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Nobody will ever love you as much as an artist can. On your worst days, they will find poetry in the knots of your hair.
– K. P. K.
Unpacking isn’t as awful as Buck had thought it would be. Finally, now that he’s ready, he flies through the boxes like they’re nothing. By the time evening comes, he’s only got two or three left stacked in the dining room. One is tucked behind the table, about knee height, and scrawled atop it: bedside table.
Buck frowns. That’s not his handwriting. Nor is that the blue marker he’d used for every single box. This one is in black, the handwriting light and graceful, easy to identify as Eddie’s. It must’ve gotten lost in all the chaos and fuss. He shoots Eddie a quick text.
YOU: you left behind a box :(
‘bedside table’
you want me to post it? or i can store it?
Buck sits down, staring at it, with his box cutter resting on the table in front of him. He taps his foot to a rhythm he can’t place, and waits.
And waits.
And waits.
Thirteen minutes later, when no answer has come, Buck caves.
He’s gotta see what’s in the box.
The house, bar Christopher’s bedroom, is so void of everything that had once filled this home. He just wants to see if there’s a picture, or Eddie’s alarm clock, or just something to make it feel like this house still belongs to Eddie in some real, physical, tangible way.
He moves to the bedroom, bringing the box with him. Box cutter in hand, he slices through the sticky tape in a quick swipe and tugs the flaps open. It’s packed neatly, like all of Eddie’s things had been. There are a couple of crossword books, Eddie’s reading glasses that he pretends he doesn’t own tucked into their case, a little pencil case—for the crossword, Buck assumes.
He pulls those items out, setting them to the side. Beneath those is Eddie’s old-fashioned, dark brown alarm clock. Buck smiles at the dusty screen of it. He smooths his thumb through the particles, clearing it off, and sets it on the bed beside him.
Tucked beneath that, though, is a larger book. It looks like a sketchbook.
Eddie doesn’t draw. Eddie doesn’t even play Pictionary because he claims he’s “so bad at it.” Buck lifts it, and beneath that is another, and another, and—
“What the hell,” Buck breathes. He pulls out the one that looks the newest, the cover less well-worn. He smooths his thumb over the cover, and– really, he should stop. He’s already invading Eddie’s stuff, but… Eddie won’t mind, right? It’s just a couple of books.
It’s probably nothing. Maybe it belongs to Chris or something and got packed in with the wrong things. It happens. Somehow, despite Buck’s meticulous system, he’d found spatulas in his bathroom box and a half-full box of condoms in his non-fiction books box. Moving is exhausting. The brain goes a little haywire toward the end.
Buck thumbs the book open, pulling it to the first page. Scrawled there, right in the centre, is:
Eddie Diaz.
If found, please return to 4995 South Bedford Street, Los Angeles.
Well. That’s pretty concrete.
Across the room, sitting atop his set of drawers, his phone buzzes. He ignores it, though, instead tracing his index finger between the pages, flipping it open to a random one.
Buck’s breath catches. It’s a sketch of him. Of Buck.
It’s in graphite—Buck in an apron, frowning down at a ball of dough, his biceps flexing as he kneads it. It’s in the firehouse, he thinks, judging by the apron Buck is wearing—it’s a denim one, one that Bobby gave him a few years ago, that he keeps at the station. The details are all exact, every stitch, every pocket, even the dark stain near the strap he can never get out. Buck drags his thumb over his own face, lingering by the scribbled-in splotches around his eyebrow.
He didn’t even know Eddie could draw. Eddie told him that he couldn’t draw.
Buck flicks to the next page. Buck again. This time, he’s grinning wide and boyish, the sun clearly shining down on him. There are crinkles by his eyes, and a plushness to his mouth he’s not sure is entirely accurate, but it’s—it’s beautiful. He looks beautiful. The drawing looks like it’s been done with reverence, his face sketched out like one would a lover.
Not that that means anything. It can’t mean anything.
Buck skips to the next page. And the next. And the next. He flips through almost half the book. There are a few of their teammates, and even more of Christopher—but the one thing that pops up again, and again, and again, is Buck.
He nears the end, and then there’s a picture—Kim, Buck thinks, in the store Eddie said he’d met her at. There are wet stains on the page, the graphite smudged, almost as if someone cried over the drawing once, weeks ago or even months.
Buck feels his chest clench, intestines twisting uncomfortably in the depths of him.
The next picture is Shannon, looking younger than Buck ever saw her, holding a tiny, little Christopher in her arms. It’s dated in the corner. One day before everything went down with Kim at the house.
Buck flips the page, and after that, there is nothing.
He flips, and flips, and flips, and the rest of the pages are completely blank. Like Eddie had just stopped completely.
With trembling hands, Buck puts down the sketchbook. This is an invasion of Eddie’s privacy. Maybe even of his mind. Still, he finds himself moving on autopilot, his hands wrapping around another book without his permission.
He flips through the pages, awed. There are so many sketches of him. He’s never looked as perfect or beautiful as he does, brought to life by Eddie’s hands.
What is he supposed to do with that?
Next book. More, and more, and more.
Buck’s head is spinning. All the sketches are dated, going back all the way to the year they met. The first drawing of Buck is dated about a week after Eddie joined the 118. It’s him—his hair shorter, his face younger—sitting upside down on a couch. His ass is against the back of it, legs hooked over the top, and his head hanging over the edge.
