Archive of Our Own

If you asked him, Buck would probably consider himself well-adjusted. He’s thirty, has more than a year of therapy under his belt, and knows what he wants in life, for the most part. He’s—good. Great, even.

That doesn’t really explain why he’s about to implode the best relationship in his life over—fucking high school bullshit.

“It’s stupid,” Buck groans into the table, one hand twisted into the hairs on the back of his neck. “Like. Beyond stupid.”

Hen pats him on the back gently, making a soothing sound in the back of her throat that only sounds a little bit teasing. “He’s not going to say no, Buck.”

“I know,” Buck says. “That’s the problem.”

“That sounds like the opposite of a problem,” Chimney says, leaning back in his chair. “In fact, that sounds like the literal solution to your problem.”

“Which,” Hen says, “isn’t actually a problem at all.”

“Of course it’s a problem,” Buck says, almost a whine. “It’s—it’s stupid, but it’s a problem. A massive problem. A huge, gigantic, asteroid-headed-to-Earth-to-kill-the-dinosaurs problem—”

“Did someone put an empty milk carton in the fridge again?” Eddie says, bounding up the stairs to the loft. He’s still tucking his uniform into his pants, hair a little disheveled, and Buck knows it’s because he hit construction on the way to Christopher’s school this morning, so he’s running a little late.

“You’re the only one that does that,” Buck says, pressing his forehead back into the table to avoid thinking about untucking Eddie’s shirt. “And I hate you for it.”

“Nah,” he says, rounding the table to scrub a hand over Buck’s head. “You don’t.”

Buck wishes it wasn’t true.

Eddie makes a beeline for the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee—sugar, no milk; Buck doesn’t have to lift his head to know that—before he says, “So what’s the problem?”

Before Buck can stomp on Hen’s foot to get her to shut up, she says, “Buck’s high school reunion is in two weeks.”

“I know,” Eddie says, because Buck told him he was going back to Hershey for a weekend last night, trying not to sound too tragic about it. Buck hears the sound of his spoon clinking on the side of the mug, hears him drop it in the sink and pull out the chair across the table. “That doesn’t sound like much of a problem.”

“The problem,” Chimney says, because he’s insufferable and cruel and loves seeing Buck miserable, apparently, “is that Buckaroo here lets his high school buddies believe that he’s married.”

Buck looks up in time to see Eddie blink in surprise, and he nearly groans again because it’s—it’s so fucking stupid, and Buck’s an idiot, and he knows that Eddie isn’t going to let this drop now that it’s half out there. He’ll want the full story, but that means Buck will have to admit that for the last six months, he’s willfully neglected to correct everyone who assumes that he’s married.

Married, specifically, to Eddie.

Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

Buck rubs a hand over his face, hard. “It’s—”

“Stupid,” Hen and Chimney finish with varying degrees of amusement.

He deflates in his seat, letting his head roll onto the back of the chair. Maybe—maybe Eddie will drop it. Maybe the universe is finally on Buck’s side, for once in his goddamn miserable life.

Eddie does not drop it.

“Okay? Just tell them you’re not married. Easy peasy.”

“Yeah, Buck,” Chimney, the bastard, says, propping his chin on his fist. “Why not just tell that you’re not married?”

“Because,” Buck grits out, sending a glare Chim’s way, “I told them. That I was bringing my husband to the reunion. I told—”

“His parents,” Chimney cuts in, way too close to gleeful for Buck’s liking. He reaches over and smacks his brother-in-law in the stomach hard enough that a wheeze leaves Chim’s mouth.

Eddie opens his mouth. Closes it. Finally, he settles on, “You told your parents you’re married? To a man?”

Chimney and Hen both glance at him with twin looks that clearly mean he’s on his own with telling the rest of the story. Which—they had no problem teasing and joking about it three seconds ago, but now that Buck has to really get to the heart of the issue, they’re leaving it to him?

Go fucking figure.

“I told my parents,” Buck says, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with closed eyes, “that I’m married to you.”

And of course, that’s when the bell goes.

They don’t get a chance to talk about it until after their shift. If that’s by design—well. Buck thinks it’s allowed. Because it’s one thing to lie to his parents about his marital status; it’s something completely different to drag his best friend who he just so happens to be hopelessly in love with into it too.

Buck never claimed to be a good person, but honestly, this is on a whole new level. Even for him.

Unfortunately, Buck can’t exactly race off at the end of their 24, because he promised Christopher he’d come over tonight to help with a school project—he has to make a Heritage Minute for his social studies class—so escaping the conversation he and Eddie are bound to have is a no-go.

But Buck doesn’t even get a chance to get his story straight—he was planning on taking the long way to Eddie’s and figuring out an excuse as to why he possibly thought it was a good idea to tell his parents and the people from his high school that they’re married—because Eddie is leaning against his Jeep, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.

“Hey,” he greets, casual.

“Hey,” Buck parrots, so un-fucking-casual he can taste the awkwardness in the back of his throat. He winces, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Look, Eds—”

“I talked to Bobby,” Eddie cuts in, like Buck hadn’t said anything. Buck has a brief moment of panic that Eddie’s leaving the 118 again, and this time it’s solely his fault for opening his stupid idiotic mouth, and then Eddie says, “He gave me the 23rd to the 26th off.”

Buck frowns. “That’s—” The weekend of his high school reunion. The weekend he has off to fly down to Hershey and spend an uncomfortable night with his old buddies in his cramped high school gym and an even more uncomfortable time under his parents’ roof for the first time in years. “Why?”

Eddie shrugs, the corner of his mouth tilting up a little. “You don’t want people thinking I’m a bad husband, do you?”

And Buck—Buck doesn’t know what to do with that, really. He’s been preparing himself all shift for Eddie to laugh in his face or gently let him down or to say Hey, I know we’re best friends and you’re Christopher’s legal guardian in the event of my death, but it’s not like that.

He’s not expecting Eddie to throw him a goddamn bone.

“What?” Buck asks dumbly. He fists his hand around his keys, the cold metal pressing sharply into the skin of his palm.

“We both owe Bobby like, a hundred favors,” Eddie says, “but he managed to swing losing us both for the weekend. He told me to tell you that you’re on full kitchen duty for the next barbeque, though? Sorry about that.”

“Eddie,” Buck says, blinking a little rapidly. “What?”

“Come on, man,” and his voice is gentle, the one he uses when he’s talking to Christopher about something important. “You thought I’d leave you hanging?”

