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The smell of a soft, warm summer night breeze melds with the aroma of basil, garlic and fresh lemon.
The pesto sauce, set to low heat on the back stove, simmers as Buck moves to strain his pasta over the sink. The back door is propped open, giving him a clear view of the backyard, the sky above it moving in hues of pink and purple as the sun begins to set—soon he'll have to close the screen door properly, lest any bugs wander in.
Buck's finally making use of the record player he'd bought ages ago, swaying slowly in place as Redbone sings across the kitchen. "Come and get your love…" He mumbles under his breath, too content to really care if the lyrics are correct or not.
No one's around to hear him anyway. Eddies in the shower right now, washing off the scorching afternoon sun after a day spent helping Buck with the garden out in the backyard.
Though, helping is not quite the right word.
Buck finally fixed the flickering light bulb on the patio outside, installed new hinges for the kitchen door that never stops squeaking and re-potted the kitchen window planters.
Eddie, however, given their free day from work, had opted to read and doze in the warm sun, splayed out on the comfortable patio chair—miles of tantalizing dark, speckled skin glistening in the light, simply happy to watch Buck as he worked.
Buck had started the hobby somewhere between Eddie leaving and Bobby being found alive, after the lab incident—which is to say it's been well over six months. The rows of flowers and vegetables seem never ending, but they're growing incredibly well, and Bucks never been prouder.
He still grins when he steps outside and see's the result of his hard work, unable to stop that blooming warmth in the center of his chest from bursting out of him
The amount of grief that went into cultivating the garden feels paralyzing to think about, even now.
Eddies then departure was fresh, like live wires under Bucks skin, and after that, the devastating month or so that Bobby was presumed dead was—
Buck had spent weeks hiding in the backyard after, desperately tending to the plants as if they too would leave him, convinced somewhere in the back of his mind that he needed to put in the work, tend and care for the plants until his skin blistered, raw, bloody, so the plants wouldn't die—wouldn't leave him too.
The track on the record fades out and the song changes, something soft in Portuguese that Buck vaguely recognizes from a lifetime ago. It's a bit upbeat, but holds an undercurrent of cozy, bright joy that bleeds into the kitchens atmosphere.
Buck dips a spoon into the pesto sauce, tasting it and humming happily.
Somewhere beneath the music, further in the house, he can hear the water shut off and then the creak of their bathroom door, wet feet padding across the floorboards as Eddie makes his way out.
Buck pokes the tip of his tongue out, focused as he checks on the garlic bread in the oven, prodding at the homemade baguette, unable to wrench his eyes away, scrutinizing the bread as Eddie walks in.
"Wow—it smells incredible in here, Buck." Eddie remarks, voice relaxed in the way it only gets after a long shift or hard, physical exertion, where he's tired himself out enough that he might genuinely get some proper rest the following night.
"Yeah?" Buck inquires, grinning, eyebrows raised when he looks over his shoulder. Eddie slumps down at the kitchen table, having grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. He grins back.
"Hell yeah," He nods, moving to point at Buck, the motion making his tank top ride up just a sliver. He says, "You know—maybe we need to get you on one of those reality TV cooking shows, you might be missing your calling, Buckley." He teases.
Buck rolls his eyes, settling at the stove with his back turned, focusing on the pasta again. "Ha ha," He shoots back, trying to adjust the apron around his waist. "That joke doesn't get any funnier the tenth time around, Ed's—trust me, Chim's tried."
"Mmm," Eddie hums, and Buck can feel his eyes following his clumsy hand movements, the tie at Bucks back not quite coming loose. "I'm not joking, though, you could really make your own cookbook."
"I appreciate the vote of confidence, really—jeez, this things ridiculous—" Buck mutters, slumping more and more in place as he gets frustrated, the only thing he manages to do is tighten the small bow at his back.
Eddie sighs.
