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The first thing Eddie does when he pulls into his driveway to find that his house has been crushed by an orange tree is head-butt his steering wheel.
The second thing he does, obviously, is call Buck.
Before his landlord, before the electrical company, before any of it, he calls Buck.
Buck, predictably, answers within two rings. He sounds weirdly out of breath, though, like he’s just come back from a run. “Yellow. You’ve got Buck.”
Just the sound of Buck’s voice makes Eddie not want to continue bashing his skull against the steering wheel. Exhaling slow, he says, “Hey, Buck.”
Worry immediately seeps into Buck’s voice. “You okay?”
Eddie lifts his head to confirm the state of his house. The orange tree is still very much there, amidst the wreckage of his home. The sole perpetrator, even.
“Sure,” he says.
Buck hesitates. “...Sure?”
“There’s a tree.”
“Where?”
“Inside my house.”
“Oh.” Eddie can practically see Buck’s eyebrows furrowing. “Like, you bought a tree?”
“No,” Eddie says. He hasn’t blinked since Buck picked up the phone. “It’s the orange tree.”
A beat of silence. “It’s inside your house.”
Eddie lets out an exhausted huff, leaning back in his chair. “Apparently.”
“How—”
“The storm, I think,” Eddie says before Buck’s even finished. He’s not sure how he’s maintaining his cool. His home is in ruins, and his voice remains entirely even. Like this sort of thing happens all the time. Like orange trees regularly attack L.A. homes. “I told the owner the roots were bad.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Buck says, sounding surprised.
Eddie didn’t tell him because Buck has his own house to worry about, his own trees to have concerns over. He moved out—meaning this problem, and all other problems, are his alone to deal with once more. Though they always have been, except for those six months where Buck took up the other half of Eddie’s bed, and a large chunk of his space. Now, that space is a ghost town, tumbleweeds rolling through it every night just to mock Eddie.
He taps a snappy pattern into the steering wheel. “I’ve emailed him four times in the last two months, Buck. And he says he’ll get someone to come look at it.”
Buck lets out a low whistle. Then, eloquently, “Shit.”
“You know who's looking at the roots now, Buck?” Eddie asks. “Me. I’m looking at the roots. They’re sticking out of my living room.”
There’s rustling through the line. “I’m on my way.”
“Buck, you don’t—I just—” Needed to hear your voice? Needed to talk to you?
“Don’t be an idiot,” Buck says. Coming from him, the words sound gentle. “I’m literally already heading out the door. See you in fifteen. Did you call the landlord?”
“Calling ‘em once we’re off the phone,” Eddie says faintly.
“Okay. Good luck.” A pause, then, “I’m root-ing for you.”
The corner of Eddie’s mouth quirks up. He’s grateful Buck’s not there to see it, because it’d do nothing but encourage him. Despite never having sired a child (other than the one he donated sperm for), Buck loves a damn dad joke. “Not funny.”
“Kinda funny.” He’s definitely smiling. The lilt in his voice gives him away.
Eddie stares at the foliage disaster that his life has become, letting out a slow breath, and saying, “Bye, Buck.”
“Bye, bye, bye—” Buck hangs up on himself, mid-word, because he’s weird like that.
Eddie sighs, moderately comforted by his best friend’s impending arrival, and wonders if this is some sort of karmic punishment. Then he remembers he doesn’t believe in karma, and swiftly waves the thought away.
This, he thinks, is just good old-fashioned Diaz luck.
Buck, upon stepping out of his jeep, spends a long minute staring at the house. His face is entirely unreadable; his eyebrows don’t even twitch.
Eddie kind of hates it. He’s Buck’s best friend. He wants Buck to look at him.
Only when Eddie clears his throat very pointedly does Buck startle back into motion.
“It’s not that bad,” Buck says.
Eddie guffaws, which is so unlike him. But he can’t help it—his house is missing a wall and a chunk of roof, and Buck’s telling him it’s not that bad.
“It’s not that bad?” he rasps, still laughing. Buck looks delighted, the way he always does when he surprises a laugh out of Eddie.
“Well,” Buck says, throwing an arm over Eddie’s shoulder. “It’s—it’s salvageable. When life gives you oranges, y’know?”
Pleased at the contact, but deeply unimpressed with the joke, Eddie spends a solid three seconds resisting the urge to push Buck over onto the grass. He barely succeeds. “That’s not how the saying goes.”
“Yeah,” Buck agrees, nodding thoughtfully. “Orange-ade isn’t even a thing.”