There’s a title on this one. It just says: Idiot.
There had been titles on a few. Most of them just had the name of the person in it scrawled in Eddie’s perfect cursive handwriting.
This one, though, isn’t his name. Just: idiot. An unbelievable amount of fondness radiates off the page, swirling around Buck like smoke. He blinks, and when his eyes open again, there’s a droplet on the page, right over his own left leg. He frowns, trying to smudge it away, but the graphite gives and smears with it. It’s wet. Still wet.
He lifts his hand, touching gently at his undereye with his index and middle fingers. He’s crying.
He didn’t even realise.
He sniffles, closing the book, and sets it beside the others.
Fuck.
Eddie’s been drawing him for years, and years, and years, and never said anything. Not a single damn thing. He’s been sketching Buck like Buck is—what? His muse?
It’s just insane. Crazy. But—in a way, maybe it’s not. Just like Maddie said. He thinks about Tommy, standing in Eddie’s kitchen, declaring him competition, scoffing at the implication Eddie was straight—and then he’s in the Han house, Maddie looking at him, a half-folded baby-pink unicorn shirt in her hands, asking if it would be so crazy.
Now, staring down at the cover of a book he was never supposed to see, it doesn’t seem so outlandish. Buck just never let himself think about it. Even when people brought it up, he didn’t let himself ponder whether or not it had any real validity. It was just an impossibility. He wasn’t allowed to think about Eddie that way, not for a single second.
Eddie wasn’t an option. Eddie isn’t an option.
Buck flips the book back open. It’s a sketch of his side profile, his bottom lip jutted out in a half-pout and his eyes wide and shaded dark. He drags his thumb over the slope of his own nose. Eddie makes him look so beautiful. So—loveable.
Maybe, just maybe, his traitorous heart says, a whisper of hope bleeding into its voice, maybe the option is there.
Maybe he wants it to be there. Maybe, just maybe, he’s far more of an option for Eddie than he ever thought he could be. Than he ever knew he even wanted to be.
He stares at the page till his eyes burn. His thumb drags over the curve of his dimple, settling against it, mouth twisted up as emotion sits heavy just behind his ribs. A heavy, steady pressure against the bone there.
He’s dragged out of his stupor when his phone rings, buzzing aggressively against the wood of his drawers. He pulls himself to his feet, wiping a hand over his face as he answers it blindly, pulling it to his ear.
“Hello, you’ve—” he swallows, trying to ignore how wet his voice sounds, “g-go for Buck.”
“Hey,” Eddie says, his voice soft and whispered down the line. “Sorry, you didn’t text back. Can you post it to me? It’s got my glasses in it. I’ve been looking for them everywhere. I thought I’d lost them.”
Buck frowns, fighting back the wave of emotion that tries to crash over him. “Y-Yeah. Of course. I’ll–yeah. I’ll send it tomorrow.”
There’s a beat of silence. “You okay, man?”
Buck glances over at the stacks of books. “W-Where are you?”
He hears shuffling on the other end now, then muffled whispering, and then Eddie’s voice again, as he says, “Was in the hall. Uh, outside now. I was at dinner with my parents. What’s going on?”
Fuck. He knew that. He knew Eddie had dinner with his parents and Christopher tonight. He’d completely forgotten.
“No, no. Go back inside. It can wait.”
“Buck.”
“Eddie, it’s fine.”
A beat. Then, “Buck, you’re crying.”
“No, I’m not,” he lies, like a liar.
“You think I don’t know what you sound like when you’re crying?” Stubbornly. Buck remains silent. Eddie sighs. “Bud, I can hear you sniffling.”
Buck sniffles again, pouting. “Shut up.”
“Talk to me.”
Buck clenches his jaw. “I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
“I– I can’t.” Buck’s head is spinning. There is too much new information swirling, too many possibilities and impossibilities alike warring in his head. “I can’t without saying something stupid. Something I’m not supposed to say. I’m sick of doing stuff I’m not supposed to do. I don’t wanna make things worse.”
“Buck—”
He scrubs furiously at his eyes, making a quiet, mournful, desperate sound as he fights the tears threatening to spill endlessly over his cheeks. He’s trying so hard. “I’m trying not to make it about me.”
The words seem to stop Eddie in his tracks—but only for a fleeting moment. Then, “Okay, then let me.”
Buck blinks, ignoring the feeling of a single tear fighting past the edge of his lashline. Instantly, he swipes it away. “What?”
“Let me make it about you. Talk to me. I want to know what’s going on with you. I’m not gonna be able to focus on this god awful dinner if I’m worried that you’re alone, and upset, and—”
“I miss you,” Buck confesses, abruptly, because anything else he wants to say right now is too raw, too real.
Eddie exhales into the microphone of his phone. “Yeah. Yeah, I—I know. I miss you, too.”
“No, I miss you. More than I’m supposed to, I think.”
“I’m your best friend, bud,” Eddie tells him. “I think you’re supposed to miss me. We’re eight hundred miles apart.”
Miserably, Buck shakes his head. “Not like this.”
“...Like what?”
“Like someone cut my arm off. Like someone took something from me.”
It does feel that way. Watching Abby leave had almost knocked Buck to his knees, but watching Eddie drive away had felt like someone had cracked open his ribs, tied a rope around his heart and then tied the other end to the back of Eddie’s U-Haul. He just had to stand there and watch as his heart scraped against the asphalt, driving away and disappearing into the distance, with no clue if it would ever come back.
