Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd was electrifying on Buck’s skin. 

The screams hit Buck like a wave, a surge of sound that vibrated straight through his chest and rattled his bones. 

He lived for this moment. The stage. The floor vibrated under his boots. Somewhere out there, someone was already crying. Somewhere else, someone had climbed on someone else’s shoulders and was screaming his name.

Under the bright glare of the stage lights, Buck grinned– wide, reckless, completely uncontainable– as his fingers slid over the strings on his Les Paul guitar. His fingers moved without thinking, muscle memory layered over muscle memory, every note etched into his skin. Sweat slicked his blonde curls to his forehead, his ripped black tank clinging to his chest. To his left, Hen’s bass thrummed deep and constant—not flashy, just solid, like it had always been. She barely glanced at him, but he caught the way her eyebrow ticked up when he slid a little too close to the stage edge. A silent, Don't you dare.

Something he’s sure Bobby would yell at him later for.

Behind him, Chimney was already lost in it, head thrown back, mouth open in a wordless yell as his drumsticks flew. Ravi played the keys like nobody’s business, his soft features glowing in the lights. 

The crowd roared again. Buck threw his arms out, soaking it in.

It was a packed house. Sold-out LA show, their hometown. Fans screamed his name, waving posters and handmade signs (he even caught one or two girls trying to flash him). 

Maddie was at the side of the stage, camera in hand, her face alight with pride and a touch of exasperation as Buck flirted shamelessly with the front row. Josh barked cues into his headset, pacing near the lighting rig, making sure nothing went dark at the wrong moment. 

And Buck… Buck was flying.

“Hello LA! How are we doing on this beautiful Saturday night?” Buck asked into his mic. The crowd screaming in response was, quite frankly, deafening. 

“Yeah, okay, stupid question, I get it!” he chuckled, looking back at Hen and Chim. They just looked at him with raised eyebrows in enjoyment. Every night, they were amazed by the fan response, as if it were their first show all over again. Even people who weren’t directly in the band. Buck looked to Maddie, who snapped a quick picture of him grinning, giving a thumbs up (best sister ever by the way). After every show, she would show him every candid she took of the band and even the crowd. They loved gossiping about stand-out people in the crowd; they both noticed, even going as far as giving them silly backstories. 

"LA, you have no idea what it’s like to be back home with you all.” Buck set his mic back down on the stand. 

“Yeah, great to be back,” Chim said. “Never again with the Northeast. I almost became a popsicle.”

Hen didn’t miss a beat. “That wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t tried to bond with a squirrel. Shirtless. In a snowstorm.” Hen strummed mindlessly as she recounted the memory. 

“Don’t you dare!” Chim gaped at her, threatening to throw one of his many drumsticks.

The crowd went crazy.

“Alright, alright, everyone, let's calm down for a moment. You can scream all you want to this next song. Everybody ready?!” Buck yelled down his mic. The crowd promptly screamed back.

They all readied themselves as Chim started counting down to start. 

Ravi and Chim entered first, setting the tempo, then he and Hen came in, joining in to make the soundscape. They repeated the first couple of bars to give Hen time to set up. This is what made their band special: live looping. They had too much talent and too few members, so one night they tried looping themselves to add a few more elements. Hen was handed a violin by Josh as she finished the first loop.

She played any string instrument so beautifully it almost made Buck jealous, almost. Her elegant and graceful movements just added so much to the band; nothing could replicate it. 

(1) 

“Run past the rivers, run past all the light… Feel it crashing and burning, till it all collides… Strike a match, lit the fire, shining up the sky…” Buck’s voice was smoother than it had any right to be — his breath even, but threaded with that wild edge that always showed up when they played home shows.

It was melodic at first, but then everyone dropped out but Chim and took a sharp turn left. They all chanted as one as the chorus came in.

“The sound of the wind is whispering in your head… Can you feel it coming back? Through the warmth, through the cold, keep running till we're there… We're coming home now, we're coming home now…” 

The chorus repeated as Buck took hold of the mic stand as he readied for the next part, his silver rings shining bright from the stage light. He absolutely adored this song, and it was the perfect place to sing it, at home. 

“Hear the voices around us, hear them screaming out,” Buck pointed out towards the crowd as they screamed along in unison to them. That may have been his favourite part of performing. Besides the fact that his best friends were on stage with him, but also the fact that people enjoyed it with him. He loved it when the crowd would join them. He loved when they sang in unison, when he would harmonize while they sang the melody, when they chanted silly things between lyrics, when they clapped along to the beat, he just loved them. 

And Buck just loved to show that too, perhaps a bit too much, as Bobby would put it. He had almost made it through the whole show without a mishap. But he liked this song too much. 

It happened as they came off from the chorus and into the bridge. Throwing his guitar over his back, he got to the edge of the stage to tell the audience to join the quiet dynamic of the song and chant with them. “We are coming home, we are coming home…We are coming home, we are coming home…” He had started with small movements, mind you, he just got lost in the music, and as the song started building, so did his movements. “We are coming home, we are coming home…We are coming home, we are coming home…” And as the chorus came back, he rushed back to his mic stand, but… he tripped. Because, of course, he did. His converse hit a slick patch of water, and suddenly the world tilted. Buck's arms pinwheeled, his center of gravity slipping, until he just plopped right on his back. 

It wasn't a big enough fall that he required any aid, but he was too tired after all that running to get up, so he instead just finished the song from there. 

“Through the warmth, through the cold, keep running till we're there….We're coming home now, we're coming home now.” 

A hand grabbed his hand, yanking him upright. 

“Jesus, Buck,” Hen muttered, eyes sharp. “You’ve got one job. Stay vertical.”

Buck gave a crooked grin, brushing hair out of his eyes, “Didn’t quite plan the stage dive for tonight.”

Hen gave him a flat look. Behind them, Chim was still hammering the drums like nothing had happened, though Buck saw the side-eye he threw from behind his kit. Ravi, on keys, shook his head slightly — small smile, eyes sharp — as he shifted smoothly into the next transition, saving the flow of the set.

They were a unit. Buck reminded himself of that constantly. But sometimes it felt like he was the only one whose feet weren’t on the ground.

The dressing room smelled like sweat, stale Red Bull, and too many leather jackets.

Buck dropped onto the nearest couch like he’d been shot, legs spread wide, hair a damp mess of curls across his forehead. His black tank was practically glued to him with sweat. Someone — probably Chim — had tossed a towel at his head on the way in. He hadn’t used it.

Hen was perched on the arm of a chair, picking at a protein bar and pretending not to be watching him. Chim had gone hunting for snacks. Ravi was already half-asleep in a beanbag with his hoodie pulled over his face.

The adrenaline was still thrumming through Buck’s veins, like leftover static. His knee bounced restlessly.

That fall? Iconic. The crowd ate it up.

He was halfway through reliving the moment in his head when the door creaked open, and Bobby walked in.

No clipboard. No headset. Just his face — that particular tight-set expression that Buck had learned meant trouble was coming.

Buck slumped deeper into the couch. “Uh-oh. Am I in time-out?”

Bobby closed the door behind him. “Don’t start.”

Buck held up his hands, grinning. “Come on, it was one fall. I landed like a pro.”

“You landed like a sack of flour,” Bobby said flatly. “You’re lucky you didn’t crack your head open.”

Hen coughed behind her protein bar. Buck shot her a look; she just raised an eyebrow, unbothered.

“I didn’t,” Buck pointed out. “And the crowd loved it.”

“That’s not the point.” Bobby crossed his arms. “You were dehydrated before you went on. You skipped the pre-show meal again. And then you tried to launch yourself into the crowd without looking where you were going.”

“I didn’t try to launch myself,” Buck muttered. “I slipped.”

Bobby ignored that. “This is the third incident this tour. Denver? You nearly passed out mid-set. Philly, you jammed your wrist trying to climb scaffolding — why, I don’t know.”

Chim wandered through with a snack bag, stuffing chips in his mouth. “Dibs on Buck’s solos if he’s out for recovery,” he mumbled through a mouthful.

Buck kicked his foot against the edge of the couch. “It’s a rock show, Bobby. Not a church recital.”

“It’s a career,” Bobby snapped, sharper than usual. “And you’re burning through yours like you think you’ve got a dozen spares.”

That made Buck sit up.

“I’m fine,” he said, a little too loud.

“You’re not. And it’s not just about you.” Bobby’s voice didn’t rise, but it settled heavily in the room. “You’re part of a unit. When you go down, the whole band stumbles. Everyone’s got to adjust — reschedule, recover, cover for you.”

Buck opened his mouth, then closed it.

The silence stretched.

Bobby sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “Look. I’m not here to fight you. I’m here to make sure you make it to the end of this tour without ending up in a hospital or worse.”

“Okay?” Buck said cautiously.

“So,” Bobby continued, “I’m hiring someone. Private EMT.”

Buck blinked. “Wait — what?”

“On staff. Full time. Travels with us. Checks vitals before shows, during shows, handles emergencies, all of it.”

“Like a babysitter.”

“Like a professional,” Bobby said. “Who’s trained to deal with the kind of stunts you keep pulling?”

Buck scoffed, flopping back against the couch again. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No, I’m being practical,” Bobby said. “I already made the call. He’ll meet us in Phoenix.”

“He?”

Bobby gave him a look. “Yes. His name’s Eddie Diaz. Former Army medic. Runs hot and cold on people, but he’s the best at what he does. Discreet. Experienced. Doesn’t care about fame.”

Buck made a face. “Sounds fun at parties.”

“Good,” Bobby said. “Someone around here has to stop enabling your death wish.”

Buck crossed his arms, frowning. “What if I don’t want some guy hovering around me with a blood pressure cuff all tour?”

“You don’t have to want it,” Bobby said. “You just have to deal with it.”

With that, he turned and walked out — cool, calm, immovable.

Buck stared at the ceiling.

“Eddie Diaz,” he muttered. “Great.”

Hen snorted. “Better hydrate, Buckaroo. Sounds like he’ll be watching.”

Eddie Diaz did NOT take on just any client. Especially musicians 

He found them to be… well, annoying, stuck up, arrogant, rude, the list could go on. So when Athena Grant-Nash called him up asking for a favor, this was not what he had in mind. 

“Why?” He asked, deadpanning at Athena. Athena was the police and safety liaison for the 118, which worked perfectly, considering she was married to the band's manager. 

“Because I asked Diaz,” She stared at him, giving him the same attitude she was receiving. Don’t mess with her, got it, “ and because it will be good pay.” She hiked her eyebrow up, staring at him.

Eddie really couldn’t argue with that logic; between taking care of house payments, Chris’ doctor appointments, and childcare, it piled up real fast. It wasn’t like he was necessarily struggling; being a private EMT was good work, with good pay. It's just that, well, it’d be nice to have a little extra money lying around in case of emergencies. 

“You know I don’t take on those types of clients.” Eddie folded his arms across his broad chest, the crisp sleeves of his Henley pulling tight around his biceps. His expression was flat, unimpressed, the kind of look that had sent lesser men running in the opposite direction. Unfortunately for him, Athena Grant-Nash was not a lesser anything.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. She just tilted her head and said, “He’s not a type. He’s a walking liability.”

Eddie blinked. “And that’s better, how?”

“It means he needs someone competent. Someone who won’t fall for the ‘rockstar charm’ he's got going on, and forget they’re there to keep him alive,” Athena said, cool and crisp as ever. “I trust you. I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t.”

Eddie sighed and leaned back against the counter in her office, letting his head drop against the wall for a moment. He stared at the ceiling like the plaster might hold some type of divine intervention. It didn’t—just a water stain in the shape of Texas.

“I just got off a contract with a Wall Street exec who thought Red Bull counted as hydration,” Eddie muttered. “I was looking forward to a quiet couple of weeks with Chris. Maybe do a puzzle. Maybe take a nap.”

Athena smiled at that. “You’ll still have downtime. The tour moves fast, but they rotate days off between cities. Plus, your kid can come out when school’s out.”

“Plus, need I remind you that the 118 is Chris’ favourite band right now.” She raised an eyebrow at him, tilting her head slightly. 

Eddie raised an eyebrow at that. “You’ve already thought this through.”

“I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t serious, Diaz.” Her voice softened just a little. “They’ve already had three incidents on this leg of the tour, and they’re barely halfway through. It’s a miracle Buck hasn’t broken something yet. Bobby’s worried.”

Eddie gave a humorless little huff. “So the golden boy’s a walking hazard.”

“I didn’t say that,” Athena said, though her smile said you’re not wrong.

Eddie scrubbed a hand over his jaw. He hadn’t shaved this morning. Too much paperwork, not enough patience. “One tour. That’s it.”

“One tour,” Athena confirmed. “Phoenix to LA. Then you’re free.”

Lord, please give me strength. 

(2)

Eddie arrived at the Phoenix venue in the late evening, just as the sky shifted from blistering heat to burnt orange haze.

The asphalt was still warm under his boots as he made his way through the maze of tour buses, tech rigs, and humming generators. He passed crew members with headsets and wristbands, the thrum of bass vibrations pulsing underfoot. The music from the stage was muffled but growing louder as he got closer — not loud in the heart-pounding, chaotic way he’d expected, but... soft. Almost reverent.

He stepped through a side entrance and into the shadowy guts of the venue, where cables snaked like vines and gaff tape lined every visible edge. A security guard waved him through without a second glance — Athena had clearly made the arrangements.

A single acoustic guitar was carried through the speakers. A hush had fallen over the crowd, tens of thousands of people standing still, swaying, some even crying.

The song drifted through the walls like smoke — warm and slow, a little raw around the edges, like someone had sanded down a confession until it bled melody.

“Why can’t you love me like I need you to… such a simple task at hand…”

Eddie stood backstage in the low glow of safety lights, the scent of sawdust, sweat, and faintly burnt wires thick in the air. The venue’s guts were quieter here, but not silent. The music carried — not blasting, but filling. Like it had soaked into the concrete itself.

It was just a voice and a guitar. No fireworks, no synth, no backup dancers. And still, the crowd sounded reverent.

“... and I am still the same kid you fell for when we were young…”

He didn’t want to admit it, but he’d paused. Not because he was impressed — at least that’s what he told himself — but because it felt like walking in on something private. Like, whoever was singing had forgotten about the audience entirely.

“Eddie Diaz?”

He turned toward the voice and found a man standing a few feet away, hands in his back pockets, casual like he hadn’t just appeared out of nowhere.

“Yeah,” Eddie said cautiously.

The man stepped forward and offered a hand. “Bobby Nash. Band manager. Athena’s husband.”

They shook. Bobby’s grip was steady, his voice calm — the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room. Or a band.

“You just get in?”

“About twenty minutes ago.”

“Good. C’mon. It’s a maze back here.”

Bobby led him through a corridor of stacked crates and gear cases, weaving around cables and crew with the practiced ease of someone who knew every inch of the place. As they walked, the song continued to pour through the space behind them, a little louder now — the singer holding out a note that cracked just enough to feel real.

“So don’t call in the morning cause I’ll already be gone.”

“That’s Buck,” Bobby said without looking. “He wrote this one about six months ago. Said it ‘showed up in the middle of a breakdown,’ whatever that means.”

Eddie didn’t respond.

“Love is patient, love is kind, should not make you lose your mind.”

They rounded a corner and stopped near a rack of instruments waiting to be swapped in. A girl in her twenties stood nearby, tablet in hand, scribbling something out with her thumb. She looked up and offered a polite nod.

“May,” Bobby said. “This is Eddie. Athena’s favor.”

May huffed a laugh. “Figures. I heard her on speaker this morning threatening to storm the tour bus if you didn’t call her back.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Bobby murmured.

May turned her attention to Eddie. “You’re here to babysit the chaos tornado, right?”

Eddie raised an eyebrow.

“Buck,” she clarified, grinning faintly. “You’ll see.”

“I’ve heard a lot about him already,” Eddie said dryly. His eyes flicked toward the stage again.

Buck was still out there — sitting on a stool now, curled around the guitar like it was the only thing keeping him upright. The spotlight made him a silhouette. The kind you remember.

“Why can’t I love you like you need me to… it seems we juxtapose…”

“He’s not what you’re expecting,” Bobby said after a beat. “Most people think he’s this... party boy. Big smile, bigger ego, always performing.” He paused. “That version of him? It’s real. But it’s not the whole story.”

Eddie folded his arms, not quite ready to buy in. “You sound like you’ve given this speech before.”

May snorted. “You have no idea.”

“I’m not here to be impressed,” Eddie said, watching the stage. “I’m here to keep him breathing. That’s it.”

“Fair enough,” Bobby replied, his tone still even. “But since you’re going to be around him 24/7, you should know who you’re dealing with.”

There was a pause. Buck’s voice dropped low again, the kind of quiet that makes a stadium hush without anyone telling them to.

May softened. “He’s... a lot. You’ll probably hate him the first week.”

“Or the first hour,” Bobby added.

“But he grows on you,” she said, almost reluctantly. “Like mold. If mold had abandonment issues and a hero complex.”

Bobby chuckled under his breath. “He cares too much. That’s the real problem. For all the flash and flirtation and chaos, he gives a damn about people — even when they don’t want him to.”

Eddie said nothing.

He heard it in the song now — not just heartbreak, but hope. The kind that feels too heavy to carry alone. The voice cracked again, just a little, and something in Eddie’s chest shifted. Not much. Just enough to notice.

“So don’t call in the morning cause i’ll already be gone, oklahoma in the summertimes where my country ass belongs” 

“I’ve seen a lot of musicians come and go,” Bobby went on. “Ones who only wanted the fame. The money. The high. But Buck? He’d be up there if no one showed. He needs it. Not the attention — the connection. It’s the only time he ever looks settled.”

“He’s not settled right now,” May murmured, mostly to herself.

“No,” Bobby agreed quietly. “But he’s trying.”

Eddie didn’t know what to do with that. He wasn’t here for soul-baring or personality deep-dives. He was here to keep Buckley from ODing, disappearing, or jumping off something tall for the adrenaline rush.

Still. The way they spoke — the mix of fondness and frustration, of worry laced into every word — it meant something. People didn’t talk about you like that unless you mattered.

“I’ll reserve judgment,” Eddie said finally.

“That’s all we ask,” Bobby said with a faint smile. “You’ll figure him out eventually. Just... give him room to be more than the headline.”

May gave him a side-glance. “And maybe don’t let him near tequila the first night.”

“Or any night,” Bobby said grimly.

“There’s got to me more to this than being pissed off, all the time”

The song ended. A long silence held in its place, like the world needed a second to breathe again. Then came the applause — thunderous, explosive, deafening.

Buck stood slowly and gave a half-bow, one hand pressed to his chest like he didn’t quite believe the crowd was real.

Eddie watched him with narrowed eyes.

This guy? This was the chaos tornado? This was the man Athena had warned him about?

Something didn’t add up. Not yet.

But Eddie Diaz knew better than to trust first impressions.

Chapter Text

The applause was still echoing through the arena, a thunderous, living thing that chased Buck offstage like a wave, crashing behind him. He jogged down the narrow corridor, towel already slung around his neck, cheeks flushed, curls dark with sweat. He looked like a man struck by lightning—alive in a way most people never got to be, his energy still crackling, eyes too bright. His grin stretched wide, teeth flashing as he moved like he couldn’t stand to be still.

He was also still talking.

“Did you hear them out there? They lost it during the bridge. And the breakdown? That was the loudest it’s ever been, I swear. Hen, tell me that wasn’t insane—”

Then he stopped mid-stride.

Someone was standing by the gear crates. Not a roadie. Not a fan. Definitely not one of theirs. The guy didn’t move, didn’t even blink. He just stood there with his arms folded across his chest, solid and unreadable, like he’d been carved from desert stone and planted backstage on a dare.

Short military haircut. Tan skin. Eyes like knives. His expression was pure No Bullshit, the kind of look that said he didn’t scare easy—and wasn’t here to make friends. Buck felt the immediate itch of challenge spark along his spine.

Hen brushed past Buck, her smile the kind that warned trouble was coming. “Buck, meet your new shadow.”

Buck blinked. “My what?”

“Private EMT,” Bobby said, appearing like stage management personified with a water bottle in one hand. “Eddie Diaz. He’s riding with us through the rest of the tour.”

Eddie gave a short nod. “Hey.”

Buck looked him up and down, not even pretending to be subtle. The guy was good-looking in the way Buck usually hated—like he’d been built to survive end-of-the-world scenarios while looking infuriatingly composed. Broad shoulders beneath a navy sweatshirt with EMT on the right-hand corner, sleeves shoved to the elbows. Strong hands, tanned skin, that aura of competence people couldn’t fake.

Buck hated him a little immediately.

Unfair. Annoying. Also: hot.

Buck stuck out his hand with a grin. “Evan Buckley. Buck. Just Buck.”

Eddie looked at it for a beat before accepting. His handshake was firm. His expression didn’t shift an inch. “Eddie.”

“Cool,” Buck said, drawing the word out like it could smooth over the weird static buzzing between them. “So, what, you’re here to take my blood pressure?”

“If I have to,” Eddie replied. “I’m mostly here to keep you from cracking your skull open or collapsing on stage.”

Hen coughed into her fist, clearly fighting laughter.

“I’m fine, by the way,” Buck added quickly, aiming it at Bobby. “No collapsing here.”

“You’re fine today ,” Bobby said, calm but firm. “But we’re not doing another city with you running on fumes. Eddie’s here for the duration. Deal with it.”

“Got it,” Buck muttered, though his gaze drifted back to Eddie like he couldn’t help it. The guy was unreadable. Professional. Annoyingly centered.

“Let me guess,” Buck said. “Ex-military?”

“Army.”

“Thought so. You’ve got that ‘yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir’ vibe.”

Eddie didn’t flinch. “You’ve got that ‘rules don’t apply to me’ vibe.”

Hen winced. “And it begins.”

Buck raised his hands, mock-innocent. “Hey, I’m a delight.”

“Sure,” Eddie said flatly. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

A few minutes later, Chim came in, towel slung over one shoulder, still wired from the set. “Whoa, new guy? You must be the medic Athena threatened us with.”

“Eddie Diaz.”

“Howard Han. Call me Chim. You’ll learn everyone’s names real quick once we’re on the bus. Buck never shuts up.”

“False slander,” Buck said, collapsing into a folding chair with all the grace of a collapsing star. “I provide valuable commentary.”

Hen leaned against the wall. “You provide chaos.”

Ravi strolled in, smoothie in hand, phone in the other. “Did I miss the introduction party?”

“Perfect timing,” Chim said. “Eddie, meet Ravi. He’s keys, synth, vocals, and also our designated chill.”

“Ravi Panikkar,” Ravi said, offering a hand with an easy smile. “Nice to meet you. Athena said you were legit.”

Eddie shook it. “Appreciate that. She threatened to disown me if I turned this gig down.”

“Oh yeah, that sounds like her,” Ravi said. “Welcome to the circus.”

Buck leaned forward, elbows on knees, grinning like a kid with a secret. “Ravi’s the one who keeps us in tune and emotionally grounded.”

“Mainly because someone has the emotional range of a pinball machine,” Ravi muttered.

Buck clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me.”

Hen smirked. “And that’s everyone. Well, besides Josh and Maddie, but they’re crew. You’ll meet them at load-out.”

Eddie took them all in—loud, chaotic, tight-knit. A mess and a miracle. “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

Chim grinned. “Ooh, he’s gonna fit right in.”

He knew it immediately—Buck was going to be a problem.
Too loud. Too flashy. Too—everything.

Eddie had barely finished his first lap around the venue, checking exits and familiarizing himself with the floor plan, when Buck exploded offstage like a firework. Not just energetic, radiant in a way that was impossible to ignore. He moved like a spark with a human body, all limbs and noise and sweat-slick charisma, lighting up every corner he entered without ever asking permission. His shirt clung to his back, his curls were damp and wild, and his voice carried like it was chasing the tail end of the music still reverberating through the arena.

He didn’t walk; he bounced. Like the world was a trampoline and he’d never learned how to stay still. His feet barely seemed to touch the floor. He greeted people by name, with slaps on shoulders and reckless grins, already recounting the show as if it were the most important night of his life. Maybe it was. Maybe they all were.

But what got Eddie wasn’t the swagger.

It was the way Buck looked at people—fast, scanning, as if taking mental snapshots and immediately filing them under 'stay' or 'go.' Like he’d spent his whole life watching doors close and learning how to perform just right so they wouldn’t. There was something in his eyes, sharp and searching, the kind of restlessness Eddie recognized from his time in uniform. The grin came next—bright, wide, borderline obnoxious. But Eddie knew an armor smile when he saw one. It was the kind of smile meant to blind people from looking too closely at the cracks underneath.

A distraction. A shield. Maybe both.

Eddie hated how quickly he noticed it.

He hadn’t planned on getting involved. His job was simple—monitor vitals, patch wounds, keep the lead singer from cracking his skull open on a fog machine or passing out mid-set. No need for connection. No need for curiosity. Just do the work, collect the paycheck, move on.

But the band? The band wasn’t what he expected.

They were tight. Not just musically, though, even Eddie—whose idea of music was mostly gym playlists and late-night drive-time rock—had to admit their timing was flawless. But it went deeper than that. They moved like a unit that had been through fire together.

Hen had the dry patience of someone who’d known Buck forever, the kind that only came from years of surviving chaos side by side. She had eyes like she missed nothing and a wit like a scalpel—clean, fast, and always on point.

Chim was a different kind of wild—big energy in a beanie and too many snacks in his hands, but his gaze never strayed far from Buck, like he was constantly running triage on everything that could go wrong. His jokes came easily, but his concern was a quiet, steady thing.

Bobby had the calm of someone who’d seen everything and still chose to care. He moved like a captain, subtle but always in control, his authority not barked but felt.

And Ravi, quiet, observant Ravi, spoke less than the others but heard more. He watched the room the way a good medic would, listening to the space between sounds, knowing when to step in and when to hang back.

It wasn’t just a band. It was a family.

Back in the green room, Buck was stretched out on a couch like a starfish, legs splayed and one arm flung over the armrest like he owned the furniture and maybe the air around it, too. He was still buzzing, even offstage—his fingers tapping a rhythm on his knee, his mouth running through set highlights like he couldn’t let go of the adrenaline just yet.

Hen sat nearby, icing her wrist with practiced ease.

“You’ve gotta stop windmilling like a pop-punk guitarist,” she told Buck. “We don’t have a chiropractor on payroll.”

“Yet,” Buck said, gesturing toward Eddie without missing a beat. “We’re halfway there.”

“Don’t lump me into your chaos,” Eddie replied, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed.

Chim, elbow-deep in a catering tray like a man on a mission, added, “You get used to him. Kind of like background noise. Loud, relentless background noise.”

“I’m charming background noise,” Buck argued, head tilted upside down off the couch, grinning at them all like he couldn’t imagine a world where he wasn’t adored.

“You’re the static on a TV from 1994,” Ravi said, not even looking up from his crossword.

Hen laughed. “See? This is why Ravi’s the best of us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Chim said. “I once brought her a taco mid-set change. That should count for something.”

“It does,” Ravi replied. “Just not enough.”

Eddie stayed at the edge of the room, watchful. Still not convinced. Still trying to calculate the risk.

“Don’t hover, Diaz,” Buck called without turning around. “It’s creepy.”

“I’m not hovering. I’m observing.”

“Semantics.”

“You hydrate before the show?” Eddie asked, eyes narrowing.

Buck glanced over, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You really gonna ask that with Chim knee-deep in potato salad and not a word?”

“I’m not in charge of Chim,” Eddie said flatly. “I’m in charge of you.”

That earned him a curious look. Something flickered in Buck’s eyes. “Wow. Romantic.”

Hen snorted. “This is better than TV.”

“You think this is funny,” Eddie said, turning to her.

“Oh, I think it’s hilarious,” Hen said, lifting her protein shake like a toast. “You have no idea what you’ve signed up for.”

The tour bus that night was a slow-moving can of chaos. Eddie took the back bunk and tried not to lose his mind while Buck and Chim argued over Spotify queues—

“I’m telling you, the playlist needs to open with early 2000s emo,” Buck insisted, waving his phone like a battle standard.

“It’s 2 a.m. and we just played a 3-hour set,” Chim groaned. “I want Billie Eilish and silence. Preferably in that order.”

Hen was digging through a pile of laundry in the middle aisle. “Who stole my other sock? I swear, if Buck’s using them as mic covers again—”

“Hen, please. That was one time,” Buck said, not even pretending to be sorry.

Ravi had lit a small travel diffuser near the kitchenette. “Lavender calms the nervous system. You all should be thanking me.”

“You have no proof it works,” Chim said, digging deeper into the snack bin.

“Except for the fact that you’re already calmer,” Ravi replied, reclining with monk-like peace.

Eddie lay back in his bunk, one arm behind his head, the other holding a book he wasn’t reading. He stared at the ceiling and tried to will his pulse to ignore the noise. This wasn’t a band. This was a sitcom with no off switch.

Around midnight, the curtain to his bunk shifted.

Buck’s head popped in, all mischief and teeth. “You snore?” he asked.

Eddie didn’t even look up. “Go away.”

Buck grinned wider. “That’s a yes.”

Then, softer—like it snuck out before he could stop it—“Night, Diaz.”

Eddie waited until he heard Buck flop into his own bunk across the aisle, limbs thudding against the mattress and wall. Only then did he close the book and sigh.

This was going to be the longest tour of his life.

The next morning hit hard.

Eddie was up at 7, already showered, boots laced, mentally reviewing the venue’s layout when the bus rolled to a stop outside Albuquerque. He sipped his black coffee like it was a strategy, not a beverage.

The rest of the band emerged in various states of disrepair: bleary eyes, mismatched clothes, caffeine held like lifelines. Buck descended the stairs like a gremlin prince, still brushing his teeth, wearing flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt that read Tour Life: Survive and Cry About It.

He had his phone in one hand, a toothbrush in the other.

Eddie stared. “You planning to multitask your way into a choking hazard?”

Buck shrugged, foam at the corners of his mouth. “Time management.”

He disappeared into the building without missing a beat.

Once inside and caffeinated, the band split into their prep zones. Ravi and Chim synced playback with the live rig. Hen huddled with their tech manager, Josh, red pen in hand. Buck was supposed to be stretching.

Supposed to be.

Eddie found him on the edge of the stage, balancing on one foot while tuning a guitar.

“That’s not how stretching works,” Eddie said, voice dry.

Buck looked over, still wobbling. “Multitasking.”

“You keep saying that like it makes you sound smart.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No.”

Buck grinned. “You really don’t like me, huh?”

“I don’t know you.”

“Fair,” Buck said, setting the guitar down. “But I’m guessing you’ve already formed a hypothesis.”

“That you’re allergic to rest and incapable of focus? Yeah, working theory.”

Buck let out a short laugh, then winced. His hand shot to his side, fingers pressing in like he could erase the pain.

Eddie’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to the medic, Buck.”

Buck hesitated. “Just a cramp. Probably slept weird.”

Eddie stepped closer, arms folding. “Or?”

“Or,” Buck sighed, “possibly tweaked something landing weird during last night’s fall.”

“Sit down.”

Buck groaned but obeyed, dropping onto a nearby amp case. Eddie crouched in front of him and pressed careful fingers along his ribs.

Buck hissed through his teeth. “Okay, ow.”

“Might be bruised,” Eddie muttered. “Not cracked. I’ll tape it up before soundcheck.”

Buck exhaled. “Cool. You’re very gentle for someone who looks like he could bench-press a motorcycle.”

“Flattery won’t get you out of being monitored.”

“Was worth a shot.”

Rehearsal went fine—right up until it didn’t.