“Buck, that’s just juice.” He turns to look up at him, and Buck is grinning, his cheeks flushed pink and sweat beading across his brow—he’s beautiful. He came all this way, without Eddie even having to ask him to, to help Eddie salvage his things before Chris gets out of school. His things that are currently at least partially pinned beneath branches, foliage and evil, rotted roots.
God, Eddie thinks, dejected, There’s a tree in my house.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do, man,” Eddie sighs.
“Crash at mine,” Buck says, and Eddie’s heart gives a painful thud.
“Buck,” he tries weakly.
“No, come on,” Buck insists. “I’ve got a whole house, man. And you can help me unpack.”
Eddie narrows his eyes. “My house collapses, and you want to put me to work?”
“You would’ve helped anyway,” Buck says, entirely certain. He’s not wrong. Eddie had already squared away next Thursday to help him sort through the boxes he’s unceremoniously left on the kitchen table.
“I… Okay,” Eddie, with very few options and maybe a little bit excited to spend time with Buck close by again, relents.
Boyish and happy, Buck grins. “Awesome. We’ll talk specifics later.”
“Sure.”
“It’ll be fun,” Buck says. “Like—like a really long sleepover.”
“A really long sleepover?” Eddie repeats slowly, blanching. “Do you think it’s gonna take… how long do you think it’s gonna take?”
Buck’s eyes widen. “Um. Like, a month. At least.”
At Eddie’s expression, Buck rushes to say, “Or two weeks. One week, even. I don’t know.”
“Sure,” Eddie says again.
Eddie expects there will be a mediocre couch-shaped bed in his future. For at least a week. Maybe a month. Maybe a year. Hell, maybe it won’t be fixed till Chris is off at college. Buck would be nice about it, he thinks. He’d let Eddie move into the spare room once Chris no longer needs it. He’d probably get him a candle, too.
This is all fine. It’s only fair, really, considering how many times Buck’s had to settle for Eddie’s couch. Chris will get to be the one to break in Buck’s spare bedroom.
He realises, not for the first time, that Buck really would do anything for him. The realisation rolls through him like thunder, strong enough to make him a little queasy. His gut does a somersault in the confines of his stomach.
God. His face probably looks crazy right now—dumbstruck and fond.
It must show on his face, actually, because Buck’s megawatt grin falters. “Eddie—” His voice softens. “You peel-ing okay?”
Eddie does not resist the urge to shove him this time.
Hitting the grass in a heap, Buck cackles, rolling onto his back. “Come on! It was funny!”
Looking away, Eddie hides a smile, head shaking. “You’re never funny.”
A foot collides with Eddie’s ankle, almost knocking him completely off-kilter and onto Buck. Eddie tries his best to scowl. “You can’t kick me. There’s a tree in my house.”
Buck just shrugs, sitting up. The sun beams down on him; it’s a beautiful day now that the storm has receded—the shine of the new weather cascades over Buck. He’s so beautiful that Eddie can’t look at him for too long, lest he be blinded by it.
Unfortunately, that means looking back at his house, which is in a state of disrepair. He sighs, running a hand over his face. “C’mon, let's see if all my shit is broken.”
Buck taps his foot against Eddie’s calf. “Not gonna offer me a hand?”
Traitorously, Eddie’s brain offers: Orange you strong enough to get yourself up?
He kicks his own brain, turns, and sticks out a hand for Buck to take. Buck takes it, standing with a flourish, landing half in Eddie’s personal bubble.
The entire team thinks it’s extremely funny that Eddie is, for the time being, essentially homeless.
Or—okay. He’s not. Obviously. He’s put what he could salvage into Buck’s garage and spare room, and Chris seems to be taking to the impromptu move well. Eddie suspects he might even be secretly thrilled about it, given the way he had tracked Eddie down that first night and whispered, Buck’s got a hot tub.
Slumped on the couch earlier, Eddie had glowered at his team. Everyone had gathered in the loft to talk about the orange tree and its current occupancy in Eddie’s house. There were even two probies there, who couldn’t possibly have any stakes in the situation.
But there they were. Giggling at him.
Importantly, Eddie thinks, not a single person had given him any useful input. Nobody knew what they would do in his situation. And nobody looked more than a smidge sympathetic.
They had all dispersed per Chimney’s orders, returning to their chores. Eddie had, in protest, not moved. Predictably, Buck stayed put as well.
That does not mean he takes pity on him, though.
“Eddie, look,” Buck’s saying, “I think the root of the problem is that you’re stressed about this.”
Eddie narrows his eyes, rage roaring to life in his chest. “You wanna repeat that, bud?”
Buck smiles and tilts his head, a single dimple appearing. “You didn’t hear me?”