And like—yeah, Buck did, a little, even if he’d told Chim and Hen otherwise. Not because Eddie is unreliable, or doesn’t care about him, but because this is way more than anything he’s ever asked for before. This isn’t a Hey, would you mind awkwardly showering me while I’m healing from breaking my entire goddamn leg? and it isn’t Sleeping next to a warm body stops my nightmares, do you mind If I don’t take the couch tonight? It’s—it’s Buck asking Eddie to pretend to be his husband. To pretend to be someone that loves him enough to want to spend the rest of his life with him. And that’s…

God, Buck’s definitely going to hell. Either that or karma’s going to bite him in the ass so spectacularly that even Eddie will have to believe in the universe.

Eddie’s waiting for a response, so Buck says, “Uh,” because he is nothing if not eloquent.

“I’ve got your back, Buck,” Eddie says, easy as anything.

“I’m pretty sure this,” he gestures vaguely to the space between them, “isn’t what either of us had in mind when we said that.”

Eddie shrugs. “Maybe not,” he acquiesces, and he’s grinning, so fucking pretty that Buck wants to punch a wall, “but I don’t think either of us expected half the shit we’ve been through, either, so. What’s one more thing?”

Right, Buck thinks, because it’s so totally normal to pretend to be your co-worker's fake husband. That’s—that’s something that definitely happens. Obviously.

And Buck should, he should just call his parents, say that he was lying, tell his high school buddies that they’re mistaken and Buck just didn’t know how to tell them. He should put this whole thing to rest because it’s insane, and it’s ridiculous, and it’s a sure-fire way to get his heart trampled on like it’s being run over by a stampede of wild horses.

He should, but—but.

“You don’t have to do this,” Buck says, and it sounds weak to his own ears.

“No,” Eddie shrugs, “but you’d do the same for me, right?”

Buck nods, because—obviously. Not for the same reasons Eddie’s doing it for him, of course, but. Whatever. He’d do it, is the point.

“Then I’m gonna do it for you,” Eddie says. “Chris will stay with Abuela, and we’ll go to Hershey. It’s going to be no big deal, Buck. Trust me.”

Trust me.

Buck can do that.

Buck is never trusting Eddie again.

It’s the 21st, two days before they’re flying out to Pennsylvania, and Eddie and him are sitting on Eddie’s couch, nursing beers and watching a WWE match that Buck is actually kind of confused by, and Buck is never trusting him again, because—

“I think we should practice kissing.”

If Buck chokes on a mouthful of beer, that’s his business. He thumps a hand on his sternum as Eddie sends him a concerned look until he finally manages to hoarsely say, “Come again?”

Once Eddie’s sure that Buck isn’t actively dying, he says, “Well, we’ve been married for six months, right?”

“I—no?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, flapping a hand through the air. “We’ve been fake married for six months,” he amends. “Which means people are gonna expect that we like—know each other.”

“We do know each other,” Buck says, frowning. “I’m literally your emergency contact.”

“No like—intimately know each other.”

Distantly, Buck thinks that the one-point-oh version of himself, the Firehose of it all, would be embarrassed and disappointed at the way his neck heats up at the implication of Eddie’s words. They’re supposed to be married. Of course people will assume they have sex.

It’s just—Buck had this idea, or something, of what it would be like to kiss Eddie for the first time. He had a lot of ideas, actually. There was the kiss over dishwashing, and the kiss after an accident at work, and the kiss that followed one of them in the hospital, and—

The point is. Buck has an idea, and it isn’t—this.

“That’s—Eddie, we’re not going to have to make out in front of my high school football teammates to prove that we’re married,” he says, and he really, truly hopes his voice isn’t as uneven as it sounds to his own ears.

“I know that,” Eddie says, sounding halfway to exasperated. “But like—dude, married couples kiss.”

“Yeah, like pecks.” Buck frowns, rubbing at his bottom lip. It’s chapped, the dry skin sharp beneath his finger. Not kissable in the slightest. “Not—with tongue, or whatever.”

The tips of Eddie’s ears go red.

“You cannot be embarrassed about that,” Buck says. “You’re the one who brought it up!”

“You didn’t have to say it like that,” Eddie hisses, the redness moving down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his Henley.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Buck laughs, because he can do the teasing way better than the existential crisis. “So you didn’t want to practice playing tonsil hockey with me?”

“I hate you.” Eddie puts his head in his hands, but Buck can see his shoulders trembling with the effort not to laugh. “I want a divorce.”

Buck shoves at his arm, hard enough that Eddie tilts into the side of the couch, some beer sloshing over the mouth of his bottle, and Eddie does laugh then, bright and unfettered and Buck wants to taste it, somehow. He wants to—God, he just wants.

“Fine,” Buck says, once their laughter has died down. “We can practice.”

Eddie glances over at him, eyes still a little shiny from the force of his laughs. “Wait, what?”

“Eddie.”

“Buck.”

“It was your idea.” Buck shifts on the couch so he’s sitting cross-legged, one of his knees pressing into Eddie’s thigh. “Come on. What’s a practice kiss between two friends?”

“Okay,” Eddie says, and shifts too. They’re knee-to-knee now, Eddie’s hands hanging awkwardly at his sides, and he says, “How are we gonna do this?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure you’ve kissed someone before, what with your literal child and all, but if you need help—”

And then Buck’s cut off, because Eddie’s mouth is on his and it’s—

Christ, if Buck thought this was a bad idea before, it’s nothing on how he’s feeling right now while Eddie is kissing him.

Eddie's hand comes up to cup the back of Buck’s skull, his fingers sliding through the short hairs there, and a breath punches out of Buck, unbidden. He thinks he can feel Eddie smile—can feel the way his lips tilt in a grin that’s imprinted in the back of his mind, always—and he matches it with his own, until they’re both laughing too hard to continue with the kiss.

“Sorry,” Eddie says, a little breathless. “I don’t usually laugh mid-kiss.”

“I’m assuming it had nothing to do with my kissing skills,” Buck replies, leaning back a little. One of his hands migrated to Eddie’s waist sometime and is wrapped in the fabric there, knuckles white with the way he’s clenching his fingers. He lets go, because he has an image to maintain; an image where he isn’t stupidly and irreversibly in love with his best friend.

It’s going great, thanks for asking.

