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Buck feels like concrete. His limbs are made of sandbags, and his head is something else that’s heavy. Like a stone. A big one. A big, heavy rock that is hard to hold up and even harder to think with.
He drags his sandbag legs up the driveway and uses the strength of a thousand suns to lift his arm up and line the key up with the needlessly tiny hole. He pushes it, he twists, the door swings open in front of him.
He’s so heavy that he doesn’t even stumble forward with it. He stays where he is, bolted to the ground by exhaustion. He blinks. Well, that was his intention — someone attaches 10-pound weights to his eyelids as soon as he’s not looking.
He lets out a sigh that comes from so deep within that it almost hurts.
He fights gravity. He opens his eyes.
Somehow, even though millennia have passed — wars have been fought and lost, empires built and toppled — he’s still standing in the doorway of Eddie’s house that is also currently his house.
He sucks in a breath and steps forward. One foot. Two foot.
One foot.
Two foot.
Inside.
He bats at the door pathetically until he hears it shut, because at some point his eyes have fallen closed again against his will, and he can’t shut the door and try to open them at the same time. He's not Superman.
“You okay?” Someone says. Eddie. Eddie says. Buck can open his eyes for Eddie. Buck could lift a bus clean off the ground for Eddie.
He defies the laws of physics and is rewarded with Eddie, smiling at him, amused, over the back of the couch. He’s reading a book, his back against the armrest, legs up on the couch.
Buck wants to climb on top of him and fall asleep for the next few millennia.
“Tired,” he supplies, when he remembers Eddie asked him a question.
Eddie softens, the way he often does when Buck says something honest.
“Come’re,” Eddie says, placing his book face down on the floor, saving his page.
To be honest, Buck doesn’t even make the conscious decision to move — he doesn’t even know he’s doing it until he’s right in front of Eddie.
Eddie smiles at him, amused again, and opens his arms. Buck is very tired, okay. He worked a double, covering for B-shift, and instead of good karma, the universe said here, have a shift from hell xx.
So he’s tired, and his bones ache, and his limbs are made from sandbags, remember — and the big rock stone of a head, that’s what he’s working with. So when Eddie opens his arms, wearing his softest sweats, his hair all messy and free from its gel jail, Buck is powerless against what happens next.
He’s fairly sure, in some faraway part of his brain, that Eddie doesn’t mean for him to climb onto the couch, slot his legs between Eddie’s, and collapse on top of him — Eddie’s chest his new favorite pillow.
He does know that’s probably not what he meant. But it is what Buck does.
Eddie’s arms wrap around him, and Buck lets out a contented sigh.
“I’m glad you’re home,” Eddie says quietly.
“Mm?” Buck hums. Sleep is pulling at him. He’s never been this comfortable in his life.
“Yeah,” Eddie says. “It’s too quiet without you.”
Buck hums again, because that’s nice. It’s nice that Eddie missed him, even though it could never be as much as Buck misses Eddie. Buck misses Eddie too much — more than he’s allowed.
A hand sweeps over his back. That feels nice, too. He likes it here. Here is so good.
It’s warm and safe and smells good. It smells like Eddie.
The th-thunk, th-thunk, th-thunk under his ear sounds like Eddie, too. Even as it gets faster and faster, he knows it’s Eddie just by the rhythm of it.
It’s like a lullaby, his favorite one. And he couldn’t be closer to sleep, really. He’s never been closer to sleep. But the lullaby’s tempo is reaching notable and concerning speeds.
He frowns, and brings his hand up over where Eddie’s heart is hammering in his chest — it’s definitely way too fast.
He can’t quite get his eyes open yet, but he’s working on it. Thankfully, Eddie seems to understand the implied concern.
Eddie breathes out a laugh. “Yeah, uh - - sorry,” he says. “I’m working up to something. Harder than you’d think.”
As stated, Buck is very tired. But not even 48 hours of pure hell could stop him from lifting his head at that. He looks up, squished face, messy hair, eyes squinting from the sudden light, and finds Eddie smiling at him, fond.
He frowns, confused.
Eddie chuckles. He reaches out and runs a hand through Buck’s hair, trying to tame it. “It’s okay, baby,” he whispers. “We’ll talk about it when you’re not about to pass out.”