This guy is unbelievable.
“I heard the emphasis, Buck.”
Buck kicks his feet up onto the coffee table, sinking into the cushions. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Scoffing, Eddie says, “You’re so…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, just throws a hand up and then lets it slap back down against his leg.
“Jeez,” Buck says, all faux innocence. “What’s planted the seed of doubt in your head about me?”
“That one was not smooth,” Eddie retorts flatly.
Buck rubs the back of his neck, and Eddie gets the sudden, insane urge to do it for him.
“I know,” Buck admits, nose scrunching. “I’ve been workshopping it for days.”
“It sucked.”
“I can see you trying not to smile.”
“Don’t—” Eddie’s nostrils flare, cutting him a scathing look. “Stop looking at me.”
The look must not be very scathing, because Buck’s mouth twitches up. “Uh-huh.”
“Shut up.”
On the second night at Buck’s place, they had argued for twenty-three straight minutes about the sleeping arrangements. Buck keeps insisting that he’s perfectly capable of sleeping on his own couch, and he’d even specifically picked one with good lumbar support.
Eddie had thought that was even more reason that Eddie would be fine to reside there.
In the end, Eddie had just sighed, long and dramatic, and suggested they share the bed—just like they had at his place when Buck had resided there. Buck still seems reluctant, well aware he’s a snorer and a bed hog, but Eddie kind of missed sleeping next to a lawnmower every night.
It was weirdly soothing. He never had to question whether Buck was still there or not, because only two or three seconds would pass, and then he’d snuffle and snore again, putting Eddie’s anxiety at ease.
Days later, once they’re settled into bed for the night with the lights switched off and the blankets pulled up over their shoulders, Buck rolls over suddenly.
“Hey, Eddie?” he whispers.
Not opening his eyes, Eddie says, “Yeah, bud?”
Buck pauses, most likely for dramatic effect. Then he says, “Do you really find my jokes that una-peel-ing?”
Eddie sighs, long and hard. “Buck. It’s midnight.”
“I can go sleep on the couch if you want,” Buck says, like they hadn’t spent precious minutes earlier in the evening arguing about it. “The tension is pulp-able.”
Eddie turns his head, squinting at Buck through the dark. He can just about make out the shape of his mouth, the delicate furrow of his brow. He’s serious about this. “Buck.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed. Either I take the couch, or we share.” This is not a fight Buck is going to win. Eddie won’t let him. If Buck sneaks out to the couch, Eddie will sleep on the floor right next to him, in protest.
Buck swallows, the click of his throat loud in the room. “You really don’t mind, uh—sharing?”
Oh, Eddie minds, alright. Just not for the reasons Buck thinks. He minds because it won’t be forever. He minds because, at some point, he’ll have to wean himself off of it again—the comfort of having Buck nearby, of waking up beside him.
But he can’t exactly tell Buck that.
Evasively, Eddie says, “We’ve shared before.”
“Sure,” Buck allows. “But we never talked about—”
Eddie lets the seconds tick by, wondering if Buck somehow fell asleep mid-sentence. But then Buck exhales, slow and controlled, and Eddie knows he’s just lying there. In the dark. Like Eddie can read his mind.
“We never talked about…?” he prompts.
“We never talked about—Tommy.”
Frowning into the dark, Eddie asks, “What does Tommy have to do with us sleeping together?”
Buck chokes, seemingly on his own spit, coughing a few times. “C-can you please reword that?”
Eddie replays his own words in his head, cheeks heating. Quickly, he says, “You know what I mean.”
“Just,” Buck starts, making a small noise. “We haven’t talked about it. About—about me.”
Nudging Buck’s foot with his own, Eddie says, “We talk about you all the time.”
“About me coming out,” Buck clarifies.
Okay. This, Eddie admits, is true. It just… never came up. Strategically. On Eddie’s part. Because he’s a terrible best friend, who’s too cowardly to—to tell Buck he’s the same. Sort of.
He’s gay.
Okay? He’s said it. There. He’s gay, and Buck is the sun in his little solar system, and he’s going to die without telling him. It’s none of Eddie’s business, to be frank.
And he is frank. Most of the time.
On the topic of Frank—well. Lets just say he had a few choice words with Eddie about this whole… revelation of his.
But it’s great. Everything’s great. Everything is perfect except for the damn orange tree that’s living in his house instead of him.
But this isn’t about Eddie or the orange tree. This is about his best friend, who is worried he’s somehow made Eddie uncomfortable by sharing a part of himself with him, by trusting him to hear him and love him and keep him.