“No,” Eddie says, sounding too genuine to be a tease. Buck feels like he should blame Frank for this, somehow, for the Eddie in front of him that’s open and honest and willing to fake-kiss his friend to practice for their stupid fucking scheme. He thinks he wants to thank Frank, sure, because Eddie has never been more himself than he has this last year, but also, Buck’s tasted Eddie now and he doesn’t think he’ll ever want to stop. “No,” Eddie says again, and smiles. “You’re a great kisser.”

“Just bro things,” Buck mutters under his breath, so quiet Eddie won’t hear. “Totally platonic bro things.”

Eddie frowns. “What?”

“Nothing,” Buck says. “You’re a good kisser too.”

“I’m pretty sure I said great.”

“Don’t go fishing for compliments, Eddie.”

“Okay, Mr. I’m assuming it has nothing to do with my kissing skills,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. He leans back further, and Buck wants to chase him. Instead, he pulls his hands back into his lap, tangling his fingers together. He can be normal about this. He can.

“Well, did it?”

Eddie smiles, soft and fond. “Nah. It didn’t.”

Maybe he can’t be normal about it after all.

They get to Hershey close to midnight.

Buck’s been trying his best not to take stock of the city; he left this place behind years ago, long before he actually passed the town lines, and being back stirs something deep in his gut. Something he thought he’d abandoned ages ago.

As they pull into his parents’ driveway, Buck starts to chew on his thumbnail, ripping at the skin around his cuticles until he tastes the tangy copper of blood. They sit in silence for a long moment, long enough that the overhead light in their rented car goes out and they’re in the dark, only the porch light offering some sort of glow.

Buck moves on to his other thumb, but before he can sink his teeth into a hangnail, there’s a hand on his wrist, stopping him.

“Buck,” Eddie says, voice gentle. “We don’t have to do this.”

He huffs out a humorless laugh. “We’re literally here, Eds,” he says, not unkindly. “We can’t really turn back now.”

“Sure we can,” he replies. “What’s stopping us?”

“My mother is definitely waiting at the front door,” Buck says. “She’ll know if we don’t show up.”

Eddie frowns. “I’m not afraid of your mother.”

“You should be.”

He raises an eyebrow. Buck raises one back.

Another minute passes; the porch light blinks out. Eddie says, “Stop biting your nails.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Ew.”

Buck grins, then, something small and private, but it must have been what Eddie was hoping for, because he grins too. They look at each other for a while, just existing, and then Margaret must get impatient waiting for them, because the porch light comes back on and Buck notices a familiar silhouette in the window.

He thinks, distantly, that this is the first time his mother has ever waited for him to come home.

“Come on,” Buck says, reaching for the handle. “The sooner we’re inside the sooner we can go the bed.”

“I’m not going to say no to that,” Eddie replies, sliding out of the car. He grabs their bags—two duffels—from the backseat and then stands at the hood, waiting. Buck takes a deep breath, digs his nails into the palm of his hand, and nods.

He can do this.

They walk up to the door side by side, and to Buck’s surprise, Eddie shifts one of the duffels to his other hand, sliding his palm against Buck’s. He squeezes instinctively; Eddie squeezes back.

“I’ve got your back,” Eddie murmurs, just as Buck raises a fist to knock.

“And I have yours.”

Buck knocks then, a quiet tap tap tap, and Margaret doesn’t even try to pretend she wasn’t waiting for them.

"Evan," Margaret says as she opens the door, and Buck thinks, inexplicably, that he's made a huge mistake. Like—he's never going to come back from this. Somehow, he's going to have to convince Eddie to pretend to be married to him until his parents die, and knowing the Buckleys that could be decades. They've always been especially good at ruining his life. "Welcome home."

“Thanks, Mom,” he greets, polite as ever. He always learned that that was the only way to survive the Buckley household. Be polite until you drop. “It’s good to see you.”

Margaret hums in the back of her throat before turning her eyes on Eddie. “And this is…?”

“Eddie Diaz,” Buck replies, glancing over at Eddie. Their fingers are still linked, and Eddie squeezes his hand. It’s a reminder—I’m here for you. Buck swallows down the bile rising in his throat and says, “My husband.”

“Husband,” Margaret echoes, lips twisting to the side. “You weren’t lying, then.”

Despite the fact that he very seriously is lying, Buck frowns. “Why would I lie about this?”

Margaret waves a hand in dismissal, either acting like she isn’t being offensive or she isn’t being a bad mother. Maybe both. “You’ve always had a tendency to…bend the truth, Evan.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sneaking out, sneaking girls in,” she says, unflappable. “Always telling us stories about where you are and where you’ve been.”

Buck wants to bite out that he only did that because he was trying to get them to look at him, for once, but he swallows the urge. There’s no use making a scene in front Eddie. Not now. Not when, by the end of the weekend, something will probably happen to shift their relationship forever.

Right now, Buck just wants to sleep.

“Okay,” he says, and he sounds resigned, even to his own ears. From the corner of his eye, he watches Eddie look at him, concern etched into his features. Buck ignores it. “It’s late, Mom.”

“You took a late flight,” she comments.

“We had a shift today,” Eddie says, the first thing he’s said since they came into the house. “It was the earliest flight we could get.”

Margaret’s eyes slide back to Eddie, narrowing slightly. Buck wants to walk right into Swatara Creek. “You two work together.” It’s not a question.

“Mom,” Buck says, using his free hand to dig a knuckle into the corner of his eye. “You know who Eddie is. I’ve spoken about him before; you met when you came down while Maddie was pregnant. Stop acting like he’s a stranger.”

“He is a stranger,” Margaret says, her voice a little closer to cutting than it was before. “You call after months of no contact—”

Buck mumbles, “Whose fault was that?”

“—and announce that you’re married? How are we supposed to take that, Evan?”

“You could probably start with congratulations,” Eddie says, and both Buckley’s eyes snap to him. “Just a thought.”

Margaret, her face gone blotchy in places, starts, “You—”

“It’s late,” Buck says again. He’s trying to be placating, but Maddie was always the peacekeeper out of the two of them. Even after she left, Buck never managed to fill the role. “We can talk about this tomorrow, okay?”

“Fine,” Margaret says, taking a step back from the door. “The spare bedroom is made up, if Eddie wants to sleep there.”

Buck’s pretty sure he’s going to break Eddie’s hand with the way he’s squeezing. “We’re married,” Buck says, his voice a shade of bitter he doesn’t recognize. “We can sleep in the same bed.”

“It’s preferable, really,” Eddie adds, and Buck is so in love with him it hurts.

Margaret purses her lips but doesn’t say anything except, “Goodnight, then.”