They were mid-song, running a full volume test with lights, audio, and movement. Buck climbed the stack on stage left, as he always did during the second chorus of “Don’t Stop.” It was practically a ritual at this point.

But when he jumped down, something buckled.

He stumbled forward. Caught himself. Wavered.

Ravi stopped playing first. “Buck?”

Buck shook his head and waved him off, but it was already too late. Eddie was up on the stage in three strides, grabbing Buck by the elbow as he swayed again.

“I’m fine,” Buck muttered.

“You’re sweating like it’s 110 and you haven’t had water all day.”

To be clear it was close enough, there in New Mexico and it was 95 degrees outside. Seriously, who would want to live here?

Hen appeared next. “Buck. Sit your ass down.”

Eddie took Buck’s wrist and checked his pulse. Fast. Too fast. His breathing was shallow.

“Did you eat today?” Eddie asked.

Buck blinked. “Uh.”

“That’s a no,” Chim muttered.

“Backstage. Now.”

Buck groaned but let himself be led, not fighting it anymore.

Ten minutes later, he was on a folding chair with an ice pack behind his neck and a bottle of water in his hand.

“You’re not invincible,” Eddie said quietly, crouching beside him again. “I don’t care how good the crowd makes you feel.”

Buck closed his eyes. “It’s not about feeling good.”

Eddie paused. “Then what is it?”

Buck looked over. Really, looked at him. And for the first time, Eddie saw something that wasn’t a performance.

“On stage?” Buck said. “It’s the only place I don’t feel like I’m too much. The only place where being loud and fast and... everything doesn’t make people leave.”

Eddie blinked.

“That’s why you keep pushing?”

Buck gave a weak shrug. “Maybe.”

Eddie sat back on his heels. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been that.

Buck took a slow sip of water. “You gonna write that down in your little medical journal?”

“Not unless it becomes a condition I need to treat,” Eddie said. Then, softer: “I get it.”

Buck looked over again.

“I’m not here to babysit,” Eddie added. “But I’m also not going to let you self-destruct just because a crowd claps when you bleed.”

Buck didn’t smile.

But he didn’t look away.

Chapter Text

The Albuquerque show was different.

Not because Buck was calm—he was anything but. He tore across the stage like he always did, a whirlwind of energy with a guitar slung low and sweat already slicking his curls before they hit the second song. He bounced on the balls of his feet, pulled dramatic slides across the floor, jumped onto the drum riser during a bridge just to steal Chim’s spotlight, and sang like the stage was catching fire beneath him. But it was different, still.

Because he didn’t get hurt.

Well—almost.

He tore across the stage with his usual reckless abandon, guitar slung low, black converse stomping in rhythm with Chim’s drumming as the opening bars hit hard and fast. By the second song, sweat had already beaded at his temples, sticking his curls to his forehead. The black tank top clung to him like a second skin, and his fingers flew over the frets like muscle memory had kicked in and overridden everything else. He didn’t look like a man performing; he looked like a man possessed. The crowd screamed back every word, hands in the air, jumping in time with every chorus.

Buck bounced on the balls of his feet, pulling a slide across the floor that made Ravi laugh behind the keys. He jumped on the drum riser, leaned in over Chimney’s shoulder for a harmony, then sprinted back to center stage just in time for the bridge.

Halfway through their third song, Buck caught his foot on a loose cable and stumbled, knees jolting forward and his hand instinctively catching the mic stand before he could faceplant. The crowd didn’t even flinch. Buck played it off with a spin, an over-the-top bow, and shouted, “You didn’t see that!” into the mic, to wild cheers. He was grinning when he turned back to the band, shrugging like, What can you do?

Offstage, Eddie had gone rigid. He’d seen the trip, seen the way Buck’s center of gravity had shifted too far forward. He’d been halfway into a step before Buck righted himself. But then Buck was upright. No limp. No strain. No clutching his ribs.

Good.

The rest of the show was electric. Phones lit the front rows, hands were in the air, and every lyric was shouted back like scripture. Buck ran to the edge of the stage during the final verse and leaned over, grinning at a girl with a poster that read I LOVE YOU EVEN IF YOU FALL. He laughed into the mic. “Not tonight, baby!”

And he didn’t. Not really.

When they came offstage, Buck was flushed and beaming, shirt clinging to his back and breath coming fast, but steady. Eddie met him in the corridor with a bottle of water and a look.

“Still upright,” Buck said, taking the water.

Eddie didn’t smile. “Let me see your side.”

Buck blinked. “Seriously?”

“You caught yourself awkward on that stumble. You’ve still got a healing strain. Shirt up.”

Buck grumbled, but he obeyed, lifting the hem of his sweat-damp shirt, revealing the curve of his ribs, no, sorry– his abs, slick with sweat and flushed from exertion.

Eddie crouched in close, hands steady, fingers brushing carefully under the bruised area that had been taped two cities ago. The warmth of his touch was almost surprising—so gentle for someone so solid. The hallway buzzed faintly with echoing bass from the speakers still cooling down, but this space between them narrowed until Buck could count Eddie’s eyelashes.

“Still tender?” Eddie asked, eyes scanning for swelling.

Buck swallowed, his breath a little thinner than usual. “Just sore. But if you wanna keep touching me like that, I could be convinced it hurts worse.”

Eddie gave him a flat look.

“Nothing? Not even a smirk?” Buck teased, though there was a flicker of genuine interest beneath the smile.

Eddie straightened slowly. “No swelling. Keep icing it tonight. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

Buck grinned lopsided and gleaming. “Come on, Diaz. I nailed the recovery. You were impressed.”

“Congratulations on not eating shit,” Eddie said, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Buck caught it. “A-ha! I knew you had a sense of humor.”

“Don’t make me revoke your hydration privileges,” Eddie muttered, but he didn’t walk away right away this time; he stayed.

Before Buck could reply, Bobby walked up. He didn’t say anything at first—just looked Buck over with that thoughtful, weighted silence he carried like a second skin. Then he reached out and clapped a hand on Buck’s shoulder.

“That?” Bobby said. “That was what it’s supposed to look like.”

Buck blinked. For a second, something in him stilled. He didn’t laugh or crack a joke or puff up his chest. He just nodded. Quiet. Like he’d been waiting a long time to hear that.

“Thanks,” Buck said, voice lower than usual. “Really.”

And then he was gone, jogging down the hall to find his guitar tech, but Eddie saw it—the way Buck’s shoulders pulled back just a little straighter, how his steps lightened, like Bobby’s words had steadied something that had been rattling loose inside him for weeks.

Night came slowly over the desert, the bus humming down a long stretch of road outside Albuquerque. The windows showed nothing but stars and highway lights blinking in the distance. Most of the bus was asleep. Hen had stolen the back lounge, Ravi’s curtain was drawn with lo-fi playing softly, and Chim was quietly scrolling through photos on his phone, earbuds in.

Eddie sat in the kitchenette with the overhead light dimmed, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, while he nursed a lukewarm cup of coffee.

Chris was on the line.

“Did he do the flip thing? You said he does a flip sometimes during ‘Fallout.’”

Eddie smirked, eyes closing briefly at the sound of his son’s excited voice. “No flip. But there was a jump off the drum riser.”

Chris gasped. “That’s so cool.”

“You think everything they do is cool.”

“Because it is,” Chris said confidently. “They’re, like, the best band in the world.”

Eddie rubbed his temple. “You’ve got a very low bar if ‘not injuring himself’ is your standard of excellence.”

Chris laughed, and the sound loosened something tight in Eddie’s chest. “Dad. Come on.”

“I’m serious,” Eddie said, but his voice was lighter now. “It went well tonight. They’re good. Even if they make my job harder.”

Chris was quiet for a moment. “You think Buck’s okay now?”

Eddie paused. “I think he’s trying. That’s...a start.”

“He seems nice.”

“He’s loud.”

“You’re grumpy.”

“Excuse you.”

Chris laughed again, and Eddie let it hang there for a moment, listening to the sound of his son being happy. That was what mattered. Even if this tour was a circus, even if Buck was an overgrown kid with a death wish and stupidly nice eyes, the check-ins with Chris were his anchor.

They talked for a while longer. School projects, Chris’s theory that Hen was probably a wizard, how Buck reminded him of a cartoon character he liked, but “with more yelling.” Eddie laughed until his eyes stung, and by the time Eddie hung up, he felt steadier.

Until he turned around and saw Buck standing in the hall.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Buck said quickly. “Swear. Just... didn’t wanna interrupt, just...needed water.” He held an empty water bottle in his hands. 

Eddie nodded. “Heard any of that?”

“A little,” Buck admitted, stepping into the kitchenette, his expression softening. “That your kid?”

“Yeah. Christopher.”

Buck stepped closer, eyes lighting up with a genuine spark. “He sounds awesome.”

“He is.”

Buck lingered by the sink, hovered for a second, then leaned against the counter. “How old?”

“Ten.”

“Does he, like... know the band? Our stuff?”

Eddie huffed a laugh. “He knows every song. Plays your music in the car when I’m trying to concentrate. He thinks Hen’s a superhero, thinks Chim’s hilarious, and thinks Ravi might actually be part robot.”

Buck beamed. “Good taste.”

“He also said you sound like a golden retriever with a microphone.”

Buck blinked. “...I’ll take that.”

“You would.”

They stood in that quiet stretch of hallway for a beat. Eddie watched him carefully—there was something in Buck’s eyes, something softer, but still guarded. He didn’t say more. And Eddie didn’t push.

Instead, Buck asked, “You guys close?”

“Yeah. He’s my kid. He’s...everything.”

Buck nodded slowly, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “That’s cool. Really. Not everyone gets that kind of...anchor.”

Eddie didn’t reply, but he clocked the way Buck’s voice dipped on the last word. Like it meant more than he wanted to admit.

“Anyway,” Buck said, stepping back, “tell him I said hey. And that I’m working on sticking my landings.”

Eddie smirked. “He’ll appreciate that.”

Buck raised a hand in a half-wave and disappeared back toward the bunks.

Eddie stood there a while longer, staring out the window, the road stretching on.

This wasn’t what he expected.

But maybe it wasn’t so bad either.

The next morning, Austin rose out of the horizon in warm, honey-colored light. The city shimmered against the pale blue sky as the tour bus eased into the venue lot.

Eddie stepped off the bus first, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, boots hitting the pavement with a kind of easy confidence that hadn’t been there in the last few cities. He stretched his shoulders and looked around, like the air tasted different.

Buck noticed it right away.

“Wow,” he said, stepping up beside him. “You’ve got a little pep in your step this morning, Diaz. Don’t tell me Texas puts a spring in your stoic stride.”

Eddie didn’t bother hiding the small smile. “Maybe. I grew up in Texas. El Paso, my home.”

“Oh,” Buck said, eyes lighting up. “We’re in your kingdom.”

Eddie rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

Buck bumped his shoulder lightly. “You should wear a hat. Really sell the cowboy thing.”

“Try it, and I’m making sure your blood pressure gets flagged on the charts.”

“Spicy,” Buck said, laughing. “I like this version of you.”

“Don’t push it, City boy.” But there was no bite in it.

Later, during load-in, the band gathered near the catering, exhausted but chatty. Chim was elbow-deep in breakfast tacos and staring at his phone–he seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Hen sat with her boots up on a road case, sipping coffee. Ravi was humming through vocal warmups.

Buck leaned in from the edge of the table. “So, Diaz. What was little Eddie like running around Texas?”

“First, no one calls me Diaz if they want me to respond,” Eddie looked up from where he was checking a first-aid restock, giving Buck a pointed look. “Troublemaker. Farm kid. Played too much soccer. Broke my wrist once chasing a chicken.”

Hen nearly choked on her coffee. “What?”

“My cousin dared me. I was ten. The chicken won.”

Ravi grinned. “Did not see that coming.”

“I also played soccer,” Eddie added. “Midfield. Fast as hell.”

Buck leaned forward. “Wait, you played soccer?”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Why is that so shocking?”

“I don’t know. I just assumed you came out of the womb fully formed in combat boots.”

Eddie shook his head, but he was chuckling now. “Tía used to haul me inside by the collar with grass stains up to my knees. Said I’d track mud across her good floors.”

“God, that’s adorable,” Buck said before he could think better of it. “I mean—rough. Very tough, cowboy.”

Eddie shot him a look, but it was hard to hide the twitch of his mouth.

“I bet you had a little accent back then,” Ravi said thoughtfully.

Eddie laughed. “Chris makes fun of my voice when I call my family now. Says I sound like a different person.”

“Well,” Chim said, taking another bite, “I think we’re owed a little Texas storytelling every now and then. Gotta keep things interesting.”

Eddie didn’t mind. He found, to his surprise, that talking about home—about mesquite trees and football games and his cousin’s busted truck—made something in him settle. The others were genuinely interested, and it didn’t feel like prying. It felt like being let in. It was probably just because he was home in Texas… right?

That night, the Austin venue thrummed with anticipation. The band had a good rhythm going—solid warm-up, steady soundcheck, no major glitches. The lights went down, the crowd screamed, and the show began.

Halfway through the set, Buck stepped up to the mic.

“Alright, alright, we’re gonna change things up a little,” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “This next song’s not on the original list, but we figured, what’s a Texas night without a little fun, right?”

“Okay,” he said, eyes scanning the crowd. “So this next one is for someone kinda special. He’s not here tonight—he’s back in LA—but he’s got a hell of a music taste, and, from what I hear, a pretty cool dad.”

Eddie froze where he stood just offstage.

Hen turned to look at him. Chim let out a quiet "Oh damn."

Buck didn’t name names. But he looked toward Eddie as he stepped back, and there was a spark in his eye that said everything.

Buck turned towards his friends and whispered, “Sorry, going a bit off-script here, Act My Age is next!”

They launched into “Act My Age,” the kind of upbeat, cheeky song that shouldn’t make anyone emotional—but somehow, tonight, it did.

(3)

Buck started just barely strumming his guitar, then as he counted, Chim came in with a loud CRASH! They played as Hen looped her bass once again, absolutely shredding it. Then came her plucking on a fiddle that added just the right amount of folk to the song. Then Ravi came in, playing the main melody, throwing in little yells sometimes to hype everyone up. But soon before Buck came in, everyone quieted and let Chim keep the tempo. 

Buck sang with a grin, but his gaze drifted toward the side stage more than once. Chim danced behind his kit, throwing in extra fills. Hen and Ravi sang backup like their lives depended on it. 

“When I’m fat and old… and my kids think I’m a joke…” 

Eddie chuckled slightly, This was insane. Buck was up there just singing his heart out about his kid. How long had he planned it? He had found out about his kid last night . And even then, why would he do this for a kid he hasn’t even spoken to yet? This song was pure nonsense, and Buck was singing it like it was gospel.

“'Cause I know that you’ll always understand… I won’t act my age… no I won’t act my age…”

Buck’s voice had a kind of lighthearted swagger to it, like he was playing it cool but meant every word. The way he bounced on his heels, turned toward the band during the chorus—it felt effortless. Chim was hammering away with a grin plastered on his face, and Hen, stoic as she was, couldn’t hide the smile twitching at her lips.

Buck bounced around as they ended the first chorus. This is what he lived for. Eddie saw it then, that carefree expression as he just danced to the sound of the art that his friends–no family was making. 

“When I’m fat and old, and my kids think I’m a joke… cause the stories that I told… I tell again and again…”

Ravi’s solo slid in like a burst of neon—joyful, playful, completely contagious. The crowd fed off the energy, clapping and yelling along.

“I won’t act my age… no, I won’t act my age though I still feel the same around you…”

Buck let the mic drop to his side as the others carried the bridge vocally. He jogged over to Hen and playfully leaned on her shoulder while she played. She leaned into him, too, as she also slightly danced with Buck, but not nearly as energetically as he was. Though Eddie had a sneaking suspicion no one could be as energetic as Buck.

“Hey!” 

They all chanted and, using the looper, they dropped all their instruments and just leaped around the stage. It truly was like watching children playing Ring Around the Rosie or something. They all joined in as they sang a chorus of “na na nas.” 

How original, Buckley, Eddie rolled his eyes as he stood backstage. 

Hen and Ravi took the harmony as Buck stepped back up to the mic, raising one hand like he was commanding the entire venue to rise with him.

“When I can hardly walk and my hair is falling out… We’ll still stay up till morning… We’ll throw the after party, oh yeah…” 

Eddie watched all of it from just offstage. Arms crossed, expression unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes. Something soft. Because yeah, Buck was still chaos, still too much—but this? This was good.

And Chris—Chris was going to love it.

When the chorus hit again, the whole band joined in. Hen on fiddle, Ravi on keys, Chim crashing through the bridge like it owed him money. And Buck, front and center, spinning in place before sticking the landing with a grin so wide it could’ve lit up downtown.

“And I won’t act my age… No, I won’t act my age… No, I’ll still feel the same, you will too.”

The final chord rang out, stretching just long enough to let the moment sit. Then…

“Hey!” 

And another chorus of ‘na na nas’ filled the arena while they danced full-heartedly for the second time. They bounced around in a circle around Chim while he did an Irish Jig…? It was truly the best part of the tour so far, seeing them like that. Chris is gonna love it. 

And then the crowd erupted.

Buck turned away from the mic, flushed and laughing, catching Hen’s eye first, then Chim’s and Ravi’s. He didn’t look at Eddie.

But Eddie was still there, leaning against the wall with a ghost of a smile. Eddie leaned against the wall and let it all wash over him.

He could already hear Chris’s reaction.

And for the first time in a while, Eddie didn’t mind the noise.

Chapter Text

The morning after Austin, something felt different.

The tour bus rolled out before the sun had fully crested the low hills, its silhouette cutting across a landscape so vast and open that it made Buck feel both microscopic and infinite all at once. The horizon stretched endlessly in both directions, a smear of gold and lavender streaking across the sky as dawn bled slowly into day. It was the kind of light that made you believe in second chances.

Inside the bus, everything was in soft, half-lit disarray—early morning chaos rendered intimate and almost beautiful. The windshield was smudged with desert dust. Sunlight slanted through it, catching on the silver edge of Ravi’s keyboard case, propped near the front like an artifact from another life. Jackets lay tangled like sleeping bodies across the back bench. Half-drunk coffees sat forgotten in the cupholders, growing cold. Lyrics scribbled on hotel notepads fluttered under the breath of the A/C vents like discarded love letters.

Outside, the desert rolled past in long, rust-red streaks, dotted with cactus shadows that looked like figures mid-dance, forever paused. The road stretched straight as a drawn bow, unraveling beneath the wheels in a gentle, hypnotic rhythm. The bus hummed with motion, and inside, that quiet murmur seemed to match the steady, exhausted breath of everyone onboard.

Something sacred had happened the night before, and no one quite knew what to do with the shape of it yet.

The 118 moved through the bus like a unit that had been subtly rearranged—not broken, not bruised, but different. Lighter in places, heavier in others. They weren’t talking about it, but the feeling hung in the air, unmistakable. It might’ve been the size of the crowd in Austin, or the way the city had pulsed around them like a living, breathing thing. Maybe it was Eddie—his laugh, caught and almost released for the first time in what felt like forever. Or maybe it was Buck, who had done what he always did on stage—taken up space, drawn all the attention in the room like a storm—but had somehow, for once, walked offstage whole.

Hen had claimed the back lounge, sprawled on the couch with her booted feet crossed at the ankles. A thick paperback sat in her lap—spine broken, cover faded to a dull bruise. She read with one hand and cradled a steaming mug of tea with the other. Her expression barely moved, but her eyes tracked fast across the page, every so often twitching in amusement or quiet judgment.

Chim and Ravi had colonized the aisle near the kitchenette. Chim sat on a faded throw pillow like a monk, legs crossed, shuffling a deck of cards with the dramatic flair of a magician. Ravi, perched across from him like a perfectly symmetrical mirror image, didn’t even bother looking at the cards. He laid down one after another with eerie precision, barely speaking, and still managed to win hand after hand. Chim groaned louder with each defeat. Ravi only raised an eyebrow.

Buck lay draped across the main lounge couch, one leg tossed over the armrest, the other hooked beneath him. A guitar rested against his stomach, untouched. His thumb skated absently across the strings, producing soft, unfinished chords. He wasn’t playing anything in particular, but there was the shape of a song forming beneath his fingertips—raw and half-formed, like a secret trying to remember itself.

His head was tilted back, curls mussed from sleep, eyes closed against the light. He wore a faded shirt from some long-defunct LA venue and a pair of flannel pants. His shoes were missing—tossed somewhere under the table near Chim’s foot—and the only movement he made was the rise and fall of his chest in rhythm with the road.

And at the front of the bus, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee long gone cold, stood Eddie.

He hadn’t said much that morning. He’d helped load the last of the gear cases, taken roll call half an hour before anyone was ready, and now he stood like he didn’t quite trust the stillness. Like he didn’t know what to do with his hands if they weren’t fixing something.

The light poured through the tinted windows and struck his cheekbones at a sharp angle, carving shadows across his face. In his hand, he held his phone, the screen still lit with a picture—Chris, mid-air, blurry and triumphant, clearly caught in the middle of a jump while holding a homemade sign. The caption read, “He nailed it!!”

Eddie’s lips twitched—just slightly, just enough.

He didn’t see Buck watching him. But Buck saw everything.

“You keep smiling like that,” Buck murmured, eyes still shut, “you’re gonna end up with wrinkles.”

Eddie didn’t flinch. He didn’t pretend he hadn’t been caught. “Chris liked the show.”

“Kid’s got good taste,” Buck replied, voice hoarse with sleep and something softer. “Tell him I’m accepting setlist requests now.”

Eddie turned just enough to raise an eyebrow over his shoulder. “He’ll take that seriously.”

“I hope he does,” Buck said, grinning now, eyes closed again, head rocking against the cushion with the motion of the road. “I could use some fresh inspiration.”

Eddie didn’t say anything for a long moment. He looked back down at the photo—Buck frozen mid-air, mouth open wide, sweat-dark curls flying like wings. The crowd behind him was a sea of light and blurred motion.

Then he slid the phone into his back pocket and took a sip of the now-cold coffee. He didn’t grimace. He just let the bitter weight of it settle in his chest like something grounding.

They weren’t heading out that night. Management had booked them a full stay in Austin—real beds, real showers, no 3 a.m. bus call. That alone had put everyone in a better mood. 

Buck had disappeared after soundcheck, and Eddie found him leaning against a brick wall behind the venue, just past the loading dock, where old gear crates were stacked haphazardly under flickering floodlights. The air was thick with heat and the sharp smell of ozone, like a storm wanted to roll in but hadn’t decided if it was worth the trouble. The sky was that dim, purplish color cities get when the sun disappears, but the lights won’t let it be night yet.

Buck had his hands in his pockets and his head tilted back toward the stars he probably couldn’t see. His curls were messy again, the back of his shirt damp with sweat from the late evening humidity. He looked younger in the half-dark—less like the frontman of a band and more like a kid waiting on something that might never come.

Eddie stood there for a second, just watching him. Then—

“You got a second?”

Buck startled slightly, turning. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. What’s up?”

Eddie didn’t answer right away. His eyes darted around—at the scuffed pavement, the condensation slipping down a soda can someone had left on the loading dock. Then he looked at Buck.

“That thing you did last night,” Eddie said finally, quiet but sharp at the edges. “The song. For Chris.”

Buck blinked. “Yeah?”

Eddie crossed his arms. The motion was tight, almost defensive. “What the hell was that?”

Buck straightened. “It was a dedication. A nice one?”

“You don’t know him,” Eddie snapped, and even he heard the way his voice cracked down the middle. “You don’t even know me.”

The words hung between them like broken glass.

Buck didn’t react right away. He didn’t flinch or bristle. He just watched Eddie the way someone watches a dog at the end of a frayed leash—not afraid, just careful.

“I know enough,” Buck said, soft but steady.

Eddie let out a breath, but it didn’t sound like relief. More like frustration that had nowhere to go. “Do you?”

“I know he makes you softer. I know his smile shows up in your voice when you talk about him. I know you’d give up everything you have to make sure he’s okay.”

Eddie looked away.

“I know that matters,” Buck said. “I know you matter.”

His jaw tightened. His posture said control, but his hands, clenched and unclenched at his sides, told the truth.

“You can’t just... do stuff like that,” Eddie muttered. “You don’t owe us anything. Me. You don’t have to—” he gestured, vague and uncertain “—perform like that. Like it’s your job to fix something.”

Buck’s voice was quiet. “It wasn’t about fixing anything. I wanted to.”

Eddie scoffed, but it sounded more like disbelief than scorn. “Why?”

“Because I like him. From what I’ve heard. And because he clearly adores you. Because maybe—just maybe—it was worth doing, even if I got nothing out of it.”

Eddie looked away sharply, jaw working. “That’s the problem,” he muttered. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

Buck stayed still.

Eddie raked a hand through his hair, rough with it. “I’m the guy who helps. Who holds everything together? That’s what I do. That’s how I... manage. And when someone else, when you, do something like that... It’s like I lose my footing.”

The confession came out in pieces, like it was being pulled from him. Like every word cost him something.

“And I hate that.”

Buck took a small step closer, slow and careful. “You don’t have to hate it. You’re allowed to let people help you, Eddie.”

Eddie didn’t move. Didn’t look at him. But he didn’t step away either.

The silence pressed in again. Somewhere across the lot, a bottle clinked as it rolled off a ledge. A shutter snapped faintly—a phone camera, unnoticed. A fan, maybe, or someone passing by. It didn’t register.

Eddie let the silence stretch until it almost hurt.

Eddie blinked hard. His voice, when it came, was rough. “You have a good voice.”

Buck blinked. Then smiled, small and genuine. “Thanks.”

There was a long pause. The kind where nothing’s really being said, but everything still lands.

“He’s got a good dad,” Buck added.

Eddie huffed a half-laugh. Not a correction. Not agreement. Just a sound that said he’d heard it.

Dinner happened at a place tucked along South Congress—the kind of place you didn’t find unless you were looking for it. Set just off the main drag, wedged between a vintage denim shop and a closed-down tattoo parlor, the building leaned like it had survived one storm too many and was still waiting for the next. Faded red brick, ivy curling up one side, a weather-worn wooden sign hanging crooked above the door with the restaurant’s name painted in chipped gold letters. It glowed beneath the string lights swaying gently overhead, caught in the warm breeze like stars tethered to the earth.

The patio was small and intimate—no more than a scattering of tables and the occasional overgrown planter box—but inside, the space opened like a secret. Worn hardwood creaked underfoot, every floorboard telling its own story. The chairs didn’t match, some clearly salvaged from flea markets or estate sales, and every table was adorned with a mason jar flickering with candlelight, the wax halfway melted down to the base. There was something soft and lived-in about the whole place, like it had been waiting for people like them.

The scent of roasted vegetables hung in the air—eggplant and squash, maybe, spiced and caramelized—and beneath that, something darker and richer: mesquite smoke and the buttery pull of something slow-cooked for hours. It grounded the moment. Anchored it.

They took up two long tables under low-hanging beams, the kind that threatened to clip Buck’s curls every time he stood too quickly. Their laughter moved through the space in waves, bouncing off the brick walls, rising and falling like a private tide. For once, no one looked tired. Or if they did, it didn’t matter. The kind of tired they felt now was earned, not endured.

Bobby had joined them, shedding his usual tension like an old coat. His tie was loosened, top button undone, posture relaxed in a way that made Hen nudge Chim and whisper, “He's officially off duty.” Bobby smiled like a man who knew the storm had passed—for now—and was letting himself drift just a little. Letting the team steer without him.

Hen flipped open the wine list with the focus of a general preparing for battle. “If no one stops me, I’m ordering the $75 bottle. I need to know if the hype is real.”

Buck didn’t even look up. “Do it. We deserve one decent bottle before the tour sends us back to gas station sandwiches and energy drinks.”

Chim, still mid-scroll on his phone, grunted. “Not if we want to afford new backup amps next leg.”

He wasn’t wrong. Their last amp had sparked mid-set in Phoenix, nearly taking Ravi’s keyboard with it. But still, he didn’t look up—just kept flipping between his messages and the spreadsheet he’d started in Notes, tracking stage tech and lighting cues with the quiet obsession of someone who couldn’t let the machine stop moving.

“You gonna relax at some point?” Hen asked, nudging his shoulder with the back of her hand.

Chim blinked, startled like she’d pulled him out of a trance. Then he smiled sheepishly. “Eventually. I just—if I can knock out the next two cities tonight, I’ll actually sleep on the bus tomorrow.”

Before anyone could argue, Bobby reached across the table and plucked the phone right out of Chim’s hand, placing it face-down on a napkin like it might explode if mishandled.

“You’ll sleep better if you let your brain power down for an hour,” he said, gently but firmly. “The world won’t fall apart without you.”

Chim opened his mouth—then closed it. Sighed. And left the phone where it sat.

Just then, Ravi slid back into his seat beside him, holding a small scrap of paper like a treasure map. “The kitchen says they can do a coconut-based custard,” he announced. “It’s dairy-free. And it won’t taste like sadness.”

Chim stared at him. “Honestly? That’s the most hopeful thing anyone’s said to me all day.”

Buck laughed, low and warm, and leaned in as he did—knees knocking gently against Eddie’s beneath the table. His voice dropped to a playful hush. “That’s Ravi for you. Calm in the storm.”

Eddie didn’t move. Didn’t answer either. But he didn’t pull away.

The food arrived in waves, each dish carried with a kind of appreciation. They came family-style—platters of smoked brisket and charred okra, bowls of mac and cheese with a crust so golden it gleamed, roasted carrots glazed with something sticky and sweet. Plates were passed like currency, each handoff casual but familiar. Hen served Bobby before herself without hesitation. Ravi divided sides like a surgeon—precise, methodical, generous. Chim finally started eating, but only after Hen smacked his hand a second time for reaching toward his phone.

There was a rhythm to it all. A kind of domestic choreography built from years on the road and deeper ties than any tour contract could name. It was louder than comfort but quieter than chaos. It felt like home—at least for tonight.

Halfway through the meal, Eddie murmured something about needing a minute and slipped away to the back of the restaurant.

The bathroom was dim and quiet, the tile floor cool beneath his boots. The mirror above the sink was fogged slightly at the edges, still clearing from the earlier rush. Eddie leaned over the basin, bracing his hands on either side, and splashed cold water onto his face with the deliberate urgency of a man trying to shake off a ghost.

He wasn’t used to this.

To warmth without expectation. To people who made room for him instead of demanding pieces. To a kind of attention that wasn’t transactional.

He pressed his palms flat against the porcelain and closed his eyes.

Behind him, the door opened.

Ravi’s reflection appeared in the mirror a beat later, toweling off his hands. Quiet. Present.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” Eddie said.

Ravi shrugged. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

They stood in companionable silence, broken only by the quiet drip of a leaky faucet.

Then, softly: “Some people think being quiet means being cold. Closed off,” Ravi said, voice steady. “But I think it just means careful.”

Eddie’s eyes met his in the mirror.

“You get that?” he asked.

Ravi nodded. “I’m careful too. With people. With myself.”

Eddie didn’t respond at first. But something about the words loosened the coil behind his ribs. “Not everyone earns it.”

“No,” Ravi agreed. “But sometimes, people surprise you.”

Eddie looked down, let the thought settle in his chest like something small and heavy.

“Maybe,” he said.

Ravi offered a small, knowing smile. “Worth finding out.”

Eddie didn’t disagree. “Y’know you surprise me Panikkar, wise beyond your years”

Ravi just shrugged, “Part of my job Texas,” and promptly walked out.  

Back at the table, the conversation had shifted again.

Buck was mid-rant, arms flailing slightly, one hand brushing Eddie’s shoulder as he laughed.