“Buck,” he says, keeping his voice gentle, “I don’t care that you’re bisexual. I said it didn’t change anything between us. I meant that.”
It feels like a lie. Why does it feel like a lie? Why does it taste wrong on his tongue? Why does he suddenly feel like he’s going to throw up the Beef Stir Fry they had for dinner?
“So, this doesn’t… you’re not uncomfortable?”
“Fuck no,” Eddie blurts, which startles a surprised laugh out of Buck.
But it’s true. Eddie can’t imagine there’s a single thing Buck could do to make him uncomfortable. Furthermore, the suggestion was Eddie’s idea in the first place—both when Buck was in his house and now.
“Okay,” Buck says, laughter petering off. “Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” Eddie assures him. He doesn’t say, you’re the only thing in the world I’m sure about.
Over breakfast the next day, the three of them – Buck, Chris, and Eddie – gather around the dining table.
Buck and Eddie had made a spread before waking Chris. They’ve got fried eggs, French toast, freshly squeezed apple juice (Eddie, on principle, is refusing to buy orange juice for the time being), and cereal.
Chris, of course, opts for the cereal. He doesn’t even pour himself a glass of juice, sticking instead to a glass of milk.
“Hey, Buck?” Chris says, taking a sip of milk.
Buck chews too quickly, swallowing his bite of French toast with determination. Looking mildly pained, he says, “Yeah, Chris?”
“How do you think citrus fruits communicate with each other?"
Buck’s brows furrow in thought, his mouth pinching. His fingers, around his fork, twitch like he’s about to reach for his phone. He loves answering Chris’s questions, no matter how random and nonsensical they might be. This one, though, Eddie knows the answer to. He knows, because it’s not a real question at all. It’s a trap. A trap to ruin Eddie’s morning.
Sighing, he shoves his plate forward, folds his forearms over his placemat and drops his head down atop them.
“I don’t know, buddy,” Buck says, finally. “How do they communicate?”
Dejected, Eddie mumbles something that sounds a lot like “mndin” into his arm.
“What?” Buck asks, leaning closer. Eddie can feel his body warmth.
“It’s Mandarin, Buck,” Eddie tells him, lifting his head to look him in the eye. Buck’s so amused. Eddie deserves this, probably. “They speak Mandarin. Which is a different fruit, Chris.”
“Yeah,” Chris snickers. “But orange you glad it wasn’t another orange pun?”
“I’m moving out,” Eddie deadpans. “Seriously, I’m going.”
Buck grins, taking a sip of his coffee. “You can’t go,” he says over the rim. “There’s a tree in your house.”
Eddie takes a second to think about it. “Texas. I’ll move to Texas.”
Chris smiles, entirely too pleased. “That’s my thing.”
Eddie is haunted. It just so happens he’s haunted by his living, breathing best friend.
“Grab the chainsaw,” Chimney says solemnly.
“Ex-squeeze me—” Buck says, hand finding Eddie’s hip as he slips behind him. The touch is unnecessary, but the skin beneath it is warm even after Buck’s pulled away.
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters, but once Buck is halfway across the room, heading toward the front door to grab the chainsaw from the engine, Eddie realises he’s smiling.
Hen, annoyingly knowingly, catches his eye from across the patient with a raised brow. Eddie expertly ducks his head, avoiding her scrutinising look.
“So, uh,” Eddie says, eyeing the man they’re actually here to help. “How’d you get stuck in a barrel of peanut butter?”
“Dropped my orange from lunch, and it rolled this way. I, uh…” The guy flushes with embarrassment. “I tripped over the orange.”
“You know,” Eddie says conversationally, “I think there’s something wrong with oranges. Maybe fruit in general.”
“Maybe?” the guy says.
“Definitely,” Eddie decides.
“I’m back!” Buck hollers, at least 20 decibels too loud. Then, revving the chainsaw, Buck says, somehow over the volume of said chainsaw, “And there’s nothing wrong with fruit. They’re a really good source for vitamins. And fibre!”
Eddie wonders if dunking his head face-first into the peanut butter would kill him.
After work, Buck claims he’s thirsty. This wouldn’t normally raise Eddie’s hackles, considering Buck is human and needs to stay hydrated to survive.
This is why Eddie gives him the benefit of the doubt when Buck mentions a vague place downtown, a ten-minute detour from his house.
“Sure,” Eddie had said, like a fool. “They got good coffee?”
“They definitely might,” Buck had said.
Buck drives, which Eddie realises, once they pull into the parking lot, was a strategic move. Which—yes, okay, Buck usually drives. This time was just more strategic.