Behind him, Buck hears the soft clank of Eddie's water bottle being placed down. "Here, let me," He offers. The kitchen chair scrapes against the floor and suddenly there's a gentle line of heat at his back, not quite close enough to scorch, but enough to make Buck sweat. "I got you."
Buck doesn't speak, a sea of words caught in his throat as Eddies deft hands move quickly behind him, pulling apart the strings of his apron, and then readjusting it around Buck's waist—perfectly snug so that it feels firm and grounding, but not enough for the knot to come loose again.
If Buck could get his brain to work again, he's sure he could weave the action into some sort of poetic metaphor.
Eddie pauses there for a moment, hands resting lightly near Buck's waist as he inspects his work, fingertips just barely grazing his side—Buck can almost see the goosebumps that are rising on his bare arms.
"All good?" Eddie asks, quiet. Steady.
"Y-Yeah—yeah, uh thank you." Buck stammers, nodding stiffly when Eddie pats his hip.
The song switches again, gently cutting through the moment.
It's ABBA's Andante, Andante and Buck blinks against the flush in his cheeks, fighting for it not to show. He doesn't look up at the window, doesn't know if he can handle seeing the silhouette of Eddie, just standing behind him like this.
The spot on his hip, where Eddies hand lingers for a beat too long, burns. It's a low heat, warm. Buck wants to sink into the feeling. When Eddie moves away and hops on top of the counter next to him, he mourns the loss of heat.
"What're we making?" Eddie asks. We.
Buck breathes past the heavy weight in his chest and pastes on a smile. He loves when Eddie does that, loves the reminder that Eddie, too, enjoys and revels in the way they're almost attached at the hip, living in each others pockets—one never far behind the other.
A pleasant flush is slowly taking over his face, he just knows it. It's harder to hide like this, Eddie practically facing him from his spot on the counter. Buck ducks his head a bit, forcing himself to look focused on the dish.
"Homemade pesto sauce with pasta and lemon, chili marinated chicken, plus garlic bread—it's a new recipe I've been meaning to try out." He explains.
He's making the dish for Eddie.
Eddie doesn't know that, is never going to if Buck can help it because it's a little bit embarrassing and a whole lot pathetic, but Buck spent literal days researching and perfecting the recipe, using Bobby and Athena's kitchen so Eddie didn't find out. By the third time Buck went over to the Grant-Nash house after shift, arms laden with groceries and a fresh spiral locked and ready to go, Bobby had sat him down and asked him what the hell he was doing. Which—
Buck has no fucking clue.
Originally, Buck had seen the ingredients on a grocery run and remembered some off-hand comment Eddie made some weeks ago, about how he missed this restaurant near downtown and their chicken pesto pasta. He hadn't even really complained to Buck, didn't mention how upset he'd been when they closed down, but suddenly, standing at the end of the cereal and dry goods aisle all Buck could think of doing, all he wanted to do, possessed with sudden yearning as he was, was to make it for Eddie.
A part of it is because he always wants to do things for Eddie, loves being needed the way Eddie needs him, loves being around the man all the time, is greedy for it—just swallowing every second he's granted of Eddie presence. So, of course this is something he wants to do for him, to give to Eddie, who so rarely asks for what he needs, let alone what he wants.
The other part is that Buck is pathetically, hopelessly and embarrassingly in love with his best friend.
Surprisingly (only to himself he's sure, given Maddie's reaction when he told her), it hadn't taken very long to admit that after Eddie and Chris came back. Buck had seen Eddie's face across the airport, squinting as he searched for Buck in the sea of people waiting at the arrivals gate and thought oh, it's you.
Of course it's you.
He gave himself ample time to spiral afterwards, and he still owes Maddie, Hen and Bobby some sort of gift basket for putting up with weeks of him blowing their phone up and, in Bobby's case, bursting through the Grant-Nash households front door at frankly outrageous hours of the night—but now all he seems to be able to do about the issue is cook and bake and babysit Jee and, and and—
Mostly, he avoids Eddie these days. Buck knows he hasn't been very subtle, but, a little shamefully, he's been banking on the fact that Eddie been too distracted with getting Chris settled in and getting used to shifts at the station again, to really call Buck out on it.