“You know,” Buck was saying brightly, “sharks existed before trees. By, like, hundreds of millions of years. Isn’t that wild? I read that and couldn’t stop thinking about it. Sharks are just out here, ancient as hell, gliding through time like it’s no big deal.”

Eddie blinked, momentarily thrown. “You’re really passionate about prehistoric sea predators.”

Buck leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a conspiracy. “Okay, but get this—cows have best friends. Actual best friends. They get anxious when they’re separated. Scientists measured their heart rates. It spikes when they’re apart, but when you reunite them? Boom—instantly calm. Isn’t that beautiful?”

Eddie stared. Then—slowly, cautiously—he smiled.

“That’s… actually kind of sweet.”

Buck beamed, all unfiltered sunshine. “Right? Makes you wanna be someone’s cow-best-friend.”

Eddie snorted. “I don’t think that metaphor works the way you think it does.”

“Too late,” Buck said, throwing a wink like it was a challenge. “Canon now.”

Their shoulders stayed pressed together. They didn’t move apart.

Across the room, a camera clicked—quiet, unnoticed.

The photo would show up online later. No caption. Just two silhouettes laughing in low light. Shoulders touching. Something warm blooming in the negative space between them.

For now, they passed plates, clinked glasses, and let the night hold steady.

No fights. No damage.

Just something good, left unruined.

And for once, they let it be enough.

Chapter Text

📸 @PopCrave
ALERT: New Buddie Content! 🔥
Photos from last night’s dinner + backstage chat have surfaced, and the internet is losing its mind:

Photo 1: Eddie and Buck standing close behind the venue, Eddie leaning in, brows furrowed. Buck’s hands in his pockets, looking open, vulnerable.
Photo 2: Inside a candlelit restaurant, Buck laughing with his whole body, Eddie smirking at something off-camera. Their knees—definitely touching.

  Top Comments:

@buckleyheartclub: NO WAY are they just bros. Look at Eddie’s face. That man is gone. 

@louderthanlyrics: “Backstage tension”?? More like “ten years married.”

@raviobsessed: I’m not saying Ravi ships it... But he has the look of a man who knows he’s watching history.

@fanficready: The forehead crease? The way Buck smiles softer when he’s looking at Eddie? Yeah. Buddie Nation, rise.

                      Reply to @fanficready–@buckneddie: We’re officially in our ‘tour romance era.’

Later that night, after the laughter had quieted and the clinking of silverware against plates had faded into memory, the band trickled back to the hotel like ash on the wind—warm, spent, and trailing the scent of mesquite and wine behind them.

The front lobby buzzed with low conversation. Soft jazz piped through hidden speakers. The walls were painted in muted earth tones, the kind that made everyone speak in quieter voices, like they were guests at a museum or a chapel. Tired, flickering eyes met the hotel manager’s practiced smile as she handed out keycards with the precision of someone who’d done it a thousand times and didn’t need to try anymore.

“Mr. Diaz, Mr. Buckley—adjoining rooms,” she said, slipping two plastic cards into their respective hands like she was dealing fate.

They both glanced down at the cards, then at each other.

Eddie’s expression didn’t change, but Buck’s mouth twitched like he wanted to say something and thought better of it. Just gave a quiet, “Thanks,” and followed Eddie toward the elevators, their duffels slung low and quiet against their hips.

Upstairs, the hallway was long and softly lit, the carpet patterned with abstract swirls in muted blues and creams. The kind of place that dulled the sound of footsteps and secrets.

They reached their rooms. Just a single door between them. A soft partition made of wood and metal, and a latch that could open everything or keep it all apart.

It stayed closed at first.

Eddie stood by his window in silence, arms crossed, hoodie pulled low over his frame like a shield. His room was dim, just the glow of the city outside casting slanted shadows across the walls. Neon signs blinked in rhythm like an erratic heartbeat. The world outside was still moving—cars humming by, laughter from a rooftop bar somewhere down the block—but here, inside, it was painfully still.

He clicked the fan on. The hum was low, constant, just enough to fill the emptiness.

Next door, Buck dumped his bag by the closet and dropped heavily onto the bed, legs splayed, fingers laced over his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling. For a minute, he just listened to the whir of the air conditioning, the faint creak of pipes in the walls, the occasional shuffle of footsteps outside the window.

Then he sat up.

Moved slowly.

Crossed the room and stopped in front of the adjoining door.

His knuckles hovered in the air for a moment too long.

Then—

Knock knock.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just enough to say: I'm here.

The latch turned a few seconds later. The door creaked open, a slice of warm yellow light spilling into the threshold.

Eddie stood there. Hoodie zipped up, hands tucked in the front pocket. Barefoot. His expression was unreadable, but there was no edge in his voice.

“Hey.”

Buck smiled, soft and tired. “Hey.”

The door didn’t open more. But Eddie didn’t shut it, either.

“You okay?” Buck asked, his voice low and tentative, like the wrong note might make the door close again.

Eddie hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. Just... wired. Tired, but not tired.”

Buck let out a huff of breath, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah. Same.”

They didn’t cross the threshold. Didn’t step into each other’s rooms. But they both drifted down until they were sitting, backs to either side of the door, knees drawn up, shoulders aligned against the wall.

Not quite together. But close.

Close enough.

For a while, the only sound was the quiet hum of the fan in Eddie’s room and the rustle of Buck shifting to get comfortable.

“Hotels smell weird,” Buck said eventually, breaking the silence like he had asked him to.

Eddie made a low sound of agreement. “Like... old air. And polyester.” He sniffed. “Someone probably microwaved fish on this floor last week.”

Buck laughed quietly. “Gross. And true.”

A pause.

“Did you know hotel pillows are the number one complaint in guest surveys?” Buck asked, like he was presenting some grand revelation.

Eddie turned his head slightly toward the door. “Is that a real stat or Buck Science?”

“Real,” Buck insisted. “I swear. Look it up. Also… giraffes have no vocal cords.”

Eddie blinked slowly. “What?”

“No vocal cords,” Buck repeated. “Can’t make a sound. Total silence.”

“Why are we talking about giraffes?”

Buck shrugged even though Eddie couldn’t see it. “Felt relevant.”

A longer silence this time. Something in it changed—went from light to heavy, but not in a bad way.

More like a shift in gravity. Something honest pressing into the moment.

“I used to think,” Eddie said quietly, “that the only way to be worth something was to hold everything up. All the time. For everyone.”

Buck stilled.

He didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled slowly. “That’s a heavy way to live.”

“I know,” Eddie murmured.

The fan clicked softly in the other room. Somewhere, a car honked.

“I did the same thing,” Buck said after a while. “Different reasons. Same need.”

Eddie didn’t say anything, but Buck could feel the acknowledgment in the silence. Eddie had leaned a little closer against the door.

“You ever think,” Buck added, voice softer now, “I wonder if it’s possible to want something so badly, but be too afraid to ask for it. Like, if you ask, it’ll make it too real, and maybe that’s the part that scares you the most.”

Eddie let out a breath, almost a laugh, but without any humor. “Yeah. I think that all the time.”

Another quiet stretch passed.

“Is it weird,” Buck said, almost whispering, “that this door feels like it’s not even there?”

Eddie’s head rested against the wood now. Solid. Present. “Not weird.”

Neither of them moved again. Not away. Not forward. Just… there.

Together in a way neither of them wanted to name yet.

Eventually, Buck yawned into his fist. “Goodnight, cowboy.”

Eddie’s lips curved, soft at the edges. “Goodnight, Buck.”

Much later, long after the city outside had dimmed and the hallway lights had flicked to their midnight settings, Buck lay flat on his back, one foot dangling off the side of the bed. The ceiling was a patchwork of shadows—streetlight slicing through blinds, the occasional car headlights casting slow-moving ghosts across the drywall.

He stared up like it might blink first.

His phone buzzed where it sat on the nightstand. He reached for it, checked the time—too late or too early depending on how you looked at it.

He unlocked the screen.

Maddie ❤️

His thumb hovered. Then tapped.

Two rings.

Then—

“Buck?” Her voice was groggy but instantly warm. The kind of warmth you couldn’t fake at 2:17 AM.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” she lied easily. “Just glad it’s you. Everything okay?”

Buck rolled to his side, tucking the phone closer to his ear. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

She hummed gently. “Long day?”

“Good day, actually.” He exhaled. “Really good.”

“Tell me.”

So he did.

He told her about the crowd. About the energy that buzzed like electricity through his skin when the lights hit and the music soared. About Chim finally setting his phone down and Hen commandeering the wine list like she was defusing a bomb.

He talked about Ravi and his magical coconut custard. About Bobby watching them all like a proud dad with the night off.

“Sounds like the tour’s starting to feel good,” Maddie said softly. “Like a rhythm.”

“Yeah.” Buck paused. “It’s starting to feel like home.”

She was quiet for a beat. Then: “You deserve that, Buck.”

He smiled, even though she couldn’t see it. “Thanks.”

There was a silence. Gentle. Expectant.

And then, almost without thinking, Buck said, “There’s Eddie.”

Maddie perked up immediately. “Oh? There’s Eddie?”

“Not like that,” Buck said quickly. “I just meant—he’s… I don’t know. Solid. Quiet. Kind of grumpy. But not in a mean way. Just… contained.”

“Uh-huh,” Maddie said, all amusement now.

“He’s good,” Buck went on, voice softer. “Really good. You know that moment when you realize someone sees you? Like, really sees you. Not the noise, not the chaos—just… you.”

Maddie didn’t interrupt.

Buck swallowed. “I notice when he leaves a room.”

There it was.

Out loud.

Simple. True.

“Oh, Buck,” Maddie said gently. “That sounds a lot like falling.”

He let out a breath. “Yeah.”

“Scary?”

He closed his eyes. “A little.”

“You’ve always had a big heart. Don’t be afraid if someone finally sees it.”

He smiled again, this time a little sad, a little full. “Thanks for answering.”

“Always. Call me whenever.”

“I will.”

“Love you, baby brother.”

“Love you more.”

He ended the call. Set the phone on the nightstand. Let the silence settle.

Across the wall, Eddie turned in his bed, pulling the covers higher. His face relaxed in sleep. Not smiling. Not frowning. Just still.

Like maybe, for once, he felt safe.

And in the other room, Buck finally let himself close his eyes.

The door between them stayed closed.

But it might as well have been open.

The elevator dinged softly, a sleepy mechanical chime that echoed a little too loudly in the hush of early morning. The doors slid open with the low, tired whir of machinery that had been overworked and underpaid, much like the people inside it. The hotel lobby yawned out before them, wide and glossy with marble floors that caught the golden light spilling through tall windows. Warm amber sconces lined the walls, casting everything in a kind of cinematic glow. Somewhere behind the front desk, the subtle thrum of lobby jazz played on loop, nearly drowned out by the industrial purr of the coffee machine groaning to life.

Hen and Chimney stepped out first, already mid-bicker.

“I’m telling you, the toaster hates me,” Chim insisted, adjusting his hoodie. “It knows I want an English muffin, and it’s going to give me warm bread and no crunch. Watch.”

Hen gave him a look that said she’d heard this monologue a dozen times before. “Maybe if you didn’t walk away mid-toast—”

“Once,” Chim said dramatically, holding up a finger. “One time.”

Their voices faded as they veered left, toward the breakfast buffet tucked near the back. The scent of over-scrambled eggs and those weird little sausages clung to the air like a memory no one wanted but couldn’t shake.

Buck lingered behind, glancing over his shoulder.

Eddie stood just a step slower, hands in the pockets of his jacket, jaw shadowed with sleep. His eyes were a little puffy, the kind of tired that wasn’t solved by rest. But he was there , solid as always, watching the others fade into the background.

Buck nudged his elbow gently. “Wanna grab something?”

Eddie looked over at him like he’d only just realized they were alone. His lips parted, then closed again. He nodded. “Yeah. Coffee first.”

The morning air hit them like a slow wave as they stepped outside. Cool, dry, with just a whisper of humidity hanging at the edges—remnants of the Texas night refusing to give up their grip entirely. They walked without direction, like they were letting their feet decide. The city hadn’t fully woken up yet. It felt secret and half-finished, like they were intruding on something sacred.

Their footsteps echoed softly down the sidewalk, past shuttered storefronts and dew-slicked pavement. They didn’t talk. They didn’t need to.

Eventually, they found a corner café tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore that claimed to sell “Rare Vinyl and Real Espresso.” The café looked like it had grown out of the building itself—walls lined with exposed brick, shelves stuffed with old mugs and vinyl records, light fixtures made from rusted colanders and bicycle chains. The barista, a young woman with a cloud of messy curls and half-lidded eyes, looked like she was only held upright by the strength of the espresso machine and sheer spite.

They ordered quietly. Black coffee for Eddie. Something with oat milk and cinnamon for Buck, because “Maddie says I have the palate of a fairy-tale wood sprite.”

Eddie didn’t laugh, but he huffed, and his mouth twitched at the corner.

They chose a seat by the front window. The light there was soft, filtering through slatted blinds in long strips that painted the table in gold and gray. Outside, Austin began to unfurl: joggers on their morning routes, dogs dragging sleepy owners toward lampposts, someone playing acoustic guitar across the street with a case open at their feet and a harmonica dangling from their neck.

Their coffees steamed quietly between them. The warmth was almost enough to make up for the fact that neither of them really wanted to eat. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was full. Comfortable. Like a held breath, neither of them realized they were sharing.

Buck tapped his spoon against the rim of his mug absently, eyes distant but not disconnected. “You ever think about how weird this all is?” he asked, voice low. “Touring. Moving from city to city. Living out of bags. Never staying still long enough to memorize the shape of a place.”

Eddie took a slow sip, eyes on the window. “Not that weird to me. The army was like that. Just… different stakes.”

Buck glanced over, eyes narrowing with something close to curiosity. “Yeah? What about before that?”

Eddie leaned back in his chair, thumb circling the rim of his mug. “Texas,” he said simply. “Soccer fields. Shitty trucks. Heatstroke summers and creaky ceiling fans. The kind of heat that sticks to your skin and stays in your bones.”

Buck smiled. “That sounds like a country song.”

Eddie cut him a sideways look. “Don’t start writing it.”

“No promises,” Buck said, holding up both hands like a mock surrender. His grin softened as he looked at him, really looked at him. “You like talking about home.”

Eddie didn’t answer immediately. He looked down at the table, fingers absently toying with a paper sugar packet he wasn’t going to use.

“It’s easier to talk about things that already happened,” he said after a moment. “Doesn’t mean I want to go back.”

The light shifted just enough to catch on his lashes, the edge of his jaw. He didn’t say what he was thinking—about why it felt safer to look behind than ahead, or how memories didn’t shift under your feet the way the future did.

Buck swallowed. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get that.”

The moment lingered, delicate as breath on glass.

Then Buck leaned forward, chin resting on one hand. “You know the world’s oldest living tree is over 4,800 years old?”

Eddie blinked. “Why do you know that?”

“Hyperfixation,” Buck said proudly, perking up. “It’s my superpower. I went down a rabbit hole about ancient flora during the pandemic. You’d be amazed how long a bristlecone pine can hang on.”

“You’re weird,” Eddie said, but there was no heat behind it.

Buck smiled easily. “Takes one to know one.”

Eddie shook his head and muttered, “Weirdly charming.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

Their fingers brushed briefly on the table as Buck reached for his cup, and neither of them pulled away right away.

Later, back in the lobby before checkout, the soft hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a pale yellow sheen over the metal walls and sleepy faces. The space was filled with the faint scent of detergent and the lingering ghost of someone’s cologne—sharp, citrusy, unfamiliar. It was early, too early for chatter, and too late for silence to be comfortable.

Chim was leaning against the mirrored panel, phone in one hand, thumb flicking upward at the kind of speed that said he wasn’t really seeing what he was scrolling past. His other foot tapped a syncopated rhythm against the floor, sneakers squeaking softly with each bounce. A low, unconscious jitter that suggested caffeine deprivation and a brain already three steps ahead of his body.

Hen stood next to him, one hand curled around a paper coffee cup that proudly proclaimed it was compostable and entirely eco-friendly . She sipped with the grim determination of someone forcing herself to believe hotel lobby coffee could ever be drinkable. Her eyes were half-lidded, expression unreadable save for the quiet fury that accompanied anyone who hadn’t yet had enough sleep or sugar.

Ravi, somehow impossibly fresh, looked like a shampoo commercial come to life. His curls were still slightly damp, his clothes crisp, and he had that damn sparkle some people got in the morning that made you want to shove them a little. He hummed under his breath—something from last night’s setlist—mouthing words around a melody only he could hear.

Chim, still scrolling, paused.

His thumb hovered just above the screen, his whole body freezing like someone had hit pause on a movie. He stared at the screen for a second too long, brows slowly drawing together.

“Uh,” he said, blinking like he had to double-check what he was seeing. “Guys?”

Hen didn’t look up. “If it’s another conspiracy theory about breakfast meats, I swear to God—”

“It’s not.” Chim’s voice was tighter now, the way it got when he was trying not to freak out and totally was freaking out. “No, seriously. Look.”

He turned the phone toward her. Hen peered over the rim of her coffee cup, her brow lifting in mild curiosity—until she saw the screen.

Ravi leaned in, adjusting the strap of his backpack absently as he looked.

Two new photos. Freshly posted. The handle was unmistakable: @PopCrave .

The watermark was there, tucked into the bottom corner in curly red script like a smear of lipstick across a crime scene.

📷 Photo One: Eddie and Buck standing behind the venue’s back entrance, where the cement was cracked and the alley light flickered like a dying star.

 Buck had his hands deep in his jacket pockets, chin tucked slightly, like he’d been caught mid-laugh or mid-thought. Eddie stood close— too close—his body angled toward Buck, head dipped, the curve of his mouth not quite a smile but something softer, more private. Their foreheads weren’t touching, not quite, but the air between them shimmered with suggestion. A breath. A heartbeat. A moment suspended.

📷 Photo Two: Inside a dimly lit restaurant, all golden shadows and warm tones. A booth tucked into the corner, half-secluded.

 Buck was mid-laugh, head thrown back, mouth open, joy unfiltered. Eddie sat beside him, not across from him—beside him. His smile was small, barely there, but unmistakably real . Their knees touched beneath the table. Buck’s hand rested near Eddie’s, not touching, but close enough that one shift of gravity might bridge the gap. Their bodies leaned toward each other with the ease of people who didn’t realize they were doing it.

Hen blinked slowly. “That’s from last night.”

Chim nodded mutely, still holding out the phone like it might combust in his hands.

Ravi tilted his head, squinting. “Is it just me, or… are they closer every time we see them?”

The elevator hummed quietly around them, the numbers ticking upward. Floor after floor passing like held breath.

No one answered.

Not right away.

Because in the far corner of the lobby, slightly behind the others and sitting on a couch, Buck had drifted closer to Eddie without anyone quite noticing. His shoulder brushed Eddie’s—not an accident, not an apology. The kind of closeness that came naturally now. The kind that didn’t ask permission because it didn’t feel like a boundary anymore.

Buck leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur only Eddie could hear.

“You know,” he whispered, “vending machines were originally invented to dispense holy water in ancient temples. So I guess even God thought people needed snacks.”

Eddie turned toward him slowly, brows drawing together like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. “What?”

Buck gave him a lopsided grin, playful and unrepentant. “It’s true. Ancient Egypt. Or maybe Greece. Somewhere holy with coins.”

Eddie stared at him for a beat longer, eyes narrowed in mock judgment—but something cracked in his expression, something warm and unwilling.

And then— he laughed .

Not loud. Not long. But real.

It was a quiet thing, deep in his chest, the sound escaping before he could stop it. His shoulders shook just once, and his mouth curved at the edges in a way that made the space between them feel too small all of a sudden.

He didn’t pull away.

Didn’t step to the side.

Didn’t check to see who was watching.

He just sat there, shoulder to shoulder with Buck, the air between them vibrating with a kind of slow-burning electricity no one knew what to do with.

Hen caught it first. The way her eyes flicked up from the screen and landed on them was like a scientist observing a slow-moving chemical reaction. Controlled. But only just.

Chim followed, gaze darting between the screen and the very real moment playing out across the hotel lobby.

Ravi, bless his nosy heart, just grinned and leaned back like he was watching his favorite show.

Buck and Eddie sat up together, side by side.

Their hands didn’t touch. Not yet.

But their shoulders stayed aligned. Their movements unconsciously synced.

Closer than before.

And still not close enough.

Chapter Text

The bus rolled through central Texas like it had all the time in the world, the road unspooling endlessly ahead of them. Flat land stretched in every direction, the horizon line sharp against a washed-out sky. Telephone poles flickered past like metronomes keeping time, the occasional gas station or shuttered diner the only landmarks breaking up the monotony. Heat shimmered off the asphalt, even though the AC inside the bus ran strong and steady.

Ravi was cocooned in the back lounge, a blanket pulled over his head like a disgruntled ghost avoiding the light. His feet stuck out from the bottom, socked and twitching in time to whatever beat still lived in his bones from the night before. Hen sat across from him, her back perfectly straight despite the curve of the bench, a red pen stuck in the pocket of her shirt as she marked up the setlist for the fourth—no, fifth—time. She muttered under her breath as she worked, chewing the inside of her cheek.

Chim was out cold on the small couch across from the kitchenette, one hand curled protectively around his phone like it might escape without permission. His headphones hummed faintly with white noise, and every now and then, he let out a snore that sounded suspiciously like a laugh cut off halfway.

Up front, Eddie sat in the jump seat, arms folded over his chest, head tilted back against the window. His eyes were half-lidded, but he wasn’t asleep—just still, like he’d learned how to be quiet in motion. Watching.

Buck was spread out on the long bench nearby like he’d melted there sometime around sunrise, one leg thrown over the backrest, a guitar across his stomach. He tapped out a slow rhythm with his thumb against the wood, the sound soft but steady, like a pulse. His other hand hung over the edge of the seat, fingers occasionally plucking at invisible strings mid-air.

The bus rumbled. Then it buzzed.

“Yo,” Hen called, her voice slicing clean through the quiet. “Group call. May.”

Ravi poked his head out from under the blanket like a confused animal waking from hibernation. Chim stirred, eyes still closed, and Hen tapped at her keyboard, propping her computer up on the counter with the precision of someone used to managing chaos.

May’s face filled the screen—flawless as ever, even through grainy bus Wi-Fi. Her lipstick was sharp, her coffee was large, and her expression was somewhere between polished PR queen and long-suffering friend.

“Good morning, my favorite chaos demons,” she greeted, deadpan.

Buck squinted at the screen. “Why do I feel like we’re about to get yelled at?”

“Because you are,” May said sweetly. Then she sighed and clicked something off-screen.

The screen split. Images filled the other half.

Photos.

Screenshots of tweets.

Fan edits are already in circulation.

Buck and Eddie—again.

Buck and Eddie. Behind the venue. Candlelit dinner. Laughing. Leaning in.

“Shit,” Buck muttered.

“They're from last night,” Hen added, already squinting.

Chim rubbed his eyes. “We didn't think it was this big, I mean, we saw it last night, where did all this come from?”

“Instagram,” May said. “Then TikTok. Then Twitter. One of the fans at the restaurant must’ve recognized them. It’s blowing up. Like— blowing up blowing up. The post has a hundred thousand likes already.”

Ravi blinked. “Do we have a ship name?”

“Buddie,” May said, with the weariness of someone who’s had three cups of coffee and still regrets waking up. “It’s been floating around for a while, but now it’s trending. I mean trending trending. Hashtag. Compilation videos. Fanfic. There’s already art.”

Hen whistled. “Damn. That was fast.”

Buck scratched the back of his head, glancing sideways at Eddie. “It’s not like we’re doing anything.”

Eddie didn’t answer. His jaw had gone tight.

May looked slightly uncomfortable. “That’s the thing. It’s not what you’re doing. It’s what you look like while doing nothing. There’s chemistry. People are eating it up. And—” She paused. “The label noticed.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Hen said, “Define ‘noticed.’”

May’s lips thinned. “Tommy Kinard called me this morning. Said he thinks the band could ‘spice it up a bit.’ His words, not mine.”

Buck groaned. “Of course Tommy said that.”

Eddie looked murderous. “That guy gives me hives.”

Chim rolled his eyes. “He once tried to convince me to wear leather chaps on stage. Said it was ‘part of the aesthetic.’”

May raised an eyebrow. “He thinks this could be your ‘hook’—his word again. He’s already pushing for more visibility. More brand deals. He wants to see if you two can ‘sell the spark.’”

“Jesus,” Buck muttered.

“I’m not saying you have to do it,” May added quickly. “I’m on your side here. But I am saying—it might not be the worst thing for the tour. For the band.”

“For Tommy’s commission,” Hen muttered under her breath.

May gave her a look. “Maybe. But also for you. For your reach. This story, if you choose to tell it, could play well. Especially if it’s a slow burn. Something that builds. Something authentic.”

“You want us to fake date,” Eddie said flatly.

“Only if you’re comfortable. Only if you both say yes.” She hesitated, then softened. “But think about it. You’ve already got the groundwork. The fans love you. You don’t have to do much. Just... lean in. A little.”

Ravi tilted his head. “Could be fun.”

Hen grinned. “Could be gay.”

Chim snorted. “Could be a disaster.”

Buck looked over at Eddie, eyes unreadable. “Could be worse.”

May gave a short nod. “If you say yes, I’ll draft soft rollout ideas. You don’t need to do anything dramatic. Keep it subtle. Build it. Let the crew start noticing. Then the fans will believe it’s real.”

Eddie was silent for a long time.

Then he sighed deeply. “Fine.”

Buck blinked. “Yeah?”

Eddie gave him a look. “Only if you follow the rules.”

By late afternoon, the sun had risen high and hot, casting long shadows across the parking lot behind the venue. Buck and Eddie sat on the edge of the loading dock, legs swinging like kids with nowhere else to be. A half-drunk water bottle sat between them. The air smelled like pavement and gasoline and faint leftover grease from food trucks long since packed up.

Eddie was staring out toward the street, arms folded tight.

“So,” Buck said after a beat. “Rules?”

Eddie dragged a hand down his face. “No surprise kisses.”

Buck held up both hands. “Swear.”

“No fake PDA unless we talk about it first.”

“Got it. How about leaning in during interviews? Touching your arm when you say something broody?”

Eddie snorted. “You’re gonna call me broody?”

“You are broody.”

“Says the guy who can’t sit still for more than three minutes.”

“I’m charming,” Buck said, grinning.

Eddie looked over then, finally.

Really looked.

Buck had that same lopsided grin he always wore when he was about to say something ridiculous. The left side of his mouth lifted higher, just a little, like it had gotten used to being tugged upward by mischief. His hair was a mess, sunlit at the edges, curls flopping over his forehead like he hadn’t slept well. He probably hadn’t.

There was a birthmark on his eyebrow, a soft pink blot just above his right eye that seemed almost glowing today, made brighter by the heat or the light or just the fact that Eddie couldn’t stop looking at it. Couldn’t remember noticing it quite that much before.

Buck was bigger than him, not by a lot, but it was noticeable. Broad in the shoulders, long in the legs, the kind of presence that took up space without trying to. Eddie wasn’t small. He’d spent years training his body into muscle and sharpness and quiet power. But Buck was built like a wave—fast and impossible to ignore.

And there was something in his eyes. That deep, sea-glass blue, soft but sharp. Curious. Always lit up like he was waiting for you to tell him a secret.

Eddie swallowed.

“I mean it,” Buck said gently, quieter now. “I’ll follow your lead. Whatever you’re comfortable with. Promise.”

Their knees bumped.

Eddie didn’t pull away.

He just nodded.

And Buck smiled again, quieter this time. Almost real.

The kind of smile you only give someone who’s starting to see you back.

That afternoon, soundcheck buzzed with low-key energy—less chaotic than the night before, but threaded through with something unspoken, a current just under the surface. The crew moved around in practiced rhythm, coiling cables, adjusting mic stands, and muttering into headsets. It smelled like hot lights and old wood, the air thick with the metallic tang of feedback and the faint echo of guitar strings being tuned and re-tuned.

Buck stood center stage, adjusting the mic stand with one hand, the other cradling his guitar loosely. His sleeves were rolled up, collar askew, and there was a sheen of sweat already at his temples from the heat of the overheads. Eddie lingered near the edge of the stage, half-shielded by the shadow of a speaker stack, ostensibly overseeing things. Really, he was watching Buck.

He’d done this the last few soundchecks—quiet, unobtrusive, focused. But today, it was different. The way Eddie moved was closer. His hovering wasn’t just professional, it was personal, though maybe even he didn’t fully realize it yet.

Buck glanced over as Eddie approached.

“You good?” Eddie asked, voice low, measured, eyes scanning from the tips of Buck’s Converse to the faint flush on his cheeks. He noticed the way Buck rolled one shoulder, stretching it in that way he always did when the muscle tensed up. That shoulder—he’d patched a cut there just a week ago, after Buck had tripped over an amp cord.

“I’m fine,” Buck replied, smiling in that crooked, half-lopsided way of his—like the world had surprised him with something sweet and he didn’t quite know how to handle it.

Eddie didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered just a moment too long, fingertips ghosting briefly over Buck’s wrist under the guise of checking his pulse. “You sleeping okay?”

Buck blinked. “Uh. Yeah. I think so.”

“You think?”

Buck shrugged. “I mean, I’ve had worse. Last night wasn’t bad.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, silent. He didn’t need to say what he was thinking—Buck could read it in his expression. That mix of concern and curiosity, the way his jaw ticked slightly like he wanted to say more and didn’t. Eddie’s check-ins always came wrapped in dry calm, but Buck was starting to recognize the warmth behind them. The care.

“You should keep stretching that shoulder,” Eddie said. “Don’t let it lock up again.”

Buck saluted him with two fingers. “Yes, sir.”

One of the crew guys—Nick, who handled lighting—glanced over and caught the moment. So did Jess, who was testing monitor volumes nearby. Neither said anything, but the exchange was noted. Tucked away.

They ran through the set—vocals, transitions, drum hits, lighting cues. Buck moved like he was already halfway in performance mode, his focus laser-sharp except for the moments he drifted too close to where Eddie stood. 

“Vocals check,” Hen called out from near the side curtain. “Give me something, Buck.”

Buck cleared his throat. “You know, vending machines were invented to dispense holy water in ancient temples—”

“Buck,” Hen warned, but she was smiling.

The sound techs adjusted sliders, nodding. The lights tested themselves in soft pulses—red, then gold, then pale, clean white.

At one point, during a pause in rehearsal, Buck stepped offstage to grab water, and Eddie was there before he could ask, handing him a chilled bottle and frowning at the flush high on Buck’s cheeks.

It was subtle. A meandering arc in motion. Nothing purposeful. Nothing anyone could point to. But it was deliberate in its own quiet way. He bumped shoulders with Eddie as he passed, a nudge disguised as nonchalance, then lingered a second too long in his orbit. Close enough to brush arms. Close enough to feel warmth.

“You running hot again?” Eddie murmured.

“Maybe I’m just excited,” Buck shot back, but his grin was easy. Honest.

Eddie didn’t smile back, but he didn’t move away either. “Pace yourself.”

Another glance from the crew. Another note added to the growing quiet narrative building behind the scenes.

After soundcheck, Buck disappeared briefly to change and cool down, and Eddie found himself pacing by the loading dock, hands on his hips, eyes scanning without meaning to. When Buck reappeared—fresh shirt, hair damp, cheeks pinker than before—Eddie stepped forward instinctively.

“You dizzy?” Eddie asked.

Buck looked at him, caught off guard. “No. I—wait. You think I’m dizzy?”