Staring Eddie in the face is a sign that reads DAVID, DAVE & DAVY’S JUICE BAR. In neon orange.
Eddie is going to give himself scurvy to prove a point.
“So,” Buck starts, and Eddie curls his hands into fists.
“Don’t talk to me.”
Stifling a laugh, Buck wraps his knuckles on the center console, grinning. “Bu—”
Eddie lifts a hand, a single finger raised, pointed in Buck’s direction. He does not look at Buck. If he does, he might see his stupid smug face, and then Eddie will have to shove him over, and there’s no plush grass to break his fall now, just a car door that Buck will slam his head into, and Eddie will be liable for giving him a concussion.
Firmly, Eddie says, “Do not talk to me till we get home.”
“Eddie, come on.”
“Are you gonna make a pun?”
Buck pauses. “Yeah.”
“Then zip it.”
“Jesus, can’t even joke with my zest friend anymore.”
Eddie groans, finally turning to him, looking somewhere between incredulous and devastated. “Do you have these written down somewhere? Jesus Christ.”
“No,” Buck says, smiling. “But, um. This place is supposed to be really good, so…”
“So go,” Eddie says, crossing his arms. He’s being petulant, but he’s allowed to be. His house is broken.
Buck, surprisingly, doesn’t push. Instead, he says, “You want anything?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Very sure.”
“Okay.” Buck’s hand finds the handle, the door popping open as he tugs on it.
“Wait—”
Buck pauses, halfway out the door.
“Do they make carrot juice?”
Buck’s face softens. “I’m sure they do. If—if they don’t, we can grab some from the Trader Joe’s.”
Eddie’s heart stumbles over itself and face-plants on the floor. He thinks that if he were standing, he would actually swoon.
Faintly, he says, “Thanks, Buck.”
“No problem,” Buck says. He hesitates, slapping the roof of the car. “Bro.”
And then, swiftly, he slams the door shut.
Bro.
Bro, bro, bro.
That certainly is a word.
Against his seat, Eddie wilts like spinach in a frying pan.
His house is a forest, and his bro is buying him carrot juice. His bro doesn’t even know he’s in love with him.
Fuck his stupid, gay, orange-filled life.
The following week, Eddie still hasn’t heard back from his landlord about a clear timeline for when the house will be treeless.
It makes Eddie antsy. Sharing a bed and a house with Buck is—it’s good, is the thing. It’s pretty revelatory, actually, in the way small, everyday things sometimes can be.
It’s easy, more than that. Eddie feels centred here, like his body’s finally starting to relax. And that’s a feat and a half, because Eddie Diaz is not a relaxed man. He’d once tried to get a massage, and the masseuse had told him, after thirty minutes of prodding, that she might be making it worse.
She hadn’t been. Not really. It’s just that—Eddie can’t relax when a stranger touches him. Not like that, anyway. It’s got to do with his integrity, probably. He acted similarly during his physical therapy, only really getting better when he did his exercises at home, with Chris and Buck.
Buck. Why does it always come back to Buck?
He has got to move out. Pronto.
“You know that’s no rush, right?” Buck says suddenly. He’s next to Eddie on the couch, having sat himself down approximately thirty minutes ago to peer at Eddie’s iPad sadly.
“What?” Eddie asks vacantly, frowning down at the iPad. The site he’s on has been loading for the past twenty seconds.
“For you guys to move out,” Buck clarifies.
That catches Eddie’s attention. Clicking his iPad off, he sets it down on his lap, meeting Buck’s gaze. “Buck, you just got your own place.”
“Yeah, I know.” Buck ducks his head, wringing his hands together. Then, in a move so devastating it leaves Eddie breathless, he looks up at Eddie through his eyelashes. “But you’d do the same for me.”
He would. He would probably lasso the moon and rein it in for Buck if he asked. But Eddie doesn’t really know how that’s relevant. Buck has given up his space for Eddie before; this isn’t even the first time. They’re not on an even playing field here. And truthfully—he wouldn’t be moving out for Buck; he would be moving out for the sake of his stupid, busted-up heart. He’s getting too used to it: the sleepy mornings, the soft goodnights, the way Chris laughs when Buck and Eddie team up. How happy he is with Buck’s face being the first thing he sees every morning.
Shaking his head, Eddie looks back down, saying, “You literally just got rid of us.”
“Hey—it wasn’t—” Buck pauses, hands rubbing against his thighs. “I wasn’t trying to get rid of you.”
A little childishly, Eddie finds himself mumbling, “Kinda seemed like you just woke up one day and couldn’t wait another second to get out of there.”