Now though, Christopher isn't here. He'd said something about hanging out with as many of his friends as possible by the end of summer now that they've finally moved back to LA, never mind that the teen's summer break has only just begun.
It means Buck can't use him as a human buffer anymore, shielding him and Eddie from the inevitable conversation that'll occur. He can't hide from the inevitable fact that, somehow but most definitely, Buck isn't going to be able to keep his mouth shut and—
He's going to ruin this.
Eddies nods pleasantly, acknowledging the dish, Buck thinks fondly, despite the fact that he definitely has no clue what the hell Buck just said. He peers at the stove, eyeing the food with the eyes of a man that hasn't had anything but sweet tea and fruits all day.
Eddie sighs, forlorn and then turns to Buck, those stupid cow eyes that Buck can't resist turned on full blast. "I'm starving just looking at it."
Buck shakes his head. He can't really decide if he feels exasperated or endeared.
"Alright," He dips his spoon into the sauce again, holding it up to Eddie. "I guess you can try some."
Eddie grins at him, victorious.
Buck expects Eddie to grab the spoon and taste the sauce for himself—instead, what Eddie does is bend down a little, open his mouth and capture the spoon in it as Buck holds it out to him, keeping eye contact with Buck the entire time.
Heat stirs in his gut and Buck inhales, sharp. He's only afforded a reprieve because Eddie lingers for a moment, eyes fluttering shut as he savors the sauce, Bucks hand still outstretched holding the damn spoon.
Strangely, his brain quiets for the first time in weeks, all of his remaining neurological functions working to reserve as much power as possible, if only to simply keep him upright as he watches the way Eddies plump lips curve around the silver, tongue briefly darting out to lick away stray bits of sauce when Buck finally gets the wherewithal to gently pull the spoon back.
Bucks wants to stop Eddie, wants to lick the sauce off of his mouth himself, wants to dive forward and claim Eddies lips in a searing kiss.
He doesn't do any of that.
The track changes again. Fade into you, Mazzy Star.
Buck clears his throat in the momentary silence before the music resumes. He draws back slowly and places the spoon off to the side, desperately trying not to look at the wet sheen of saliva left behind on Eddies lips.
"Well?" He asks. There's a waver underneath his voice he can't quite conceal.
Eddie considers it for a moment, gaze sliding over Buck and then he nods, staring into Bucks eyes. "Very good."
The oven timer he set goes off. Buck's never been more grateful in his life for the damn thing.
Buck starts. "Ah—that's um, the garlic bread, I'll uh just…yeah—" He stammers, wrenching himself away, pulling back from the well of gravity that seems to always drag him into Eddie's space.
Eddie perks up, eyebrows raised in a, ridiculously endearing, mirror to Christopher, who always makes the same face whenever Buck serves him with a plate of pancakes. "Garlic bread?" He asks.
Buck huffs, laugh caught on the tip of his tongue. "Yeah I uh, thought it would be nice, you know, with the dinner." He shrugs.
The pieces of baguette are laid beautifully on the tray. They've come out golden, evenly toasted on all sides and the kitchen, if it's even possible, smells even more heavenly with the aroma of garlic butter wafting in the air. Buck leaves the tray to cool on the kitchen table, leaving the plate of grated cheese nearby so he won't forget to coat the bread in it afterwards.
Eddie peers over his shoulder again, face inches away from resting on Bucks admittedly taller shoulder. Buck suppresses a shiver and wonders, feeling mildly hysterical, why Eddie keeps doing that.
"I can't imagine how you had the time to whip all this up after how much work you did today…" Eddie wonders out loud. His breath tickles Bucks neck. Buck closes his eyes for a moment, begging his pulse to settle, to decrease back towards something you'd consider a semi-normal resting rate. "Seriously, Buck, we could've just ordered in."