“You’re flushed.”

“I just changed shirts.”

“You’re flushed,” Eddie repeated, like he was diagnosing it from memory, from habit, from a place of knowledge that came from cataloging Buck’s every micro-expression without even trying.

Buck laughed quietly. “Jesus, you really don’t turn it off, do you?”

Eddie shrugged. “You’re my job.”

But his voice was too soft. Too careful. Like it wasn’t the whole truth.

And Buck, who normally would have teased him for a line like that, just held his gaze for a second, then looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… thanks for the checkup, Doc.”

Later, after the noise of setup faded and the others had peeled off toward food trucks or phones or brief windows of solitude, the dressing room quieted like a storm that had passed through and left dust motes floating in the fluorescent stillness. The walls were lined with mirrors framed in bright circus bulbs, the kind that made everything feel too sharp around the edges—skin too raw, eyes too honest, silence too full of the things unsaid.

Buck stayed behind.

He didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t call attention to himself. Just let the weight of the room settle around him and claim a spot in the far corner on one of the low-slung leather couches that always smelled faintly of hairspray and old leather and someone else’s cologne.

The guitar was already in his hands by then. His favorite one—the sunburst acoustic, the one with a barely visible crack near the base where it had been dropped in Denver two years ago. The strings were slightly dull from overuse, the neck worn smooth where his fingers had learned and relearned old chords until they sank into his muscle memory like a second language.

He tucked one leg under him, almost curling into himself, and tilted his head like he was listening to something far away. Not the echoes of soundcheck. Not the hum of the lights. But something older. Quieter.

He strummed a chord.

It was low. Loose. Hanging in the air like a thread waiting to be pulled.

Then another.

A slow melody began to form, careful and unhurried, not meant for show. Just a few notes spaced wide apart, like they needed time to breathe. Like they weren’t entirely sure they wanted to exist yet.

Buck wasn’t small. He never had been. He took up space even when he tried not to—broad shoulders, long limbs folded awkwardly against the curve of the couch. The fabric of his t-shirt stretched across his back, damp where the sweat hadn’t fully dried from the heat of rehearsal. A line of curls clung to the nape of his neck. His jeans were torn just above one knee, and his right foot tapped gently, unconsciously, to the rhythm only he could hear.

And that birthmark on his cheek—rose-colored, soft-edged—seemed more pronounced in the dressing room light. Like it was blooming. Like it had flushed with something private and tender, he hadn’t said out loud.

He didn’t hum. Didn’t sing. Just played. His fingers moved over the strings with a kind of acceptance, dragging slowly, pausing in places, letting each note linger as though it might change its mind and disappear if he rushed it.

He wasn’t writing a song so much as remembering one. One he hadn’t played yet. One that lived somewhere in the weight behind his ribs.

Hen passed by with a takeout box in one hand and a half-opened bottle of Coke in the other. She was mid-sentence with someone on the phone—probably Karen, judging by the softness in her tone—but when she reached the doorway, her words trailed off.

She stopped.

Buck didn’t look up. Didn’t see her standing there in the soft spill of hallway light, phone forgotten by her side.

Hen watched for a long second. Her eyes moved from his hands to his face, and something in her expression changed—smoothed out, quieted. She knew grief when she saw it. Knew hope, too. And the space in between.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t ask. Just offered a small nod, a quiet acknowledgment, and turned away without breaking the silence.

Buck’s fingers didn’t stop.

The song continued to shape itself.

Not for the crowd. Not for the charts. Not even for the band.

Just… for the air between things. For that specific type of ache that had no name but felt familiar when Eddie stood too close. For the voice Eddie used when he said, “Don’t let it lock up again,” like Buck’s shoulder was more important than the rest of him wanted to admit.

He thought maybe the melody was a question. A hesitant one. Like: What do you see when you look at me and I’m not performing?

Or maybe it was something simpler.

Maybe it was: I heard you. That night you talked about Texas, and dirt, and silence. I listened.

He shifted slightly, guitar angled closer, and played the refrain again, slower this time. Let it break a little at the edges. Not because he was tired, but because emotion does that sometimes. It breaks you open, gently, without permission.

Behind him, the mirror caught his reflection, not full on, but enough to frame the tension in his shoulders, the rise and fall of his breath, the raw way his mouth pressed into a thin line, softening only when his fingers found the next chord like it was home.

The door creaked. Light footsteps approached—someone coming back, maybe Chim with a joke, or Ravi with a bottle of Gatorade and a quiet, “You good?”

But no one came in. The footsteps stopped just outside.

Buck didn’t stop playing.

Maybe, if he’d looked up, he would’ve seen Eddie leaning against the wall across from the door, out of sight but not out of reach, arms crossed tight across his chest like he was holding something in. Like he’d followed the sound of the music without thinking and then stayed, frozen, because it was too much and not enough all at once.

But Buck didn’t look up.

He just played.

And in the hush of the dressing room, under the buzz of too-bright bulbs and the crackling hum of something unspoken, the song hung in the air, unfinished and waiting.

Maybe for Eddie.

Maybe for both of them.

That night, Houston was wild. The venue was packed, the energy buzzing like electricity under the skin. The crowd was already singing along before the second song had finished, lighters and phone screens flickering like fireflies under the hot wash of stage lights.

Halfway through the set, Buck stepped up to the mic, one foot on the monitor, the stage lights painting soft gold across his face. His smile wasn’t showy—it was quiet. Private.

“This next one’s new,” he said, eyes scanning the crowd before flicking offstage. To Eddie. “Still figuring it out. But it’s about something… real. Something solid.”

(4)

Eddie, seated in the wings, tilted his head. He hadn’t heard that line in rehearsal.

Buck strummed the first few notes, and the room hushed like a held breath. The melody came in slower than their usual set—meandering, hesitant, wide open like a stretch of Texas road with no end in sight.

He didn’t look out at the crowd. He looked down at the strings, like they were the only thing tethering him to the floor.

Eddie stood back by the speaker stack, arms crossed, posture casual—but his eyes didn’t move. Not once.

And then the lyrics hit.

“He was a boy who was a dreamer, and he flew so high and proud… In a world full of people out to cut his young ass down…”

Eddie felt the words before he heard them.

He leaned against the speaker stack, arms slack at his sides now, forgotten. His eyes tracked Buck, not the performer, not the rockstar. Just Buck.

Because those weren’t just words—they were familiar. The cadence, the theme. Buck hadn’t written a song. He’d written him.

Eddie could hear echoes of old conversations, late-night detours in half-empty cafés, that morning Buck had laughed about soccer fields and heatstroke summers in El Paso. Of things they never meant to say, but said anyway.

“And he used to roll around in that red dirt mud… and now he’s skipping town and that riser's out for blood…”

There was something like recognition in the way Buck sang it—soft but sure, full of something almost sacred. Like he wasn’t performing for a crowd, but for a single pair of eyes watching from the wings.

Eddie saw it then—the flickers of memory behind Buck’s eyes. El Paso. High school fields and sunburned necks and laughter that carried past curfews. Buck had never been from where Eddie was from, but he’d remembered every word like he’d lived it.

Eddie’s throat tightened; he sang about heading south, about dreams and hurt and finding something like home, but it didn’t sound like a performance.

It sounded like the truth.

Like it was meant for someone.

Buck’s voice cracked, just barely, on the next line. A split in the timber of Buck’s voice, like he was holding back something sharp and barely managing.

Eddie exhaled. Tried to, anyway.

“And that boy, he called his daddy to tell him everything he did… while the masses screamed the lyrics of a messed up kid…”

And Eddie noticed everything—how his hands flexed on the guitar, how the pink birthmark on his eyebrow flushed deeper under the lights, how the lines of his shoulders hunched slightly like he was baring too much and didn’t know how to stop. Buck was bigger than Eddie—taller, broader, all long limbs and golden skin—but there was something fragile about him in that moment. Not weak. Just… unguarded.

The next part almost felt like it was about Buck then. He called out the audience, the people online, maybe even the label, with his words.

“Then he surely came to learn people come to watch you fall…But he's out to make a name and a fool out of 'em all…They'll never understand that boy and his kind…And all they comprehend is a fucking dollar sign…”

The song then wasn’t just about Eddie anymore, but Buck and Eddie. That they were a unit, a team, a thing. 

Eddie swallowed hard.

Because that was Buck. Stubborn. Brilliant. Loud in all the right places. And quiet in the ones that mattered most.

The last part of the song wasn’t sung so much as exhaled. Buck didn’t raise his voice, didn’t belt. He just let it unravel quietly, honestly, like it hurt to carry, and he was finally putting it down.

Eddie’s pulse thrummed in time with the picking.

Eddie wasn’t small. He never had been. But next to Buck—this version of Buck, honest and burning and wide open—he felt like the one with walls.

The crew moved around him, but Eddie didn’t see anyone else.

Just Buck, center stage. And he, off to the side, was trying not to fall into the gravity of it.

By the time the last note faded, Buck didn’t smile. He just looked out, breathing hard, eyes searching the darkness.

And then, like muscle memory, his gaze found Eddie’s.

Locked on. No flinch. No fear.

And this time, Eddie didn’t look away.

Not anymore.

Chapter Text

Instagram Post by @PopCrave 📸 Photos from last night's surprise song—was it a love confession? 😱❤️🔥

📷 1: Buck mid-song, spotlight bathing him in soft gold, eyes closed, clutching the guitar like a lifeline. 

📷 2: Eddie offstage, arms loose at his sides, watching Buck like he’s the only one in the room.

Caption: Last night in Houston, Buck from The 118 performed an unreleased song he said was "about something real." 👀🫣 The lyrics? Devastating. Emotional. Romantic??

Some fans did their research (shout out to @softbuddiefacts ) and found out Eddie grew up in El Paso. The song references red dirt, Texas summers, and a boy heading south. Too specific to ignore...

Is the song about him?

Top Comments:

@bandbuddie_4eva: THE WAY EDDIE LOOKED AT HIM I’M GONNA COMBUST 🫠 

Reply to @bandbuddie_4eva —@setlistdetective: It’s giving slow burn. It’s giving real. It’s giving canon!

@henwillcutyou: whoever took that second photo deserves a Pulitzer 

@buddiecanon: Not to be dramatic, but this song saved me from emotional ruin 😭

The show was over. The crowd had thundered themselves hoarse. The lights were low now, bleeding off into the rafters, casting long shadows over the stage and the crates of gear scattered around like forgotten bones. Crew members moved around them in the soft shuffle of post-show routine, but their energy was hushed. Like, even they knew not to disturb the quiet forming in Buck’s orbit.

Eddie sat on a crate with a first aid kit resting beside his boots, the latches already flipped open. Buck dropped into the folding chair across from him like gravity had finally remembered it could drag him down. His shirt clung to him, damp and translucent at the collar, and his curls looked like they’d gone swimming in stage lights and sweat.

Eddie didn’t speak at first. He just reached out, palm up.

Buck blinked at him. “What?”

“Your wrist,” Eddie said. “You look like you got hit by a freight train.”

Buck muttered something unintelligible but held out his arm. Eddie caught it gently, fingers sliding to the pulse point with practiced ease. Buck was warm, radiating heat like an engine cooling off after a long haul, and his heart was still thrumming too fast beneath the skin.

“Heart rate’s elevated,” Eddie noted, brows drawn tight in focus.

“Yeah, well.” Buck let his head tip back, his throat exposed, jaw twitching faintly. “Kinda hard to stay calm after singing about your entirely fake boyfriend in front of ten thousand people.”

Eddie snorted. “Self-inflicted, though.”

Buck cracked an exhausted grin. “You’re such a hardass.”

“You love it,” Eddie replied dryly, but then his voice softened, lips parting with something more cautious behind them. He pulled back slightly, still close enough to feel Buck’s heat but no longer touching him.

“Those lyrics,” Eddie said. The words left him slower than he meant. “Where’d you get all that?”

Buck opened one eye. The other followed, both blinking at Eddie like he hadn’t expected the question so soon—or at all. “I just… I dunno. It came to me.”

Eddie tilted his head, sharp and unimpressed. “Don’t give me that. That song wasn’t vague. That was specific .”

Buck sat up a little straighter. “So?”

“So,” Eddie said, and there was something in his voice now, something tugged tight, “you were quoting me , Buck.”

Buck hesitated.

“I’m not wrong, am I?” Eddie pressed. “The red dirt. The heat. That line about the stars and the truck bed and how the air was heavy but dry. You remembered that.”

Buck’s throat bobbed. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I did.”

Eddie stared at him. “We were sitting at the coffee shop, you asked me what it was like growing up in El Paso. You said you’d never been that far west.”

Buck gave a slow, cautious nod. “You started talking about summer nights. Said the dirt stained your skin. That it turned to powder when you breathed it in.”

“And you—” Eddie cut in, breath catching, “—you looked at me like I was telling ghost stories, and you said, ‘That sounds like a country song.’ ”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Buck’s mouth. “And you said, ‘Don’t start writing it.’ ”

Eddie’s eyes narrowed, equal parts disbelief and... something else. “You actually wrote it.”

“Yeah,” Buck said, softer now. “Yeah, I did.”

There was a long pause. A low thrum of someone rolling a cart across the concrete. Somewhere nearby, someone whistled a few off-key notes of the encore chorus. But in the bubble around them, everything else went still.

“You remembered all that?” Eddie asked finally, voice so quiet it barely registered.

Buck nodded again. “I remember everything you say when you think no one’s listening.”

Eddie stared at him, something unreadable flickering across his face—shock, maybe. Or worse: recognition. Because now that Buck had said it, now that the lyrics were still echoing through the bones of the building and into his ribs, Eddie couldn’t un-hear them.

Headin' south in someone else’s shoes,
Red dirt under fingernails, nothing left to lose.
The lyrics of a messed-up kid,
But he’s out to make a name—

And someone, somewhere, might just remember his name.

“That last part,” Eddie said, clearing his throat. “About someone remembering him.”

Buck nodded, more hesitant now. “That’s the part that scared me most.”

Eddie blinked. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t mean just anyone.”

The air changed.

Something in Eddie’s chest pulled taut, a string wound too tight inside a too-small space. “Buck—”

“I wasn’t trying to blindside you,” Buck rushed to say, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. “It wasn’t some big... thing . I didn’t do it for the crowd. I did it for me.”

“For you,” Eddie repeated.

Buck nodded again. “Because I can’t stop thinking about that morning. The way you talked about Texas, like it was both heaven and hell. Like it made you and broke you at the same time. I couldn’t stop hearing your voice when I was writing. I didn’t even have to try to remember. It was just... there.”

Eddie looked away, jaw clenched. His knuckles flexed against the hard edge of the crate beneath him. “I didn’t think you were paying that much attention.”

“I was. I always am.”

Eddie turned back slowly. His gaze was different now—softer, but heavier. Like it carried weight, history, regret.

“You wrote a goddamn song about me,” he said, and Buck couldn’t tell if he was pissed or stunned.

“I told you I wouldn’t,” Buck replied gently. “But I lied.”

That earned a real laugh from Eddie, low and worn, more breath than sound. “You bastard.”

Buck grinned sheepishly. “You liked it, though.”

Eddie’s eyes flicked away again, like he couldn’t admit that part just yet. “You took my words and made them sound like poetry.”

“They already were.”

That startled a stillness into Eddie. His breath slowed. His eyes dropped to Buck’s mouth, then jerked away, like looking too long would break the spell.

“Don’t do that,” Eddie said quietly.

“Do what?”

“Say things like that and expect me not to lose my mind.”

Buck leaned in, expression soft. “Maybe I want you to lose your mind.”

Eddie’s breath hitched. “Jesus Christ.”

And then, almost as if it surprised them both, Buck reached forward and gently tapped the side of Eddie’s boot with his own. “You gonna patch me up or just roast me?”

Eddie shook his head, but his hands were already moving. He reached for Buck’s shoulder, fingers brushing damp cotton and sweat-warmed skin.

“I should be icing you for emotional manipulation,” he muttered.

Buck laughed quietly and openly. “You’ll take care of me anyway.”

Eddie didn’t deny it.

He pressed his thumb into the knot near Buck’s collarbone—firm but careful. Buck winced, then sighed, leaning into the touch like it grounded him.

“You know the crew’s gonna be gossiping all week,” Eddie said after a beat.

Buck raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

“That look you gave me when you finished the song,” Eddie said, deadpan. “You might as well’ve written I want to kiss him stupid across the jumbotron.”

Buck’s cheeks flushed pink. “Maybe I do.”

Eddie didn’t move his hand. Just looked at him, gaze steady, searching. Then he glanced around at the emptying venue, the crew members who were already busy elsewhere, packing cables and locking up light rigs.

“No one’s even looking at us,” he said quietly, almost like it surprised him.

Buck’s smile tipped lopsided. “Guess I’m not that interesting.”

“You just performed a confessional love song to ten thousand screaming fans,” Eddie said. “You’re interesting .”

Buck huffed a soft laugh, then let the silence settle for a moment. “Yeah, well... gotta get my practice in.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow.

“I mean it,” Buck said. “I’m a musician, not an actor. I don’t fake it well. So if it came across like something real—”

“It’s because it was ,” Eddie finished for him, rolling his eyes.

Buck’s grin softened into something quieter. “Yeah.”

Eddie finally pulled back, clearing his throat, his hand lingering a beat too long on Buck’s arm. His fingers flexed like they didn’t quite want to let go.

“You should stretch before bed,” he said, back in EMT mode, but his voice was lower, rougher now. “Ice the shoulder. Drink something with electrolytes.”

Buck tilted his head, curls still damp, eyes a little too bright. “You gonna watch me do all that?”

Eddie snorted. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Buck’s smirk grew. “Maybe.”

Eddie paused—then added, with a casual shrug that didn’t quite match the intensity in his eyes, “You write another song like that and I’ll consider it.”

Buck blinked, surprised. Then his grin bloomed, wide and boyish and so full of joy it made something tight in Eddie’s chest loosen.

“You got it.”

If Texas kept treating him this way, Buck was gonna have to move his ass down here permanently.

That was the exact thought spinning lazily through his sun-warmed brain as he strolled through Houston’s early evening glow, the kind of glow that made everything feel honeyed and slow and a little surreal, like the day had decided to stretch out just for them. The sun was dipping low on the horizon, bleeding molten gold and soft amber across the jagged outline of the downtown skyline. Long shadows chased them down the sidewalk, stretching behind like the memory of something good.

He was full—blissfully stuffed-with-slow-smoked—slow-smoked brisket that had practically fallen apart under his fork, cornbread that had soaked up too much butter to be legal, and a tangy slaw that had cleared his sinuses and made him grin like a man drunk on sugar and heat. It wasn’t even a fancy place. Some tiny, blink-and-you-miss-it barbecue joint tucked between a laundromat and a tire shop, the kind of place with faded menus taped to the wall and a register that still used buttons instead of a screen. It had been Eddie’s idea, of course.

“I’m telling you,” he’d said, sliding behind the wheel earlier, “you haven’t had barbecue until you’ve had it in a place where the smoke’s been trapped in the walls since ’92.”

He hadn’t been wrong.

Buck had eaten until his ribs hurt. Until he’d had to lean back in the booth, eyes closed, and groan, “If I die tonight, tell the coroner it was worth it.”

Now, walking beside Eddie under a sky painted with firelight, Buck felt it in his bones—that deep, whole-body kind of tired that came after good food and good company, when every step felt like a satisfied exhale. He felt safe. Which was a strange thing to realize. Not because he didn’t trust Eddie, but because the sensation was so rare, it always took him a second to recognize it.

And the best part?

They weren’t leaving yet.

No tour bus rumbling away into the dark. No cold bunk was squeezed between equipment crates. Tonight, they were staying put. A hotel room. A real bed. An actual chance to sleep horizontally without waking up to someone else’s snoring or a pothole rattling his spine.

Even better—depending on how one looked at it—they were sharing a room.

One bed.

For optics. Or so May had insisted, her voice bright and ruthlessly logical when she’d brought it up that morning. “It’ll look more authentic,” she’d said, tapping at her iPad. “Two rooms might seem like you’re just friends traveling together. But one room? With one bed? That’s intimacy. That’s believability. ”

Buck had almost choked on his coffee. “So we’re really doing this, huh?”

She’d raised an eyebrow. “You agreed to fake date him for the press. This is the press.”

He didn’t even want to think about what that front desk employee might post if they caught a whiff of anything different. Evan Buckley and his new tour boyfriend request separate beds? Trouble in PR paradise! That would be the headline within the hour.

So here he was. Strolling beside Eddie through the humid dusk of a Texas evening, trying very hard not to think about the one king-sized bed waiting for them in a few short blocks. Or the fact that every so often, casual, instinctive—Eddie’s hand would brush against the small of his back. Just a touch. Just a guide, whenever they crossed the street or stepped around a pack of pedestrians.

But it was killing him. Because it didn’t feel casual. Not to Buck.

The first time it happened, his breath caught in his throat like it had been yanked by a hook.

Eddie looked over, eyebrows drawing together in concern. “You good?”

Buck coughed, trying to shake it off, offering a crooked smile. “Yeah. Just... brisket coma.”

Eddie didn’t look convinced. “I can stop. If it’s too much.”

Buck blinked at him. And damn it, he was the kindest man alive, wasn’t he? Thoughtful even when they were fake-dating. Considerate to a fault.

“No,” Buck said quickly. “No, it’s okay. Really.”

Eddie gave him a slow nod, then—almost imperceptibly—his lips quirked. “Alright then.”

The next time Eddie’s hand landed there, Buck didn’t flinch. But it still landed like a heartbeat inside his ribs.

The hotel lobby was sleek and dimly lit, full of polished concrete and warm-toned Edison bulbs, the kind of place that looked curated for Instagram. The concierge handed over their keys with a wink and a knowing smile that Buck tried not to read into.

By the time they reached their floor, the hallway was quiet and smelled faintly of citrus and linen. The door clicked open to reveal a room that was all mid-century modern lines and muted elegance. Abstract artwork above the headboard. A tiny bottle of local whiskey on the minibar. Dark chocolate on each pillow.

And one bed.

Big. King-sized. Crisp white sheets tucked so tight they could probably bounce a quarter. Too many pillows stacked in neat, color-coordinated rows. The kind of bed that made you want to dive in face-first and not come up until morning.

Buck stood there for a beat, blinking at the sight. His duffel slid from his shoulder with a dull thud against the carpet, but he didn’t move forward just yet. Instead, he let out a low whistle and glanced at Eddie, his voice dry.

“Man. The hotel staff doesn’t even know us, and they’re already planning our sex life.”

Eddie huffed a quiet laugh, setting his bag down with more care. “Guess they’re just efficient.”

Buck turned toward him, raising his eyebrows. “Efficient? This setup’s practically begging for someone to ‘accidentally’ record us through the peephole. They left chocolate on the pillows. Chocolate, Eddie. That’s not bedding hospitality, that’s foreplay. ”

Eddie shrugged, but something was tugging at the corner of his mouth now—amusement, sure, but something else too. Resignation, maybe. 

The silence that followed stretched too long. It wasn’t tense, exactly—just... weighted. Like the air was holding its breath.

“So,” Buck said, rubbing the back of his neck, “who gets which side?”

Eddie glanced up, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You have a preference?”

“Not unless one of them comes with a built-in massage function and unlimited room service.”

That got a quiet laugh, low and warm and maybe a little tired.

“I’ll take the side near the window,” Eddie offered after a beat. “Just in case you decide to sneak out in the middle of the night.”

Buck grinned. “Tempting. Depends on how loud you snore.”

They moved around each other like they were still learning the shape of this new thing between them. Shoes off. Phones plugged in. Buck peeled off his hoodie, his t-shirt clinging faintly to his back, damp from the lingering heat of the day. He stretched, arms overhead, until his spine cracked in two satisfying pops.

That was when he heard Eddie’s voice shift.

Soft. Warmer. Familiar in a way Buck hadn’t heard before.

“Hey, buddy. Yeah, I’m still in Texas. We’re heading out in the morning.”

Buck turned, drawn by the tone.

Eddie was sitting on the edge of the bed, phone tucked against his ear, gaze distant. He smiled at something said on the other end. The voice was young, light, ht and boyish, just loud enough for Buck to make out the edges of a laugh.

“Did you eat dinner with Abuela?” Eddie asked, eyebrows lifting. “You better have saved me leftovers.”

Buck smiled before he even realized it.

“Hey,” he said softly, lingering a few feet away. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Eddie looked up and waved him closer. “Chris, someone wants to say hi.”

Buck blinked. “Wait, really?”

Eddie nodded. “He’s been asking about the tour. You’re about to make his whole night.”

Gingerly, Buck took the phone, careful like it was something delicate.

“Hey, man,” he said. “I’m Buck.”

“You’re the singer, right?” the boy on the other end asked, trying his best to act nonchalant, as if this wasn’t the same Buck who dedicated a song to him .

Buck chuckled. “That’s me. And you must be Christopher. Your dad talks about you all the time.”

Christopher giggled. “Did he tell you about the time he broke the sink trying to fix it himself?”

Buck’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, definitely not. Now you have to tell me everything.”

From the other side of the bed, Eddie groaned. “Chris. Buddy. I thought we had an agreement.”

But his voice was fond. Unmistakably so.

Buck dropped down onto the mattress beside him, phone still to his ear, as Christopher launched into the full saga: the leaky faucet, the ill-fated YouTube tutorial, the mini-flood, the frantic call to Abuela.

By the time Christopher got to the part where the sink nozzle flew off and hit the dog, Buck was doubled over, laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes.

He stayed on the line for five, ten minutes, maybe more—listening to Christopher recount his science project that went rogue and nearly exploded, the talent show where he’d pulled off a magic trick so convincing it nearly caught his teacher’s sleeve on fire, the summer they built a cardboard spaceship in the backyard.

And all the while, Eddie watched him.

Not with judgment. Not even with amusement.

But with something so soft and unguarded in his eyes that Buck couldn’t look at him for too long without feeling breathless.

Eventually, Buck handed the phone back, cheeks aching from smiling.

“Kid’s a legend,” he said.

Eddie nodded, taking the phone with a quiet, “Yeah. He is.”

Buck looked at him for a long moment. “You’re a good dad.”

The words slipped out before he could catch them. But he didn’t want to take them back.

Eddie didn’t flinch. Didn’t brush it off. He just looked down at the screen, then back at Buck, his voice soft and honest.

“Thanks.”

They got ready for bed like people learning a new rhythm.

Buck took the bathroom first, emerging in a worn tank and soft cotton pajama pants, hair damp from a quick shower. Eddie went in after, and Buck tried not to think about the distance between them—the way the room felt at once too big and not nearly big enough.

Eddie returned barefoot, hair tousled, dressed in a dark t-shirt and sweatpants. He moved quietly, flicking off the last of the lights until only the warm city glow filtered through the blinds.

They climbed into bed like a truce. Buck on the right, Eddie on the left. The sheets were cool. The pillows smelled like lavender and something crisper beneath, maybe cedar or ozone.

At first, they stayed far apart. A chasm between them made of nerves and possibility. But the silence wasn’t awkward anymore. It was… gentle. A hush that let the moment settle in and take shape.

Eventually, Buck turned on his side, voice low in the dark.

“Night, Eddie.”

A pause. Barely more than a breath.

“Night, Buck.”

And that was it.

No more words. No more careful steps. Just silence.

But it was full.

Full of everything they hadn’t said yet. Everything they were learning to trust. Full of warmth and comfort and a kind of quiet longing that had nothing to do with cameras or press.

Just two people.

Sharing something unnamed.

On borrowed time.

In Texas.

Chapter Text

The dream hit hard—like a detonation without sound, a memory without mercy.

One second, the hotel room was quiet, steeped in the warm hush of shared sleep. The gentle whoosh of the air conditioner mingled with the distant rumble of late-night traffic outside, Houston still humming faintly even at this hour. Buck’s breathing beside him was soft, even—soothing, almost—and for a fragile moment, Eddie had been asleep in peace.

Then the sand returned. And the heat. And the screams.

It started with the flash of light—the sun too white, too hot, beating down like a punishment. Dust burned in his throat, dry and thick, the kind that clung to his tongue and stung his eyes. In the dream, it was always the same: the ground shaking, adrenaline roaring like blood in his ears, the endless chaos of men shouting over gunfire and radio static. The dull thud of mortar fire in the distance. The gut-twisting silence that followed when the radio cut out.

Then came the body.

He never saw the face—just the way the uniform clung to broken limbs, the angle of the neck, the shine of blood soaking into the sand. He dropped to his knees in the dream, like always, hands fumbling with gauze, fingers slick, slippery, heart hammering—pressure, pressure, pressure. Stay with me. Just stay. Just breathe. Just—

The sound came next: a gurgle where there should’ve been breath.

Eddie woke with a gasp that tore straight from his chest.

He sat bolt upright in bed, fists twisted in the sheets like he was still trying to stop the bleeding, heart slamming so loud he couldn’t hear anything else. Sweat slicked his skin, his shirt clinging to his back. The dim room spun around him, his lungs refusing to cooperate.

He stared into the black, vision swimming. Disoriented. His heart thundered, an erratic rhythm that echoed in his ears, drowning out the hum of the A/C.

His hands—God, his hands—were clenched so tightly into the sheets that his knuckles ached. The linen bunched under his fingers felt like canvas. Rough. Gritty. Like the edge of a stretcher or the interior of a Humvee baking under the desert sun. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs wouldn’t open all the way, caught halfway between the dust-choked air of Afghanistan and the cold blast of conditioned hotel wind.

Too loud.
Too hot.
Too late.

He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t—

“Eddie?”

Buck’s voice cut through the dark like a lifeline. Groggy but instantly alert. Concern laced every syllable.

Eddie didn’t answer. His hands had started to tremble. His eyes stared blankly ahead, unseeing. His chest heaved like he’d run miles. The air in the room was too thick, like he was still buried in desert heat, like the war had never ended.

“Hey,” Buck said again, softer this time. He shifted in the bed but didn’t crowd him, didn’t reach out just yet. “You with me?”

Eddie blinked, finally turning to look at him.

And in that second, he didn’t see Buck.

He saw a ghost.

Not a literal one. But the kind that haunted him in sandstorms and sirens. The kind that bled out under his hands. The kind he couldn't save.

Buck was sitting there in the half-light, bleary-eyed and warm and real—but to Eddie, for one gut-wrenching moment, he looked like someone he’d lost. Someone he hadn’t gotten to in time. The flash of a friend’s jawline. The shape of the shoulders in a uniform. The echo of war on a stranger’s face.

His breath stuttered.

“Eddie.” Buck’s voice didn’t rise, didn’t sharpen. It just steadied. Grounded. “It’s me. You’re here. You’re not there. You’re safe.”

Buck didn’t touch him. He just sat firm and solid, voice soft as thread. Waiting.

Eddie swallowed hard. Nodded. Once.

“Just… residuals,” he rasped eventually, though it didn’t sound like his voice.

Residuals. Like it was leftover dust on his boots, not a fucking horror show crawling out of his ribs.

Buck didn’t push. He never did.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Buck’s voice dropped again. “No fixing. Got it.”

Silence returned. Not the jagged kind Eddie had woken into—but something softer. Safer.

Buck shifted slightly, propping himself up on his elbows, voice casual like they were back in the green room before a show. “Did you know octopuses have three hearts?”

Eddie blinked. Slowly turned toward him. “What?”

“Three. Two pumps of blood to the gills, one to the rest of the body. But when they swim, the one for the body stops beating. They get exhausted. Stressful life, being an octopus.”

Eddie huffed, something half-snort, half-sigh. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Buck kept going, undeterred. “The guy who invented the Frisbee got cremated and turned into a Frisbee. Like, for real. His family plays with it.”