Eddie says, “Goodnight, Mrs. Buckley.”

Buck doesn’t say anything at all.

He pulls Eddie up the stairs and to the spare bedroom—his other option, he realizes, would be his childhood room, and there’s a part of Buck that wants to know whether or not they changed it after he moved out, and a bigger part that knows he wouldn’t like the answer—pressing his back to the door once it’s closed. He hangs his head until his chin touches his chest and just—breathes.

Eddie stands at the foot of the bed, and Buck knows that he’s watching him; he can feel it, like always, the weight of Eddie’s eyes, and Buck wants nothing more than to go back to yesterday when they were laughing and joking and fucking kissing, instead of standing in his childhood home regretting every decision that led him here.

“Buck,” Eddie says, breaking the silence.

Buck’s shoulders droop, and Eddie takes one step forward, and then another, until they’re standing toe-to-toe, their socked feet touching. Eddie lifts a hand to Buck’s neck, squeezing the back of it, and Buck lifts his head. They’re close, close enough to share a breath, and it would be so easy to just lean in and—

“I’m okay,” Buck says, voice hoarse. “I’m fine.”

“You sound it,” Eddie replies. He squeezes Buck’s neck again, waiting until he meets his eyes. “You don’t have to be fine. I have first-hand experience as to what visiting home is like.”

“Your parents are nice,” Buck murmurs.

“They weren’t always.” Eddie hums and his hand shifts until he’s cradling the side of Buck’s neck, his thumb moving until he’s tilting Buck’s chin so he can’t look away again. “Stop deflecting.”

“Stop treating me like I’m fragile,” Buck counters without any heat. “I’m not going to break from one weekend at home.”

Eddie frowns, presses his thumb in more incessantly. When Buck swallows, he feels his Adam’s apple sliding against Eddie’s palm and has to suppress a shiver. “Pennsylvania is not your home.”

Buck watches him for a moment—watches his dark eyes trace Buck’s face, watches his eyebrows pinch together, watches his lips part ever so slightly. Buck tips forward until their foreheads are touching, and it’s—it’s too intimate, really, for friends, but right now, he doesn’t care. He feels disjointed and out of touch with the world right now, feels like he’s two steps from sinking off the deep end, but this—Eddie—it feels like enough.

“I know,” he says after a minute has passed. “I know that. I just…”

“I know,” Eddie echoes. He keeps his forehead pressed against Buck’s for another moment until they’re matching their breaths, breathing in and out at the same time. Eddie pulls away, then, hand sliding off Buck’s neck, and he takes a step back. “Let’s go to bed, okay?”

Buck nods.

Everything is fine.

Everything is not fine.

Here’s the thing: Buck and Eddie have shared a bed before. Quarantine basically ensured that they’d room together, and because of Chimney and Hen’s presence in the loft, it was just assumed Buck and Eddie would share. So, they did. And it was always fine. There were some awkward boners, some uncomfortable shuffling, one night where Eddie kicked Buck so spectacularly in the shin that Buck was bruised for two weeks, but other than that, things were fine.

That was before Buck had the life-changing revelation that he was in love with his best friend. He remembers imagining, the night he realized, how awkward things would have been, sleeping in the same bed as Eddie when he knew about his feelings.

Yeah, his imagination has nothing on the real thing.

Buck wakes up wrapped around Eddie, their legs tangled beneath the gaudy floral duvet. Eddie is facing away from him, curled in on himself, his head resting on one of Buck’s arms, and Buck is holding him to his chest. He’s running a little too warm, the heat of the day beginning to seep in through the curtains, but Buck is nothing if not a glutton for punishment. He’s not about to let go of Eddie. Not when he’s thought of holding him like this for months now.

Except, Eddie snuffles, then, and shifts, so his ass drags along Buck’s groin just so, and Buck is not about to get hard against his best-friend-slash-the-possible-love-of-his-life, so he quickly slides out of bed, walking backward until his back hits the wall. He drags a hand over his face, scrubbing away the sleep from his eyes, and just—blinks at Eddie, as he turns over, chasing the warmth Buck left behind.

The temptation to slip back into bed—slip Eddie back into his arms—is nearly palpable, so Buck grabs the first outfit he can find from his duffel and slips out of the room, walking the familiar path toward the upstairs bathroom.

The house looks the same, really. His parents haven’t changed much about it, save for a fresh coat of paint on the walls. Other than that, though, everything is just as it was when Buck took the Jeep and fled years ago.

In the bathroom, he quickly gets changed and washes his face, making an effort to tame his hair down with wet hands. He doesn’t take long; his mother and father are undoubtedly up and waiting for him to come downstairs, and Buck figures it’s probably better to face them alone, first, before Eddie wakes up. Better for them to get whichever reductive and borderline offensive comments they have out before Eddie has to hear.

Leaving the bathroom, Buck checks in the spare room again to find Eddie still sleeping before he pads down the stairs, heading for the kitchen. If he’s lucky, he can get a cup of coffee in before he has to face his parents.

“Evan,” Phillip greets, standing near the sink.

Or not.

“Dad,” Buck says. There is coffee, so at least he’s got that on his side. He pours himself a cup, not bothering with fix-ins—God knows his parents won’t carry the things he likes, like the oat vanilla creamer he keeps at Eddie’s house—so black will do. “You’re up early.”

“It’s nearly eight,” Phillip says, and Buck always imagined being retired would amount to more sleeping in, but knowing his father—well, he can’t say he’s surprised. “Your mother is just out back watering her garden.”

Buck hums in reply, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s acidic, almost making him wince. Eddie’ll hate it; Buck has half a mind to think that he’ll suggest getting out of the house for breakfast—just the two of them—so they can have a half-decent cup of coffee when Phillip speaks again.

“So,” his father says, and Buck braces himself against the counter. “A husband.”

“Mhm,” Buck says, an itch appearing under his collar.

“That’s…different.”

“Sure,” Buck murmurs. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“How long have you…” Phillip trails off, staring out the window above the kitchen sink. Outside, Margaret bustles around the garden; Buck wonders if he wishes she was inside for the interrogation. “How long have you liked men like that?”

Like that. Buck swallows down the bitterness in his throat. If his father is wishing Margaret was inside, Buck knows the feeling; he should have gotten Eddie up and out of the house before Phillip had a chance to say anything. “Forever,” Buck says, honest. “Just never thought I’d have a chance to act on it.”

“Right,” Phillip says. “But you did.”

“In front of an officiant and everything.”