His fingers twitch in Eddie’s periphery, hurt bleeding into his voice as he says, “It wasn’t like that.”
Eddie can’t look at him. Not yet. Carefully, he asks, “What was it like?”
“W-What?”
“What was it like?” he repeats. His chest is doing something funny, twisting uncomfortably.
“I—” Buck cuts himself off, voice catching.
“Look, it’s,” Eddie starts, glancing Buck’s way, taking in his wide eyes. “It’s okay, Buck, that you wanted space. I’m just—I’m trying to give it back to you. Insurance said that we can get out of the lease early if we don’t hear back soon.”
The silence stretches between them for a long moment.
Then, inhaling shakily, Buck says, “You’d just move out?”
Eddie thinks about his stuff stacked up in Buck’s garage, about his clothes in Buck’s wardrobe, about his car in Buck’s driveway. There’s very little left in the house on South Bedford Street—certainly nothing of importance, just in case a thief breaks in through the foliage and climbs through the gaping hole in the wall.
“We’ve done it once, already,” Eddie says. “We can do it again.”
Voice sounding unmistakably fragile, Buck asks, “But for good?”
Eddie shrugs. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Oh.”
“Either way, we’ll be out of your hair soon. Don’t worry.”
“Eddie, you’re not—”
A voice startles both of them. Buck gets an impressive few inches of air under him with how high he jumps. “Hey, Dad?”
Eddie’s attention is caught instantly, the fright forgotten. He abandons his iPad, losing it to the mound of blankets on the couch as he shuffles to the edge of the armrest, looking over a sleepy, weary-looking Christopher. “Yeah, mijo?”
Chris lifts a hand and scrubs at his eye, glasses abandoned, likely still in his bedroom. Quietly, he mumbles, “I don’t feel good.”
Eddie stands quickly, walking over and pressing the back of his hand against Christopher’s forehead. He’s a little warm to the touch. Eddie frowns. “What’s going on, bud? Is it your stomach? Head?”
“I dunno,” Chris mumbles. He blinks wide, innocent eyes up at Eddie. “Maybe it’s scurvy.”
Hanging his head, Eddie huffs a laugh. He doesn’t even mean to laugh; encouraging citrus-humor isn’t on the agenda. Now, or ever.
“Funny, kid,” he says, hand slides down to his kid's shoulder, squeezing gently. “C’mon, let's get you to bed. I’ll check your temperature.”
Eddie doesn’t even hear Buck stand, but like always, he appears behind him. Christopher takes a few steps down the hall, and a hand finds Eddie’s elbow, catching his attention. Eddie turns.
Argument forgotten, eyes flitting between the Diaz boys, Buck asks, “Do you want me to grab anything?”
Eddie’s shoulders relax. Fuck. How long has it been since someone has helped him look after his sick kid? How domestic is everything between them these days? How is Eddie supposed to just let this go?
Eddie’s heart does a triple backward handspring at the worry etched into Buck’s features and lands somewhere deep in a pit of yearning. He smiles at Buck; he help it. “Water, please. And the thermometer,” he requests. “Meet us in there?”
Buck returns the smile easily, nodding. “You got it.”
Eddie’s never been able to leave well enough alone. Not really. He’s like Buck in that way—a doer more than a thinker, though one could argue Buck is both.
He’s definitely both. It’s just that Buck tends to overthink.
Being a doer, naturally, means being proactive. So, come a convenient fourty-eight hours off, Eddie drives himself and Buck over to South Bedford Street to assess. His landlord had told him over text that he had sent someone – a company – over to have a look at it, and begin the clean-up process.
Eddie realises now, standing in front of the house (which is still full of a tree and now surrounded by rotting oranges), that his landlord is a fucking liar.
“M-Maybe I could offer to help do some of the repairs,” Buck says. It’s a weak, but very sweet, offer. “Get the landlord to hurry it up.”
“We’re staring at the same thing, Buck,” Eddie says.
“I was in construction, you know,” Buck defends. “I can branch out to home repair.”
Eddie shoots him a look. He does not picture Buck wearing construction gear, sweating with dirt smeared across his brow. He sees Buck in turnouts enough as it is. His stupid gay brain can only handle so much. “Funny, Buck.”
“No, I mean it. I could—”
“Buck.” Eddie fits his palm around Buck’s elbow. It’s a good elbow. “You’ve done plenty, man.”
Swallowing, Buck looks down. Voice very small, he says, “I don’t want you to move.”
Huffing a laugh, Eddie gestures with his free hand to the wreckage. “Buck, I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s a tree in the living room. And the hallway.”