“Jesus,” Eddie muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

Bananas are berries. Strawberries aren’t.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Google it.”

Silence stretched again, but the panic was starting to fade from Eddie’s limbs. His heart was still racing, but it didn’t feel like a runaway train anymore. The shadows in the room didn’t feel like traps waiting to spring.

“You know,” Buck said eventually, “You can’t overcook a mushroom. Sure, you can burn it with too high heat … but you can’t overcook it. You can stick it in a crockpot full of soup, let it simmer for three days, and it will still retain the same firm texture.”

“Why do you know this stuff?” Eddie asked, his voice quieter now. Frayed at the edges, but grounded.

Buck shrugged. “Because I don’t sleep well either. And random facts are easier than nightmares.”

Eddie looked at him then. Really looked.

In the faint glow from the bathroom light they’d left on, he could see the soft worry around Buck’s eyes. The way he hadn’t touched him, hadn’t tried to fix anything, just… offered pieces of his weird, brilliant brain like breadcrumbs back to solid ground.

Eddie’s throat was tight. He swallowed, barely managing, “I was supposed to be the one taking care of you.”

Buck blinked, confused. “What?”

“I’m the EMT. They hired me to keep you from going off the rails. Not… this.”

“Oh.” Buck was quiet for a moment. Then, gently:

“Is that what this feels like? Like you failed some job description?”

Eddie didn’t answer, but his silence cracked under the weight of it.

Buck sat back a little, gaze steady but soft. “Because if it is… then maybe the job was bullshit to begin with. I mean, what, you were supposed to make sure I didn’t party too hard? Didn’t break things? Didn’t self-destruct?”

Eddie gave a faint nod.

“Well,” Buck said, “newsflash—I haven’t done any of that. Not really. Not since you showed up.”

“That’s not—” Eddie started.

“It is,” Buck interrupted. “You think you’re failing, but what I see is someone who keeps me grounded. Who makes me want to be better? And maybe… maybe you don’t have to be the one holding the line all the time. Maybe you just have to be here. That’s enough.”

Eddie exhaled, a long, slow sound from deep in his chest. A breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

“Sometimes,” Buck said, “people don’t need saving. Just someone who stays.”

Eddie sat in that silence, the weight of it heavy and healing. His fingers slowly released the twisted sheets. The panic had ebbed now, replaced by exhaustion and something more fragile—something grateful.

“When I was a kid,” Buck continued after a pause, “I used to make up stories for Maddie. During storms, mostly. She used to get scared, and our parents weren’t exactly the ‘comforting’ type. So I’d just start talking. About astronauts, pirate queens, and dragons who collected sea glass. Anything to distract her. Make the dark seem less big.”

Eddie looked over at him, brow furrowed. “That’s why you do it now?”

Buck shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just… figured out somewhere along the way that sometimes people don’t need fixing. Just company. Something stupid to hold onto until the ground stops shaking.”

A long silence followed. Not uncomfortable. Not even heavy.

Just full .

“Thanks,” he murmured finally, voice hoarse.

Buck didn’t reply. Just leaned back beside him, letting the quiet settle, his presence warm and steady in the dark.

The bus smelled like stale coffee, vinyl seats, and the residual hum of lived-in silence.

Eddie sat near the back, stiff and quiet, fingers wrapped around a paper cup that had long since gone cold. The Houston skyline blurred past the tinted windows, all concrete and shimmering under the unforgiving Texas sun. He’d showered before leaving the hotel, scrubbing the night off his skin until it stung, but the dream still clung in places water couldn’t reach.

The dark circles under his eyes were pronounced. His posture was tighter than usual. Even the crew, who were used to Eddie’s guarded silences, noticed the way he sat like a loaded spring. Like one wrong word might unravel him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone beyond a curt “morning.” Hadn’t met a single gaze.

Hen had paused when she passed him, her eyes flicking over his face with quiet concern. Chim had offered him a granola bar and a grin, trying not to hover.

But it was Ravi who sat across from him.

Quiet. Purposeful.

“Morning,” Eddie said, not looking up.

“You good?” Ravi asked softly.

“I’m fine.”

Ravi didn’t call him on it. Just nodded like he accepted the lie for what it was. Then: “You know, we’re a pretty fucked up bunch.”

That earned a glance. “Excuse me?”

Ravi smiled faintly. “This crew. All of us. You, me, Buck, the band. Trauma, like storm damage—some of us hide the cracks better than others. But it’s still there.”

Eddie looked away again. His hand flexed around the cup.

“Sometimes the stuff we survive doesn’t stay buried,” Ravi said, voice even. “It waits. Lurks. And then in the quiet—in hotel rooms, long drives, minutes before sleep—it crawls back out.”

“I didn’t want him to see me like that,” Eddie admitted, voice rough with exhaustion.

“Because he’s supposed to be the mess?”

“No. Because I’m supposed to be the one who handles it. Keeps people breathing. Keeps them alive. That’s the job.”

Ravi tilted his head. “And who keeps you alive?”

Eddie didn’t answer.

Ravi leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “You think being strong means never bleeding in front of someone. But sometimes, strength is trusting someone enough to let them see where it hurts.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“Then maybe start with him,” Ravi said gently. “He already saw. And he stayed.”

Eddie looked down at his coffee cup. A silence stretched between them, not heavy but thoughtful.

“You know what Buck said once?” Ravi added after a while. “That you were like gravity. That is when you walk into a room, everything settles. But even gravity needs something to anchor it.”

Eddie felt something crack inside his chest—small but deep.

“Don’t run off when someone isn’t afraid to stay.”

Maybe this was how it started.
Not with grand confessions or dramatic revelations.
But in the quiet places.
In the breath between nightmares and daybreak.
In the way someone stayed.

Buck had never been good with quiet. Not the kind that lingers after the music stops or settles like dust between people who don't know how to reach each other. Not the kind that sneaks in at the end of a show and clings to the walls of the tour bus like smoke. It was the worst kind of quiet—the kind that made everything inside Buck’s chest too loud. A hundred unsaid things beating against his ribs with nowhere to go.

And the bus was steeped in it.

Heavy. Wrong. Unbreathable.

It wasn’t the usual kind of post-show exhaustion. It wasn’t even the kind of heavy that came with a hangover or a bad headline or a blown soundcheck. It was something deeper. More cellular . A crack in the foundation.

And it was coming from Eddie.

Eddie, who sat across from him at the little table by the kitchenette, looked like he hadn’t slept in days, which, Buck now knew, wasn’t far from the truth. He was cradling a to-go coffee like it was the last warm thing left in the world, but it had to be cold by now. His fingers traced slow, endless circles around the lid like he didn’t even notice he was doing it. Like he was trying to convince himself he still existed.

His eyes didn’t move. They were pinned to some distant point beyond the window, far from Houston. Far from the tour. Far from Buck.

And God, Buck hated it.

Not because Eddie was silent—Eddie was often silent, a man of measured words and thoughtful space—but because this silence wasn’t made of peace. It wasn’t the calm Buck had grown to rely on, like a rock in the middle of chaos. It was something frayed. Something fractured . It made Buck feel itchy inside his own skin, like he was watching someone drown behind glass.

He sat there for a long minute, pretending to scroll through his phone, pretending not to ache . His leg bounced under the table. He wanted to say something. Anything.

Something dumb and light. Maybe a joke about the Houston humidity being a war crime. Or a pun about coffee so cold it should be classified as a biohazard. Something to pull Eddie’s mouth into a smile. Something to ground him.

But then Eddie shifted slightly—just enough for Buck to catch the tremble in his hand. Not a full shake. Just a twitch. Barely visible unless you knew to look.

And Buck knew .

Because he’d seen it last night. The whole picture. Unfiltered. Raw.

He’d seen Eddie come undone in the dark, trapped in a memory so sharp it sliced through time and place and dragged him back to a world where Buck didn’t exist anymore. Where Buck was already gone.

Eddie had looked at him like a ghost. Like a body he couldn’t pull from the wreckage.

Buck could still feel the air in that hotel room—too hot, too still, like the moment before a building collapses.

“Eddie?” he’d whispered, barely a thread of sound.

And Eddie had looked through him. Past him. Eyes wide and glassy and gone . As if Buck’s presence was just a cruel hallucination. As if Buck was another man he’d failed to save—someone bleeding out in sand and smoke and silence.

It had taken a few long, agonizing seconds before Eddie had come back to himself. Before his gaze sharpened and he realized it was Buck . Real. Breathing. There.

And then the grief had hit him like shrapnel.

Buck hadn’t known what to do. There was no manual for this kind of pain. No checklist. He only knew he couldn’t leave Eddie in that space alone. So he’d reached for the only tools he had: trivia, laughter, breath.

Octopuses with brains in their arms. Overcooked fungi. Frisbees in space.

And Eddie had listened . Tense and shaking, but listening. Because somewhere deep down, he hadn’t wanted silence either.

Now, hours later, that look still haunted Buck.

He leaned forward in the booth, elbows on his knees. Studying the way Eddie’s fingers moved like they had a memory of their own. The way his mouth was set was too tight, like even breathing was something he had to force .

Buck’s voice came out quiet, barely enough to carry.

“You don’t have to talk about it. I meant that.”

Eddie blinked. Slow. Like waking up underwater. His gaze drifted from the window to Buck’s face, hesitant and unsure.

“I know,” he murmured.

“But I’m still here,” Buck added, softer. “Even if you don’t talk.”

Eddie’s jaw twitched. His nod was tight. Controlled. But his eyes didn’t lift.

Buck hesitated. Then said, “You looked at me like I wasn’t real last night.”

Eddie froze. His entire body went still, breath caught.

“I—” Buck swallowed. “I just… I need you to know. I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to keep me safe.”

Eddie’s hands curled tighter around the cup. His throat worked, like the words were fighting their way out. And then, low and rough: “I was supposed to be the one keeping you safe.”

Buck stilled.

Eddie shook his head once, sharply. Like he hated the sound of his own voice. “That’s why I’m even here, Buck. That’s the job. Your EMT. Your backup. I was supposed to—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “Not be the one falling apart.”

“You’re not,” Buck said, without thinking. “You’re just tired. You’re hurt . That’s not the same thing.”

Eddie gave him a look, pained and sharp-edged. “It is to me.”

Buck let that land. He didn’t flinch. He let the silence bloom between them again, and then: “You think that’s all you’re allowed to be? The one who keeps everyone else standing?”

Eddie didn’t answer. But the guilt in his eyes was loud enough to scream.

Buck leaned forward. His voice dropped. “You’ve been carrying shit for so long you don’t even realize you’re bleeding.”

Eddie’s shoulders jolted, like the words hit bone.

“It doesn’t make you weak,” Buck said. “Needing someone. Being seen.”

“It’s not how it’s supposed to be,” Eddie muttered, almost to himself. “I’m not supposed to need—”

“There is no supposed to be,” Buck cut in gently. “There’s just what is . And what is… is that you’re not alone. Not right now. Not with me.”

Finally, Eddie looked up. And Buck saw everything .

The tear tracks that hadn’t quite dried. The too-pale skin. The exhaustion was like a second skin. The weight of years in the slouch of his spine.

“I didn’t want you to see that part,” Eddie said. Quiet. Fragile. “I didn’t want to lose your respect.”

And fuck. That undid Buck a little.

“Eddie,” he said, voice steady even though his chest felt full of glass, “I respect you because I see you. All of you. Not just the parts you think are acceptable.”

“Eddie,” he said, voice steady even though his chest felt full of glass, “I respect you because I see you. All of you. Not just the parts you think are acceptable.”

For a moment, nothing moved. The bus didn’t hum. Time didn’t pass. The space between them felt paper-thin and thrumming, charged with something neither of them had a name for.

And before Buck even realized what he was doing, his hand moved. A reflex, more than a decision.

He reached across the table—slow, careful—and wrapped both of his hands around Eddie’s.

Warm. Solid. Calloused.

Eddie stiffened, just for a second. But he didn’t pull away.

Buck didn’t squeeze. Didn’t force. Just held him. Palms around the rough skin of a man who’d been carrying too much for too long.

He didn’t even know what it meant. Not really.

He just knew it felt like something. A promise. A tether. A breath in a burning room.

Eddie’s thumb twitched under his. Not a squeeze. Not a response. Just movement.

But Buck held on anyway.

Eddie’s gaze faltered. Dropped back to his coffee. Like that kindness hurt more than anything else.

Buck let the quiet stretch again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. Just tender.

And then Eddie whispered, almost broken: “I’m not sleeping. I haven’t been.”

Buck didn’t move.

He just nodded. Let the truth rest between them like a shared bruise.

“I’m not gonna tell you to fix it,” he said. “I just want you to know—I see it now. And I’m staying.”

Eddie didn’t say anything. But his grip on the cup loosened. His shoulders dropped—barely—but Buck noticed. Like the ground underneath him might still be shaking, but he’d finally unclenched his toes.

It wasn’t some cinematic breakdown. No tears or grand confessions.

Just two men. Breathing in the quiet.

And Buck thought—maybe this was what it meant. To really show up. Not to save someone. Just to stay .

And God, if Eddie needed him to stay, Buck would never leave.

The bus rolled on. Evening thickened like honey, bleeding amber into navy. The windows glowed gold before slipping into reflections.

Eddie slipped away.

He didn't tell anyone. Just moved toward the back of the bus and slipped into the small rear storage room where they kept the spare gear and folded banners. The air was tight, stuffy, muffled. It smelled like vinyl and old fabric and dust that hadn’t been swept up in a while.

He sat on the floor.

Folded his knees up to his chest.

Pressed his forehead into his arms.

And then he did something he hadn’t done in a long, long time.

He prayed.

Not with words at first. Just breathe. Just silence.

But then the silence opened, and the prayer came—ragged and low, nothing polished, nothing practiced.

"God."

A whisper. More exhale than words.

He clenched his jaw. Pressed his fingers into his temples. Tried to keep his voice steady.

"I don’t know if you’re listening. Or if you’re even there anymore. I don’t know what I believe. I used to think I knew, but now..."

His voice cracked. He sucked in a breath and kept going.

"I used to believe that if I did good, stayed strong, held the line—that you’d keep the worst of it from touching the people I love. I don’t know if that was faith or a fucking deal I made with myself. But it’s all I had."

His fists tightened. He blinked up at the ceiling, like maybe God was somewhere past the bus’s fiberglass shell.

"I can’t keep losing sleep over ghosts. I can’t keep waking up afraid to breathe. I’m trying. I’m trying so fucking hard to be the one everyone counts on. But I don’t think I can carry it alone anymore."

The words tumbled out like they’d been hiding in his chest, pressing into his ribs for years.

"I don’t want him to see me like this. Buck. I don’t want him to look at me and see something broken. Something too heavy to hold. But he does. He sees it. And he’s still here."

He wiped his face on the sleeve of his hoodie.

"Please. Help me not push him away. Help me not ruin this. Help me let myself be seen and not fall apart from it. Help me believe... there’s still something good in me even when I’m not saving anyone."

His hands trembled in his lap. The prayer was a whisper now.

"I don’t need answers. Just... a little peace. A place to rest. A sign that it’s okay to stay."

He didn’t hear anything back.

Chapter Text

The next morning broke soft and pale, like the sky itself was trying not to make a sound.

Light filtered through the narrow slats of the bus blinds in quiet gold streaks, pooling gently across the vinyl flooring and the edges of discarded boots and backpacks. The engine's hum was low, constant—a lullaby that threaded through sleep-heavy limbs and coffee-slow movements.

Outside, Texas blurred past like a half-forgotten dream. Empty stretches of road wrapped in low mist. Wire fences sagging against fields that hadn’t seen rain in weeks. Water towers stand guard over towns with more dogs than people. The kind of places where time didn’t move forward so much as meander.

Inside, the world hadn’t quite woken up yet.

The others were still in their bunks—Hen curled into the corner with a blanket over her head, Chim snoring softly from the back, Ravi stretched out long and boneless in his narrow bed, half-awake, earbuds in, watching the clouds through the window like she was trying to divine something from the sky.

Buck was already up.

He’d been awake long before the sun cracked the horizon, too restless to sleep, too wired with thoughts that hadn’t yet settled. He sat sideways in the front booth, legs curled under him, a half-empty mug of coffee balanced precariously on the edge of the table. His notebook was open in front of him, pen hovering over the page, though he hadn’t written in a while.

He kept glancing at the hallway. At the little closed-off door near the back, where Eddie had disappeared into the night.

Buck didn’t know when exactly he’d gone in there. Sometime after their conversation, after the silence had stretched long and thick enough to smother. Buck hadn’t followed. He’d just watched him go.

There were some places even he knew not to chase.

But now—now the door creaked open with a low, dragging groan, and Eddie stepped out into the golden hush of morning.

He moved slowly, like the gravity was heavier today. His hoodie hung loose over his frame, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, hair still mussed from a sleep that hadn’t come easily. But there was something different about him. Not healed. Not bright-eyed and fixed and back to normal.

Just… less tightly wound.

The kind of difference that was only noticeable if you’d been watching closely. And Buck had been.

Eddie’s jaw wasn’t clenched like it had been for days. His shoulders weren’t locked into that stiff, ready posture, like he was still waiting for something to explode. There was a looseness to the way he walked. A quiet, unfamiliar kind of peace that sat behind his eyes—not permanent, but present.

Buck felt it hit him in the chest like sunlight through fog.

He didn’t say anything.

Just set his pen down, closed his notebook without a word. Watched Eddie move down the narrow aisle with the quiet awareness of someone who’d always known how to take up as little space as possible.

And then—

Eddie looked at him.

Really looked.

His eyes met Buck’s like they were steadying themselves on something real. Like, Buck wasn’t just a friend or a bandmate or some chaotic gravitational force in his life, but an anchor .

And Buck smiled. Soft. Warm. No pressure in it. No expectation.

Just that little curve of his mouth that said: I see you.

Eddie didn’t smile back. Not exactly. But he nodded, almost imperceptibly. A small dip of his head. A gesture that held more weight than words.

Thank you.
I’m still here.
That meant something.

Maybe all of those things.

He slipped into the booth across from Buck without asking, movements quiet. Buck pushed the coffee mug toward him without comment.

Eddie looked down at it. “You always drink it black?”

Buck grinned. “No, I just forgot cream exists.”

That pulled the faintest huff of air from Eddie’s nose. Almost a laugh. Almost.

He took the mug anyway. Sipped it. Winced slightly.

“Still bitter,” he muttered.

Buck leaned his chin on his hand, elbow propped on the table. “I could say something about your taste in coffee being a direct reflection of your mood, but I’m trying to be a better person.”

Eddie gave him a look, dry and tired and fond all at once. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

They sat like that for a while—no weighty confessions, no dissecting of the night before. Just air, and warmth, and the easy kind of silence that grows between people who’ve been through something and come out, not whole, but still beside each other.

“I used to hate mornings,” Eddie said quietly after a few minutes. He hadn’t been planning to speak, but the words just came. “In the desert, they were the worst. Too quiet. Too still. Like… if something was going to hit, it’d hit then.”

Buck didn’t interrupt.

“So I trained myself to wake up ready,” Eddie continued. “Always on alert. Even now, I—my body doesn’t know how to stop scanning.”

Buck nodded. “Hypervigilance.”

Eddie glanced at him. “You know that word?”

“Yeah.” Buck’s voice was low. “I’ve seen it. Felt it. Not like you, maybe, but… I get it.”

Eddie didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then, finally: “Last night wasn’t the first time. Just the worst in a while.”

Buck’s chest tightened, but he didn’t flinch. “Thank you for telling me.”

Eddie looked down into the mug between his hands. The quiet settled again, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. It was almost sacred.

“You holding up okay?” he asked suddenly, like the question had just occurred to him.

Buck blinked. “Me?”

“You stayed up. Sat with me. I… I never even asked how you were.”

Buck opened his mouth. Closed it again. Something wobbled under his ribs.

“I’m okay,” he said, voice rougher than he meant it to be. “Or… I will be.”

Eddie nodded. Then added, quieter: “You shouldn’t have to carry me.”

“I’m not.” Buck’s answer was immediate, fierce in its softness. “I’m walking beside you. That’s not the same thing.”

Eddie looked at him like he’d never heard anyone say it quite like that.

Buck leaned back slightly, watching the Texas countryside roll past the windows. “I think maybe that’s what people get wrong, you know? About help. About love. It’s not one person fixing the other. It’s staying close when things break.”

Eddie exhaled slowly. “That’s not what I’m used to.”

“I know,” Buck said gently. “But it’s what you deserve.”

Outside, the clouds were beginning to break apart. Pale sunlight spilled across the landscape in slow golden waves. The land was flattening out more now—less ranch, more open stretch. Road signs started to shift, pointing east. New Orleans was on the horizon.

Eddie noticed.

His gaze lingered on the changing terrain, on the dying yellow grass giving way to green, on the oil pumps shrinking in the distance, on the absence of scrubland and mesquite and rusting barbed wire fences.

“Gonna miss it,” he said quietly.

Buck looked up from where he’d been tracing the grain in the table with one lazy fingertip. “Texas?”

Eddie nodded, just once. “Yeah.”

His voice was light, almost offhand, but there was something behind it, something tender, something unspoken. Texas wasn’t just a place. It was a piece of Eddie’s foundation, laid down long before he’d ever picked up a badge or a uniform or a gun. It was family, memory, the sound of cicadas, and the feel of dirt roads underfoot.

Buck smiled, soft and crooked, eyes still on him.

“You know what they say,” he said, nudging Eddie’s foot under the table. “You can take the cowboy out of Texas, but you can’t take the Texas out of the cowboy.”

Eddie huffed, mouth twitching like he wanted to pretend he wasn’t smiling, but couldn’t quite manage it.

“That's how it goes?”

Buck shrugged. “Close enough.”

Eddie shook his head, but the tension in his shoulders loosened a little more. His eyes drifted back out the window. Buck let his own gaze follow, but his attention never really left the man across from him.

And when their hands brushed again, just barely—Buck didn’t pull away.

Neither did Eddie.

Not a beginning. Not an ending.

Just this.

The next stop was New Orleans.

They rolled in just past noon, the sun high and unforgiving, turning the streets into slow-cooked stretches of melted tar and glinting chrome. The tour bus hissed as it came to a stop near the French Quarter, the air brakes loud enough to rattle the windows of a nearby café. Outside, the city exhaled heat and history in equal measure. The scent of fried seafood and beignets drifted in the air, thick and sweet, tangled with the salt of the Gulf and the heavy perfume of blooming magnolia trees.

From the window, Eddie could already hear the music. It poured out of alleyways and doorways and courtyards like water—jazz riffs that curled around your ribs, brass that seemed to shake the very air. A trumpet wailed somewhere down the street, joined by the steady heartbeat of a stand-up bass. Life, in all its messy beauty, lived loud in New Orleans.

But inside the bus, Eddie hesitated.

He hadn’t slept much again. His eyes burned, heavy-lidded and dark-bruised, skin pale beneath the stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave. There was a part of him that always tensed on arrival, but today, it was worse. The closer they got to the city, the louder the world seemed to become, and all Eddie wanted—achingly, desperately—was to disappear.

He dragged a hand down his face and stood slowly, muscles stiff and unwilling. The others were already gathering bags and slipping on sunglasses, buzzed by the promise of a day off in a city built for indulgence.

“Big Easy, baby!” Chimney called from near the front, adjusting his camera strap like a tourist who knew exactly what he was doing.

Buck was standing near the door, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, his hair pulled back with a patterned bandana that made him look half rockstar, half pirate. He was smiling, but not wide—not the stage smile. This one was smaller, quiet, watching.

Eddie stepped off the bus last.

The heat slammed into him like a wall. Sweat broke instantly at his temples. The air stuck to his lungs, thick and damp and alive.

And then he saw them.

Just past the fountain across the street—three of them. Young. Phones are already raised. One with a DSLR hanging around her neck. Not paparazzi, not exactly. Fans. Or maybe bloggers. Instagram accounts with thousands of followers and no concept of personal boundaries. Someone must’ve posted their ETA. Eddie felt it like a punch.

The camera came up. A lens focused.

And something in him flinched.

It was instinct. The kind of withdrawal that came from years of being watched the wrong way. Through a scope. Behind a wall. From a place that meant danger. And even though this girl was smiling—sweet, nervous, awed—it didn’t matter.

To Eddie, it was the wrong kind of eyes on him. On a day when his skin already didn’t feel like his own.

It wasn’t obvious. Just the subtlest stutter in his step, a tightening of his jaw, a glance to the side that was a little too sharp. But Buck saw it. Of course he did.

He always did.

He saw the way Eddie’s shoulders stiffened, how his jaw locked, how his mouth pressed into a white line like he was physically holding something back.

Eddie’s brain screamed to disappear. He didn’t want to be seen today. Not like this. Not with the exhaustion clinging to his spine, or the war still echoing in his chest. He hadn’t even laced his boots properly. He wasn’t ready to perform. He wasn’t ready to be Buck’s maybe-boyfriend for public consumption. He was supposed to be the shadow, the handler, the wall between Buck and this exact kind of exposure.

And now here he was, sweating and raw, walking into another state, another show, with half the country waiting for him to pretend he was fine.

He knew this was part of the job. Knew what he’d signed up for when he agreed to ride shotgun on a tour that never really stopped moving. But today?

Today, he didn’t want to be seen. Not like this. Not at all.

Please, God, he thought. Not today.

Buck noticed immediately.

He slowed his steps, letting Hen walk ahead, letting Chim chatter about the setlist to an unimpressed Ravi. He turned slightly, like a compass needle yanked off course, and watched Eddie struggle to force himself forward.

The air pulsed between them. Heavy. Waiting.

And Eddie—God, Eddie didn’t want to. Everything in him screamed not to. But something stronger pushed through. Something that sounded suspiciously like trust .

And yet—

Buck looked back at him.

Not with pressure. Not with expectation.

Just quiet. Waiting. Open.

And before he could stop himself—before he could even think to—Eddie reached for Buck’s hand.

Buck’s fingers closed around his without hesitation, warm and sure. And Eddie’s breath hitched—because somehow, that was worse. That Buck didn’t flinch from him, didn’t even blink. Just anchored him there, in that impossible moment, like he was worth steadying.

And then Eddie did something else.

He tapped Buck’s hand.

A rhythm. Barely audible. A slow, specific pattern—two short presses, one long, pause. Repeat.

Buck didn’t know what it meant. Not yet.

But he felt it. Understood enough to recognize the intention. Not just I'm here, but this is real. You’re real. Don’t let go.

The shutter of the phone camera snapped again. A few gasps echoed nearby. Someone whispered something excited—“That’s him. That’s the EMT guy. Oh my god, they’re holding hands”—but it all blurred around the edges.

Because Eddie didn’t flinch again.

Not when the camera clicked. Not when the whispers started. Not when the world noticed.

His hand stayed in Buck’s, fingers still tapping, just slightly.

And Buck didn’t let go.

They walked toward the venue together, past the barricades and the fans and the wide, waiting doors.

Only once they were alone—just the two of them and the mirrored walls—did Eddie exhale, like he’d been holding his breath since Baton Rouge.

“I hate this,” he said quietly.

Buck didn’t ask what this meant. He didn’t need to.

Eddie glanced down at their still-joined hands. “I didn’t mean to grab you.”

Buck shrugged. “You can grab me anytime.”

A weak, fleeting smile tugged at Eddie’s mouth, but it didn’t last. His gaze fell to the mirrored floor.

“I know it’s what I signed up for,” Eddie said after a long beat. “Being in the background. Being seen. I just… today, it felt like a lot.”

“Then let it be a lot,” Buck said. “You don’t have to shrink it down for my sake.”

Eddie muttered. “I don’t… I shouldn’t need your hand to survive a fucking sidewalk.”

“That’s not how this works,” Buck said gently, stepping closer. “You don’t have to carry it alone. Not this. Not anything.”

Eddie looked up, jaw tight, and in that moment, Buck saw the war again—the remnants of it, stitched into the corners of Eddie’s eyes. Not just the kind fought overseas. The kind fought every day inside his own skull.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. But neither of them moved.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie whispered. “For flinching.”

Buck shook his head. “I’d flinch too, if someone tried to capture a moment I wasn’t ready to share.”

Silence hummed between them.

And then, very quietly, Eddie said, “Thanks for not letting go.”

Buck reached up and touched his wrist, slow and deliberate. “You think I ever could?”

The question hung there.

Unanswered. Unneeded.

They walked into the hallway side by side. The jazz still played somewhere outside, even through the walls. The city waiting. The day stretched ahead like something uncertain and heavy and maybe, just maybe, okay.

Eddie still didn’t want to be seen.

The venue pulsed with something ancient.

Not just the crowd, though they were loud enough to shake the rafters. Not just the lightshow, or the war-drum bass from Chim’s kit, or even the power of Buck’s voice breaking open a room that had seen generations of sweat and sound before them. No—New Orleans held a different kind of magic.

The kind that lived in the bones of buildings. The kind that curled around the rafters like ghosts with good rhythm. The kind that made everything feel closer to something holy.

Eddie had never seen a city breathe like this one. The venue wasn’t new—it smelled like dust and rust and spilled whiskey—but the air was alive . Thick with anticipation. The walls dripped with heat and age and history, and the stage lights made halos of every bead of sweat.

Eddie stood offstage left, partially in shadow, arms crossed but not tense. Not exactly. The earpiece May had insisted on crackling every few seconds with check-ins from the crew, but his focus wasn’t on their voices.

It was on him.

Buck was fire and flash and heartbreak.

Somehow had always been.

He moved across the stage like it belonged to him—like it rose and fell with every beat of his feet. Hair damp, jaw sharp under the lights, his guitar slung loose across his shoulder for the stripped-down acoustic section of the night.

Eddie had watched him perform before—every night, in fact, since the tour started—but this felt different. This was New Orleans. This was right after everything. The nightmare. The hand. The way Buck had steadied him when Eddie wasn’t sure he remembered how to stand. The rhythm he’d tapped into Buck’s palm like a prayer.

Something about tonight felt unspoken but swollen.

(5)

They were halfway through the second act of the set, the energy shifting down into something quieter, more vulnerable. Buck usually took the mic for this part. Sometimes he told stories. Sometimes he didn’t. Tonight, he didn’t.

He just stepped forward into the spotlight, nodded at the band, and began to play.

The first few chords rang out clean, familiar. An old song. One of the earliest tracks from their first EP—back before they had lighting rigs and dressing rooms. Back when they were still playing in shitty bars with sticky floors and the kind of ceilings that leaked when it rained.

“ Scared of my guitar. ”

It wasn’t a love song. Not really. It was a song about timing. About almosts. About not being able to confront your feelings. The fear of being honest. A misplaced love. 

Buck didn’t introduce it. Didn’t say a word.

But right before the first line, his eyes found Eddie in the wings.

Not a glance. Not a flicker.

A look.

Heavy. Sharp. Bare.

And Eddie—God. He felt it like a hit to the chest.

He knew the lyrics. Knew them by heart. Had heard them in late-night rehearsals and whispered backstage sing-alongs. Had listened through cheap headphones in hotel rooms across the country, letting them pull him apart because they were beautiful and hurting and safe.

But he’d never heard them like this.

“Barely sleep when you sleep next to me…But I keep thinking I'll find a cure…I say that I'm fine, I tell you all the time…I've never felt so happy and sure.”

Buck’s voice cracked on the second line, just slightly, and the crowd leaned in. The room was dark beyond the front row, lit only by the occasional flicker of a phone screen or the slow, sweeping glow of stage lights that painted everything in gold.

Eddie didn’t breathe.