“You didn’t invite us.”

Buck raises an eyebrow. “It wasn’t something I expected you and Mom to be interested in coming to. You didn’t go to Maddie’s wedding.”

“That’s because Doug—” Phillip cuts himself off, shaking his head. “You know why we didn’t go to that. We didn’t agree with her decision to marry that man.”

“And you’d agree with mine to marry this one?”

Phillip turns his head to look at him, eyebrows pinched together. It’s a look Buck recognizes from a childhood of disappointing his parents, and he suddenly, viscerally wishes that he had declined this invite in the first place. That he was at home, with Eddie and Christopher and Maddie. At home with his family.

Phillip says, “You aren’t gay, Evan. We know how many girls you saw in high school.”

“I’m queer,” Buck says. “Not that I need to explain myself to you.”

He purses his lips. “And your—husband,” Phillip says, the word sounding wrong in his mouth. “He’s…”

“I’m gay,” Eddie offers, appearing in the kitchen. There’s a pillow crease along his cheek and he’s still wearing his sweat shorts and old army t-shirt, but he’s—here. Not just in the kitchen; he’s here, in Hershey, because Buck asked, and Eddie has never said no to him. Not once.

Buck shoots him a look over the island that probably looks accusatory, but now isn’t really the time to interrogate his best friend-slash-fake-husband about when he had a sexuality crisis without telling him. Plus, for all he knows, it’s just to get Phillip’s blood pressure to rise, just a little.

“That’s…nice,” Phillip says, taking a long sip of his coffee.

Eddie glances at Buck, raising an eyebrow. It’s a silent question: are you okay?

Buck nods and Eddie just—walks over and kisses him. Right on the mouth. It’s barely more than a peck, because Buck’s dad is right there, but it’s still—

Buck was joking about walking into Swatara Creek last night, but now, he’s dead serious.

Phillip makes a noise in the back of his throat and turns back toward the window, just as Margaret walks in through the back door. She wipes her hands on a paper towel, staining it dark with dirt, looks at Eddie in his shorts, fixing himself a cup of coffee, and says, “Will you be joining us for breakfast?”

“No,” Buck says quickly, a hand darting out to the small of Eddie’s back. It’s a calming touch, for him more than Eddie. “No, I was going to take Eddie into town. Show him around.”

Margaret pinches her lips together. “I see.”

“We can do dinner,” Buck offers, because he hasn’t quite beaten the habit of trying to make things work with his parents out of him, yet. “Before the reunion, tonight.”

“Fine,” Margaret says. “I’ll make your favorite.”

Buck isn’t sure his mother knows what his favorite meal is, doesn’t think she’s ever known what it is, but he gives her a tight nod, anyway. “Sure.” Blindly, Buck finds Eddie’s hand and tangles their fingers together, squeezing lightly. “What do you say, baby? Wanna see Hershey?”

Something glints in Eddie’s eye—surprise, maybe, at the pet name—but he nods anyway, putting his full cup of coffee into the sink. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

And Buck—

Buck is so, so screwed.

Hershey is—exactly as Buck remembers it, to be honest.

He takes Eddie to his old haunts, the places he’d go to get in trouble or have fun, and Eddie teases him, demanding pictures of an acne-faced teenage Buck. There’s no way in hell Buck’s handing those over, not in a million years, but it’s—nice. Nice to be back in this town with someone who doesn’t make him want to run away from it.

Eventually, though, the day of reminiscing ends, and they’re due at dinner.

“Hey,” Buck says, once they’ve returned to the house. They’re back in the bedroom, getting changed—Buck insisted that they get ready for the reunion before dinner so they could escape as quickly as possible—and Buck’s tucking a dark green button-down into a pair of black jeans, ignoring the way Eddie’s slipping on a sweater across from him.

Eddie pauses, sweater halfway over his head. His eyes are hidden, so Buck—not good at ignoring it after all, apparently—takes the chance to look at the smooth panes of Eddie’s stomach for a moment before looking back down at the floor. “Hi,” Eddie replies, a question in his voice.

“You didn’t have to lie, you know,” Buck says, fastening his watch around his wrist. He hasn’t had a chance to bring it up today, not without disturbing the relative peace he felt for the first time in his life in Hershey, but now, before they go down to see his parents, feels as good a time as ever. When Eddie makes a noise of confusion, Buck says, “About being gay.”

“Oh.” Eddie pulls the sweater all the way on, his hair rumpled and eyes a little darker than usual. Buck looks at him, watching him tug his lip into his mouth, eyes trained on the duvet “I wasn’t lying.”

Buck blinks at Eddie. Eddie looks up and blinks at Buck.

“Oh,” Buck echoes. “You never told me that.”

“It never really came up,” Eddie says, shrugging lightly. He buttons up his jeans, hands a little shaky, and Buck wants to crawl across the mattress and take them, wants to press his mouth to Eddie’s knuckles and ask why he didn’t tell him. “I just thought…”

“You know you can tell me anything,” Buck says. “You know that, right?”

“Obviously,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. “I thought I made that clear when I let you break down my bedroom door.”

“You didn’t exactly have much of a choice in that.”

“Maybe not,” Eddie says, “but there’s no one else I’d rather have done it.”

It feels too honest, too raw for a Friday night in Hershey, PA, but Buck swallows it anyway, lets it settle over his bones and into his skin like a confession. Because they’ve talked about it—they’ve talked about everything, at this point—but still, hearing Eddie say it—Buck doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to that.

“Well,” Buck says, and they both ignore the way his voice is a little choked, “there’s no one else’s door that I’d rather break down.”

Eddie grins, and Buck knows it’s to ease whatever nerves are bubbling under the surface. “There better not be,” he says, coming along the side of the bed until he’s standing right in front of Buck. “You’re my husband, dude. Can’t have you cheating on me with another man.”

“Never,” Buck says. Still, too honest, but they both smile anyway. “Come on. Let’s go get the third degree from my parents before getting it from my high school friends.”

“Can’t wait,” Eddie says, just this side of dry. It makes Buck laugh; he suspects that was the goal. They double-check they have everything—wallets, tickets, keys to the rental—for a quick and easy escape, and then walk down the stairs hand in hand, because Buck is a glutton for punishment, just a little.

They enter the dining room to find Phillip and Margaret sitting already, sliced meatloaf on a dish in the center of the table. They look up when Buck and Eddie enter, pausing their conversation, and Margaret says, “I didn’t expect you to make it.”