It was okay, he’d told himself. His heart had been Eddie’s for a long time, in one way or another. He’d keep it safe.
Still, though, as safe as it is in Eddie’s hands, it’s so, so far away. Eddie’s so far away.
“Eddie, it feels l-like—like I’m dying sometimes,” he says, quiet and miserable.
“Buck…”
This was a mistake. Buck should never have said anything, because this isn’t helping anyone. Not Eddie, not Buck, not Chris. It’s Buck being petulant, childish, and desperate. Like he always is. He can’t just let something leave, not without leaving deep, gaping claw marks in it. He has to kick his feet and stomp them against the ground, making a mess of things. Once he starts, he just can’t stop.
“I would’ve come,” he says.
“What?” Eddie says, breath caught.
“If you’d asked, I-I would’ve come. I wanted you to ask. I kept waiting for you to ask, Eddie.” And it’s true. Buck had waited, and waited, and waited. So many times Eddie looked at him for a long second, like he wanted to ask something big and important, but he never did. Sometimes, Buck would be struck with the uncomfortable thought that he’s expecting Eddie to treat him like he would a spouse—an equal parent and partner—but that’s not what he is. That’s not his role to play, even if he seems to know the lines by heart. Still, because he’s selfish and stupid, it spills, and spills. “We do everything together. I don’t get it, Eddie. Why not this? Why do you have to do this alone?”
“It was my fuck-up.” It’s what he expected Eddie to say. Eddie, who has to deal with every mistake like it were a moral failing. Like he has to be punished for it. Like he has to suffer through it alone. Buck sighs, shaking his head, even though Eddie can’t see him at all.
“Bullshit. Every fuck-up, every mistake, every stupid thing, we’re supposed to handle it together. We’re a team. We’re—”
“Friends, Buck.” His voice is tight—defensive.
Buck laughs. He doesn’t mean to. But a sudden, single, hollow laugh bursts from him.
“Right. Friends. I’m just your friend who gets your kid if you die. I’m your friend who is there for you, in sickness and in health, in your house.” His voice is wet, emotion pulling his vocal cords taut. “I’m your friend you grocery shop with, and who goes to doctors' appointments with you, and who took over your lease, and who would wait forever j-just in case you ever came home. I’m just your friend. I’m your friend, you dedicate six sketchbooks to. I’m—”
“You opened the box?” Eddie says—sudden and fearful.
The answer is clear, so Buck doesn’t give one. He just makes a pathetic, sniffling noise, looking around a room that is supposed to be Eddie’s, in a house that is supposed to be Eddie’s, in the city Eddie’s supposed to be in, but isn’t. He isn’t here. “I miss you so much, Eddie.”
“I can’t do this right now.”
Buck presses his hand to his chest, right over the lancing pain.
“I know,” he manages. “I– I’m sorry.” Pull yourself together, he tells himself, shaking his head. He needs to slow his roll of ruining his friendship. “Fuck. I know.”
“No, I mean—I mean right now.” He hears Eddie take a couple of steps, foot against hardwood. “Can I call you in a couple of hours?”
“Eddie. It’s—this is stupid. I’m being stupid.” He takes a steadying breath and then another, trying to force his lungs to comply and be normal. He just needs to be normal. “Forget it, okay? Please just forget it.”
“Shut up. Two hours. Three, maximum. Pick up. Please.”
“Eddie—”
“Evan.”
Buck stares up at the ceiling. Exhales. His name has always sounded so safe in Eddie’s mouth. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Eddie repeats. Even without seeing him, he knows Eddie’s nodding to himself.
“Don’t—”
Buck cuts him off. “You should go, Eddie.”
A frustrated sigh, almost as if he doesn’t wanna hang up, doesn’t wanna let him go. Buck knows the feeling. “I know.”
“Okay.”
“Two hours, Buck.”
“Bye, Eddie.”
“Talk soon.”
And the line goes dead.
The rest of the dinner is a quiet affair. Eddie’s parents don’t look disapproving when he steps back into the house, despite the interruption. Chris, though, looks like he’s trying to hide how upset he is.
Fuck.
He needs to focus on keeping his mind off of Buck and the sketchbooks. He doesn’t know where the lines are, what the rules are. Here, or with Buck.
This is his parents’ house, not his. It never has been. Throughout the meal, Eddie doesn’t say much. He spends a lot of time staring down at a particular smear of sauce on his plate, wondering just how much Buck has seen from his sketchbook, and what conclusion he’s drawn from it. The smear on the plate does not hold any answers to his questions, but he stares at it anyway, unable to listen to the snide comments from his parents about their neighbours, Eddie’s sisters, and him.
When their plates have all been scraped clean, Eddie clears his throat. “I’ll take the dishes.” He stands, gaze finding Chris’. He hesitates. “Do you wanna help, bud?”
Chris opens his mouth, but Helena beats him to it.
“He shouldn’t have to,” she says. “He’s a guest.”
Briefly, for a flash of a second, Eddie remembers a conversation on the phone, one of the brisk ones, where Chris had said, ‘They don’t even make me do any chores,’ but there had been a sad twinge to it—like he’d really wanted to say: They won’t let me.
Chris has always cared so much about independence, about not letting his CP stop him from contributing at school, or at home, or anywhere. Eddie’s parents have always babied him, infantilised him in a way that makes Eddie uncomfortable, and clearly, makes Chris feel unhappy.
