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“You’re back.”
As the mouth of the bottle leaves Buck’s lips, the statement follows—as if he hasn’t spent the entire day moving them back into the house. As if he hasn’t processed Eddie and Chris truly being back until just now—and perhaps he really hasn’t. The time they spent in El Paso was… gray; then Eddie told him they were coming back, and there was relief and happiness, sure, but there were also logistics—planning, and moving boxes; now, they have… landed. With the black night outside of the window, the warm light bathing the kitchen, all of their things back inside the house—Chris in his room. Finally.
For the first time in… a long time, Buck exhales.
“Hm,” Eddie hums, as his own bottle of beer leaves his lips, hand remaining curled around it as it finds the edge of the kitchen table. “We’re back,” he confirms with a vague gesture of his other hand; as he lets that one, as well, curl around the edge of the table—his eyes finally land on Buck’s.
Of all the times they have made eye contact—Buck thinks he could count on a single hand the amount of times it has felt this… heavy. This warm. This monumental.
Buck could say any of a million things—could ask him how it feels, or could rib him about the most ridiculous calls he’s missed while he’s been gone—as if he hasn’t heard them all over the phone-line a hundred-and-one times already.
He doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything—and neither does Eddie. Buck has no way of knowing how much time passes—it’s unlikely that it’s any more than a minute, but for him, it may as well be a lifetime.
Finally, Eddie is the one to exhale, starting to make his way across the space that separates the kitchen counter from the table. Buck easily readjusts himself to align with Eddie’s orbit—the two of them drawing each other in like magnets. The way they always do. Buck can’t quite explain it—not sure he would care to. It’s just always… been. They have always been.
“I’m, uh…” Eddie starts, eyes focused down on the bottle in his hand—before he looks up, eyes meeting Buck’s once again. “I’m not sorry I left.”
At that, Buck can’t do much other than frown in confusion, shaking his head.
“No, I—I know, Eddie—-“ a chuckle of confusion. “—I know that. Of course—you—you had to go, I—I know that—-everyone knows that,” he assures him. “You think we’re upset, Eddie, we—“
“—you’re misunderstanding me,” Eddie interrupts—but he does it softly, a tug of the corner of his lips so subtle a part of Buck wonders whether or not he’s imagining it.
“Oh, I—I’m sorry. Con-continue,” Buck says with another exhale of amusement, distantly wondering when the last time was that his stutter was anywhere near this bad—well, bad by his standards, at least.
“I’m not sorry I left…” Eddie continues, placing his beer onto the counter before meeting his eyes again, Buck finding himself struck by the depth—the warmth—of his gaze—has he always looked at Buck like this? It doesn’t feel new—but it does feel… different. In a way Buck can’t quite put his finger on. “Even outside of Chris, I think I needed a new perspective? You know? I needed to remember what it was like down there, I needed to…” He trails off for a beat. Buck remains quiet—patient. “I needed to remember home—family. How that’s supposed to feel.” Another beat. “‘Cause home, family—“ he gestures vaguely out into the rest of the kitchen—dismissively. As if he’s gesturing to anything that’s not Buck. “—that’s not Texas,” he shakes his head as he drops his hand down to hang by his side again. There’s a beat where he looks down at their feet. Then he looks back up, their eyes meeting once again. Buck swallows. “It’s here.”
“It is a nice house,” Buck agrees—mostly to ease whatever tension he can’t quite put his finger on—but also because he doesn’t know what else to say. There’s something about the look in Eddie’s eyes—something he’s never quite seen before, and it’s… strange—to stand in front of the man he knows better than he knows himself, and suddenly not be able to interpret the twinkle in his eye, or the twitch of his mouth.
Eddie huffs in amusement—then he crosses his arms over his chest, and leans his temple against the cupboard.
“Buck,” he says—and they’re both smiling—soft curves of their mouths—yet the air seems to thicken further. Although it doesn’t feel bad—not at all. It’s just… new. Or maybe it’s not—Buck can’t quite tell. Perhaps it’s always been there—perhaps it just feels more… palpable now.
A beat of silence passes—their smiles fading slightly.