“I said we would,” Buck says, and Eddie squeezes his fingers.

Margaret makes a noncommittal noise and gestures to the two seats across from her and Phillip. “Please, sit.”

Buck and Eddie exchange a quick glance before doing as she says, sliding into the seats next to each other. As soon as they’re sitting, Eddie’s hand finds Buck’s under the table, and he pulls both their hands onto his lap, thumb brushing along the back of Buck’s hand absently.

Buck has to remember, suddenly, not to blurt out I love you. He’s not sure he could get away with it.

Phillip begins dishing out the food; Buck never liked meatloaf, not even as a kid, so he isn’t quite sure why his mother thinks it’s his favorite, but—he isn’t going to start a fight over something so small. So what his own mother knows nothing about him? It’s always been like that, really. Buck can’t start complaining now.

They’re all silent for a long time, only the sounds of forks scraping along plates filling the room. It’s almost unbearably awkward, and Buck is about to like, choke on his food and have Eddie perform the second emergency tracheotomy of his life, just for something to do, when Phillip speaks up.

“So, Eddie,” he says, and Buck braces himself. His father is—well, he isn’t as bad as Buck’s mother, but he’s still something. “You have a son.”

“Christopher,” Eddie supplies easily, spearing a green bean onto his fork. “He’s thirteen now.”

“His mother?” Margaret asks.

Eddie glances up, first at Buck, then at his mother. He swallows, fingers flexing in Buck’s hand. “Uh, she died. A few years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Margaret says, not sounding very sorry at all. “Did she know about—you?”

“That I’m gay?” Eddie asks, a little bland, and Margaret nods tightly. “I don’t know. She was hit by a car before we ever got the chance to talk about it.”

“Oh,” Margaret says, and at least she has the decency to actually look apologetic about it this time. “That’s terrible.”

Eddie just hums in response, taking another bite of meatloaf.

Phillip’s knife scrapes across his plate. “And your son. He’s okay with—this?”

Buck shifts in his seat, biting down on the inside of his cheek. It’s not like—okay, Buck is well aware that he has some issues with his own self-worth, but he’s been working on it. He can think about the will, can think about Christopher, for more than five minutes without having an existential crisis about it. He can. But there’s something about his father bringing it up, about his father questioning his place in Chris’s life, that has him squirming.

It has him spiraling, a little bit, devolving into the same guy that sat on a hospital bed next to Eddie years ago and couldn’t believe that he would ever be trusted with something as precious as Christopher Diaz. That he—Evan Buckley, who has terrible fucking luck and an even worse history of holding onto things that are important—could be asked to be Chris’s guardian in the event that Eddie is no longer around.

No, what has him spiraling is something else. It’s the fact that Buck wants, and aches, and yearns for more than that stipulation; he doesn’t want the boy who is more his son than not without Eddie by his side. He wants, and wants, and wants for Christopher to be theirs. To be Chris’s father, too, at Eddie’s side.

It always comes back to that, doesn’t it? The fact that he wants to spend the rest of his life with Eddie, even if Eddie—if Eddie—

“Buck is the most important person in my life next to my son,” Eddie says, and Buck wants to choke, or cry, or roll over and die. “He has been since before we got married. Since before I fell in love with him. Christopher always has—and always will—love Buck like a second father. So, yes. He’s okay with his father being married to a man. Especially because that man is Buck.”

Phillip starts, “I meant no disrespect—"

“You did, though,” Eddie says, wiping his mouth on one of the cloth napkins. “You either meant to ask if my son was okay with his father being gay or if he was okay with Buck being in his life, both of which I would assume you agree are not respectful in the slightest. I could do the same to you, if you wanted to see what it feels like? Maybe I could ask why you hid my husband’s dead brother from him for years while constantly making him feel guilty for something that wasn’t his fault. But I won’t ask, because I’m a guest in your house. Do you see the difference?”

Margaret and Phillip stare at him from across the table, looking like someone just ripped the rug from beneath their feet. Buck knows how they feel.

He wants to turn to Eddie and whisper laying it on a little thick, aren’t you? but can’t bring himself to do anything but stare at Eddie’s profile, watching a muscle in his jaw tick as he waits for the Buckleys to say something.

Except, they don’t. Because if there’s one thing his parents have always been good at, it’s avoiding the root of the problem; it’s dismissing things, and pretending they don’t exist, and at the end of the day having each other’s backs instead of their children’s. All of it—Buck’s whole life—no one has had his back.

Until Eddie.

Margaret shifts the conversation to something more menial, a one-sided chat with her husband that Buck tunes out. He’s too busy focusing on Eddie—on Eddie, who came to fucking Pennsylvania without any convincing, who has always had Buck, from the day they met, who gave him his son—and Jesus fucking Christ, Buck knew, he knew in his bones before this that he was in love with Eddie, but this—this—

Maybe, just maybe, Eddie is in love with him too.

Oh, Buck fucking regrets everything.

“Stop fidgeting,” Eddie mumbles from his side, adjusting Buck’s collar with deft fingers. They’re standing outside Buck’s high school gym, waiting for Buck to get the balls to actually go inside, and if Eddie handling his parents and the practice kissing wasn’t enough to do him in, this—the gently taking care of him—definitely will be.

And Jesus Christ—the rings.

Because Buck—he’s imagined it, obviously, what being married to Eddie might be like. He’s imagined the slow, easy mornings, the late-night dates, the kids and the memories and the sex but he so easily neglected to imagine what it would be like to see a ring on Eddie’s finger that showed him as taken. Taken by Buck.

So, yeah. Buck’s going to fucking die.

“I’m not fidgeting,” Buck says, his fingers twitching at his side. He shifts from one foot to another, and Eddie raises an eyebrow at him. “Fine. I’m just—nervous.”

“I get that,” Eddie says, smoothing his hands over Buck’s shoulders. Buck seriously, genuinely wants to jump off a bridge. “And we can turn around and go back to LA right now, if you want.”

Buck wants—so many things. He wants to put his hand in Eddie’s back pocket, and kiss him for real, and marry him, but he just says, “I have to do this.”

Eddie smiles, offering Buck his hand. “Then let’s do it.”

Ever since Buck’s revelation at dinner—the fact that there’s a chance, a tiny, minuscule chance—that Eddie returns his feelings, he’s felt like he’s vibrating out of his own skin. Like one wrong move and he’ll implode and crumple in on himself, just out of the sheer possibility that Eddie might love him back.