Predictably, she catches Eddie’s eye, nodding toward Chris’s crutches. Eddie resists the urge to bang his head against the table until either his skull or the wooden top gives out.
“Chris,” he says, eyes finding Chris again. “It’s up to you.”
“I want to help,” Chris says, tone defiant.
Helena opens her mouth again, but Ramon lays a hand over hers, and she remains quiet.
Swallowing, Eddie gathers their plates and utensils, grateful for his son’s presence. Setting everything down in the sink, Eddie pulls over a low bar stool for Chris to sit on. He waits for him to get on, crutches leaning up against the counter, and hands him a towel to dry with. Chris takes it without a word.
For a long few minutes, neither of them says anything. Eddie’s mind drifts from his parents to the phone call he had with Buck, and then to Chris. He doesn’t know what to say, how to acknowledge the hurt he’s caused. How to fix it.
Then, out of nowhere, Chris asks, “Can I have a hug?”
Eddie’s heart breaks right then and there. Buck’s always asked before giving Chris a hug, every time. He’s always been so careful about boundaries, about keeping Chris happy and comfortable. And now, here in El Paso, Chris is asking Eddie the same thing.
“Yes,” he says immediately, wiping his sud-covered hands on his jeans, turning to his son. His son, who is staring at the damp towel in his hands.
“Do you want one now?” Eddie asks carefully.
Chris nods mutely.
“Okay,” Eddie says, leaning down. “Can I pick you up?”
Haltingly, Chris nods again.
“Come here,” Eddie says, swallowing around the lump in his throat as he wraps his arms around Chris, scooping him up like he used to do when he was a baby. He’s so much taller now—his sudden growth spurt meaning he’s outgrown almost all of the clothes he left Eddie’s house in. He’s so much bigger, older, wiser, but he’s still Eddie’s baby.
“Dad,” Chris mumbles into his shoulder. “I’m really mad at you.”
Eddie’s chest constricts. Softly, he says, “I know, Chris.”
“You’re acting like a freak.”
“I– sorry,” Eddie says, unsurely.
Then, quickly, Chris says, “I want to go home.”
Eddie freezes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Chris says softly.
“To L.A.?” Eddie clarifies, too scared to hope.
“To L.A.,” Chris confirms. “You were never supposed to move here. You were supposed to come get me.”
Many times in his life has Eddie Diaz felt like a failure. Running to the army and away from his wife and child. Putting Buck in his will without telling him. Choosing to see Kim again and again when he knew what he was doing would lead to some sort of catastrophic fallout.
Driving his son away, all the way to Texas, because he couldn’t resist temptation. Because he was selfish, when it really counted.
He can’t keep making the same mistakes. Can’t keep teaching his son that running is the only option. He wants Chris to grow up confident, and brave, and loved. He wants Chris to have what Eddie didn’t have at his age: a support system.
And the thing is, Chris has that. Here, as loath as he is to admit it. He has Ramon and Helena, and to a lesser but more important extent, Sophia, Adrianna and Eddie’s Abuela. Family. But he has family in Los Angeles, too. A whole host of people who would die for him, who nearly have.
Eddie will never forget the look on Buck’s face when he tried to tell Eddie he had lost Chris, covered in blood that didn’t only belong to him. The striking devastation, through the cloudy haze of pain. And then, moments later, the way his entire body had slumped, seeing Chris alive in the arms of a stranger. Like his heart had stopped, like a piece of him had died, and come right back to him at the sight of Chris.
It was easy, after that, to write Buck into his will. He had known in his heart and soul that Buck would fight for Chris harder than anyone else, bar Eddie himself. Has fought for him when Eddie’s been too lost in his own past to see right from wrong.
But right now, Eddie can’t afford to rely on someone else. He can’t be Chris’ friend first, father second. He has to make the difficult choices, even when it kills him to do so.
He has to be a dad. To Dad-Up as Buck would say.
“I’m sorry, Chris,” he tells his son, setting him down and cupping his face. He’s still so small. “I’m the most sorry I’ve ever been. Ever.”
“You brought her into our house.”
Gently, Eddie says, “I didn’t want her there.”
Chris’ face hardens. “But you did.”
He doesn’t explain that the second time Kim came over, she wasn’t invited. That Eddie had begged her to leave. It doesn’t excuse any of it. He just nods and says, “I did.”
When Chris says nothing more, Eddie pushes Chris’ curls out of his eyes, heart aching. “You don’t have to forgive me. We’ll talk more about this, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know. About Mom, about me, about– about Kim. I love you so much, mijo. You’re the best thing that I’ve ever done. You’re my kid. I’m so lucky you’re my kid.”
Chris’s lower lip wobbles, and he offers Eddie a short nod.
“Okay,” Eddie breathes, relieved. “Okay, Chris. I’ll look into flights back to L.A. Back home.”
“Okay,” Chris echoes, voice fraught, and what is Eddie to do but pull him into his arms? Chris melts into the embrace, exhaling shakily into Eddie’s shoulder. His boy, his child.
Silently, Eddie vows to be better. He can’t see Chris suffering more because of him. Can’t be the cause and not the balm.
He only just manages not to startle when Helena clears her throat from the doorway.
Squeezing Chris once, Eddie lets go, eyes finding his mom’s.
