whole time.’ And his breath catches, ‘The world doesn't know what to do with my love. Because it isn't used to being loved.’ And finally, ‘I hope it's love. I'm trying really hard to make it love.’

When he finishes reading the poem, he closes the book. The cover is a landscape, a man with his head on fire. ‘War of the Foxes, Richard Siken,’ He clutches the book.

“The poem reminds me of you. Made me realise I was in love with you, too.” Eddie’s head whips up, “I don’t really know why it was this one, but it just did. I read the line, ‘I hope it’s love,’ and you were what I thought about. Every time I read that poem, you’re what I think about.” He admits quietly, sharing this secret like it’s something delicate. It is something delicate, “I didn’t think it was possible. I thought you were straight. I didn’t even realise Richard Siken had another poetry book. I never thought to check. And then I saw it in your drawer, recognised the name.” Buck swallows, and Eddie can’t speak, he’s frozen, “I’m sorry for looking through it, I really shouldn’t have. I was just…curious. I liked his poetry from this book and I-”

“Don’t apologise.” Eddie blurts out, his eyes wide with shock. He feels like a startled deer. Or maybe like he’s approaching one, “I’m sorry, Buck. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. Shouldn’t have run away like that.”

“You shouldn’t have,” He agrees softly, then shrugs, “I forgive you, obviously.” He stops speaking, licks his lips and looks uncertain for a moment. Looks everywhere except for Eddie when he asks, “Did you mean it? What you said.”

Eddie sucks in a deep breath. He tries hard to be brave because Buck already did all of the hard work for him, “Yeah,” He croaks. Buck’s looking at him now, and he’s stepping closer, their toes– shoes still on– bumping, “I’m in love with you,” A weight drops off of his shoulders, “Fuck. Fuck, I’m so in love with you that it hurts, and I was so scared.” And his eyes are burning again as he sucks in a sharp breath, but Buck’s arms are on him, hauling him in and pulling him close.

He sniffs into Buck’s neck, “You are?” Buck whispers, voice faint and full of wonder.

Eddie laughs wetly, “Yes. How could I not be?” Buck laughs too, just as wet, and squeezes him closer, tighter, and then pulls away just enough to see Eddie’s face.

He’s smiling now, eyes flashing bright, “I love you, too.” Eddie smiles, tries hard to not cry anymore than he already has.

“Yeah?”

Buck giggles, “Yeah. Obviously.” They’re both silent for a few beats, and Eddie watches as Buck’s eyes dart down to his lips and back up again, “Can I…?”

“Please.” Eddie breathes, and then Buck’s moving closer, slowly. His eyes are half lidded, bright blue and wet and Eddie is beyond entranced at the sight. His lips are pink and wet, the slightest bit chapped, and he’s never looked more beautiful than in this moment– his unstyled hair, a pair of old jeans and his LAFD jumper, red eyes, and a soft smile. 

After what feels like an age, Buck finally presses his lips sweetly to Eddie’s own and it feels warm. It feels like coming home.

It’s smooth, soft, and slow. So caring and gentle that Eddie can’t help but sigh into the kiss dreamily, one hand on Buck’s jaw, the other on his waist. Buck cards a hand through his hair, his other gripping onto Eddie’s shirt tightly, as if he’s afraid that Eddie might disappear. He can’t help the way his lips keep trying to turn up in a smile, and can feel Buck’s do the same. After a long moment, they separate. Eddie blinks his eyes open slowly.

The early afternoon sun is illuminating Buck from behind, and he looks so soft. He shines gently, like a film of gold has been placed over Eddie’s vision. He strokes a finger over Buck’s cheek, marvelling at him with wide eyes. Buck presses into the touch sweetly, smiling.

“Again?” One of them whispers.