Coming from anyone else, Buck would have been devastated at that sentence. He would've assumed the other person was gently trying to let him down, making it known his gesture wouldn't be reciprocated or appreciated.
From Eddie, though?
Buck might've just spent the last couple of weeks spiraling down a rabbit hole of what-ifs and worst case scenarios about fucking everything up or somehow upsetting Eddie enough that he'd never want to speak to Buck again, but Buck understands this—he knows Eddie, down to the smallest facial cues and the ridiculous coffee order he only gets after a rough shift.
Like some sick twist of fate, a red string that connects them even in the darkest parts of them, one of Eddies biggest fears, like Buck, is the fear of being an inconvenience. Eddie's fear in this case, doesn't tend to manifest in the same way it does for Buck. Where Buck overcompensates and makes haphazard attempts at course-correcting, desperately pouring everything he has into showing others why they should keep him around, why they should need him, begging for the chance to prove he won't inconvenience them, Eddie tends to draw into himself.
He isolates, and pushes down his feelings, beating any wants or desires down into a dark void where he can pretend it's not haunting him—Eddie punishes himself, over and over again in small, almost imperceptible ways.
Buck still remembers the months after Christopher left. How he'd watched as Eddie drew further into himself, far enough that Buck constantly worried that, eventually, Eddie would retreat so far away that even Buck couldn't reach him. Remembers how Eddie stopped taking milk and syrup with his coffees, drinking it black despite how much he hates black coffee. How he stopped accepting invitations to go out with everyone else, opting to stay in his dark, empty house after long shifts.
The Eddie in front of him right now isn't the same man. He's not the man who punishes himself for existing, not really, not anymore since he went back for his son, not since they finally came home, Buck knows that. But he also knows Eddie worries sometimes, that it's hard for him to accept these small gestures of kindness like this—of love, when it's directed solely at him.
Buck tilts his head to the side, lightly bumping it against Eddie's and grins. "What? And let you order that olive and cheese monstrosity? Eddie, I'd beg Pepa for her tamales recipe and make you an entire tub of them if it'd stop you from ordering that pizza ever again." He shakes his head, teasing.
Eddie rolls his eyes, but his cheeks are darker in Bucks peripheral as he ducks his head. Their height and proximity makes Eddie's head just tall enough to rest gently on Bucks back, only a small bubble of space separating them, stopping Eddie body from being completely pressed up against him.
Eddie scoffs, voice low. "You know she'd give it to you if you just asked, Buck."
Buck hums. The bread is cooled enough to begin sprinkling his plate of grated cheese on them. He takes a deep breath and allows himself the moment, standing there, Eddies weight leaning into him while he plates the baguettes as the record player croons something soft and unrecognizable.
Once he's done there, they shift, Eddie naturally following Bucks silent cue to move, like it's second nature, like they share body and limb. He ends up moving to the backdoor, closing the screen now that it's dark out, but letting the door stay cracked open while Buck finishes up with the chicken and pasta.
Buck motions to a bottom cupboard with his elbow, his hands full with their plates. "There's uh, wine chilling in the fridge, could you—?"
When he walks out of the kitchen, he tries not to flush at the romantic undertones of the set-up—it's just that it doesn't feel right to drink beer with the meal, that's all. And—the living rooms dimmed lighting with the soft atmosphere is only because it's getting late. Really, who turns on bright headlights this far into the evening, anyway?
Eddie nods. "I got it." He follows Buck out to the dining room with two wine glasses and the wine, safely tucked in the crook of his arm.
Eddie digs in right away once they sit down, eyes closing in bliss as he takes a large bite of both chicken and pasta. The groan he lets out is obscene and Buck has to look away from the scene, feeling his stomach dip—he downs half of his glass of wine and tries to breath through his nose.
"You know what this reminds me of?" Eddie wonders out loud as they're finishing up with dinner. "That uh, restaurant downtown, what was it called…" He trails off.