Buck does nearly pass out at that. His arms briefly give out beneath him, but he catches himself on Eddie’s chest.
“Huh?” He offers eloquently. Because, what?
Eddie laughs again, as if this is a laughing matter, and uses his hand in Buck’s hair to direct him back toward his chest. “Sleep,” he says. “You seemed comfy.”
Which is true. He was. He returns easily to his place on Eddie’s chest. Eddie’s arms come up around him, and oh. Obviously. Yes. He is asleep. He’s dreaming, probably. He might even still be at work, passed out in the engine or halfway to the bunks.
He doesn’t mind, though. This is nice. This is really, really nice.
When he comes to, there are voices.
“What would you think about that?” Eddie says quietly. “You can be honest.”
Buck is the kind of tired that doesn’t ease with a measly nap. His body is exhausted; it’s almost more noticeable now than it was when he dragged himself home. It was a kind of floaty and numb exhaustion, then. His brain was too tired to give it all that much thought, beyond heavy and ow.
His brain, on the other hand, feels notably more awake. Like the nap switched off the battery saving mode he’d been surviving on and recharged him to a functioning capacity.
All that’s to say that he is A) still unable to easily open his 10-pound eyelids, and B) now incredibly aware that he’s cuddling with Eddie, and it seems like maybe it was not a dream.
It’s silent for long enough that Buck gets lost in his spiraling and almost forgets about the voices. And then Chris says:
“It would be kind of weird,” and Buck feels Eddie tense beneath him. “But not bad weird. Just weird.”
“Okay,” Eddie says. His heart is beating so fast, again, Buck notices. “Weird, but not bad weird. Is it weird because he’s a man?”
No,” Christopher says. “I don’t think so. I think because it’s Buck.”
He is Buck. He’s, like, pretty sure. Yes, he’s definitely Buck, and they are definitely talking about him.
He does what anyone in their right mind would do and continues to pretend to be asleep. On his best friend’s chest. Like a good, decent, regular person.
“Right,” Eddie says. “So you’re okay with me dating a man, but you’re not sure about me dating Buck.”
Buck forgets about breathing. He forgets it even exists as a concept, let alone a life-sustaining practice.
Fuck.
Everyone knows the most important part of pretending to be asleep is the breathing. If you fuck up the fake sleep breathing, you’re toast.
He sucks in what he hopes seems like an extra-deep sleep-breath, and not a gasp one would do if they forgot about the concept of breathing for a minute.
He thinks Eddie may not notice, until a hand rubs along his back.
“I’m not unsure about it,” Christopher says. “I just think it would be weird. He’s Buck.”
“You love Buck.”
“Yeah,” Christopher confirms. “But you guys will like…kiss and stuff.”
The hand squeezes.
“Okay,” Eddie says. “So it might be a little bit that he’s a man?”
“No,” Christopher insists. “I’m not homophobic. It’s just - - it’s Buck. He’s like - - he’s my friend. It’s weird if your dad, like… kisses your friend.”
“Oh,” Eddie breathes. “Well, we could come up with some boundaries. No PDA.”
Christopher scoffs. “Yeah, okay.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re already weird and obsessed with each other. It’s gonna be so gross. I mean, look,” he emphasizes. Buck assumes he’s referring to where he’s currently platonically tucked against Eddie’s chest. “You’re already gross, and you’re, allegedly, not even dating.”
Eddie laughs. He rubs a hand down Buck’s back. “We’re not. He’s tired.”
“I don’t do that with my friends when they’re tired.”
“Good,” Eddie says. Soft fingers trace over the planes of Buck’s back.
Christopher sighs. “Can I go now?”
“Are we landing on weird but not bad weird? Final answer?”
“Final answer,” Christopher confirms.
There’s a beat of silence. Buck does an absolutely stellar job of fake sleep breathing.
“Um. If you don’t date Buck, will you date guys now?”
Oh. Buck hates the thought of that. He tenses. Eddie definitely notices.
He rubs another soothing hand down Buck’s back. “I have to be honest, buddy. I’m pretty set on dating Buck,” he says, and fuck. His fake sleep breathing is doomed. “But yeah. I think I would. Is that okay with you?”
“Yeah,” Christopher says. “That’s cool. So you - -“ he cuts himself off. “Yeah. Okay. You can date Buck.”