The simple solution, obviously, is to ask. Is to pull at Eddie’s hand and drag him to a secluded classroom and lay it all out on the table—to say, I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life and hope Eddie feels the same. The simple solution is to be honest. To go all in.

Buck has never been one for simplicity.

Instead, he takes Eddie’s hand, their rings clinking together, and echoes, “Let’s do it.”

The inside of the gym is, predictably, as Buck remembers it. Gym class—sports in general—were his one reprieve from the rest of the world; where he didn’t do well in school he excelled athletically, and was able to skate by on whatever team was going at the time—football, baseball, soccer. Whatever it was, Buck did it, because doing it meant late practices and games, and that meant not being home for a good majority of the day; a win in his book.

But still, being back in the home of the Trojans feels a little bit like stepping into the past, especially when he catches the eye of a familiar face from across the room.

“Evan fucking Buckley,” a voice booms, and Buck winces, just enough that Eddie notices, sending him a glance, eyebrows furrowed. Buck shakes his head a little, a silent it’s fine, and then Jesse Santos is crossing the gym with long strides, wearing—Buck shits you not—one of their football lettermen jackets. It’s too small on him, the arms straining, but you know what they say about people who peaked in high school. Jesse says, “As I live and breathe. I didn’t think you’d make it, man.”

“Here I am,” Buck says, and he knows his voice is a little tight, but honestly, he’s not sure he thought this through at all. Because it’s one thing for his parents to think he’s a total fuck up, but people like Jesse—they fucking expected the world of him. They thought he’d go off and do great things, or something, and he’s lying about his relationship status with the man he’s in love with.

Eddie squeezes his fingers before letting go. Before Buck gets the chance to mourn the loss of contact, Eddie slides a hand around his waist, fitting his thumb into one of Buck’s belt loops, fingers fanning across his ribcage. Buck sinks into him, a little, letting Eddie take some of his weight; he does, easily.

Jesse looks at Eddie, at the way they’re wrapped up in each other, and raises an eyebrow. “And who’s this?”

Eddie moves his free hand so it’s in front of him, voice casual as he says, “Eddie Diaz. The husband.”

Jesse’s eyebrow shoots up even further, nearly touching his hairline. “Husband,” he echoes, and Buck feels it, the way he and Eddie both tense up at the prospect of a pointed comment or even downright homophobia, but Jesse just breaks out into a grin, bright and unfettered and still missing one of his bottom teeth from a particularly rough hit during a hockey game, and says, “Damn, Buckley. You married up!”

Eddie glances over at him, a smile being to tug up his lips. They both relax, shifting closer, and Eddie says, “Married up, huh? Is there someone I should be worried about?”

“Simone Carters is around here somewhere,” Jesse says, and Buck groans out loud. Eddie raises an eyebrow, and he adds, “She was obsessed with him all through high school.”

“I went on one date with her sophomore year,” Buck says. “That’s it.”

“And Simone was planning your wedding anyway,” Jesse says. “Don’t worry though. Actually, I think you two will have something in common.”

Eddie and Buck share a look, and Buck says, “Oh?”

Jesse smiles again, patting Buck on the shoulder. “Stay here. I’m going to go get her.”

“You really don’t have to—” Buck starts, but then Jesse is gone, disappearing into the crowd.

Eddie turns to him, hand sliding along his ribcage, and says, “So, I’m guessing Buck 1.0 didn’t start when you moved to L.A.?”

“I didn’t date in high school,” Buck says with a shrug. “I went on dates, but I was never in a serious relationship, or anything.”

“Why not?” Eddie asks, moving in a little closer. “Waiting for the right person?”

And Buck—

Buck is so fucking tired of not knowing.

“It took me a few years,” he says, and shifts even closer, until they’re toe-to-toe. He gets a sudden, rushing memory of what Eddie’s lips feel like on his. “But I think I managed to find them.”

Eddie’s eyes darken, barely perceptible, and he glances down at Buck’s mouth, tracking the way Buck’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and—

“Evan Buckley,” a woman greets, and Buck hates that he’s here, for real. He wishes he and Eddie were locked in an elevator, or like, in Antarctica, or something. At least they’d be alone.

Buck pulls back a fraction to see Simone Carters, looking as pretty as she had the last time he saw her, at their graduation. Her hair is braided in cornrows along her head, her makeup done dark and smokey, and there’s another woman next to her, all ginger hair and hazel eyes, who’s smiling politely, a glass of punch in her hand.

“Simone,” Buck greets, and he hugs her when she leans in, a quick squeeze that barely has him leaving Eddie’s side for more than a second. “You look great.”

She grins, teeth straight and white, and Buck remembers liking her, back in sophomore year. Suddenly, he can’t remember why they never took things further than one date. “So do you, Evan.”

“Ah,” Buck says, and he finds himself smiling, too. “Just Buck, now. Too many Evans at the fire academy.”

Simone’s eyes brighten, and she grabs onto the red-haired woman’s arm, pulling her closer. “Fire academy,” she repeats, and when Buck nods, she grins wider, “Lena is a paramedic.”

“Guilty,” the ginger—Lena—says. “In San Francisco, though, not Hershey.”

“We’re in Los Angeles,” Buck says, nodding his head toward Eddie. “That’s really cool.” He pauses for a minute, trying to place her, and says, “You didn’t go to Hershey High, did you?”

“Is it that obvious I’m out of my depth here?” Lena laughs, and Buck smiles. “No, I’m just here with this one,” she says, patting Simone’s arm.

Simone presses her hand to her forehead. “Jesus, where are my manners. I didn’t even introduce you. Heather, this is Evan Buckley, a friend from school. Buck, this Lena Robins. My wife.”

Ah. So that’s what Jesse meant by them having something in common.

“Wife,” Buck echoes, but he feels himself grinning. “I didn’t know—”

“Me neither,” Simone says with a chuckle. “Not since I met Lena.”

And fuck, if Buck doesn’t know that feeling.

“I think that’s why I was so into you in high school, to be honest,” Simone says. “Not that you weren’t—aren’t—great! But you know how it is. I attached myself to you so I wouldn’t have to force myself to confront the very scary girl-feelings I was having under the surface.”

“Oh, I know how that feels,” Eddie chimes in suddenly, and Buck slips his hand into his back pocket. Just because. “I got the first girl I dated pregnant. Surefire way to never think about gay feelings again, when you’ve got a baby on the way.”