Buck feels another swoop of anxiety. Somehow, despite the fact that he hasn't done anything wrong, he feels caught. He nods, trying for nonchalance. "Marlene's Kitchen," He provides. "I kind of remember, yeah." He lies.
Eddie points to him, excited. "Yeah! God, I loved that pesto chicken pasta they did. And—this tastes exactly like it, but ten times better somehow," Eddie pauses, wine glass halfway to his mouth. His eyes narrow at Buck. "Wait."
Buck keeps his gaze trained on the empty bowl of pasta, pretending to inspect the leftover crumbs of his garlic bread.
"Buck."
"Hm?"
"Buck."
Buck sighs. "Yes, Eddie?"
"Did you manage to figure out the recipe of a dish, from a closed down restaurant downtown, after we went there like, twice?" He asks, disbelieving.
Buck blinks. He can't help but think that being known so well can be a curse sometimes. "Well I uh—maybe?"
Eddie's eyes widen, like he'd expected Buck to deny it. "I…how? Why?"
Buck shrugs. "You were craving it." He rushes to explain further at the incredulous expression on Eddie's face. "A few weeks ago, you mentioned it when we were watching that ridiculous action movie."
"Oh." Eddie looks at him then, big, brown eyes full of emotion. The intensity of it is enough to take Bucks breath away, and if he was standing right now, he's sure he would've swooned. But—
For the first time in a long time, Buck can't read Eddie's face, can't wade through the storm of feelings there and pick them out one by one in the lines of his face.
For a brief moment, it looks like Eddie's going to say something, but then he just shakes his head, smiles softly at Buck and begins gathering their dishes.
Buck can't do much except frown and stand, following right behind.
The record player is still going, the sound of an old eighties song fills the kitchen, humming in the background. Buck doesn't know this one. He thinks, as he begins washing their dishes, that it's probably something that got added automatically to the playlist he'd made. Eddie steps in next to him, hip brushing Bucks. He grabs a towel and silently begins drying the wet dishes once Bucks finished with them. He's swaying in place, moving with the music, Buck realizes.
Its not until a few minutes later, when Bucks finished washing the dishes and is putting the wine away, once Eddies dried the last plate and put it away that he just stands there for a moment, hands frozen mid-air. His back is turned to Buck.
Eddie turns suddenly, to face him and, like he's forcing the words out before he loses his nerve, asks, "Did I ever tell you I used to dance?"
Buck blinks at Eddie for a moment before asking, very eloquently, "What?"
Eddie chuckles, likely at the shock on his face and Buck watches as the nerves on his face disappear, the tension in his shoulders bleeding away as he breathes. "Yeah, yeah I uh, did ballroom dancing until I was about fourteen," He explains, casually leaning against the counter and crossing his arms like he didn't just shift Bucks entire worldview.
Eddie used to dance.
Eddie can dance.
"I was real good too, my mom probably keeps a bunch of the trophies in her attic back in El Paso."
Bucks still trying to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "I—" He closes the fridge, stepping closer to Eddie. He has a million questions, his first being if Eddie has pictures and the second, if he can see them. "Why'd you stop?" He asks instead.
Eddie shrugs, but it's not indifferent, not the collected, relaxed response Eddie wants it to be. It's jerky, the motion stiff as he does it—the set of his spine, shoulders, body, it's…sad.
"It wasn't fun anymore." He replies, simple as that. Buck can read the unspoken words hiding behind Eddies fake apathy. Suddenly, Buck knows, down to his fucking bone marrow, without Eddie needing to voice it, what had happened—his parents had, like they did with most everything else in Eddies childhood and young adult life, sucked the joy right out of him.
Somehow they had managed to take away the freedom of dance.
God, does Buck have a few choice words for Helena and Ramon Diaz the next time he sees them, decorum be damned. Bucks jaw hurts a bit, he realizes, moving to unclench it.
Eddie sighs, lips quirking up again, aimed at Buck like he already knows what he's thinking.