Standing, Eddie says, “We’re heading back to my place. Then we’re going home.”
“Edmundo,” his mother says, sighing and rubbing her forehead, like Eddie’s giving her a headache. Her eyes flicker to Chris briefly, but Chris is staring at the ground. “We talked about this.”
They have. Extensively. Eddie’s heard everything she has to say.
Christopher isn’t ready. He needs stability, routine; you can’t just upend him whenever it’s convenient for you.
But now, for the first time in his life, Eddie feels no fear, looking at his mom. He feels a familiar sort of indignance, something borne of youth. Something he can latch onto.
Placing a steady hand on Chris’s shoulder, he tells Helena, “I’m taking him home. I’m giving him stability, Mom. Giving him the support system he’s had since he was a kid. Giving him what he needs. What he wants.”
Distantly, he hears her voice again:
Christopher doesn’t know what he wants. He’s just a kid, Edmundo.
Eddie’s jaw clenches tight.
“He has a home here,” Helena says, simply.
“He does,” Eddie allows. “But his life is in Los Angeles. My life is in Los Angeles.”
“You are acting like a child,” Helena says– not unkindly, but like Eddie’s being willfully blind for not realising it himself.
Eddie pauses, turns to his kid who is looking at him with wide, wet blue eyes that look so much like his mother's. He sees so much of Shannon in Christopher—all the best, brightest parts of her. He sometimes worries that Chris only got the saddest parts of him. “Can you go to your bedroom for a minute, bud? I need to talk to your abuela.”
“Dad.”
“It’s okay. Just—just a minute, alright? Go pack your bag.”
Once Christopher disappears down the hallway, the click-clack of his crutches fading into silence, Helena finds his eye again, arms crossed tight over her chest. “Eddie, he has a home here,” she repeats, as if he didn’t hear her the first time.
“Yeah. Maybe he does.” He nods, rubbing at his brow. “But I don’t.”
“You just bought a house, Eddie. Fifteen minutes away.”
“No, I mean here. I—you didn’t even want me to come, Mom. To piece things together with my kid. You wanted space from me, not for him.”
Helena hesitates, and Eddie’s heart breaks a little. Still, she says, “That’s not true.”
“It is, though.” The words come quietly. This is confessional, he realises. This is closure. “I know you think you’re doing what’s best for Christopher. I am so glad he has people in his life who want the best for him. But, Mom, I am what’s best for him.”
And truly, in his heart, he believes it. Even with all his fuck-ups, all his flaws, he’s what’s best for Christopher. He’s his dad.
“After what happened—”
“My wife died,” he says, flat. A flash of her face fills his brain, something he’d sketched when they were teenagers—her laughing wholeheartedly, head thrown back, legs submerged in the water of the lake near her house. She was so happy. Once. She was his best friend.
And she died. In front of him. She didn’t deserve that. Finally, with a dull pang, he realises he didn’t either.
“This isn’t about Shannon—”
Eddie slices through her sentence, his eyes wet, but tears left unshed. “No, stop. It is. It’s about Shannon. And it’s about–it’s about a lot of things. My wife died, and I made a mistake. I did.” He shakes his head, pressing his sweaty palms to his jeans. “I fucked up big time. But that’s—Jesus, if someone took me away every time you and dad upset me, I would’ve been out of here before Sophia was even out of diapers.”
Mouth flattening, Helena says, “That’s not fair.”
Eddie ducks his head, staring at the floor. “I don’t want to fight with you, Mom.”
And he doesn’t. He never wants to fight with his mother, but somehow, every single time they end up in the same place together, they clash.
“Then stay,” Helena implores. “We’ll talk. Christopher can—”
“No. I’m sorry. He’s my kid. Not yours. He’s coming back to the house, and in two weeks, we’re going back to L.A.”
“Eddie—”
“It’s happening,” Eddie says, careful not to raise his voice. Even after everything, all of this, she’s still his mother. And he loves her. Even if he’s not sure she loves him as much, or in the way that she’s supposed to. Even now, as he stands his ground, he feels so small next to her—like her little boy, dressed up in his Sunday’s best with his hair slicked back, looking up at her with shining eyes and hoping to see pride in hers. “It’s happening, and that’s that.”
Helena closes her eyes, sighing through her nose. When she opens her eyes again, she looks calmer. “Fine. But there won’t be a third chance. This is it.”
Eddie huffs, balling the twisting hurt in his chest into something small, something manageable. “I didn’t even ask for a second.”
Christopher pops back up in the archway, a duffel dumped at his feet and a backpack slung over his shoulder.
Eddie smiles, stepping forward, cradling his mom's head in his hand. He kisses her forehead, stepping back. “I love you, Mom.”
She looks at him for a long second. She almost looks like she might not say it back. She looks at him, briefly, like he’s a thief in the night, stealing her kid from her clutching hands. Well, at least now she seems to know how he felt, even if the parallel is likely lost on her.
Still, she softens. “I love you, too. Call me tomorrow. We can talk about the details.”
Uncharitably, Eddie thinks that even now, in her own way, she’s grappling for the reins, trying to take back control.
She hugs Christopher goodbye, a lingering, tight squeeze given before she lets go, wiping at her eye. “Call me if you need anything, sweetheart. Anything at all.”
“Okay. I will,” Chris says, turning to where Eddie is leaning against the counter, hands tucked into his pockets. “Ready.”