Lena and Simone both laugh, and Buck glances at him, watching his lips tilt into a smile. Simone says, “It obviously worked out, though. Don’t tell me you two are just friends.”

Eddie laughs, holding up his left hand. “Married, unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately,” Buck echoes, but he’s smiling too hard to sound serious about it.

“Nah, not unfortunately,” Eddie says, and he leans in to press a kiss to the corner of Buck’s mouth. “Best decision I ever made.”

Buck feels it down to his bones.

“So, come on,” Simone says, leaning into her wife. “Tell us all the gory details of how Evan Buckley ended up with a gorgeous hunk of a man.”

Buck snorts and Eddie grins. Buck’s about to answer, to spin a tale about falling in love dramatically and a love confession straight out of the movies, but Eddie speaks before he can.

“He stepped up,” Eddie says, and Buck looks at him, but Eddie doesn’t look back. “I spent—years, really, doing things on my own, not accepting help from anyone, and then Buck just…walked into my life, and helped me with my son, and just—stayed. When everyone else left, he stayed. I don’t know how I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him after that.”

“Eddie—”

“And like,” Eddie continues like Buck hadn’t spoken, “it’s crazy, you know? To think about—about soulmates, or true love, or whatever, but I’ve never felt more like a person than when I’m with him. Do you know what I mean? Like you’ve been floating through life, just getting by, and suddenly you meet someone who just fits? Who makes you feel alive?”

Simone looks at Lena, then, and smiles softly. “Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.”

And Buck—holy fuck, Buck is so—

“Would you excuse us for a second?” Buck asks the women, not bothering to wait for an answer before he slips his hand out of Eddie’s pocket and grabs his elbow, steering him through the crowd and out of the gym. Eddie makes a noise of confusion but Buck doesn’t stop walking, just keeps moving until they’re ducking into a dark and empty classroom.

“Buck, what are you—”

And Buck just—pushes him against a whiteboard and kisses him.

It’s nothing like their practice kiss back in Los Angeles, which was full of smiles and giggles and an overwhelming feeling in Buck’s chest that it would be the last time he ever got his mouth on Eddie’s. This, though—this feels like the beginning of something, feels like the start of the rest of his life, and if that isn’t a fucking revelation.

Immediately, Eddie gets the memo, his hands finding Buck’s waist, tangling in the fabric of his shirt, and Buck slips a hand down his back until his fingers are playing with Eddie’s belt loops, the other hand sliding to cup his jaw. Buck sweeps a thumb over Eddie’s cheekbone, licking into his mouth, and Eddie moves in even closer until they’re connected from knee to hip to chest.

Buck detaches himself from Eddie’s mouth, quickly trailing hot and wet kisses down his throat. He darts his tongue out in the hollow of Eddie’s Adam’s apple, nipping slightly, and Eddie groans, low in his throat. The sound goes right to Buck’s toes.

“We’re at your school,” Eddie protests weakly. “I’m not having sex with you in a school.”

“Come on, Eds,” Buck says, a little breathless. “That wasn’t one of your fantasies?”

Something dark and full of lust flashes in Eddie’s eyes, but he shakes his head. “I’m a grown man. I’m not sucking your dick in a classroom.”

“But you will suck my dick?” Buck says, and it’s meant to be a joke, but it comes out a little more earnest than he means it to. It sounds like a different question; sounds like he’s saying you’ll keep doing this forever?

Eddie grins, hand sliding from Buck’s ribcage up his back until he’s cradling Buck’s jaw, too. “Baby, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Yeah?”

“City hall tomorrow, if you want,” he whispers, and leans forward, close enough to kiss. “The real deal.”

“It’s all the real deal, Eddie,” Buck says, suddenly serious. “It’s—fuck, what you said in there—”

“I meant it,” Eddie replies, running his thumb over Buck’s spit-slick bottom lip. Buck kisses it, absent, and Eddie smiles, soft and fond. “Every word, I meant. You’re—Jesus, Buck, I never thought I could live before. Not really. Not the way I wanted. But you—you make the whole world a different place for me.”

“Okay, romance,” Buck says, but he’s grinning wide enough that Eddie’s thumb touches one of his canines. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“You bring out something in me,” Eddie says, and before Buck can make a joke, he adds, “I’m serious, Buck. All of this—the rings and the kissing and the baby—I want it. Forever.”

“Forever,” Buck echoes, and he feels something blossoming in the center of his chest, “Eds—”

“I love you,” Eddie says, laughing a little, “I love you like I didn’t realize I could love anyone before. I look at you, and I see—fuck, Evan, I see absolutely everything. Kids and retirement homes and a real marriage. I see myself loving you for the rest of my life.”

“Eddie—”

He tips their foreheads together, both hands cupping Buck’s face. “I’ve never met anyone like you, and I’ve never loved anyone like you, and I’m never going to let you go. I’m so fucking in love with you, Buck, that I don’t know where to put it, and pretending to be your husband has been fucking torture, and—”

Buck kisses him again, hard enough to press him up against the whiteboard, and Eddie makes a noise in the back of his throat, halfway between a whimper and a moan, and Buck feels it to his toes. He pulls back after a while, after his lips have started tingling, and says, “I’m in love with you too. If the whole asking you to be my fake husband didn’t give it away.”

“Technically, you never asked,” Eddie says, because he’s a dick, and Buck is going to fucking marry him. “I offered.”

“I guess we’re both a little obvious, then,” Buck murmurs, kissing him again, chaste and short. “I want it all, too. All of it, Eds. Whatever you’ll have me for, I’m here. Always.”

“Buck, baby,” Eddie says, and he looks a little misty-eyed, looks the exact way Buck feels.

“I love you,” he says, and kisses Eddie’s mouth, his nose, both his cheeks. “I love Christopher, and I love the life we’ve built, and maybe we’ll lie about how this proposal happened when anyone asks,” and Eddie laughs, “but I love you. I love you, and I want to marry you, so if you’ll do me the fucking honor—”

“Yes,” Eddie says. “Yes. Yeah, you fucking lunatic. Of course I’ll marry you.”

Buck draws him into another kiss, and it’s—forever, it’s the rest of their lives, and they’re fucking engaged, and Buck feels like something is clicking into place; something is settling, here, in Hershey, where he always felt like a ghost. Somehow, he feels a little bit more alive than he did sitting in his childhood home or being in his high school gym. Eddie’s hand is in his hair and his mouth is on his and Buck is—

Present, for once in his life. He’s here, and he’s with Eddie, and it’s—

Everything is, for once, good.