"Anyway, that's not why I—" Eddie sighs and moves closer to Buck, right hand stretched towards him, eyes hopeful. "Just—dance with me?"
Buck gapes. "Eddie I don't…" He starts, and for a moment watches as Eddie's face begins to fall, before he admits, sheepishly. "I have…no clue how to dance."
Eddies smile is breathtaking. Buck can't believe his smartwatch hasn't given him a warning about his BPM yet.
"That's okay," Eddie reassures. taking another step, facing Buck in the middle of their kitchen. Gently he grabs Bucks hand, fingers skirting atop his hand before he turns Bucks hand palm-up and grasps it. "I'll teach you."
"Uhm, I—are you sure?" Buck asks. He's not sure if he's still talking about dancing.
He's too terrified to think about anything past this moment. The two of them, curved towards one another in the kitchen, lights dimmed and warm, just the distant cacophony of crickets from the open windows and a softer song—tango he thinks in a daze—to accompany them.
Eddie nods once, eyes firm and steady and so very, very warm, Buck wants to melt in them. "I'm sure."
Buck chuckles, breathless before he squeezes Eddies hand, grasping it back just as tightly. "Alright, cowboy—don't get too upset if I step on any toes, though." He warns, teasing.
Eddies eyes darken before he grabs Bucks other hand, gently maneuvering them to rest on his shoulders. Buck hands curve towards Eddies neck on instinct, and he barely stops himself from brushing his fingers through the tuft of hair at the back of his neck.
"I won't." Eddie promises.
Eddies own hands come to rest at Bucks hips, pressing in. He pulls him closer. "Okay, and then my hands go here..." Eddie mutters under his breath, instructing as one of his hands move to Bucks shoulder blade and slowly, he pushes Buck forward, until their chests meet—until their noses are close enough to brush.
Bucks breath hitches and the corner of Eddies mouth quirks up. "Okay?" He asks.
He realizes with a start that their bodies are close enough, pressed up against one another like pillars, for Eddie to feel his heartbeat.
Buck nods, barely perceptible, he'd say he can't trust his words enough to speak right now, but it's mostly the fact that his mouth is slack, dropped open in shock and he's kind of forgotten how to close it again.
Eddie understands though, he inhales once and then moves his hand back to Bucks hip. "Alright, just—move with me, move with the beat, alright? Tangos all in the hips."
And move they do. They trip up a few times, because Buck can't stop looking down at their feet to make sure he won't mess up and then ends up distracted by the image of their bodies pressed up against each other, feeling connected to Eddie in a way he's never experienced.
But eventually, they fall into a steady rhythm. Buck stops looking down as much and focuses on the way Eddie feels against him, on the long fingers that hold Buck against him, on the soft curve of his own hands that seem to mold perfectly against Eddies neck, the way Eddie tilts his head and rests it slightly against Bucks arm, pretty brown eyes watching him the whole time.
Buck feels—
He feels alive.
Slowly, after however much times passed, the low tango transitions, and Buck, who feels as though he's moving through syrup, or maybe caramel, perks up.
He recognizes this song. He knows the opening chord by heart, and the lyrics even more so—because they're the same words, constantly on repeat in his mind these days, whenever he looks at Eddie.
Eddie, my love.
I love you so….
Eddie doesn't notice.
Seamlessly, all he does is readjust them, maneuvering Bucks body like it's his own, into something resembling the positioning of a waltz—except he pulls them closer again, pressing against him and rests his head against Bucks shoulder, left hand against his chest.
He grins up at Buck, soft and secret, just for them.
Oh my god, I can't breath, Buck thinks, right before he blurts out, "I love you."
Eddies eyes widen, and they stop swaying in place. "What?" He breathes out, his fingers are digging into Bucks waist suddenly, grip becoming painful.
Buck doesn't care.