He didn’t move.

He just stood there, watching Buck sing like the words were being pulled from somewhere too deep to name. Like they weren’t just lyrics—they were memories. Injuries. Scars.

Buck’s gaze didn’t stay fixed on him, but it kept returning.

Like orbit. Like gravity.

And Eddie knew—without question—that the song hadn’t been picked at random.

“I'm so scared of my guitar…If I play it, then I'll think too hard…Once you let the thought in, then it's already done…So I'll lie in your arms and pretend that it's love.”

It wasn’t a confession. Not outright.

But it was enough to make Eddie’s throat close. Eddie felt it like a punch, because he knew what it meant to avoid the things that told the truth too clearly. He was a soldier. A father. A man trained to endure. Not to feel.

Buck was the opposite. Buck felt everything too much. And Eddie had spent weeks thinking he needed to protect himself from it.

But watching him now…

Christ.

Buck wasn’t fragile. Buck was brave.

Eddie had been the one hiding.

The lights haloed Buck’s silhouette in amber. His fingers moved with practiced ease across the strings, but there was something new in the way he played—something raw. Like he wasn’t sure if he was trying to bleed or heal.

Eddie shifted, stepped forward half a pace into the light pooling at the edge of the stage. No one noticed—except Buck.

Their eyes caught again.

The audience cheered, roared, and surged forward.

But Eddie didn’t hear them.

Because Buck looked at him, sweaty and breathless and trembling from the effort of feeling too much all at once, and offered the faintest, most exhausted smile. Like he was saying, I didn’t say your name, but you knew anyway.

“I say that I'm fine, I tell them all the time…As they watch all the light fade away,”

And Eddie—Jesus, Eddie—he felt everything all at once.

He should’ve looked away.

He should’ve stepped back.

But he didn’t.

Because something about Buck’s voice—about that song—about that look —felt like standing at the edge of a cliff and finally, finally understanding why people jumped.

And still… he didn’t move.

Not when the lights changed.

Not even when May’s voice whispered in his earpiece: “You okay?”

He didn’t answer.

Because no, he wasn’t.

Buck held the last note longer than usual. Let it echo. Let it hang.

Chapter Text

@backbeatblog
NEW ORLEANS. HOLY. HELL.
The rawest performance we’ve ever seen from @buckaroo last night. He didn’t introduce the song. He didn’t need to. The whole room felt it. You could hear a pin drop before the chorus. Then came the lyric that damn near broke us: “Once you let the thought in, then it’s already done.”

No eye contact. No confession. But if you were in that room, you know. You just KNOW.
#118ontour #buckandeddie #nolaheat #thisisreal

Buck was so incredibly, totally, soul-crushingly screwed.

There wasn’t another word for it. Not one that captured the drop in his gut every time Eddie looked at him, or the ache in his throat when his voice cracked on that line, when the lyrics stopped being a performance and started being a confession. Not one that wrapped around the way Eddie had reached for his hand earlier, not just taken it but held it—tapped out that quiet rhythm like it was a lifeline, like Buck was the only thing keeping him from floating away.

Buck lay on the lounge bench at the back of the bus, one arm flung over his eyes like it might block out everything that had just happened, but the aftershocks wouldn’t stop.

His body still thrummed with adrenaline, but not the kind that came from being onstage.

No, this was something else. This was the kind that came from almost —from maybe —from standing in the center of something so big and so terrifying that you could barely breathe through it.

He was in love.

Or maybe he’d been in love for a while and only just realized the ground beneath his feet had changed. Either way, the fall had already happened.

“Fuck,” he whispered into the empty dark, like the word might ground him.

It didn’t.

The lights were dimmed low for post-show wind-down, the hum of the engine soft under his back, but his pulse was a jackhammer behind his ribs. He stared at the ceiling like it might write him the answers, then reached for his phone before he could talk himself out of it.

Maddie.

He tapped the contact, then curled into himself slightly, knees bent, one arm across his stomach like he had to hold himself together while it rang.

She picked up after two rings.

“Hey, Buck,” she said, voice soft but clear. Steady. Home.

He didn’t answer right away. Just closed his eyes.

She knew him too well.

“What’s wrong?” she asked gently, and somehow, that was the thing that undid him.

His voice barely made it past his throat. “I think I’m in love with him.”

Silence stretched, but not the uncomfortable kind. Maddie wasn’t shocked. She didn’t laugh or tease or rush to fix it. She just… waited.

Letting him get there at his own speed.

He pushed himself upright, elbows on his knees, knuckles pressed to his mouth like he could chew the truth back down if he tried hard enough.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he admitted. “Or maybe I do, but I didn’t let myself see it. I think—I think I said yes to this fake dating thing because some part of me already knew it wasn’t fake. Not to me. And now I can’t—Mads, I can’t fucking breathe when he looks at me.”

His eyes burned.

“I can’t stop writing about him. I try to write about anything else, and he just bleeds through. He’s in every chord. Every lyric. Every goddamn melody. And tonight, he tapped my hand, Mads. Like it was code. Like he was scared, and I was supposed to anchor him. And I felt it. It was like I was holding someone else’s heart .”

Maddie exhaled softly on the other end. No judgment. No fear. Just that quiet big-sister strength he’d leaned on his entire life.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, thoughtful. “Do you want him to hold yours back?”

His breath caught. He wanted to say no. Wanted to laugh it off. Make a joke. Something.

But the truth was too heavy to dodge.

“I think he already is,” Buck whispered, voice wrecked.

She hummed quietly, like the sound was meant to steady him. “Buck… you have always loved like you’re trying to set the world on fire. Like it’s your job to make everything bright so no one ever has to be afraid of the dark.”

His throat tightened.

“But you can’t live your whole life in a blaze,” Maddie said. “Eventually, you burn out. Or burn up. And for once… it looks like you found someone who doesn’t want to put the fire out. He’s just trying to learn how to stay warm. And that? That’s not one-sided. That’s not fake. That’s love.”

Buck closed his eyes, let it wash over him. The truth of it. The terrifying, beautiful rightness of it.

“But what if I ruin it?” he whispered. “What if I say something and it all comes apart? What if I scare him off? What if I’m too much?”

Maddie was quiet again, and then: “You’re not too much. You’re just more than he’s ever been allowed to have.”

He choked on a breath. “Jesus.”

“I mean it,” she said, firm now. “You feel big. You love big. You’re used to people shrinking away from that, but Eddie? He keeps showing up. Even when he’s scared. Even when he doesn’t know how. That’s a man trying to learn love. And you—you already speak it fluently. So teach him. Gently. Patiently. Honestly.”

Buck swiped at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve.

“What do I even say?” he asked, voice small. “How do I say all of that?”

“You don’t have to say it all at once,” she replied. “Start with what’s true. Even if it’s quiet. Even if it’s just in the way you stand beside him. The way you show up when he needs you. The way you let him need you, too.”

She paused, then added, softer: “Love doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it’s just… the hand that doesn’t let go.”

Buck was crying now. Not loud. Not messy.

Just quietly full.

Because someone had finally put into words the thing he hadn’t known how to say.

“Maddie,” he murmured, voice barely there. “You’re… really good at this.”

She laughed, a small, warm sound. “I’m your sister. It’s the job.”

They sat with the silence for a moment, the kind that felt safe.

“You think he feels it too?” Buck asked eventually, not quite hopeful, not quite afraid.

“I think,” Maddie said, “if he reached for your hand in front of all those people—if he looked at you like that during that song—then he’s already feeling it. He just hasn’t named it yet.”

Buck let that settle. Pressed his palm to his chest like he could keep it there.

Like he could believe it.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“I love you,” she said back, and he could hear the smile in it.

“I love you too.”

He hung up, phone resting on the bench beside him. The bus rocked gently beneath him, the road humming under the wheels like a lullaby.

He leaned back and let himself feel it.

Not the panic. Not the fear of falling.

Just the ache of something real. Something earned.

And somewhere in the bus, probably curled in his bunk or sitting with his head in his hands, Eddie was carrying the same weight. The same question.

Maybe tomorrow—maybe soon—Buck would stop being afraid of the answer.

The southernmost states had passed in a blur of cracked highways and boiling asphalt, of drive-thru coffees and late-night fuel stops, of Buck in the back lounge humming nonsense lyrics while Eddie tried not to look like he was listening too hard.

Now, the tour bus rumbled idly in the background as it idled near a dusty corner gas station in North Carolina. The sun hung low and syrupy in the sky, painting the concrete in long shadows. The air was thick with humidity, the kind that didn't so much cling as settle, sinking into skin like memory, like breath you couldn’t quite catch.

Eddie stood just outside the awning near the store’s entrance, sipping ice water from a waxy paper cup, the rim already starting to curl from the heat. He rolled a cube between his teeth, grateful for the cold even as it melted faster than he could keep up with.

Chim leaned next to him against the wall, legs crossed at the ankle, phone in hand, tapping through something with a bemused frown.

“Okay,” Chim said, not looking up, “I just saw a fan account post a drawing of us as medieval knights. You were holding a sword. I had a lute. Buck was a  dragon.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

“It had, like, shading and everything. Fully rendered. Honestly impressive.”

Eddie squinted toward the bus. “Why am I the one with the sword?”

Chim looked over, grinning. “Because you’ve got tortured paladin energy. Like you’re constantly about to brood in a church.”

“I don’t brood.”

“Okay, paladin.”

Eddie huffed out a laugh and shook his head. “What were you doing with the lute?”

“Oh, I was serenading you guys. Wearing tights. It was a whole thing.”

“That’s... concerning.”

“I had a little hat with a feather. Honestly, I looked good.”

Eddie snorted and took another sip. “Did the dragon look like Buck?”

“Oh, definitely. Messy curls. Big dumb grin. Fire-breathing emotional wreckage. Very on-brand.”

Eddie tried—and failed—to suppress his smile. “God. This is my life now, isn’t it?”

Chim turned his phone around to show him. “Yup. You, me, Buck the dragon. And a fan captioned it: ‘He protects. He sings. He breathes fire. He loves. ”

Eddie just stared. “They didn’t even rhyme.”

“Yeah, I took points off for that, too.”

They fell into easy silence for a beat, the kind that only came after a few weeks of shared space and way too many hours crammed on a moving bus with the same six people. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves across the parking lot, the buzz of a nearby insect, and the soft glug of gas being pumped in the background.

Chim pocketed his phone and tilted his head toward Eddie. “You ever do something so far outside your plan you start wondering if maybe the plan sucked to begin with?”

Eddie thought about that for a moment. The war. The station. His badge is in a drawer back in LA. The creak of the bunk above him at night. The shape Buck made when he curled up against the window seat. His hand. That rhythm.

“Every day,” he said honestly.

Chim nodded like he understood that better than he probably should’ve. “Same. Used to think I’d just end up running my dad’s old diner or something. But now here I am, twenty-seven states deep, arguing about medieval fan art outside a Circle K.”

“You’re not even a real band member,” Eddie said, smirking over his cup.

“I resent that. I’m rhythm support. Spiritual backbone. Band dad.”

“You’re a glorified percussion tech.”

“Hey! I’m also the merch guy.”

Eddie laughed, low and surprised, letting it spill out easier than usual. He felt lighter here, like the sun had burned away just enough of the weight pressing into his shoulders. He wasn’t used to this kind of friendship. Not from someone who didn’t expect him to constantly be proving something.

Chim watched him for a second longer than necessary and then said, “You know, Buck’s different around you.”

That pulled Eddie up short.

He looked over, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Different how?”

Chim shrugged. “Just… less loud. But also somehow more himself. If that makes sense.”

Eddie stared down into the half-melted ice at the bottom of his cup. “I think I know what you mean.”

“He’s annoying as hell, don’t get me wrong,” Chim added cheerfully. “But he’s never been fake. He just gets... overwhelmed. All that energy’s gotta go somewhere.”

“Yeah.” Eddie licked a drop of condensation off the edge of his thumb. “He runs hot.”

Chim smirked. “I feel like there’s a joke in there, but I’m too mature to make it.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “That’s a lie.”

“Oh, absolutely. I'm holding back so hard right now.”

They both fell into laughter again, easier now, warmer. The kind that left something behind when it faded.

Chim looked out toward the horizon, the sun now edging toward the trees, casting orange and violet stripes across the blacktop. “You know, it’s weird,” he said. “But I think this version of weird suits us.”

Eddie took one last sip of his water and tossed the cup into a nearby trash can with a perfect arc. “Yeah,” he said. “I think it does.”

From the direction of the bus, Buck stuck his head out the open door and called, “We’re leaving in five! If Chim gets left behind, I’m not turning around!”

“Tell him I’m filing for dragon custody!” Chim shouted back.

Buck made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a groan, then disappeared back inside.

Eddie and Chim started walking, slowly.

“I’m just saying,” Chim said as they approached the bus, “if the fan art starts trending, we’re printing posters.”

“Only if you wear the tights.”

“Already ordered."

They rolled into North Carolina under a sky so blue it looked painted. Not a cloud in sight. The air was thick with the scent of salt and pine, and the breeze that swept through the open bus windows was soft and warm, like the brush of a hand over skin. It was the first real day off in weeks—no press, no venue load-in, no screaming fans echoing through arena walls.

Just a day. A blank slate.

Everyone scattered the moment the buses pulled into the lot behind their beachside motel.

Hen took off toward town with a laundry list of things to see. Chim announced he was on a personal mission to find the best shrimp and grits on the coast. Ravi disappeared with his camera bag slung over one shoulder, already talking to himself about golden hour lighting.

Buck hovered at the bottom of the bus steps.

Eddie stretched beside him, arms overhead, t-shirt riding up just enough to catch the corner of Buck’s gaze. He pretended not to look, but his heart betrayed him, picking up speed, just like it had been since New Orleans. Since the stage lights. Since Eddie’s hand found his in the crowd and tapped out something soft and rhythmic that Buck still swore was his favorite song now.

“Hey,” Buck said.

Eddie turned to him, brow raised in question.

Buck opened his mouth. Then shut it. Then tried again. “I was thinking…you know, for the, uh—press. Since it’s our day off and people are watching.”

Eddie narrowed his eyes, curious now. “Yeah?”

Buck scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly hyper-aware of how hot the sun felt. “We should maybe…go on a date.”

There was silence. A breeze lifted off the ocean and ruffled Buck’s hair, but he didn’t move.

Eddie looked at him for a long second, like he could see through him, through every carefully rehearsed explanation Buck had tucked behind that smile. Like he knew this wasn’t about the press at all.

But he didn’t call him on it.

He just nodded. “Alright. Date day.”

Buck exhaled too fast. Tried to play it cool. “For the fans,” he said with a shrug.

Eddie’s mouth quirked. “Of course.”

They drove out in one of the vans, music playing low on the stereo—some old soft rock playlist Chim had made and never stopped adding to. The town faded behind them until all that was left were dunes, brush, and open sky. The beach they found wasn’t crowded. A stretch of coast flanked by tall grass and battered wooden walkways. The kind of place locals kept to themselves.

The kind of place where no one asks questions. No one cared.

They kicked off their shoes at the edge of the sand, rolled their jeans up to their calves, and wandered barefoot across the warm, sun-soaked beach. Buck carried a brown paper bag with sandwiches and cold sodas from the gas station deli. Eddie held a cheap little plastic bucket he’d grabbed on a whim at a roadside stand, insisting it was necessary.

“For what?” Buck had asked, laughing.

“You’ll see,” Eddie replied.

They ate on a patch of beach wrapped in the shade of a weathered lifeguard tower, half in shadow, half in sun. The ocean stretched out in front of them, glinting like glass. Gulls screamed overhead. The sound of waves softened everything.

“I haven’t just sat still in a while,” Eddie said, stretching his legs out in the sand.

“Me either,” Buck murmured. “Feels like the world keeps moving even when you don’t.”

Eddie hummed in agreement. “You think we’d remember how to stop, being in motion so long?”

Buck looked at him, sunlight painting golden edges along Eddie’s jaw, his lashes, the dip of his collarbone. “You’re better at it than I.”

Eddie glanced over, brow raised. “At stopping?”

“At knowing when to,” Buck said quietly.

Eddie didn’t reply. He just leaned back on his palms, eyes slipping shut. They sat in the silence for a while, letting it stretch, unbothered.

Eventually, Eddie pulled the bucket into his lap and began scooping sand into it. Buck watched, amused.

“What are you doing?”

“Building a sandcastle,” Eddie said, completely serious.

Buck grinned. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“You’re a grown man.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “A grown man who spent years in deserts and concrete cities and combat zones. I think I’m allowed a castle.”

Buck blinked, laughter catching in his throat. “Well. When you put it like that.”

He slid closer. “Alright, how do I help?”

It took over an hour, but they built something resembling a fortress. Lopsided towers, a moat that kept filling in, a stick for a flagpole. Buck got sunburned across one shoulder. Eddie had sand in his pockets. But when they looked at their creation, they both grinned like idiots.

Buck bumped his shoulder against Eddie’s. “We’re incredible.”

“We’re a menace,” Eddie corrected. “To architecture.”

“Same thing.”

They stayed on the beach long after the castle was complete. Not that it would last—somewhere behind them, the tide was inching closer, sure to wash it away by sunset. But they sat beside it anyway, sandy and sun-drowsy, legs stretched out, Eddie’s hand still curled around Buck’s in the space between them.

The rhythm had returned. That quiet little tap, tap…pause. Tap, tap…pause. Like Eddie didn’t realize he was doing it.

Buck did. Every nerve in his hand did.

He didn’t say anything.

Just let it happen.

“You know,” Buck said eventually, voice low and a little too hopeful, “this was a pretty good fake date.”

Eddie huffed. “Yeah. Almost makes me think we could be good at this.”

Buck looked at him, eyes flickering over Eddie’s face. “The faking part?”

Eddie didn’t answer right away.

But then his eyes shifted—sharp, scanning.

Buck followed his gaze and saw them.

Two girls, maybe college-aged, standing at the top of the dunes pretending to take pictures of the water. A guy closer to their age, halfway down the beach, pretending to talk on his phone while very much pointing the lens of it their way.

It wasn’t overwhelming. Not yet. But it was enough to feel it in the air—that subtle shift. Like a page turning before you’re ready.

Eddie exhaled through his nose.

“They’re watching,” he said quietly.

Buck nodded, throat suddenly dry.

Eddie’s gaze flicked to him again, something resigned in it. Not cold—just practical. Like he was flipping through every consequence in real time. The same way Buck had seen him assess a patient in seconds, or scan a venue for emergency exits before the stage lights even warmed up.

The kind of logic that protects people.

“This is probably the point where they’d expect it to…escalate,” Eddie said, matter-of-fact. “We’ve done the date. Held hands. Spent the day. They’re looking for a moment now.”

Buck blinked at him. “You want to give them one?”

Eddie didn’t break eye contact.

But then, just barely—his fingers tightened in Buck’s.

“I want to make sure it’s okay first,” he said, voice low. Nearly drowned out by the waves. “With you.”

Buck’s breath caught.

Eddie wasn’t leaning in. Wasn’t even shifting closer.

He was waiting.

Letting Buck decide.

It hit Buck in the chest like a wave—the fact that Eddie could detach like this, do what had to be done, play the part, and still make room for him. Still ask, like Buck mattered more than the cameras. Like the choice belonged to both of them.

“Yeah,” Buck said. His voice cracked, just a little. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

Eddie gave a single nod. Then leaned in—carefully, steadily.

And kissed him.

Not too long. Not too deep.

Just enough.

Enough for the people on the dunes to gasp. Enough for the girl with the phone to start filming. Enough to look like the start of something big, something real, something the internet would replay in slow motion with captions like “LOOK AT HOW HE LOOKS AT HIM.”

But it was also enough for Buck.

Because even if it wasn’t for them, yet —Eddie had still asked.

And Buck had still said yes.

When they pulled apart, Eddie lingered close, his breath warm on Buck’s cheek. Their hands stayed locked between them, fingers gritty with sand and something else—something heavier. Something honest.

Eddie didn’t say anything like “Guess the fans got their wish.”

He didn’t have to.

Because the look he gave Buck then wasn’t for the cameras, or the storyline, or the shadow of an Instagram caption waiting to be born.

It was for him.

And Buck looked back, heart thudding hard against his ribs, knowing two things for sure:

The kiss may have been for the fans.

But the permission?

That had been his.

Chapter Text

@fanficfridays
WE WERE THERE. WE SAW IT. THEY KISSED. THEY KISSED.

In downtown Asheville, under hanging lights and local jazz, @buckaroo and the Eddie Diaz shared the softest, blink-and-you-miss-it kiss—and we have the photos to prove it. This wasn’t staged. This wasn’t PR. This was real. We know what we saw.

We’ll say it louder: BUCK. AND. EDDIE. KISSED.

#buckandeddie #911ontour #softboisupreme #theyareSOinlove

Comments:
@em.diaz86: I KNEW IT. I CALLED IT.

Reply to @em.diaz86—@thirstytourmom: the way I SCREAMED

@tourtrash: and people said this was fake lmaooo
@capitolchords: posting this in my grief journal thanks
@grace.holden: imagine being a fan at a coffee shop and THIS happens
Reply to @grace.holden—@ravi.theroadie: I’m literally five feet away in this pic. I’m in the reflection. I’m immortal now.

Buck blinked at the screen in his hand like it had personally betrayed him. The bedroom in the bus smelled like generic citrus cleaner and the fresh laundry Hen had forced him to do the night before. His phone was still hot from all the push notifications, from Twitter to Instagram to text messages from people he hadn’t spoken to since high school.

He squinted at the tweet again.

“BUCK. AND. EDDIE. KISSED.”

Below it, a photo was taken at just the right angle—hazy string lights overhead, jazz band slightly out of focus, Eddie leaning in close enough to steal Buck’s breath, and Buck not moving an inch to stop him.

It looked real.

Because it was.

He rubbed a hand down his face. “They’re making GIF sets, Eddie.”

Half-sprawled on the foot of Buck’s bed, Eddie didn’t even look up from the water bottle he was fiddling with. “Of the kiss?”

“No, of us breathing near each other. Yes, of the kiss.”

From her tiny rectangle on the screen, May sighed so hard it moved the loose strands of hair around her face. She was calling from a rooftop somewhere in Nashville, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, flanked by the unmistakable chaos of a mid-tour PR storm. Somewhere in the background, someone was yelling about iced lattes.

“You went viral,” she said, like it was both a compliment and a death sentence. “Not just tour-viral. Not just TikTok or the fan accounts. You’re on the trending page. Newsweek did a blurb. Variety posted it under ‘Unexpected Power Couples of Summer.’ Tommy almost choked on his croissant.”

Eddie frowned. “It wasn’t planned.”

“We know,” she said quickly, gentler. “That’s what made it good. Which is also what made it a problem.”

Buck sat back against the headboard, phone balanced on his stomach like a weight he didn’t know how to drop. “So what, we’re not allowed to kiss unless it’s scheduled now?”

May made a face. “I’m not saying it. Tommy is. He wants—” She paused, raised a hand dramatically, then said in the smarmiest voice she could manage: “‘Intentional rollout. Heightened public visibility. More emotionally satisfying payoffs for the narrative arc.”

Chimney, who had wandered in with a banana and no sense of timing, muttered, “Scheduled affection sounds like a calendar app from hell.”

Ravi, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with his camera in his lap, added, “Not to be ‘that guy’, but he’s not wrong. Tumblr’s already building shrines. Someone slowed the footage down and added Lana Del Rey.”

Hen leaned in from the hallway. “Are we supposed to clap every time they hold hands now?”

“I will,” Chim offered cheerfully, peeling the banana. “I already clapped when Eddie did the little thumb-tap thing again yesterday. It was very romantic.”

Eddie’s head snapped toward him. “You noticed that?”

Everyone spoke at once:

“Yes.”
“Obviously.”
“Dude, we all noticed.”
“You do it constantly.”

“I don’t do it constantly,” Eddie argued, but his ears were red, and Buck was looking at him with that face again—the one like he was trying not to smile too hard.

May pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and forged on. “Bottom line: whether or not it was planned, it happened. The world saw it. And Tommy’s riding the wave. That means more interviews. More behind-the-scenes content. Possibly more staged photos, depending on how you want to spin this. And yeah—you kiss in public, you keep kissing in public.”

Buck made a face. “Like… a quota?”

“I’m not giving you a quota. Tommy might. I’m just the messenger.”

Across the room, Eddie set the water bottle down with more force than necessary. He stood and crossed the space in two easy strides, taking the phone from Buck’s chest and tilting it toward himself so they could both see the screen.

“You okay with this?” he asked quietly, just for Buck.

Buck looked at him. Like he was cataloging every shadow under his eyes, every line of tension in his shoulders. His heart thudded loudly in his ears.

“Yeah,” Buck said. “I just… I didn’t think it’d feel like this.”

Eddie nodded once, like he understood exactly what that meant. “We’re okay.”

“Yeah,” Buck echoed, quieter. “We are.”

May, still on FaceTime and now very much an eavesdropper, muttered, “Ugh. Someone write a song about it, I’m logging off.”

Then the screen went black.

Washington D.C

The stadium was alive. Not just buzzing, not just crowded—alive, electric in that way only capital cities can be when the sky goes dark and thousands of people pour into the bones of a concrete coliseum with nothing but their voices and the need to feel something real.

The air smelled like asphalt and fireworks. Like sweat and August heat and the bottled tension of a tour barreling toward its final act.

Eddie stood side-stage, one hand fisted in the back of his belt, the other cradling his headset mic. He was in uniform: black shirt, tactical cargo pants, boots laced tight. To anyone looking from the outside, he might’ve seemed calm. Just another part of the crew. But beneath the stoic shell, his heart pounded like a drumline warming up.

This wasn’t just a show.

This was the show.

The one the label had been pushing all month. The one with the satellite trucks out front, news vans parked along the barricades, and overhead cameras doing lazy flyovers for a documentary special. The massive LED screens looped footage from earlier tour stops—slow-motion confetti, behind-the-scenes laughs, that viral Asheville kiss caught from three angles.

By now, everyone had seen it.

Everyone had opinions.

Eddie didn’t care about any of them.

He only cared about the man walking onto the stage, bathed in white and blue light like he belonged to something celestial.

Buck.

He looked wrecked in the best way. His curls were wild, half-damp from sweat already. His black denim jacket clung to his frame, sleeves shoved to his elbows. The white tee underneath stretched thin across his chest, and the guitar strap dug in like he was born wearing it.

The crowd screamed.

And Buck—Buck smiled like they were shouting for him and only him .

Eddie felt it like a sucker punch to the chest.

From the very first note, the show was on fire.

Buck gave everything. His voice rasped with the effort. His body moved like it was connected to the rhythm by an invisible thread. He strutted, danced, and leaned into the mic with a smirk that turned crowds feral.

He was on , fully and completely. More than a performer. More than a rockstar. He was a force.

And Eddie watched every second of it like he couldn’t breathe without it.

Halfway through the second act, when the band slowed for a set of more stripped-back tracks, Buck stepped forward. He adjusted the mic stand, breath caught in his throat. And then he said, clear and quiet despite the noise:

“This next one—”
Pause. A heartbeat.
“—is for the guy who keeps my feet on the ground, even when my head’s in the clouds.”
He looked directly at Eddie.
“You know who you are.”

(6)

The crowd went feral. Screams broke like waves.

But Eddie didn’t hear any of it.

He was frozen in place, air gone. There were no jokes, no winks, no shrugs to suggest Buck was playing for the cameras. His eyes were dark with something unguarded. Something real.

And then the band started.

The song—an unreleased track Buck had been picking at in green rooms and hotel hallways—unfolded in a cascade of longing.

It was raw and slow, all low harmonies and aching chords, a confessional dressed in melody. Every line held weight. Every word sounded like it had been pulled from Buck’s chest in the dark hours of the morning.

“Maybe it's all that I've been through…I'd like to think it's how you lean on my shoulder…And how I see myself with you…”

The lights dimmed to a low golden hue, casting a hush over the stadium like dusk settling over a battlefield.

Buck stepped closer to the edge of the stage.

No theatrics. No lighting cues. Just him, his guitar, and the storm in his chest.

“There you go…saving me from out of the cold… fire on fire would normally kill us…”

The spotlight followed him as he moved, slow and deliberate, until he was directly above the pit, where the crowd had gone oddly still. Like they knew this wasn’t just a song. Like they could feel the line he was walking between exposure and surrender.

“But don't let them ruin our beautiful rhythms… cause when you unfold me and tell me you love me…”

Eddie stood in the shadows of the wing, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling like it took effort to breathe.
He could hear Buck’s voice warble slightly on “only”, and he felt it like a fist between the ribs.

A long pause. Buck’s fingers flexed on the strings, his eyes scanning the sea of faces—but only one held his gaze.

“When we fight, we fight like lions…But then we love and feel the truth.”

Eddie swallowed hard.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t dare.

Because Buck was looking directly at him, singing like the rest of the world had fallen away. Like Eddie was gravity, and this was the descent.

His voice rose, rasping slightly from the earlier set, but rich with feeling.

“Fire on fire, would normally kill us…With this much desire, together, we’re winners…”

The drums eased in like a slow heartbeat behind the words. The piano followed, delicate and admiring.

“They say that we’re out of control and some say we’re sinners…”
Buck stepped forward again, face lit from below, jaw tight with everything he wasn’t saying.

“But don’t let them ruin our beautiful rhythms…”

The crowd was screaming—some crying—but it all blurred into white noise for Eddie.

Because Buck’s hand dropped from the mic stand, and for a moment it hovered like it might reach for something unseen.
Like it might reach for him .

“'Cause when you unfold me…”
He closed his eyes, voice dipping into something devoted.
“…and tell me you love me…”
The phrase hung in the air, trembling, and it was so much —too much—and not enough.

“Look in my eyes, you are perfection…”

The note cracked.
Buck caught it, barely, blinking hard against whatever emotion threatened to break through.

“My only direction…”

Eddie's heart was pounding so loudly, he didn’t hear the rest of the line.
But he saw the truth in Buck’s face.

He wasn’t performing.
He wasn’t acting.
He was confessing.

“This fire on fire…”

And when the final chorus rose, Buck didn’t belt it.
He broke it open.

“We are fire on fire…”

The lights flared. The crowd howled. But none of that touched the tether stretching between them—Buck on stage, Eddie in the wings, every word a hand on his chest.

Buck’s voice cracked once near the bridge. Just for a second. But he found his footing again and pushed forward, the intensity in his eyes sharpening. Sweat ran down his temple. His hand curled tightly around the neck of his guitar.

“Fire on fire would normally kill us…But this much desire, together, we're winners.”

Eddie had never been more still in his life.

“You are perfection, my only direction...It's fire on fire.”

By the time the final chorus swelled, the crowd was holding its collective breath.

The song ended in a single, echoing chord.
Buck’s hand hovered at his side. His chest heaved.
And for a second, he just stood there, bare in front of thousands.

Then the lights dropped.

And then it was over.

Silence, then applause that shook the scaffolding. Buck stood at center stage, chest heaving, a tremor in his jaw like he’d just given something away and didn’t know how to get it back.

Eddie’s hands were still shaking when Hen’s voice crackled over comms.

“Jesus. He meant that.”

Eddie didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

The show roared on, escalating again, adrenaline washing over the crowd like a second skin. They burned through two more songs—high-energy, aggressive, full-throttle numbers—and Buck didn’t falter once. If anything, he looked lighter. Like letting the words out had freed him.

But then it happened.

Final number.

Buck turned to work the lip of the stage, sprinting toward the edge with a grin. He spun mid-run, sliding toward the catwalk like he’d done a hundred times before—but this time his boot caught on a coil of cable that hadn’t been taped down.