Eddie can’t help but smile at his kid. His kid who is coming home with him. His kid that he’d not only die for, but also live for. Be happy for. “Let’s hit the road, kiddo. You need help with your bags?”
“Just the big one,” Chris hums, already heading toward the door, leaving the duffle in his wake. Eddie scoops it up, something unclenching in him as he follows behind him.
It takes two hours for Chris to settle enough to fall asleep once they’re back in Eddie’s temporary house. Eddie offers to read to him, which Chris shoots down, telling him in no uncertain terms that he’s too old for that now. Eddie nods and makes to leave, but Chris grabs his wrist.
“You can play Sudoku on your phone,” he tells him.
Eddie laughs, thinking Chris must know Eddie would do anything to be near him. “Not a bad idea, bud.”
So, for two hours, Eddie plays Sudoku, and Chris reads Percy Jackson. The silence isn’t entirely comfortable – and it’s going to take time, Eddie knows – but it’s peaceful. It’s a step in the right direction.
They’ll have to talk about everything at length eventually. Tomorrow, maybe. Tonight’s already been heavy enough for the both of them. And as many times as Chris hides a yawn in his arm, he can’t quite hide the fact that he’s exhausted.
Eventually, Chris’s eyes flutter shut. It’s not long before his breathing evens out, tiny snores following shortly thereafter. Eddie spends a long minute watching him, so full of love he thinks he might burst with it. Then, quietly, he gets up and shuts the bedside lamp off. He presses a lingering kiss to Chris’s forehead, and then he stands to go, leaving the door open a crack.
And then, padding softly down the hallway, he unlocks the front door and steps out on the porch.
He’s dialling Buck’s number before he’s consciously decided to do so.
Buck picks up on the second ring.
“Eddie?”
He feels himself relax, shoulders slumping. “Buck.”
Down the line, Buck exhales. “Are you okay? Was dinner– okay?”
Sitting down on the rickety, dark wood-stained deck chair that Eddie got for free off of Facebook Marketplace, Eddie runs a hand through his hair. “It was fine.” Then, abruptly, he says, “Kind of wish you were here, right now.”
“I can catch a flight in the morning,” Buck says in a rush, like he’s scared Eddie won’t let him finish the sentence. Scared to put the words out there and make the offer real. It’s his way of apologising for the phone call earlier, Eddie’s pretty sure. Even though everything he said had rung true.
“No,” Eddie says, chest expanding with the heavy breath he takes. It’s such an insane offer, one that if it were anyone else, Eddie might take it as an exaggeration. But it’s Buck. He knows Buck’s probably even looked at flights for tonight before realising it’d disturb Chris’s schedule too much, because there’s no way in hell Chris would sleep for a single second tonight if he knew he and Buck were under the same roof again. “No, Buck.”
“Eddie, please,” Buck pleads, quiet. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about earlier.”
“You don’t have to apologise,” Eddie tells him softly.
“I do,” Buck insists. “Please, let me book a–”
“Buck.” Eddie smiles into the dark, a small private thing. “We’re coming back. To L.A.”
Buck’s breathing stutters. “What?”
“I talked to Chris,” Eddie tells him, a giddy, fiery ball of relief simmering in his chest. “Well—he talked to me. In the kitchen. He, uh, he said I was acting like a freak. His words, not mine.”
A small, confused laugh bursts out of Buck. “You’re… you’re coming back?”
“Yeah,” Eddie confirms, sure and fast. This part, leaving Texas, is non-negotiable. Buck has to know that. He taps a little pattern into the chair as he continues, “Not tomorrow, though. Two weeks, I think. End of term. Then I’ve gotta—uh—pack. I know you just—I know you’ve unpacked. Obviously. But…”
The implication is left unsaid, because how does he ask to come home? How does he ask if Buck still has space beside him for the Diaz boys without sounding small, or frightened, or insecure? He leaves it there, floating in the unsaid, like he’s left a lot of things.
“I unpacked today,” Buck says.
Eddie’s hand pauses, heart stumbling. “What?”
“I–” Buck huffs the way he does when he’s embarrassed. ”I wasn’t ready. Before.”
Eddie’s mouth falls open in a perfect o-shape. It’s been weeks. “Oh.”
“But then the whole thing with—” Buck cuts himself off with a small, high-pitched noise.
Narrowing his eyes, Eddie prompts, “With…”
“Actually, I—I don’t think the details are important.”
“Buck.”
“The important thing is—”
“Buck.”
“With Tommy.” The words burst out of Buck, settling unpleasantly in Eddie’s mind. It’s a name he hasn’t heard in weeks, months, even. A name he thought he was finally free from (other than the occasional quiet joke Chimney says under his breath when Buck can’t hear). “We—you see, it’s kind of a funny story, if you think about it.”
“Oh, I bet.” Something ugly and possessive flares in his gut. “Ready to laugh any second now.”
“Okay, so, I’m at this bar,” Buck starts nervously. “With R-Ravi. And then Ravi brings over Tommy, ‘cause I guess I was, uh, I was talking about you, too much. Or I was being weird. I was kind of being weird. I called him Rockstar Ravi.”
Rockstar Ravi? Jesus Christ.
“Ravi brought Tommy to your table,” Eddie clarifies.
Buck hums before saying, “And then we talked.”
“Sure.”
“And talked some more.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then we went back to m-my place.”