"I'm—jesus christ, Eddie I'm so in love with you I can't breathe." Buck rambles, gripping onto him tighter, terrified out of his mind. "You're so beautiful I can't—I can barely think, I'm always looking at you and then you go and ask me to dance and I don't know what the hell to think—" Buck keeps going, words tumbling out of him at a speed he can't stop. It's like a dam's burst inside of him and everything's rushing out, threatening to drown both of them. "And then you, you sit there all day in the sun, just miles of skin on display driving me crazy, watching me like you could...like you—hmph."
Eddies nose bumps against Buck's cheek with the force of how hard he launches himself at Buck, his hands cradling his face, mouth only closing around his bottom lip before Eddie readjusts and finally, finally, they're kissing.
The kiss isn't frantic, despite the intensity with which Eddie initially jumped at him, but it's long enough that Buck almost forgets to breath out through his nose, hands moving to grasp at Eddies forearms, holding on for dear life.
Buck has to stop the whine that tries to tear its way from his throat when their lips separate, he breathes when Eddie breathes, barely moving half an inch away to come up for air.
Buck starts, eyes opening to watch Eddie's face, relaxed and slack. "So you—"
"I do," Eddie nods, answering the words he'd stopped Buck from saying earlier, the words that he hadn't realized had been lodged in his throat all day.
He's panting, hard, his eyes are still closed. "Evan, I haven't stopped looking at you since the first time you smiled at me."
Buck chuckles, breathless with relief and rests his forehead against Eddies. This time he does whimper, a little bit, too many emotions caught in his throat. Eddie's eyes flutter open at the sound, dazed before they meet Bucks. "Hi." He whispers.
Buck can feel his face split into a grin, he has the sudden urge to swipe his thumb across Eddie's lower lip, to feel the plump softness of it. With a thrill, Buck realizes he can. "Hi."
"You know I'm in love with you, too, right?" Eddie whispers, words honeyed and soft, murmured between their shared breaths, the air faintly brushing past Bucks thumb, where he still holds Eddie's lower lip.
"Yeah?" He asks.
"Yeah." Eddie echoes, grining back and chuckling. "I—god, Buck I can't believe you even remembered that. I barely remember what I had for breakfast."
"Omelette with cheese, toast and pancakes with some strawberries." He replies, watching Eddie's face soften further, if that's even possible. "Eddie—I remember everything about you. Always." His big cow eyes blink rapidly up at him, the edges of them wet with emotion.
Bucks voice breaks. "You—Eddie, you're everything." He explains, helpless.
A pained noise rips from Eddie's throat before he nods, frantic as he pulls Buck back in. The kiss is still soft, gentle in its firmness—it's steady and grounding and lights his every nerve on fire as Eddie moves even further into him like he can't get enough. Licks into Bucks mouth like he wants to devour him, every inch of their bodies pressed together like Eddie wants them to fuse—needs them to. Like he wants to crawl into Bucks ribcage and make a home for himself there.
You already have, Buck thinks deliriously, trying to press the words into Eddie's mouth, it's the space past my ribcage, behind my lungs. It's yours, it's yours, it's yours.
Eddie kisses him like he knows.
They detach again, they have to, both of them gasping for air, panting with the intensity of it.
Eddies eyes are wild though, and he barely gives himself a moment to settle, lips burning a brand into Bucks skin as Eddie makes his way down his neck, hands braced against Bucks hips, pushing him back and into the counter, keeping him steady.
Buck gasps, a string of slurred expletives falling from him as Eddie explores his neck with all the vigor of a man starved. He can't help the whine that bursts out of him, hands flying up to Eddie's neck, guiding him as he makes a valiant attempt to bruise every inch of his neck and collarbone.
Buck feels dizzy with want, mind hazy and thoughts muddling the more he's touched.
"Eddie, Eddie, Eddie…."
"Yeah," Eddie mutters into his skin. "Yeah—I've got you, sweetheart. I got you."
Eddie holds him against the counter, arms cradling Buck like he's something precious, something to handle gently, clinging on like he's never going to do anything else ever again, and all Buck can think, safe, steady and warm and so very loved is yeah, you really do.