“Buck…” Eddie starts again—then he pushes his weight back off the cupboard and counter, standing up straight as he takes half a step closer, uncrossing his arms to place a hand on Buck’s shoulder. It feels like it belongs there—as if the curve in his neck was crafted by Michelangelo himself, purely for Eddie Diaz’ hand to have its own resting place—its own home. Eddie exhales, his voice low, weighted. “I’m tired,” he admits. “I’ve spent so many years trying to be everything for everyone—the perfect dad, the perfect man, the perfect son. Doing what I’m supposed to, what people expect. And I’m just—” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to do it anymore. You and Chris—that’s all I want. Think it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
It’s an odd feeling—a thought, a want, barely restrained, suddenly gently released. Until now, Buck hasn’t… considered it—considered them. Why would he? It’s as if his mind has been protecting him, keeping any questions—any possibilities—buried just beneath the surface.
Now, however—Eddie is standing here, bathed in the warm light of the kitchen—thumb against Buck’s pulse point, eyes warmer than Buck can imagine them ever being—and he’s telling him that…
“I, uh—I know the feeling,” he admits, briefly glancing down at Eddie’s hand where it’s resting on the kitchen counter—placing his own beer aside before allowing his thumb to gently graze the back of Eddie’s as he shifts his attention back up to his eyes. “Felt like I was missing a limb,” he exhales—and there’s no voice in the back of his head telling him to slow down, that he’s being too much—too needy. Not with Eddie. Never with Eddie.
“I’m in love with you,” Eddie says—the words steady—confident—yet fast. As if he’s rehearsed them—sat with them, sat with the feelings they convey. “I’m tired of pretending I’m not,” he admits, taking his hand off of the counter to mirror his other one, gently cradling the sides of Buck’s neck.
For as long as Buck can remember, Eddie’s ability to express himself has left him in awe—the way that, although it sometimes takes a minute for him to get there, whenever he’s ready, he’ll rip his heart out of his own chest and present it on a silver platter. With a thumb pressed to Buck’s pulse point—or both—and deep, warm, earnest eyes.
Buck has never been like that—he goes all out before he’s even sure what he feels; he’s dramatic and emotional, and clingy, and his emotions often run his actions miles ahead of his brain. (Not that he hasn’t come to terms with that by now—he is who he is, and he’s learned to appreciate it.) The interesting thing is, though—despite his regular habit of rushing things to beat his tendency to overthink in a lap around the racetrack—for once, tonight, his brain feels… quiet. Calm. Similar to the first time he ever swallowed his first dosage of vyvanse. All the white noise, the static—gone. Eddie did that—Eddie does that. Always has. Buck just hasn’t quite been able to put a finger on it until just now.
This is it. This is exactly what he has always been searching for. Home.
So as Eddie stays there, Buck ducks his head somewhat, feeling the weight of his gaze as he brings both of his hands up to find a gentle grip around each of his wrists, his mouth tugging into a smile as he picks his head up again. eyes on Eddie’s.
“In love with me, huh?” he asks, feeling a twitch of his own eyebrow as Eddie shifts his jaw out in a half-nod, somehow playing along and yet… waiting—all at the same time.
“Little bit,” he confirms.
“Oh, a little bit?” Buck’s smile grows to show his teeth as he guides one of his own hands down Eddie’s arm, all the way down to his waist, the fabric soft beneath his palm.
They could keep teasing after that—but they don’t. Instead Eddie’s eyes soften, and Buck feels his own do the same in return as he steers the pad of his thumb over the back of Eddie’s hand.
There could be a lot more to say—they could stand here and talk about this—about them, about what this means, when they figured it out—until the sun comes up—but that’s not who they are, that’s not who they have ever been. They just orbit around each other, words often completely unnecessary—and isn’t that the point of it all? Finding a place to land—to exist? To breathe?
There is only one more thing to be said—and Buck takes a breath—and a third of a step closer, drifting further into Eddie’s orbit, their eyes lost in each other’s as he swallows.
“I’m in love with you, too,” he says, as they drift closer, both of them exhaling in soft amusement when Eddie nods once, teasingly swiping the tips of their noses together.
“A little bit?” Eddie asks with another playful jut of his chin.
“No,” Buck shakes his head gently.
“Good,” Eddie nods—and when they finally close the distance, it tastes like something steady—something that has been waiting for them all along; like sirens in the distance, or the first breath after coming up for air.
It tastes like forever.