“My place,” Eddie corrects. The visual hits him, sudden and uncomfortable. Tommy, standing in Eddie’s home, surrounded by boxes, and there, Buck stands, his Buck. His Buck. Tommy’s hands on him, Tommy’s voice echoing off the walls, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy.
Eddie kind of wishes Tommy would just get hit by a bus already, after all the shit he made Buck deal with.
Buck loses a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, your place.”
Eddie leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, phone still pressed to his ear. “And you talked more.”
A very telling silence follows. “Well…”
Eddie’s heart falls to the pit of his stomach. Buck had sex with Tommy fucking Kinard in Eddie’s house? In Eddie’s bedroom?
Shit, he doesn’t even know when this happened. He doesn’t know how long Buck’s been keeping a lid on this—if he’s been doing it to spare Eddie’s feelings, or out of embarrassment.
“In my house, Buck.” The words come out flat. It was supposed to be a question—but even to his own ears it doesn’t sound like one.
“T-Technically, it’s my name on the lease.”
“You got back together,” Eddie says, gaze unfocused. He thinks his heart might be racing, but he can’t tell. He’s too warm, all of a sudden. Pressing a shaky hand to his forehead, he manages, “Why—you– you called. You– the book. You went through the book, and you called and what, now you’re back together with Tommy Kinnard?”
"Eddie."
Eddie laughs despite himself, saying, “I’m really waiting for the funny part of the story, Buck.”
“Eddie.” Buck waits another moment. When Eddie remains silent, he says, “I kicked him out.”
Record scratch. The world stops spinning. A breath Eddie hadn’t realised he was even holding escapes him. "What?"
“He said–” Buck clears his throat. “He said now that the competition was out of the way, we had a chance. But I yelled at him. I was–I was kinda mean.”
Baffled, Eddie falls back in the chair, blinking hard. “The competition.”
“M-Meaning you.”
“No, I got that.” Eddie laughs. For the hundredth time tonight, he feels a wave of relief wash over him. “I—competition? Jesus. What an asshole. Like, we’re even on the same level. Like—”
“Like, there would even be a competition if I knew you were an option?”
The rest of the sentence dies in Eddie’s throat, something warm and gentle soothing the blooming ache in him. That’s not what he was going to say, but— “Yeah.”
It doesn’t even feel cocky. Eddie knows how important he is to Buck, even just in extension to how important Chris is to Buck. Whether or not Eddie and Buck are more than friends– Eddie would always come first. Tommy was a fleeting few months of a whirlwind romance that crashed-landed early because Tommy didn’t realise what he had till he let it go. Because he’s a dumbass.
Carefully, Buck asks, “Are you?”
Butterflies swarm in Eddie’s stomach. A kaleidoscope of them fluttering around. “An option?”
“Yeah.”
Eddie does not want to take the cowardly way out. He has to let Buck know, he has to, but— “I don’t wanna have this conversation over the phone.”
“Okay,” Buck allows, immediately. He’s always been too kind, too giving, too patient. “You—You sell your place and we can … we can talk. Fuck, how are you—Jesus, Eddie. How are you going to sell your place? It’s a dump.”
“Uh.” Eddie blinks, looking around, the dark porch suddenly seeming less suffocating. He’s not staying here. This isn’t a prison. “I don’t need to.”
“What?”
“The lease is … month-to-month,” Eddie tells him. “It’s a rental.”
Buck makes an incredibly undignified squawk. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” Eddie doesn’t quite manage to bite back a high, disbelieving laugh.
“But– you bought the house, you– I was there when you were talking to the–”
“I didn’t,” Eddie cuts in. “I backed out of it. The owners were okay with a short-term lease.”
His real estate agent had been a little annoyed about the back and forth, but in the end, it’d been the right move, and the owners hadn’t seemed to mind too much. The rent was more expensive than the mortgage payment would’ve been, but it means now, here and now, he can go home. To his actual home. To Buck.
A disbelieving quiet follows. Then, “Holy shit, Eddie.”
“I know.”
“So– so you’re really coming back? Just like that?”
Eddie can perfectly picture the look on Buck’s face, shocked and hopeful. His blue eyes would be wide, his full mouth parted around every breath, his cheeks pink. He wishes he could see him.
“I’m really coming back.”
“But you can’t,” Buck says.
At this, Eddie exhales a surprised laugh. “What?”
“Eddie, I just found out I’m in love with you.” The words zing through Eddie like an electric current, jumpstarting his heart. “I need more than two weeks. I need—”
“Buck.” Eddie finds himself grinning, suddenly. The chill of the night settles around him, and all he can think in the middle of Buck’s spiral is just how much he wants to kiss the worry and nerves right off of his lips. He wants to press Buck against a wall, hands on his hips, and kiss him stupid and breathless.
He just wants to kiss him.
“Eddie, this is really terrible timing,” Buck tells him seriously, voice picking up. “This is—I just fucked my ex!”
“In my house,” Eddie says, a dull spark of irritation flaring, but the dazed, fond smile doesn’t dissipate from his mouth. He taps his finger against the armrest of the deck chair again. “I know. I was there for that part of the conversation.”
“It wasn’t even good!” Buck’s voice jumps up two or three octaves mid-sentence.
Eddie chuckles. “Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t.”
“Eddie,” Buck says, a little petulant frustration sinking into his tone, like he does when Eddie won’t take his very serious (not real) concerns seriously.