“No,” Buck says, voice so low Eddie’s ears barely catch it. “My house. I don’t want you to move out of my house.”
Without meaning to, Eddie retracts his hand. His stomach swoops, hands going clammy. “What?”
“If you’re not here, you should be there.” Buck’s tone brokers no argument, but he can’t quite hide the shake in his hands. “You—you can’t just move somewhere else. Somewhere random.”
There’s a knot tied in Eddie’s throat the size of a mandarin. Eddie swallows around it, feeling breathless. “Buck, what are you talking about?”
Buck exhales through his nose, averting his gaze. “I don’t know. Sorry.”
“Buck—”
“Don’t worry about it. Forget I said anything.”
Eddie stalls, staring at the side of Buck’s face. “Come on.”
“Please, Eddie. Let’s just go ho—let’s go.”
Let’s just go home. That’s what Buck had been about to say. And it is, isn’t it? Eddie’s made a home with Buck, again, without even realising it. And now he’s fighting it.
He doesn’t understand. He needs to—he needs time to think. He needs to make this make sense.
He needs to call Sophia.
Following Eddie back to the jeep, he says, “Okay.”
Because Eddie’s a cowardly coward who cowers, Eddie plans to drive himself all the way to the gym before making the call.
But, because he can’t say no to his best friend, Buck is, of course, in the passenger seat beside him as he pulls into the parking lot. Secretly, he’s kind of relieved. He hates going places without Buck.
Eddie resolves to call Sophia later instead. Maybe while Buck’s showering after their workout. Eddie can shower at home.
They’re stepping out of the car when his phone starts buzzing, and Eddie’s pretty sure, suddenly, that Buck was right about the Universe and all of its yelling.
Buck might’ve said screaming. But yelling feels more apt. Eddie thinks the Universe would be telling him off a lot if it really did have a say in his life.
“Sophia,” he says, pressing his phone to his ear.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Sophia opens with.
Shooting Buck a panicked glance, he says, “Tell you what?”
“About the orange tree in your family room, pendejo.”
“Wasn’t relevant.”
“It wasn’t relevant?” Sophia hisses. “To what?”
“My general well-being.” He pauses, considers. “Or Christopher’s.”
“You are so annoying,” Sophia groans. “I have to ask Buck for every little update. One week, you’re getting shot, the next your house falls down. What’s next, huh? Are you going to get struck by lightning tomorrow? Are you getting married next week? Am I invited?”
“I’m not getting married,” Eddie says, heart skipping a beat. He looks at Buck, who blinks at him slowly, kind of like a lizard. A blushing lizard.
Married? Buck mouths.
“Estúpido,” Sophia says. “Adriana’s coming to see you and Pepa next weekend. I’ll be there too.”
Eddie is silent for twelve seconds straight. Then, because he realises he has to say something, he asks, “What?”
“Wow. So you hate me.”
“I don’t—Sophia,” Eddie stresses, “This is just—really short notice.”
“You’re staying with your boyfriend,” Sophia says, and Eddie valiantly keeps a straight face. “We are staying with Pepa. Stop twisting your tighty-whities into stupid knots.”
Eddie narrows his eyes. “How do you know ab—”
“Tell your boyfriend I miss him so, so much. And tell Chris to prepare for an aunt-nephew outing.”
“Sophia—”
“Bye, Eddie! Love you!”
And with that, the line goes dead.
A long moment of silence stretches between them. Then—
“The orange tree,” Eddie says, staring at the black screen, “Has ruined my life.”
“Oh, come on, Eddie.” Buck nudges their shoulders together. “You’re gonna hurt its peel-ings.”
Eddie can’t take it anymore. He just can’t. Buck is standing there, grinning proudly over his stupid joke, and Eddie is thirty-four years old, and — despite Sophia’s insistence — he doesn’t have a boyfriend, but he should. Because Buck is basically his boyfriend anyway. And Buck doesn’t want him to move out. And Buck is— flicking his gaze between Eddie’s like he’s deeply concerned for Eddie’s wellbeing.
With little care that he didn’t get the phone case with extra protection, because it was thirty dollars more expensive, he drops his phone.
Buck’s eyes widen to the size of saucers.
Eddie grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him in, pausing only when their mouths are an inch apart. He gives Buck one second, then two, then three. Buck doesn’t pull away. Buck isn’t even breathing. Eddie opens his own eyes, and Buck’s are closed. He’s waiting.
Helplessly, unable to live another single second without having kissed Evan Buckley, Eddie sways forward, slotting their mouths together.