There was no time to brace.

The guitar let out a sickening twang as Buck went down hard on one knee, the impact jolting through the monitors. The crowd screamed.

Eddie’s heart stopped.

Buck didn’t cry out. Didn’t collapse. He stayed down, jaw clenched, pain radiating off him in waves. But when the band dropped into the final verse, he kept singing .

From the fucking ground.

Voice shaky but still in tune, face pinched with effort. One hand on the mic, the other trying not to put weight on his leg. His knee was already swelling, the fabric of his jeans stretching too tight over it.

“Clear the ramp,” Eddie barked into the comms, shoving past a tech as he sprinted toward the wings. “Get me ready. Now.”

“I’ve got eyes,” Ravi called from another comm channel. “He’s not bleeding. But it’s bad.”

The moment the set ended and the lights dropped, Eddie was on him.

Buck had made it halfway backstage, hobbling with the help of a roadie, pale and stubborn and still gripping his busted guitar like it was a lifeline.

Eddie reached him in three long strides.

“You’re done. Sit,” he ordered, already lowering Buck onto the nearest road case and crouching in front of him.

Buck tried for a grin. “Told you I’d finish the set.”

Eddie didn’t smile.

He crouched in front of him, jaw locked tight, hands already hovering over Buck’s knee. It was swelling fast, red, and angry. Eddie’s fingers were gentle, but his voice wasn’t.

Buck winced. “Shit—yeah, that hurts.”

“I bet it does.” Eddie’s voice was low. Not soft. More like a thread pulled too tight.

Buck blinked at him. “Ed—”

“What the fuck , Buck?”

Eddie’s voice was a knife—quiet, precise, honed by the kind of worry that comes out sideways. His eyes, normally steady and unreadable, were storm-dark now, narrowed and sharp with frustration he wasn’t bothering to hide.

Buck flinched like he'd been slapped. “I didn’t plan to trip, you know.”

“You’re lucky it didn’t snap.”

Buck blinked. “It’s not that bad.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I can move it—”

Eddie exhaled sharply through his nose. “That’s not the same as being okay.”

Buck’s mouth snapped shut.

“Do you have any idea what that looked like?” Eddie muttered, shaking his head. “One second you’re fine, and the next, you’re just—on the ground, and I can’t even tell if you’re conscious or if something broke or if I’m about to have to sprint across the stage in front of thousands of people—”

His voice cracked, just a hair. He covered it with a cough, stood up too fast, and shoved both hands through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Buck pushed himself upright with a wince. “Eddie—”

“I’m not mad at you,” Eddie snapped, spinning to face him. “Okay? Not really. But someone’s getting chewed out for that cable. Someone’s getting reamed so hard they’re gonna feel it in their next job, because I swear to God, if I ever see something like that happen again—”

“It was just a trip—”

“It was avoidable .”

Buck went quiet.

Eddie paced two steps, then stopped. He looked exhausted. Not just physically, but from trying to say something he couldn’t quite figure out how to say out loud.

“You shouldn’t have kept playing,” he said finally. “That was reckless.”

Buck’s brows pulled together. “I didn’t want to stop.”

“I know,” Eddie muttered. “Of course you didn’t.”

He sat down on a crate nearby, exhaling hard, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re like a goddamn tornado when you get going. And I’m supposed to—what? Let you run headfirst into a wall just because you think the fans need it?”

“It wasn’t just for them,” Buck said, softer now.

Eddie glanced at him. His face stayed unreadable, walls firmly up.

Buck swallowed. “I needed to do it.”

Eddie looked away again.

There was silence between them. Heavy. Prickling.

Buck shifted awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Eddie didn’t respond right away.

When he finally did, it was quiet. Tired.

“I know.”

Another pause. Then he added, “But you did.”

Buck blinked.

“I’ll talk to the crew,” Eddie muttered. “Figure out what went wrong with staging. And I’ll sit on you personally if I have to, to keep you off that knee.”

Buck cracked a small smile. “You threatening to sit on me?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

There was the faintest curl at the corner of Eddie’s mouth. Not a smile, but maybe the ghost of one, struggling through all the irritation and adrenaline.

“Med tent,” he said shortly, standing again and offering a hand. “Now. Before I drag your ass there.”

Buck hesitated a half-second, then reached up and took it.

The contact was steady, warm. Not exactly gentle, but sure. Like Eddie didn’t trust him not to fall again.

When Buck stood fully, Eddie slid an arm around his back without thinking, not quite letting him put weight on the bad leg. The closeness settled between them like a breath not fully exhaled.

“You’re still mad,” Buck said under his breath.

“Yeah,” Eddie replied. “But I’m also still doing my job.”

Buck didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

They moved together through the halls of the stadium, Eddie keeping him steady, eyes already scanning the faces of passing crew for the first tech he could corner later.

tap. tap. tap. 

The tour bus had quieted into a soft lull. Washington D.C. still flickered outside the tinted windows, city lights bleeding past like melted candlewax. The show had been huge—electrifying, almost unreal—but now the adrenaline had burned off, leaving behind nothing but sore muscles, echoing memories, and the low hum of a diesel engine heading north on the I-95.

Buck lay stretched out on the narrow couch near the kitchenette, leg propped on a precarious stack of Hen’s throw pillows—plush, mismatched, and definitely not meant for orthopedic support. An ice pack, half-melted, balanced over his swollen knee. His hair was damp from a quick rinse in the bus’s tiny shower. A blanket was twisted around his waist like he couldn’t decide whether he was cold or not.

The ache in his knee was persistent, pulsing in sync with his heartbeat. But it wasn’t the worst of it.

It was the stillness that got him. The way the silence pressed too close. The way the quiet gave his mind too much room to wander—back to the fall, to Eddie’s voice screaming through comms, to the rush of hands and panic and pain.

He shifted with a wince, pressing his head back into the armrest. The ice pack slipped a little. He didn’t bother fixing it.

Somewhere in the bunks, Chim was laughing at something Hen said. Ravi’s headphones buzzed faintly, something atmospheric and moody. From the driver’s seat came the rhythmic creak of the road beneath the tires.

And then—

Footsteps.

Measured. Familiar.

Buck didn’t look up right away, but his heart stuttered in anticipation. He knew those footsteps. Knew the quiet way Eddie moved, like his presence alone was something to be careful with.

“Knock knock,” Eddie said, his voice low and dry.

Buck turned his head.

Eddie was standing just past the kitchenette, holding a steaming mug in both hands. He wore a faded grey t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that sat low on his hips, his hair still damp from a quick rinse. There was a tiredness clinging to him, but something else too—a warmth that hadn’t been there earlier when he was still pissed.

“I heard someone was being a real dick to you earlier,” Eddie said, tone casual but not light.

Buck squinted at him. “Was it you?”

Eddie didn’t flinch. He smirked, unrepentant. “Maybe. Depends on whether this helps make up for it.”

He crossed the space and set the mug on the low coffee table—careful not to jostle the stack of pillows—and then, without warning, picked up Buck’s phone from where it lay on his chest.

“Hey—”

Eddie tapped the screen, typed in the passcode (because, of course, he knew it), then flipped the phone around.

Chris’s face filled the frame—grinning, missing a tooth, eyes bright.

“ Dad! Buck! Hi! ”

Buck lit up like a street lamp in the fog. “ Chris! Oh man, I missed that face.”

Eddie sat down carefully beside Buck’s good leg, shoulder angled toward him, knees loose. He watched, arms folded over his chest, as Buck propped the phone against his thigh so they both could see. The video had been recorded hours ago, but Chris’s joy came through like it was live—talking about his science project (“we’re making a volcano, but I want it to explode extra ”), a weird squirrel he saw at school, and the weird pizza combination he tried with Carla for dinner (“don’t ever put bananas on pizza, Buck, it’s evil”).

Buck laughed through the whole thing. Full-body laughter, head thrown back, eyes crinkled. It was a sound Eddie hadn’t heard in days.

He didn’t realize he was smiling too until Buck glanced over and caught him.

“What?”

Eddie shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring at me like I’m made of glass.”

“You’re lying on the couch with a busted knee and an ice pack that’s more water than ice. Forgive me for monitoring your fragile state .”

Buck snorted. “I’m not fragile.”

“Yeah?” Eddie quirked a brow. “That's why you fell like a sack of bricks tonight?”

Buck narrowed his eyes. “Low blow, man.”

Eddie smirked. “I’m just saying, next time maybe don’t throw yourself around like a crash test dummy in the middle of a power ballad.”

Buck rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue.

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. It settled between them like a familiar blanket—soft and well-worn. The bus rocked gently beneath them, the engine a steady hum. A streetlight passed overhead and dappled them in gold.

Eddie reached for the forgotten mug on the table and handed it over. “Tea. Don’t make it weird.”

Buck took it, fingers brushing Eddie’s in the exchange. The touch lingered longer than it had to. Neither of them pulled away right away.

“Thanks,” Buck said, voice quiet now.

Eddie nodded.

They sat like that for a while, sipping tea, letting the road take them somewhere new.

Eventually, Buck broke the silence.

“You were really pissed earlier.”

Eddie let out a low breath. “Yeah. I was.”

“Still mad?”

Eddie didn’t answer right away. He looked down at Buck’s leg. At the edge of the ice pack, where the skin was already red and puffy. At the fraying threads on the couch cushion, where Buck had gripped too tightly earlier.

Then he looked up, eyes soft but guarded. “I’m not mad at you .”

Buck tilted his head. “But?”

“But someone should’ve caught that cord.” Eddie’s voice turned hard again. “Someone should’ve done their damn job. I will be finding out who it was.”

Buck opened his mouth, then thought better of it.

“I just hate feeling like I can’t stop something like that,” Eddie added, quieter now. “Like I’m supposed to be the one who—” He caught himself.

Who what?

Who protects you?

Who keeps you safe?

Buck didn’t push him to finish the thought.

Instead, he said, “I know you’re looking out for me. You always do.”

Eddie glanced at him then, something sharp and complicated flickering in his expression. He nodded once. “Yeah. Well. Someone has to.”

The tea had gone cold in Buck’s hand.

He set it down and shifted, wincing as his leg twinged.

Eddie reached out automatically, steadying him. His hand landed on Buck’s calf, gentle and solid. Buck sucked in a breath but didn’t move away.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“You’re not,” Eddie replied.

The moment stretched again.

Their eyes met. Something swelled in the space between them—unspoken and electric.

Buck opened his mouth—then closed it again.

Eddie’s gaze lingered for another beat, then dropped to Buck’s knee. He reached forward to adjust the ice pack, his hand brushing bare skin.

Buck swallowed hard.

Eddie didn’t look up.

Eventually, he stood, quietly setting the phone down beside the mug.

“Try to sleep,” he said.

“Yeah,” Buck said, though he wasn’t sure he could.

Eddie started to move, then hesitated. “You need anything, you wake me. Got it?”

Buck nodded. “Got it.”

Eddie looked at him one more time, like he wanted to say something else. Like it was on the tip of his tongue.

But then he just gave a tight nod and ducked behind the curtain that led to the bunks.

Buck exhaled slowly, alone again in the blue-lit quiet of the bus.

His leg ached.

His chest ached more.

He closed his eyes and listened to the road carry them forward.

3:17 A.M.

The world had gone quiet.

Outside, the highway stretched on in endless ribbons of black and silver. Streetlights blurred into soft glows through the narrow bus windows, and the engine rumbled steadily beneath the floor. The hum was almost comforting. Almost.

Inside, everyone else was asleep—finally. Chim had stopped snoring. Ravi's music had faded into silence. Even Hen, who could outlast a caffeine high like a pro, had given in a couple of hours ago.

But Eddie was still awake.

He sat alone at the built-in table near the kitchenette, his laptop open in front of him. The screen cast a faint glow across his face, catching in the curve of his cheek, the furrow between his brows, the faint shadow of stubble growing in along his jaw. His right leg bounced with quiet tension, heel tapping against the floor. His fingers moved fast, steady, highlighting sections of the route plan, making logistical notes about tomorrow's setup in New Jersey, correcting May’s placeholder edits to the setlist.

His phone rested beside him, screen dark now but earlier filled with messages from the crew: mic feedback concerns, lighting cues, and one especially pointed text from Tommy about insurance liability.

Eddie had ignored that one.

He rubbed his eyes and blinked hard, jaw tight. He’d spent the better part of the night vacillating between guilt and fury—guilt over Buck getting hurt, and fury at the crew for letting that damn cable go untaped in the first place. He still didn’t know who was responsible, but he would . And when he did, they’d hear every thought he’d swallowed since the show ended.

He hadn’t meant to be short with Buck earlier. Not really. He’d been mad—yeah—but it wasn’t fair to throw it all at him. Especially not after Buck finished the song like that, face pale with pain and still singing like the world was ending. Eddie could still see it—Buck on one knee, sweat clinging to his jawline, the crowd roaring, the guitar’s final chord ringing out through the arena like a heartbeat on the edge of collapse.

He should have pulled him off stage.

He should have—

His mind had been stuck in triage mode since the second Buck hit the ground on stage. He’d gotten through the emergency, through the backstage panic, through the mess of making sure Buck could walk and wasn’t bleeding and that nothing was broken. He’d wrapped the knee himself because the medic fumbled it, barked at the roadies to tape down the damn cords next time , and spent two hours pretending he wasn’t still shaking.

Now he was trying to breathe.

Trying—and failing.

He didn’t notice the soft footfalls at first. Not until there was a stifled ow , followed by a dramatic huff and the unmistakable sound of someone bumping into the edge of the couch.

Eddie turned.

Buck stood in the dim doorway, backlit by the amber hallway light, hair sticking out in three different directions like he’d been tossing and turning for hours, which, knowing Buck, he probably had.

“You said I could come if I needed anything.” 

His sweatshirt was halfway twisted, his left sock was missing, and he was squinting like the light personally offended him.

“Knee hurts too much,” he mumbled, dragging his words like they were bricks.

Eddie rose immediately, laptop forgotten, already crossing the small space in a few brisk steps.

“Did you take the meds?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Buck gave a tiny nod. Then, after a beat: “Didn’t help. It’s dumb. And tight. And... it throbs in a mean way.”

Eddie blinked.

“It throbs in a mean way?”

Buck made a face. “Yeah, like... it’s mad at me.”

Eddie huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if he weren’t still wound tight as piano wire. “It’s not mad. It’s injured.”

“Well, it’s being an asshole about it,” Buck muttered, tugging the collar of his sweatshirt into a bunch at his chest like it was a security blanket. “And the couch is weird, and the pillows smell like Hen’s lavender oil, and I can’t get comfortable, and the blanket keeps slipping and I keep thinking about that damn cable—”

“Hey,” Eddie said, voice dropping into the softer register he only ever used when Chris was sick. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Buck pouted, full-on, bottom lip sticking out. But he obeyed, letting Eddie guide him to the couch again, carefully lowering him down like his leg might shatter if it bent too fast.

Once Buck was settled, Eddie crouched beside him. One knee to the floor, hands moving automatically to check the bandage. He peeled it back gently, fingers brushing hot skin, eyes tracking for signs of increased swelling.

“Still hot,” he muttered. “Redder, too.”

Buck’s lashes fluttered as Eddie’s fingers moved. “M’sorry,” he mumbled, eyes starting to drift shut. “Don’t mean to be whiny. I just... it hurts and I’m tired and everything feels stupid.”

“You’re not being whiny,” Eddie said, adjusting the ice pack against the swelling. “You’re overtired and injured. That’s not whining.”

“Feels like whining,” Buck pouted.

“Then whine quieter.”

That earned a faint snort from Buck, half-buried in the oversized collar of his sweatshirt. “You’re mean.”

Eddie smirked. “You started it. Called your knee an asshole.”

Buck’s smile flickered—barely there, crooked and boyish and too soft for how close he’d come to serious injury a few hours ago.

Then he blinked slowly, like his brain was buffering, and let his head tip against the back of the couch.

A pause. A breath.

Then, quieter: “Can’t rest without you.”

Eddie’s heart gave a sharp, immediate lurch—like it’d hit black ice on an otherwise smooth road.

He looked up. Buck’s eyes were half-lidded now, heavy with exhaustion, but focused on him like he meant every word—even if he might not remember them in the morning.

“Stay?” Buck whispered. “Just... until it stops being mean.”

Eddie didn’t answer at first.

He just looked at Buck. At the way he was curled up like a kicked puppy, oversized sleeves falling past his hands, the ice pack threatening to slide off his knee, his whole body tilted toward Eddie like a sunflower tracking warmth.

His face was so open like this. So unguarded. It knocked the wind out of Eddie a little.

But he couldn’t say no.

He never really could.

“Yeah,” Eddie said softly, settling onto the couch beside him. “Always.”

Buck shifted to make room—barely, but enough that their knees bumped. The blanket that had slipped earlier got tugged over both of them in one awkward motion. Eddie reached for the pillow behind Buck’s head and readjusted it so he wouldn’t wake up with a neck cramp.

Buck blinked at him again. “You’re good at this.”

“At what?”

“Taking care of me.”

Eddie looked away. “Someone has to.”

“Yeah,” Buck whispered. “I’m glad it’s you.”

Eddie swallowed hard, jaw tight. He didn’t answer that.

He didn’t need to.

They sat like that for a long time—Buck drifting in and out of sleep, head occasionally tipping against Eddie’s shoulder. Every time he stirred, Eddie readjusted the ice pack or smoothed the blanket or mumbled some nonsense about elevation like it was a mantra.

The bus rocked beneath them, gentle and constant.

And somewhere, past the whine of pain and the lull of a sleepless night, Buck finally stilled—his breaths evening out, 

his fingers twitching once in the blanket like a kid who’d finally given in to the weight of comfort.

Eddie stayed awake.

Not because he had to.

Because he wanted to.

Because he didn’t trust anyone else to sit there if Buck woke again in pain or panic or half-tangled words he didn’t mean to say.

Because for all Buck’s fire and charm and stage bravado, this—right here—was what Eddie protected.

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and stayed.

Not just because Buck had asked.

But because, even if Buck never asked again, Eddie always would.

Chapter Text

Buck woke to warmth.

Not the kind that came from sunlight, or the patchy heat of the cheap wool blankets they kept stashed under the couch. Not even the familiar hum of the tour bus gliding down a stretch of nameless highway beneath an ink-dark sky. No—this warmth was alive.

Solid. Steady. Real.

It took him a moment to realize what it was.

His cheek was pressed to Eddie's chest. His arm had somehow found its way around Eddie’s waist, palm resting against the soft cotton of his sleep shirt. And Eddie’s hand—broad, warm, unmoving—was curved protectively over Buck’s shoulder, thumb still curled as if it had fallen asleep mid-comfort.

Buck lay there, blinking groggily at the fabric stretched across Eddie’s chest, slow to orient himself. 

This was definitely not how he remembered falling asleep last night.

The last thing he remembered was an aching body buzzing with leftover adrenaline and injury, Eddie mumbling something about ice packs and elevation as he shuffled back with a pillow and a thin blanket.

But somewhere in the swirl of exhaustion and Eddie’s steady presence, things had shifted.

Now?

Now they were wrapped around each other like puzzle pieces that had always fit.

A deep breath moved beneath him. Then, Eddie’s voice—low and gravelly, the kind of rough morning timbre that snagged softly on the ends of words.

“You awake?”

Buck made a sound that wasn’t quite a word and nodded into Eddie’s chest. He felt more than heard the quiet chuckle that followed, reverberating beneath his ear like a drumbeat slowed by sleep.

“How’s the knee?”

Buck considered lying again. Saying it was fine, maybe joking that he was healed by the magic of proximity to Eddie Diaz.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Not when Eddie’s arm hadn’t moved. Not when his fingers flexed just slightly, barely brushing the slope of Buck’s arm like he was grounding them both.

“Still hurts,” Buck murmured.

Eddie exhaled through his nose. “I’ll check it later.”

Still, he didn’t move.

Didn’t shift. Didn’t untangle them like Buck was something fragile or inappropriate or out of bounds. If anything, his fingers settled more firmly, a quiet reassurance that this was okay.

More than okay.

They lay like that for a few long minutes, cocooned in silence. The kind of silence that only ever felt this full when the rest of the world was sleeping. When the road was endless and the bus became something close to a cradle for all their sharp edges.

Buck blinked slowly, cheek brushing Eddie’s chest again. “Is this… weird?” he asked, voice small, tired.

Eddie didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Do you want it to be?”

Buck shook his head. “No.”

“Then no. Not weird.”

Something caught in Buck’s chest. Something deep and tight and unnameable.

He swallowed against it.

“Didn’t mean to… y’know.” He gestured vaguely with his fingers, still splayed against Eddie’s side. “Climb on top of you like a koala.”

Eddie snorted, breath catching on what might’ve been a laugh. “You didn’t. You drifted over. I could’ve pushed you off if I wanted.”

Buck tipped his head back just enough to squint up at him. “But you didn’t.”

“Nope.”

Buck waited for the inevitable discomfort, the moment when Eddie would shift, stretch, detach himself gently with some excuse about the time or the rest of the crew. But it never came.

Instead, Eddie’s fingers moved. A small, unconscious gesture. He tapped out a rhythm on Buck’s shoulder—four quick pulses in a row, then a pause. The same familiar pattern he’d started using days ago, ever since New Orleans.

Tap tap tap tap. Stop.

Buck smiled, eyes falling closed again. “You keep doing that.”

Eddie paused, thumb stilling. “Doing what?”

“That tapping thing.”

He could feel Eddie’s shrug. “Guess it’s just… muscle memory.”

Buck didn’t answer. Not with words.

But he curled closer.

7:39 A.M.

The bus jolted gently as it slowed, probably hitting a stoplight in whatever town they’d rolled into before sunrise. Somewhere in the distance, Ravi groaned from his bunk. Chim muttered a curse, followed by the soft thunk of a pillow hitting the floor.

The world was waking up again.

Buck knew he should probably move. Sit up. Pretend they hadn’t just spent the night wrapped around each other like they belonged that way.

But he didn’t.

Neither did Eddie.

“Do you want me to go back to the bunk?” Buck asked quietly, breath warm against Eddie’s shirt.

Eddie shifted beneath him, just slightly, then looked down.

“No.”

He sounded sure.

Buck’s heart hiccupped.

“I mean, I will,” he added, not quite knowing why. “If you want space. Or if you’re sore. You’re probably sore. I’m like a human furnace.”

Eddie huffed a breath of amusement. “Buck.”

Buck froze. “Yeah?”

“You’re fine.”

And he was. Somehow—here, like this—he was fine.

Eddie’s arm tightened just a little, not enough to pull, just enough to anchor. And maybe it was the early hour, or the way the morning light started seeping through the edges of the blackout curtains, but Buck felt something catch in his throat.

Not love. Not yet.

But the terrifying possibility of it.

He closed his eyes again and let himself sink.

For just a little while longer.

Because Eddie didn’t let go.

@heninthemoment

📸: Caught these two passed out post-show last night. Don’t worry, Buck's knee is fine. Eddie’s grip on him, however? That might never let up. 🖤

#tourlife #911ontour #buckandeddie #caughtintheact #softboysclub

Comments:
@may.day: IS THAT AN ARM AROUND A WAIST???
@ravi.therealest: I watched it happen in real time. Didn’t blink once.

Reply to @ravi.therealest— @heninthemoment: I'm just saying... if a man holds you like that in his sleep, it's game over.
@firehousefangirl: I would like to personally thank God, the universe, and Hen for her service.
@em.diaz86: this is the kind of content I want injected directly into my bloodstream.
@grace.holden: they’re in LOVE and nobody can tell me otherwise.
@tourtrash: Hen said "soft launch" but made it devastatingly real.

The show had gone well.
By all measurable standards, it was a success.

Buck stayed off the catwalk, kept his movements minimal—leaning on charisma instead of acrobatics, charm instead of chaos. He let the music do the heavy lifting, made eye contact with fans like it was a love language, and didn’t so much as flirt with the edge of the stage.

It was, by Eddie’s definition, a goddamn miracle.

No injuries. No medical emergencies. No adrenaline spike in his chest when the lights flared and Buck disappeared from sight for a half-second too long. Just music. Controlled, easy movement. A setlist that leaned toward slower ballads, the kind of thing that let Buck rest while still setting the whole place on fire.

Eddie had guilted him into it. Pointed to the swelling around his knee and the stubborn purple of the bruise and said, “You can’t pour from an empty cup, Buck. Let the songs do the work.”

And Buck—sweaty, still strung out from rehearsal, hair curling at the edges from heat—had blinked at him and said, “You sound like a self-help book.”

But he’d listened.

And it had worked.

They’d made it through the set without incident. The crowd had loved it, roaring their approval with every soft smile and smoky note. No one complained about the toned-down tempo. If anything, the intimacy of it hit harder. Felt more personal.

Eddie watched from the side-stage the whole time, comm in one ear, hand twitching toward the emergency kit every time Buck so much as shifted his weight. But the emergency never came.

Just applause.
Just Buck, under the lights, alive in a way Eddie still hadn’t figured out how to describe.

It was after the show that something felt off.

The usual post-show energy—Buck’s frenetic buzz, his constant movement, the way he’d bounce from bandmate to roadie to manager and back—was conspicuously absent. Instead, he walked offstage with a quiet nod, towel draped around his neck, and limped without a word to the van that would take them to the bus.

Not a complaint. Not a joke. Not even a sarcastic, “Well, that went okay, huh?”

Nothing.

By the time they got on the bus, Buck had gone completely still. He slid into the built-in booth near the kitchenette and just… sat.

Ten minutes passed.

He didn’t touch the steaming cup of herbal tea Hen had made for him. Didn’t acknowledge Ravi offering him a protein bar. Didn’t look up when Chimney dropped his bag too loudly and cursed about someone’s deodorant exploding in the storage bins.

He just stared.
At nothing.

Eddie had clocked it from the moment they boarded. Something in the way Buck moved was wrong. Not injured-wrong. Not pain-wrong. Just... hollow. Quiet in a way that wasn’t tired. It was like someone had reached inside and turned the volume all the way down—not just the sound, but the light, too.

He watched him for a while from across the aisle.
Waited for a sign that it was just post-show adrenaline leveling out. A dip. A moment.

But it didn’t pass.

So, eventually, Eddie stood. Crossed the aisle. And dropped into the bench seat across from him, knees bumping gently beneath the narrow table.

“Your knee okay?” he asked, keeping his voice soft. Open.

Buck looked up like he hadn’t even realized someone was there.

His eyes were distant, rimmed with just a hint of pink. But his face didn’t match his words. It didn’t match anything at all.

“Yeah. Fine.”

The lie sat heavy between them. Dense. Suffocating.

Then Buck stood.

Moved slowly—mechanically—like each movement had to be decided on in stages.

And then he was gone.
Curtain sliding closed behind him like a goddamn vault.

Eddie sat there for a long moment, staring after him.

It wasn’t the retreat that bothered him. Not the solitude or the silence. Buck had always been a little dramatic post-show, especially when something was gnawing at him. But this? This wasn’t just moodiness or introspection.

This was Buck not talking.

And Buck always talked.

Always.

He ranted. He joked. He monologued. He filled the silence like it offended him personally.

He never just… shut down.

Which meant something was really wrong.

And Eddie didn’t know what it was.

12:13 A.M.

The bus was quiet.

That rare kind of quiet that only settled in the small hours of the morning, after the post-show adrenaline had burned off, after the fans had screamed themselves hoarse, after the crew had eaten and laughed and finally tucked themselves into bunks lined like a row of borrowed hearts. The silence wasn’t empty, though. It was full of hums: the soft whir of the road beneath the wheels, the distant hum of the overhead light, and the occasional shift of a body behind a curtain, someone turning in their sleep.

Eddie stood in the kitchenette, barefoot, nursing a beer he wasn’t drinking.

The amber liquid caught the light like honey, like something warm and golden—but it felt heavy in his hand. His other arm was braced against the counter, fingers tapping a rhythm that didn’t match any song.

He was wound too tight.

Not with fear, exactly. Just something quieter. A weight in the chest. A pressure that hadn’t let up since Buck had slipped into his bunk hours earlier without saying more than two words.

He hadn’t smiled.

Not really.

Not since the show ended.

Eddie hadn’t said anything at the time, but he’d felt it—that sudden shift in Buck’s energy. The way the brightness had dimmed behind his eyes. He’d laughed at the mic, made the crowd roar like always, but it hadn’t felt real. Not like before.

And then afterward, Buck had gone quiet. Staring into a cup of tea he never touched. Shoulders drawn in. Like he was retreating inward, locking something away.

It scared Eddie more than anything.

The curtain to the bunks rustled, soft as a breath, and Ravi stepped into the glow of the kitchenette. He didn’t look surprised to find Eddie awake. He just came over, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair tousled from his pillow.

“Hey,” he murmured.

Eddie nodded. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Ravi didn’t ask why.

Instead, he reached for one of the mugs in the overhead cabinet, moving slowly, like he’d done it a hundred times. Because he had. Because this was home now, and they all moved around each other like planets with familiar gravity.

There was a pause, then another figure appeared. Chim, rubbing at his eyes, wearing a battered t-shirt and sweatpants with one sock missing. He looked around like he wasn’t sure he wanted to be awake, but knew he had to be.

“Hen coming?” Ravi asked without turning.

“Yeah,” Chim said around a yawn. “She’s just getting her shoes.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Her shoes?”

“She said she thinks better when she’s standing,” Chim mumbled, then added, “You’ll see.”

A second later, Hen arrived—fully dressed, hoodie zipped, sneakers laced, arms crossed like she’d just come off a performance and hadn’t had time to unwind. There was something in her posture that told Eddie this wasn’t a casual gathering.

This was an intervention. Of sorts.

Ravi set his mug down and leaned against the sink. Chim folded his arms and planted himself near the fridge. Hen took the spot beside Eddie, close enough for solidarity.

Eddie looked at all three of them, wariness rising like mist. “All right,” he said carefully. “What is this?”

Hen gave a small smile, soft and sad. “We wanted to talk. About tomorrow.”

Eddie glanced between them. “The show?”

“Pennsylvania,” Chim said. “The place. Not the gig.”

Eddie frowned. “Yeah. What about it?”

Hen exhaled slowly. “It’s Buck’s home state.”

Eddie’s brows knit together. “I know.”

Ravi tilted his head. “Do you? I mean—not just on paper.”

Chim rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not about geography. It’s about what it holds. And what it took.”

Eddie turned toward him, something colder coiling in his gut.

Hen spoke gently. “He’s not doing okay, Eddie.”

“I know that,” Eddie said, more forcefully than he meant to. Then softer: “I do. But he won’t talk to me.”

“He never talks about home,” Ravi said. “Not really. Just… cracks jokes. Changes the subject. I only found out about his birthday because Hen had to text Maddie.”

Hen nodded. “There’s a reason for that.”

Chim’s face twisted with something old—something that had sat in his gut for years. “Their parents... they weren’t monsters. Not the way you’d think. But they made love feel conditional. Performance-based. Like Buck had to earn it. Be better. Be more, make you question if you’re worth loving at all.”

“She said their mom was cold,” Chim continued, voice quieter now. “Like ice water in human form. And their dad was a perfectionist. The kind of guy who treated approval like it was currency and affection like weakness.”

Hen’s voice dropped low. “That’s why he became this —this larger-than-life guy who throws himself off speakers and jokes through pain. It’s not just for the fans. It’s armor.”

Eddie’s grip tightened around the beer bottle. “Why didn’t he tell me any of this?”

“Because it still hurts,” Ravi said. “Because even now, he’s trying to protect us from it. From him.”