They meet in the middle. They press closer and closer. Eddie breathes in sharply, pushing further forwards and Buck stumbles back, laughing lightly, breathily, into Eddie’s mouth. They stumble and stumble before hitting a wall, and Eddie presses up warm against Buck’s front, catching his bottom lip between his own two lips. Both of his hands move to cup Buck’s face, and Buck’s arms wrap around his waist. This time they’re both pushing closer. Eddie vaguely imagines crawling inside of his chest– he could climb up the rungs of Buck’s ribs and settle between his heart and lungs, becoming the creature that lives there, soothed by Buck’s heartbeat.

They kiss over and over, lips meeting slow and lazy, noses nudging as they search for the perfect angle. Eddie’s body relaxes, easy, in Buck’s grip. His hands move to catch in Buck’s hair, in his curls, as he pulls his face closer and closer, licking carefully at his bottom lip which Buck meets eagerly.

When they finally separate, breathless and starry eyed, Eddie smiles again, planting one last firm kiss on his lips. And then another for good luck.

He looks at Buck and thinks, ‘We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want, so I said What do you want, sweetheart? and you said Kiss me.’ And so he kisses Buck again. 

After a long moment, Buck pulls away.

“Did you eat my box of mac and cheese?” He asks, pressing a kiss to Eddie’s jaw.

“No.” Eddie says, and then, “Maybe.” Buck pulls away, kisses his pout briefly, “I was sad, don’t look at me like that!”

“Sorry, baby.” Buck smiles teasingly, his eyes alight. Eddie thinks of wedding bands and then thinks, far too soon for that. Probably. 

And then he thinks of weddings. Marriage. And he disengages from Buck with a three quick kisses, two on his lips, one on his cheek, as he grabs for his phone where it’s sitting on the table.

“Sorry, one second.” He mutters, distracted. He types out a message, hits send. Eddie bites his lip, looking back to Buck. He’s golden. Shimmering. Beautiful.

He’s relaxed against the wall and the kitchen is warm again. He has one eyebrow raised, an expectant uptick to his lips.

“I’ll explain later. Want to go make out on the couch?”

Buck scoffs, “Obviously.” With a smile widening on his face before disappearing into the living room. 

Eddie takes a second and looks around the room with a sigh. He tries to imagine what colour they’ll paint it when Chris gets back home and then remembers– Chris is coming home, and Buck doesn’t know.

“Buck!” Eddie darts out of the kitchen, inelegantly falling onto where he’s sitting on the couch. Eddie smiles, wild and manic as he establishes himself. Buck’s eyes are wide and startled, “Chris is coming home next Monday!”

“What? You’re kidding!” Buck somehow brightens further and Eddie really can’t help himself because-

“Move in. With us. You should move in with us. I don’t want you to leave.” 

And Buck just smiles, easy and wide, and says, “Whatever you want.”

They’re on their way to buy paint, the three of them. Buck, Christopher, and Eddie.

Christopher and Abuela had arrived yesterday morning, tired from the flight but happy to see both Eddie and Buck waiting for them with a sign at the airport. Chris even let Eddie hug him for a solid ten seconds. They’d had McDonalds for breakfast, and spent the day on the couch after dropping Abuela off at Pepa’s, the three of them squished onto it like sardines. Eddie has never felt so golden bright in his life. He had everything he’d been dreaming of, and part of that dream he didn’t even really know he’d wanted. His son was stuffing his face with M&M’s, him and Buck sharing buttered popcorn. When night had rolled around, Chris had carefully leaned into his side and tiredly asked if they could paint the house tomorrow– Eddie was helpless to do anything but say yes.

So now they’re in the car, driving to get paint to make their house warmer, more like home for the three of them, and Eddie’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He wiggles around a bit, sliding it out, and looks at the notification on the screen.

Andrew Millers: Hey, Eddie. It really has been awhile. I’m sorry it took me so long to get back to you but…

And everything brightens further. Eddie switches his phone back off, slides it back into his pocket. It’s a message to answer later because right now he’s in the car with his son and a beautiful boy. Buck’s driving, he always is, with one hand on the wheel, elbow perched on the window, and his other lazily clutching the gear shift. And Eddie reaches out, places his hand over Buck’s, and he looks over smiling.

“I love you.” Eddie whispers.

“I love you, too.”