Eddie buckles down. Locks in, as Chris would say. He’s pretty sure that’s what that means. “We’re coming back. Two weeks. Prepare for two roommates."
He swears he can hear Buck blink repeatedly through the phone, a little whoosh of his long, flaxen lashes. “O-Okay.”
Silence follows, like they’re both letting Eddie’s proclamation sink in.
But Eddie has to say something. He might explode if he doesn’t.
Taking a steadying breath, Eddie says, “Me too, you know.”
“What?” Buck chokes out.
Eddie wishes that Buck were here. That he could hold his ever-cold hands in Eddie’s blood-warm ones, smooth his thumbs over Buck’s knuckles, catch his eye as he tells him he loves him. That he has loved him. That he will always love him. But he’s not.
And Eddie doesn’t want it to be like this. He doesn’t want El Paso, Texas, to hold the first I love you he ever says to Buck.
“The thing you said.” Eddie swallows, pressing his palm flat to his thigh. “You’re— you just found out. Me too.”
Buck sounds winded when he breathes, “Oh.”
“I mean, it’s not new information,” Eddie adds, a little nervously. “For–uh. Me. But. It’s the same.”
“Oh,” Buck says again, somehow even quieter and breathier. “How long?”
He hums. “When did I do the first drawing?”
A stunned silence. “We’d just met. It was– it was the first week you were with the 118.”
“Yeah,” Eddie says, nodding. He remembers doing the sketch, sitting cross-legged in the armchair after Buck had fallen asleep on the couch, the visual of him upside down and bickering with Hen still fresh enough in his mind that the drawing had turned out perfectly. He’d spent forty-five minutes alone on Buck’s mile-long legs. He’d been filled with such fondness, such care, such—love. The beginning of a partnership, of something that would grow into devotion. Into a trust strong enough to weave real, honest, life-changing love into. “Then.”
“Eight years ago,” Buck says, tentative, like he’s not sure he’s understood correctly.
Eddie’s nose scrunches. “Yeah.”
“Oh.”
He doesn’t really know what to say.
If he’s honest, he never thought he’d be saying any of this.
The timeline being in the air makes him feel vulnerable and exposed, like Buck is seeing a whole new part of him that he’d never known was there. He remembers the sketchbooks—one that’s likely hovering near Buck now—and thinks maybe he is. Eddie’s only ever sketched when his feelings were too big for his hands to hold. He poured it onto the page, scratching his thoughts and emotions into black-and-white on endless pages till it felt like he could breathe again. The implication of that is damning, considering Buck’s face takes up page after page, after page.
“...Sorry,” is all he manages to get out.
“Don’t—don’t apologise for loving me. Please.”
“No,” Eddie says immediately, hushed but strong. “I wouldn’t. Never, Buck. I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell you.”
“You could’ve.”
He could’ve. He thinks maybe Buck would’ve reciprocated, even then. Thinks maybe Buck has loved him the whole time, too, but— “I wasn’t ready.”
“But now, you—”
“I am,” Eddie interrupts. “Now. I’m ready now. But I needed to— to dad-up. And I needed to be honest with myself. And you.” He rubs his hand over his jaw. “I’ve been a fucking shitshow, Buck. You know that.”
“Yeah. Maybe. B-But you’re just Eddie. Just my Eddie.”
The phrasing almost knocks Eddie off his deck chair. He stares up at the stars, watching them twinkle, bright and dense in a way they aren’t in Los Angeles. Buck would love it here if it weren’t the place that made Eddie the most miserable he possibly could be. Buck, Chris and he should take a trip somewhere—deep into a forest, maybe, in a cabin with no cell service, and then, together, they can have a campfire and dinner beneath the stars.
They can do that now. They can do all the things Eddie’s yearning heart has wanted, but never truly been allowed to have, not in the way he wanted it. He can take Buck to dinner, to the beach. He can kiss him in the morning. At night. Just because.
He can kiss him. God, he wants so badly to kiss him. Has waited eight years to let himself want it. And he wants it. He wants—
“Buck,” he breathes.
“No, I know. I know,” Buck says, just as softly. “Just… N-no more truths tonight. We’ll talk. In person. And then I can—you know.”
A flutter of excitement, of desire, grazes the tender flesh of his heart. He grins again, the stars beaming back at him, like they know. “Kiss me?” He offers, filling in the blank.
“Yeah.” The confirmation makes Eddie bite the inside of his cheek, warmth blossoming across the skin of the back of his neck. “And– and tell you how I feel. In person.”
“Yeah,” Eddie says softly. “I’d like that.”
“Okay.” Buck laughs, soft and relieved. “I can’t believe– okay. Yeah. Two weeks. Cool. Yeah. Awesome.”
Eddie is so, so fond of him that he feels sick with it. His teeth ache with the sweet tenderness he feels for him. “See you in two weeks, Buckley.”
“See you in two weeks, Eddie.” He pauses, then asks, “We can still call tomorrow, right?”
Eddie rolls his eyes. “Of course. Idiot.”
Buck laughs a little harder than the comment warrants. “O-Okay. Bye, bye, bye, love you, bye—” And then he hangs up.
Eddie stays out on the deck for another, revelling in the change that’s coming. In the love he has, without realising it, surrounded himself with. Soon he’ll be home again, with his son in tow, and then, he thinks, he’ll get to meet the rest of his life.
He can’t wait.