Buck lets out a soft, relieved sigh against Eddie’s lips, his hand finding Eddie’s waist, slotting into the small of it like it was designed for the space. Eddie’s hand twists tighter in Buck’s shirt, kissing him harder. He can feel Buck smiling into it. Suddenly, he is, too. It’s a little hard to kiss someone when you’re both smiling, though, because the grins fracture the connection pretty quickly. Eddie pulls back, leaning their foreheads together.
“W-Whoa,” Buck stutters out, eyes full of surprise.
Eddie can’t help it; he grins. It’s so big that his eyes are basically shut. “Hey.”
Buck blinks, smile slowly transforming into a grin of his own. “Hi.”
“That one wasn’t even good,” Buck breathes. “The—the pun, I mean. I already used peel-ing before.”
God. Eddie’s so—he’s in love. He’s in love, and Buck is right there.
Pulling him in by his neck, Eddie catches his mouth in another kiss. Buck makes a hilarious, shocked honking noise against his mouth before desperately trying to get with the program, hand clutching tighter at Eddie’s side.
Laughing against Buck’s mouth, Eddie whispers, “None of them were good.”
“Some of them were good,” Buck insists, tilting his head to drop a half-dozen little pecks against Eddie’s flushed cheek. “Very orange-inal.”
“Buck.” He can’t stop smiling.
“Yeah?”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
“Y-yeah.” Buck walks Eddie backwards until his back hits the car. “Yeah, holy shit, okay. Whatever you want.”
Sex with Buck is a lot more fun than Eddie could’ve predicted it would be.
That’s not to say it isn’t also hot, and steamy, and the best sex of Eddie’s life, and—okay, you get him. But it is also fun.
It’s never been that way for Eddie before. He didn’t know sex could be fun, that he could crack a joke with a hand wrapped around his dick. That eliciting a laugh from Buck could feel as good as eliciting a moan.
But of course, the sex is fun. He’s having sex with Buck, his best friend, the man he’s watched get his foot stuck in a mop mid-sprint—it was bound to be great, in every way imaginable. They make a pretty good team.
Eddie’s playing with one of Buck’s hands, keeping it close to his mouth. He presses a few little kisses to his knuckles before speaking up, breaking the comfortable post-coital silence. “Hey, Buck?”
Buck smiles at him, cheeks still flushed from exertion. “Yeah?”
“Can I tell you something?”
Fear flashes across Buck’s face. “Y-Yeah, of course, Eddie.”
“I just—” Eddie begins, thumb drawing a little circle on the back of Buck’s hand. “I really think I hate oranges now. I can’t eat them ever again. I can’t even stand the sight of them. I feel like I’m gonna be sick every time I smell them.”
“Eddie, I thought you were gonna—” Buck thunks his forehead against Eddie’s. His foot, which had previously been tangled between Eddie’s calves, kicks against his shin lightly. Very seriously, he tells him, “Eddie. You can’t start a conversation like that.”
Remorseful, Eddie presses a soft kiss to the corner of Buck’s mouth. “Sorry. I can see how that doesn’t have a lot of ap-peel.”
Slowly, Buck lifts his head. His features light up with delight, like the dawning sun. “Did you just—”
Eddie bites his lip. He’s been saving this one. He found it while googling orange puns—because he’s not above doing a little research. Buck’s not the only one who can work google. “Did I juice-t…?”
Buck blinks. “Eddie.”
“What?”
“I’m in love with you,” Buck breathes.
Stunned, Eddie’s mouth falls open. “Oh.”
“O-Oh?”
“Holy shit,” Eddie manages, surging forward to press Buck back into the mattress, rolling on top of him. Eddie, capturing both of Buck’s hands, pins them on either side of his head, their fingers interlaced.
Buck makes a noise into his mouth, a half-groan, half-laugh, and Eddie decides it’s his favourite noise. That, and the first chord of Everybody Wants To Rule The World.
“I love you,” Eddie gasps, right against his mouth. “And your awful jokes. How—how easy it is to be around you. I love that you’re so good with Chris and that you push me to talk. You’re brave, and you’re smart, even when you act so, so stupid, and—”
Buck squeezes Eddie’s hands, cheeks heating. “Okay, I don’t know if the stupid was—” He interjects, sounding winded.
“Buck.” Eddie presses feverish kisses into Buck’s jaw, revelling in the scrape of his stubble against Eddie’s lips. “You’ve made 46 fruit puns since the tree fell.”
Shivering against him, Buck says hoarsely, “You counted them?”
Caught out, Eddie blinks a few times, the tips of his ears going warm. “I—I guess.”
Buck groans like he’s been punched, hips twitching upward. “God, you’re so hot.”