“Oh, so now it’s not weird and gross?” Eddie teases.
“No, it still is.”
Eddie laughs. “Whatever you say, kid. Hey. I love you more than anything, you know that?”
“I know, Dad,” Christopher groans. “I love you, too.”
“Alright. Go on. Video games until lunch, then I want you off the screens.”
Christopher groans again, but his heart’s not in it. He’s a good kid. Always has been. Buck kind of wants to cry thinking about it.
A hand buries itself in his curls, and Buck forgets to want to cry about how much he loves Christopher.
“Good nap?” Eddie asks, even though Buck’s eyes are very much still closed and he hasn’t moved a single muscle.
Buck hums.
Eddie chuckles. “Sorry, I didn’t plan that. He just…saw us. And he asked. And I’m tired of lying.”
Buck blinks his eyes open. He’s looking at the back of the couch. He tilts his head up and finds Eddie. He looks exactly the same and entirely different.
“I thought I was dreaming,” Buck says, which is kind of embarrassing, really, and a bit of a cliche. He doesn’t even mean it like that. He doesn’t mean it in the flippant, offhanded way people say it. He means it in the most literal, honest definition of the words. This is something he wants so much, that he’s not allowed to have — that he was so sure he wasn’t allowed to have. Something he has dreamed about. Something Eddie is, impossibly, improbably, seemingly, saying out loud. “Time’sit?”
Eddie’s fingernails scratch against his scalp. “Just after 10. You haven’t been out that long. Hour and a half, maybe.”
Buck frowns. “It’s your day off,” he says. “It’s laundry day.”
Eddie has a system. It’s a sacred system.
Eddie shrugs. “Laundry’s not going anywhere. I could probably fold it on top of you if I really wanted. You were out cold.”
Buck closes his eyes. As a lifelong snorer, he knows what those words really mean. “I was snoring on you?” He gapes.
Eddie grins. “It was cute,” he insists. “You drooled, too.”
Buck gasps and flings himself into a sitting position. Sure enough, there’s a wet patch of drool on Eddie’s sweatshirt.
He waits for the mortification, for the pang of embarrassment, the heat of his face, but it doesn’t come.
Because this is Eddie. Eddie, who held his hand as Buck’s bones were crushed, and cleaned up his puke when the pain of mending was too much. Who climbed a ladder in a lightning storm, and restarted Buck’s heart, and helped him piss in the hospital. Eddie, who Buck clawed through the mud for, whose blood he washed out of his clothes and his hair and his skin, who broke on his shoulder every time he’s ever broken.
He can drool on Eddie. He’s allowed to drool on Eddie.
“I drooled on you,” he says. He traces his finger over the damp spot like it’s something sacred.
“You did,” Eddie agrees. “You want to keep napping? You’ve gotta be tired still.”
Buck does want that, but more than that, he wants this.
He flattens his hand out on Eddie’s chest, right over his beating heart.
“Your heart was beating so fast,” Buck says.
“Still is,” Eddie whispers.
Buck looks up and meets his eyes. “You said, um,” he tries, and it’s hard, okay, with Eddie looking at him like that. “You said you were working up to something?”
Eddie huffs out a laugh, but nods. He brings his own hand up to cover Buck’s, where it’s resting over Eddie’s heart. He locks their fingers together.
“I don’t do that with my friends when they’re tired, either,” he says. “I’m tired of pretending any different.”
Buck blinks. He knows it’s probably not, but right now that sounds like a riddle. He has to be sure. He has to be 100% certain.
“Can you say it like I haven’t slept in 48 hours?”
Eddie chuckles. “Yeah, baby,” he smiles. “I want you to come home to me, tired and snoring and drooling, for the rest of my life.”
Buck swallows. He searches Eddie’s face for the flicker of doubt, or the quirk of his lip that tells him this is some kind of joke.
Eddie sighs.
“I’m gay,” he says, plainly. “And in love with you.”
Buck stares at him. He buffers. He gapes. It’s one thing to overhear that information in a roundabout way; it’s another to have it delivered directly to his face.
“And I think we should kiss,” Eddie adds, for clarity.
Buck doesn’t really decide to do it — more so, he hears the words we should kiss come out of Eddie’s mouth, and then he’s kissing him.
Impossibly, improbably, seemingly, Eddie kisses him back.
It’s not a rushed or hurried thing, it’s something weighty and bone-deep — like this thing between them is tired, too, from all the wait and the weight of it all.
It’s slow and sweet and filled with relief, like a head hitting a pillow at the end of a day. It feels settled — kind of like you’ve been tossing and turning all night, and you finally, finally fall asleep — finally, finally wake up feeling rested.
Eddie’s other hand tangles in Buck’s hair, pulling his body even further forward. He goes willingly. He catches himself on Eddie’s chest, his other hand still tangled with Eddie’s over his thumping heart.
He pulls back, just enough to lean on his forearms, and looks down at the sight beneath him. Eddie is rosy-cheeked, flushed down to beneath his collar. His unstyled hair is a mess, and there’s a patch of drool near his shoulder. He blinks at Buck, like he’s just waking up too, and then blinds him with his favorite smile in the universe.
“Yeah,” Eddie breathes. “That.”
“I don’t understand,” Buck says, because he can’t catch any of the questions flying through his head quick enough to ask them. “What?” He tries. “When?”
Eddie shrugs. “I just got tired,” he says, like that’s the answer to everything.
And, yeah. Buck thinks it probably is.
“I’m in love with you,” Buck says, fast and breathless. Rips it off like a bandaid that’s been on too long.
Eddie smiles, soft and melty. “I know, baby,” he says, smoothing a curl away from Buck’s forehead. “You just drooled on me.”
Buck scoffs at the implication. “I’d drool on Chim.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“I love you,” Eddie says again. “You should sleep. You look like shit.”
Buck gapes. “I thought you said I was cute!”
“I said your snoring was cute.”
“So, what? You love me even though I’m hideous?”
Eddie chuckles. “Yes, baby. That’s exactly what I said.”
“You kind of did!”
Eddie leans up and kisses the pout off his face. “I was sitting here, missing you, waiting for you to come home,” he says, between kisses. “And I hear this slow, loud thudding up the driveway. And then the door swings open, and you were standing there, eyes closed, looking like you hadn’t slept in a week,” he says, with a kiss. “And I thought, God, that’s the love of my life. And he looks so hot even when he’s about to collapse.”
Buck pouts. “You’re just saying that.”
“Scout’s honor,” Eddie insists. “When I noticed you were drooling, I said aww out loud, and I meant it.”
Buck narrows his eyes. “That’s kind of embarrassing.”
“I know,” Eddie nods. “I think Chris saw it.”
“He’s definitely storing that away for later.”
“Oh yeah,” Eddie agrees. “Will be used against me for sure.”
“But you meant it?”
“I did.”
“You don’t think I’m hideous?”
“I definitely don’t think that.”
“You think I’m the love of your life?”
Eddie softens. “Yeah. You are.”
Buck’s eyes are burning, suddenly. He tries to blink away the tears, but it’s a losing battle. He’s still so tired, and everything he’s ever wanted is coming true.
Eddie wipes his thumb across the wetness of his cheek.
“I think I probably should sleep,” Buck agrees belatedly, voice wobbly. “If you say anything else, I think I’m gonna start sobbing.”
Eddie chuckles. “Is here good? Or bed?”
Buck buries his face in the crook of Eddie’s neck. “Here’s good,” he says, muffled. “Like it here.”
A broad hand smooths over his back, another twists around his curls. “Sweet dreams, baby,” he whispers into his hair.
The steady th-thunk, th-thunk, th-thunk of Eddie’s heartbeat lulls him back toward sleep.
“Love you,” Buck mumbles, some indistinguishable time later, right before he drifts, or maybe some time in between the drifting. “Love-a-mylife too.”
Someone gags. His pillow rumbles. A hand sweeps through his hair.
“That’s so creepy,” Christopher says. Christopher’s back. Buck loves him so much. “I thought he was asleep.”
“He is asleep. Hand me the socks.”
A pile of something lands on Buck’s back. Socks, probably.
“Is this yours or Buck’s?” Christopher asks.
“Buck’s,” Eddie says easily. Whatever it is, it lands near his butt.
Buck sucks in a deep, content breath. It smells like Eddie and fresh laundry and the rest of his life.