Chim's eyes were red, but not from lack of sleep. “He was the youngest. The leftover. Maddie escaped first, but Buck had to survive the rest of it alone. And now we’re heading back to the state where all of it lives.”

Hen looks down at her hands, “He always leaves them tickets, save them seats. We arent sure whats worse though, them never showing, or actually being there.”

Ravi stepped forward then, his voice deliberate. “I don’t think we’re seeing the worst of it. Not yet. But we’re close. This stop—this place—whatever memories it drags up… It’s gonna hurt. Even if we don’t actually see them. It’s still home. Or it used to be.”

The words hit like a punch. Not sharp, but deep. A slow-blooming bruise beneath the ribs.

Ravi stepped closer, voice gentle but pointed. “He’s going to need you.”

Hen nodded. “Not just on stage. Not in some backstage hallway. He’s going to need you when he starts to pull away. When he smiles too big. When he says he’s fine, and looks like the sky’s caving in.”

Eddie swallowed hard. “And what if I don’t know what to say?”

“Then don’t say anything,” Hen said. “Just stay. ”

“Stay when he’s quiet,” Ravi echoed. “When he’s moody. When he hides in his bunk and pretends he’s just tired.”

“Stay even when he tries to push you away,” Chim added.

Eddie frowned slightly. “He doesn’t exactly make it easy.”

“No,” Hen agreed. “He doesn’t. But it’s not because he doesn’t want you. It’s because he doesn’t know how to believe that someone would stay if he really lets them in.”

“Especially someone like you,” Ravi added, stepping closer, hands tucked in the front pocket of his hoodie. “You’re the one person he doesn’t want to lose. That makes it scarier.”

Eddie looked up at him, startled. “Me?”

“Yeah,” Ravi said. “You.”

Chim’s smile was faint but real. “It’s not subtle, man. The way he watches you. The way he listens when you talk. It’s like you’re gravity.”

Hen tilted her head. “And you don’t even realize you’ve been orbiting each other this whole time.”

Eddie let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

Hen’s voice softened. “He needs you. Not the EMT. Not the bodyguard. You. The guy who sat with him after the fall and didn’t ask for anything in return. The guy who listens when he rambles about old song lyrics and band trivia. The guy who sees him.”

Eddie pressed his hand to the counter to steady himself. The overhead light glinted off the amber in his beer bottle like a tiny flame. Like a warning.

“He’s already unraveling a little,” he admitted. “You saw it in D.C.”

“Yeah,” Hen said gently. “We did.”

Eddie looked at them and saw not just friends, not coworkers, not a band crew.

Ravi’s quiet steadiness. Chim’s worry, stitched into the corners of his mouth. Hen’s fierce compassion, steady as always.

He saw people who had held Buck’s broken pieces in their hands and never let them fall.

They were a family.

Maybe the first one Buck ever got to choose.

“He’s ours,” Chim said, like it was sacred.

Hen stepped forward, her hand landing gently on Eddie’s shoulder. “And now he’s yours too. You’re already in it, Eddie. We just want you to know you don’t have to do it alone.”

Eddie closed his eyes for a long second. Then opened them, steadier than before.

He nodded, slow but certain. “Okay.”

Ravi gave a soft, satisfied exhale and patted his arm. “Good. Because when it hits, it’s gonna hit hard.”

“We’ll all be there,” Hen added.

Eddie glanced back toward the sleeping bunks, the curtain closed tight around Buck’s bunk like armor. Like a shell.

He wasn’t sure when it had happened—when that bond between Buck and the others had reached out and wrapped itself around him, too—but it had. Somewhere between the chaos and the quiet. Somewhere between backstage bruises and post-show breakfasts. He’d become part of this family.

And he was all in.

He picked up his untouched beer, moved toward the sink, and poured it out without hesitation.

Then he turned back to them.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “We’ve got him.”

Chim grinned faintly. “Damn right we do.”

Hen bumped her shoulder into his. “Let’s get some sleep, then. He’s gonna need all of us sharp.”

Ravi pulled a hoodie tighter around his shoulders. “Especially you.”

Eddie didn’t argue.

They’d come together for Buck.

Not because of a schedule or a label or a show.

Because they loved him.

And so did Eddie.

Chapter Text

Pennsylvania looked the same.
That was the worst part.

Buck sat curled in the booth by the window, hood up, headphones in, one leg drawn toward his chest in a way that had to be hurting his knee—but he didn’t move—hadn’t, for hours. Not since the sky outside had changed from the clean blue of mid-morning to that bleak, pale gray that never really looked like day or night. Just neutral. Just numb.

The towns blurred past the tinted glass in muted browns and washed-out greens. Bare trees. Rusted swing sets. Waffle houses are off empty exits. A thousand little memories hidden in the silence between them.

Eddie watched from across the bus, nursing a mug of coffee that had long gone cold in his hands. The others were scattered—Hen asleep in her bunk, Ravi reading on the couch, Chim in the back lounge pretending not to be checking in every five minutes. But Eddie hadn’t moved since Buck took that spot.

Hadn’t taken his eyes off him, either.

Buck hadn’t said a word since they crossed the state line. Not when Chim cracked a joke about Sheetz versus Wawa. Not when Hen offered him her last good snack bar. Not even when Ravi nudged his foot under the table, silently checking in.

His silence said everything.

It was the kind of silence that settled deep, not the quiet of a man who had nothing to say, but of someone who’d already said it all to himself and found no comfort in the answers.

Eddie could feel it radiating off him. The tension. The weight.

The grief.

Not loud, not visible—not in the obvious ways. Buck hadn’t cried or broken anything. He hadn’t lashed out. He just olded in. Like a paper star crumpling under a fingertip. Like something too fragile to hold its shape under the pressure of memory.

Eddie stood quietly. Refilled his mug even though he wasn’t going to drink it. Then walked the short distance over to Buck and slid into the opposite side of the booth without asking.

Buck didn’t look up.

Didn’t pull off his headphones or acknowledge him at all, really—just shifted half an inch to the side, like maybe he’d remembered too late that he wasn’t alone.

Eddie didn’t speak right away. He watched the landscape roll by out the window behind Buck—watched the road signs counting down to places Buck never talked about.

Mechanicsburg.
Camp Hill.
Harrisburg.

Places that sounded harmless but made Buck retreat inch by inch, like the cold air outside had crawled into his skin.

“You ever gonna let someone else sit at this table?” Eddie asked eventually, voice low and careful.

Buck didn’t answer. But after a long moment, he pulled his headphones down and set them on the table.

Still didn’t look at him.

“I used to stare out the window the whole way back from El Paso,” Eddie said. “After leave. Pretend I was seeing it for the first time so it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

That got him a glance—small, sideways, brief.

Eddie took it as a win.

He went on. “Didn’t work, obviously. Still knew every crack in the sidewalk outside the gas station on my street. Still saw the burnt-up porch at the corner house. Still remembered what it felt like the last time I left, when I thought I wasn’t gonna make it back.”

He paused, thumb tracing the curve of his mug.

“It’s funny how nothing changes, even when everything inside you has.”

The words hung in the space between them like something sacred.

Buck blinked at him, eyes wet but unfallen.

And then he exhaled.

It wasn’t relief. Not quite. But it was something. Like taking the first breath after holding it too long.

Eddie glanced toward the bunks, then back at Buck. “Come lie down for a bit. You haven’t slept.”

Buck hesitated. “Not tired.”

Eddie gave him a look.

Buck rolled his eyes. “Fine. A little tired.”

They got up together, quietly. Buck moved like someone walking through water—slow, stiff, wary. But when Eddie reached out, Buck let him steady him with a hand at his elbow.

Small thing.

Meant everything.

They didn’t go to their bunks. Instead, they ended up back on the small couch near the kitchenette—too narrow for two, but that didn’t stop them.

Buck sank down with a sigh. Eddie followed, wrapping a blanket around them both, pulling Buck close like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Buck let himself be held.

He pressed his forehead to Eddie’s shoulder, breath slow and uneven.

“I hate this place,” he mumbled, not quite asleep.

“I know,” Eddie murmured. “But we’re not staying. Just passing through.”

Buck nodded into his shirt.

They stayed like that for a long time. No music. No noise. Just breath and presence and the quiet hum of the road carrying them through the ghost state.

And in that silence, wrapped in each other, they didn’t need words to know.

They weren’t alone.
Not anymore.

The arena echoed with reverb—empty seats catching the sound like echoes in a canyon, soft and shuddering and hollow. Techs moved like ghosts across the stage, adjusting levels and chasing bad signals through a mess of tangled cords. Guitars buzzed in feedback loops, catching and sputtering through the monitors like broken breath.

Chimney tapped his sticks against the edge of the kit, counting into nothing. A rhythm without purpose.

Hen stood stage left with her iPad, muttering cues into her headset, but even her voice had lost its edge. Too quiet. Too heavy.

Ravi knelt near the edge of the stage, swapping out a lens with careful, practiced hands, half-focused on his gear, half on Buck.

Everyone could feel it.

The tension. The tilt.

The way the air around Buck seemed different today. Thin. Fractured.

From the middle of the empty venue, Eddie watched like he was waiting for the moment a storm breaks.

Buck stood under the lights, mic in hand, guitar strapped across his chest like armor, and he wasn’t sure he remembered how to use it. He was working through the chorus of a new song—something slow, melodic, bruised at the edges—but something was off.

His timing was fine. Pitch solid. His voice hit all the right notes.

But the soul wasn’t there.

His smile, when it came, landed like a misstep, a twitch of muscle memory instead of warmth. His gaze skimmed the space like he wasn’t really seeing anything at all.

He looked like a man going through motions he didn’t recognize anymore. Like someone reenacting a memory instead of living a life.

Then mid-bridge, right at the line that would’ve crested into something beautiful, Buck stopped.

Just… stopped.

He didn’t stumble or flinch. Didn’t apologize. Just let the note fall flat in the air, hanging awkwardly for one long second before he turned slightly and said, “Need a second.”

Then walked offstage.

Eddie didn’t move at first.

Neither did anyone else.

It was Chim who sighed and set his sticks down first. Hen muttered something into her headset, probably canceling the rest of the rehearsal. Ravi packed up the camera with quiet, reverent hands.

No one said it out loud. They didn’t need to.

They all knew.

Pennsylvania was eating him alive.

It had been an hour.

Eddie found him behind the venue, down past the loading dock where the pavement cracked in thin, weeping lines, where trash cans lined the wall like forgotten sentinels. A chain-link fence ran along the edge of the lot, topped with loose coils of rusted wire, and beyond it, the dim outline of old houses blurred behind the mist.

Buck sat on the concrete steps, hunched in on himself like something broken and folded wrong. Hoodie pulled up. Shoulders drawn tight. A cigarette burned between his fingers, slow and untouched.

He wasn’t smoking it.

Just holding it. Like a fuse. Like a lit match, he hadn’t decided what to do with it yet.

His legs were curled up toward his chest, elbows braced against his knees. One hand hid the lower half of his face, like he was trying to physically hold it together.

Eddie slowed as he approached, footsteps quiet against the gravel. He didn’t speak right away. Just took him in. The posture. The stillness.

The ache.

“Buck,” he said softly.

No answer.

Eddie dropped down into a crouch beside him. Close but not crowding.

“Hey,” he tried again, voice low.

Still nothing.

Buck stared through the fence like it held all the answers he never got as a kid.

Then, barely above a whisper, he said, “I hate this place.”

His voice was shredded. Like it had been used up before it even reached his throat. Like it had been screaming inside him for days.

Eddie sat on the step beside him. Didn’t speak. Didn’t offer empty comfort.

Just waited.

The silence between them was sharp and restless, full of all the things Buck had never said out loud. Eddie could feel the weight of it, like a storm building behind his ribs.

Eventually, Buck spoke again.

“I don’t even know what I thought would happen,” he said. “I haven’t been back in years. They don’t call. They don’t write. I thought maybe—I don’t know. Maybe I’d feel something different. But it still feels like I’m fourteen and trying not to cry in a locked bathroom because my parents didn’t show up to the one thing I actually cared about.”

Eddie closed his eyes.

The picture was too easy to see. Too vivid.

Teenage Buck, probably with that same ridiculous smile plastered on his face for the world, while his chest caved in with disappointment, he didn’t know how to voice it.

“I keep thinking I’ve done enough,” Buck said. “That I made something out of myself. That I left all of it behind. But it just… it sticks to you. Like smoke. Like mold. It gets in your clothes. Your hair. Under your skin.”

His voice broke on that last word.

His voice dropped. “Maddie got out. She always knew how. But me? I stayed. I kept thinking I could win them over. If I just… worked harder. Was better.”

Eddie looked at him carefully. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“But I want to,” Buck whispered.

That surprised them both.

Buck turned his head slightly, eyes wet and red. “I don’t know how to say any of it. I just know it’s still inside me. Still wrapped around my ribs like barbed wire. And they’re probably out there somewhere thinking they did their best. That I turned out fine. That I should be grateful .”

He laughed then. Short. Bitter. Ugly.

“Grateful that they didn’t hit me. Grateful that I had food and a roof. Grateful that they ignored everything I loved until it didn’t even feel like mine anymore.”

Eddie reached out, gently took the cigarette from his fingers, and tossed it into a puddle.

“Buck—”

“I used to think I had to be loud,” Buck said, voice trembling. “To get noticed. To be enough. So I made myself bigger. Brighter. I laughed too hard. I ran toward the fires. I climbed fucking cranes. And I still wasn’t enough for them.”

He finally looked at Eddie then. Really looked.

“And now I don’t know how to turn it off. I don’t know how to stop performing. Not for the fans. Not for you. Not even for myself.”

Eddie’s heart shattered in his chest.

Piece by piece.

“Buck,” he said, “you don’t have to earn love. Not from them. Not from me. You never did.”

Buck gave a small, humorless laugh. “Tell that to my mom.”

“I would,” Eddie said, steady. “I’d have some choice words, actually.”

That got a faint smile.

Flickering. Brief. Real.

And then Buck’s face crumpled just a little.

Buck’s jaw clenched. “Then why does it still feel like I’m failing at something I can’t name?”

“Because they made you believe love was conditional,” Eddie said. “They made you think you had to be someone else to deserve it.”

He reached over and gently curled a hand around the back of Buck’s neck.

“But you don’t. I swear to God, you don’t.”

Buck blinked, and the tears finally fell.

He reached out slowly, carefully, and sure. “Buck,” he said gently. “Look at me.”

Buck hesitated, blinking through tears. Still halfway folded in on himself.

“Please,” Eddie said, voice raw. “Just—look at me.”

With visible effort, Buck turned toward him. And Eddie was already moving—one hand sliding up to the side of Buck’s face, thumb brushing just beneath his eye.

Buck flinched, not from fear, but from the unfamiliar softness of it.

Eddie leaned in closer.

“I need you to hear me,” he said, thumb wiping away another tear as it slid down Buck’s cheek. “You don’t have to earn love. Not from them. Not from me. You never did.”

Silent. Steady. Relentless.

“I’m not okay,” he whispered. “I’m not okay at all, Eddie.”

“I know,” Eddie said.

“I don’t know why it still gets to me,” Buck whispered, ashamed. “I’m thirty. I have people. You. Maddie. The 118. And still, coming back here feels like I’m fifteen again, waiting for someone to tell me I’m too much. I hate that I’m still trying to impress ghosts.”

“You’re not too much,” Eddie said, quiet and firm.

Buck’s throat bobbed with a swallow. “I’m not enough, either.”

Eddie leaned forward across the table, voice like iron under velvet. “You’re exactly enough. For all of us. For  e. ”

The words hung in the space between them like something sacred.

“You don’t owe them anything,” Eddie whispered. “You’re allowed to be hurt. You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to grieve what you didn’t get.”

Buck leaned forward until his forehead rested against Eddie’s shoulder, hands gripping his jacket like it was the only real thing anchoring him.

Eddie held him. Just held him.

The way he’d wanted to for weeks.

The way Buck had needed his whole life.

“You’re not too much,” Eddie said into his hair. “You never were. You’re just someone who needed more love than you got.”

Buck sobbed quietly. “What if I never stop needing it?”

“Then I’ll keep giving it,” Eddie said, fierce and soft and entirely undone. “As long as it takes.”

They stayed like that for a long time.

In the cold, behind the venue, with the ghosts pressed tight around them and nothing but Eddie’s arms holding Buck together.

The house lights dimmed, and the arena sank into a hush that felt unnatural, like the moment before an earthquake hits. Still, anticipatory. Off-kilter.

Buck stood alone at the center of the stage.

One hand gripped the mic like it might run from him. The other curled around the neck of his guitar, knuckles white, shoulders bowed just slightly forward, like the weight of the moment was something he physically carried.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t greet the crowd. Didn’t flash the usual smile. There was no wink, no introduction, no banter to break the tension.

Just silence.

And then—
One note.
Soft. Sparse. A single, aching chord struck through the stillness like a warning shot.

(7)

And everything else—every scream, every rustle, every flicker of movement—went still.

It was as if the entire arena exhaled at once and forgot how to breathe again.

He didn’t look at the crowd. Not really.

His eyes passed over them like headlights on an empty road, like if he focused too long, the memories buried beneath the surface might claw their way back up.

Then he opened his mouth.

And let it bleed.

“My father never talked a lot…He just took a walk around the block…”

The first line came out like a confession whispered through cracked glass.

His voice cracked on the word father —a small thing, but raw. Honest. Barely noticeable, unless you were listening for it.

Unless you were Eddie.

Standing stage-left in the wings, fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into skin.

That one line sliced deeper than a scream.

The audience didn’t cheer. Didn’t sway. Phones lowered, like they understood this wasn’t a moment to capture—it was one to witness.

A slow burn. An unraveling.

“I say they're just the ones who gave me life…But I truly am my parents' child.”

Buck’s jaw clenched. His throat moved with the effort of swallowing something down.

“I'm so good at telling lies…That came from my mother's side…Told a million to survive.”

He leaned into the mic then.

Slow. Deliberate.

Like it could anchor him to the stage. Like if he held it tightly enough, maybe the truth wouldn’t split him open.

His gaze didn’t settle on anyone. Just kept moving, skipping over the crowd like he was afraid of landing on something he recognized. Or someone he didn’t want to.

Eddie could feel it from here—the tremor beneath his skin, the crackling fuse of a man barely holding the seams shut.

The whole venue felt it.

The emotional tilt.

The grief in his bones.

“It's hard to put it into words…How the holidays will always hurt…I watch the fathers with their little girls…And wonder what I did to deserve this.”

His voice faltered. Not from weakness. From restraint. From the colossal effort it took to keep going.

“How could you hurt a little kid?... I can't forget, I can't forgive you…'Cause now I'm scared that everyone I love will leave me.”

Buck didn’t flinch. He let it sit.

His voice rang out, clear and trembling, and the weight of that line dropped into the room like a stone in water, rippled outward, silent and devastating.

His eyes caught the lights. Not from a spotlight, but from the wetness gathered there—tears that hadn’t fallen yet. But would.

The kind that had been building for years.

Eddie’s breath caught. He had seen Buck in a thousand different ways. On fire. Grinning through chaos. Worn down to the wire. But never like this.

Never this bare.

The words built, brick by brick, into something bigger than melody.

Pain alchemized into performance.

Truth turned into sound.

“Oh, all that I did to try to undo it…All of my pain and all your excuses…I was a kid, but I wasn't clueless.”

Hen, Ravi, and Chim joined him for one line, chanting, screaming, —no, practically begging for Buck to listen.

“Someone who loves you wouldn't do this.”

He dropped his gaze. His free hand trembled slightly at his side.

“All of my past, I tried to erase it…But now I see, would I even change it?... Might share a face and share a last name, but…We are not the same.”

His voice dropped to almost a whisper on the last line. Not because he couldn’t reach the note. Because he didn’t want to.

Because the words were so sacred, so heavy, they didn’t belong to be shouted. They belonged to the hush. To the breathless silence.

And for a moment, the entire arena held its breath.

Not screaming. Not clapping.

Just holding space.

“I can run, but I can't hide…From my family line…From my family line”

The final note lingered like fog in the rafters.

A heartbeat passed.

Then another.

Stillness.

Not the kind of silence that waits for an encore.

The kind that drops over a crowd like a funeral bell.

Then, finally—
The crowd exploded.

Applause erupted like thunder, screams rising in a collective swell of awe, grief, and catharsis.

But Buck didn’t bask in it.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t bow. Didn’t look for approval.

He just nodded once.

Simple. Sharp.

Just walked offstage like the song had cost him something he hadn’t decided to give.

He didn’t get far.

The crowd's roar still echoed in his ears—distant, distorted, like sound underwater—but it didn’t follow him into the greenroom. That door might as well have been a portal to another world. Another life.

Because the moment Buck stepped through it, he stopped being Buck at all.

Margaret and Philip Buckley.

Buck stopped short.

Like he’d been shot.

His feet didn’t move. His breath caught somewhere halfway up his throat. The air turned heavier than it had been onstage, thick and unbreathable, like smoke in a sealed room.

They stood when he walked in. As if they had the right. As if they hadn’t been missing for years, ghosts who never stayed long enough to be haunted by.

“Evan,” his mother said, rising from the couch like she'd been waiting to pounce.

And just like that, he was thirteen again.

Back in a too-quiet house, flinching at a slammed cabinet door, shrinking beneath his father’s disapproving stare. The stage lights, the thunderous applause, the man he’d built himself into—they all slipped away like they were just a costume he’d put on for a part he’d never been allowed to audition for.

Margaret and Philip Buckley stood like strangers pretending to be family.

“Son,” Philip said with a stiff nod.

Eddie nearly walked straight into Buck’s back when he froze.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Eddie’s hand brushed his lower back, gentle and wordless. Buck didn’t even feel it.

Margaret stepped closer. “We heard the song.”

She paused, searching for something more generous than the truth. “It was… powerful.”

Buck turned slowly. Looked at them like they were ghosts he hadn’t invited.

Philip added, “We didn’t realize you felt that way.”

Margaret’s voice turned clipped. “You could’ve told us, Evan. A song like that—airing our dirty laundry to strangers? It was cruel.”

Buck blinked. “ Cruel? ”

“You made us look like monsters,” she said, voice rising like she was the one who’d been wounded.

“You are monsters,” Buck said, low and stunned and sharp around the edges.

Philip’s brows shot up. “Now wait just a minute—”

“You think this is about embarrassing you? ” Buck cut in, his voice gaining heat. “That song was the only way I could say any of it. You didn’t want to hear it from me then, and you clearly don’t want to hear it now.”

“We thought you were happy,” Philip said again, like repeating it would make it true. “You’ve got this career, the fans, the music. We figured you moved on.”

Buck laughed. Laughed. It came out jagged and humorless.

“Moved on? I grew up alone in a house with your names on the mailbox.”

Margaret crossed her arms. “You’re being dramatic. That’s always been your problem.”

Buck stared at her, stunned. “My problem ?”

“You were always emotional,” she said. “You’d cry over nothing, you’d throw fits if things didn’t go your way. Your brother was never like that. He—”

“Don’t,” Buck snapped, and for the first time, Eddie saw fire behind his eyes. Not just hurt. Fury.

“Don’t bring Daniel into this.”

Margaret faltered. Just for a moment.

But it wasn’t regret. It was discomfort.

“We all lost him,” she said. “Not just you.”

“I was a baby, and you let me grow up in a graveyard. You buried me with him.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Nothing about my childhood was fair!” Buck’s voice cracked open, sharp and full of years he would never get back. “You wanted a replacement for a dead son, and when I couldn’t be him, you decided I wasn’t worth the effort.”

“That’s not true,” Philip said flatly.

“Isn’t it? You barely spoke to me. You couldn’t even look at me unless I was pretending to be something you liked—quiet, agreeable, invisible.”

“You’re being—”

“ Stop calling me dramatic! ” Buck shouted. “Stop acting like I made this all up!”

They stared at him. And in that silence, in the small, heavy space between his heaving breaths, Margaret finally said it.

“Well then,” she said, cool and dismissive, “what were we supposed to do?”

It was almost comical.

Almost.

Because for a second, Buck looked like he’d misheard her.

Like maybe she’d said something in a language only grief could understand.

Then—

His face crumpled.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just this small, quiet thing. His brows drawing in. His eyes shining. His mouth falling open like the words hurt before they even formed.

And then he said, softly, hopelessly:

“You were supposed to love me anyway.”

Silence.

Margaret opened her mouth. Closed it.

Philip looked away.

And something in Buck… fractured.

“I wasn’t asking for perfect parents,” he said, voice shaking. “I just wanted a reason to believe I mattered to you.”

“You do matter,” Philip said stiffly.

“No,” Buck said. “Evan mattered. That sad little boy, you could ignore into obedience—he mattered. The version of me that fit into the quiet corners of your grief, he mattered. But I’m not Evan anymore.”

He took a step back, like their presence made the air toxic.

“I stopped being Evan the day I realized nothing I did would ever be enough for you to stay.”

“Evan, please,” Margaret said, reaching for him.

But Buck flinched. Visibly. Violently.

“Don’t. Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that.”

“Then what do you want from us?” Philip demanded. “What is this?”

“This,” Buck said, “is me, finally telling you: I don’t need anything from you anymore.”

Margaret blinked. “We just wanted to start over.”

“You should’ve started caring when I was five.”

Then, without another word, Buck turned and walked out.

Eddie stayed frozen for a second, staring at them. At the couple who had broken the boy he loved. He wanted to scream. He wanted to hurt them with words. But Buck had already said everything that mattered.

So he followed.

He found him in the hallway, slumped against the wall like the confrontation had been a battlefield and he’d barely crawled away from the wreckage.

His chest rose and fell in broken breaths. His hands shook. His eyes stared straight ahead like he couldn’t bear to blink.

Eddie crouched in front of him.

Gently, he touched Buck’s jaw.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “ Look at me. ”

When Buck didn’t, Eddie reached out and turned his face with both hands—carefully, reverently, like he was something holy that had been shattered.

“Buck,” Eddie said. “ Please. Look at me.”

He did.

And it was unbearable.

Tears clung to his lashes. His lips trembled. He looked like a man who had just walked through hell and only just realized he’d made it out alone.

Eddie’s thumbs brushed under his eyes. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

“I was never enough for them,” Buck whispered. “No matter what I did.”

“They don’t get to define what enough is,” Eddie said. “They never did.”

Buck shook his head, a tear slipping loose. “Why does it still hurt?”

“Because you loved them anyway,” Eddie said. “That’s who you are.”

A long pause.

Then, so quietly Eddie almost didn’t catch it:

“…I didn’t even want them to say sorry. I just wanted them to see me.”

Eddie leaned forward, pressed his forehead gently to Buck’s.

“I see you.”

And Buck broke, soundlessly, into his hands.

Chapter Text

Eddie Diaz is a terrible, no-good, big fat liar.

He said, and Buck quoted, “We’re not staying. Not another night. Not in this town.”

And yet.

Here they were.

Middle of Pennsylvania. Middle of nowhere. A two-star motel off the highway that smelled like lemon cleaner, old dust, and grief. The walls were the color of resignation. The wallpaper curled in the corners like it was trying to escape. The lights buzzed faintly overhead, flickering like nerves about to misfire.

Tommy, may his coffee always be cold and his Wi-Fi unstable, had heard about Buck’s on-stage breakdown. And like the absolute demon he was, he decided the obvious response was to schedule a second Pennsylvania show.

“The press loves a redemption arc,” he’d said.

Hen had nearly thrown her clipboard at the tiny screen he was on. Chim suggested the universe would forgive one little push down a flight of stairs. Ravi just walked away.

But the show was booked.

And the band was stuck here.

Buck hadn’t spoken much since walking out of the greenroom. He’d ghosted through the post-show buzz, nodded when spoken to, laughed once at something Chim said, and immediately regretted it.

The silence in the room wasn’t quiet.

It was thick. Uncomfortable. The kind that made your skin itch from the inside out.

The hum of the minibar fridge. The muffled highway traffic outside. The occasional groan of old plumbing in the walls. It all blurred together, pressing in from all sides.

Buck sat on the edge of the hotel bed, hunched forward, fingers locked behind his neck like he was trying to hold his skull together. His legs bounced with anxious energy. The tendons in his forearms twitched.

Eddie sat across from him in the armchair by the window, hands loosely clasped between his knees. He’d stayed quiet, but not indifferent—eyes tracking every micro-expression, every stutter of Buck’s breath, every way his shoulders had curled tighter since they stepped into the room.

And Buck, he hated it. The quiet. The waiting.

He let out a breath. Sharp. Frustrated.

“I feel like I’m gonna crawl out of my own fucking skin.”

Eddie’s voice was steady. “Talk to me.”

Buck didn’t move. Didn’t look at him. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Anywhere.”

Another beat passed. And then Buck laughed—a bitter, hollow thing.

“You ever think maybe there’s just something wrong with me?”

Eddie blinked, caught off guard. “No. Not once.”

Buck scoffed. “Well, they sure did.”

Eddie leaned forward. “You’re not them, Buck.”

“I know that,” Buck snapped, then winced, immediately regretting the heat in his voice. He ran both hands through his hair and tried again. “I know that. But it doesn’t matter. Because no matter how far I go, no matter how loud I sing or how many people scream my name, it always comes back. That look in their eyes was like I was some… inconvenience. Like they were just waiting for me to get older so I could finally stop being their problem.”

Eddie was quiet, but not silent. His brows furrowed. “You don’t believe that.”

“I do,” Buck whispered. “I think I always have.”

He let the weight of that settle before speaking again.

“They used to forget to pick me up from school,” he said suddenly. “Like—not just once or twice. Like regularly. I’d sit on the curb until it got dark, watching every car that drove by, wondering if maybe I’d done something to make them stop coming.”

“Jesus,” Eddie murmured.

“And when I finally walked home alone, they’d act like it was no big deal. Like I was being dramatic. Margaret would say something like, ‘You’re such a sensitive child, Evan.’” His voice warped around the name. “But you know what the worst part was?”

Eddie waited.

“I believed them.”

Buck stood abruptly, crossing to the other side of the room like he could outrun the memory. He pressed a hand to the wall, forehead following it, body tense and trembling.

His whole body was pulled tight, as if he unclenched, everything inside him would come spilling out and make a mess too big to clean up.

Then, quietly, he said, “They always say it like it still belongs to them.”

Eddie frowned, confused.

Buck didn’t look up. “My name. ‘Evan.’ Like they can summon me with it. Like I didn’t spend the last ten years carving that name out of me.”

Understanding flickered in Eddie’s eyes. “You haven’t been Evan in a long time.”

Buck laughed, sharp and bitter. “No. I haven’t. But they said it like I never changed. Like I’m still that kid they forgot about in a house with too many shadows and not enough warmth.”

Eddie didn’t argue. He’d heard them say it— Evan —like they were dragging Buck backwards through time against his will. Like they didn’t know, or didn’t care, that the boy they’d raised had had to become someone else just to survive.

Buck’s shoulders twitched with something that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so hollow. “They didn’t even ask how I’ve been. Didn’t ask about the tour. About the band. About anything that matters. They just—” he cut himself off, jaw tight.

Eddie filled the silence gently. “They said they heard the song.”

Buck’s eyes flicked to him, wide and dark. “Like it was homework, I turned it in late. Like it was a presentation .”

“I saw,” Eddie said. “I heard everything.”

Buck nodded once. Then, his voice dropped to something soft and shaking: “They said they didn’t know what to do. Like—what were they supposed to do?”

He gave a broken, disbelieving laugh.

“I said, ‘You were supposed to love me anyway.’”

Eddie didn’t say anything at first. Just breathed through the weight of it.

Buck kept talking because he couldn’t stop now. “It wasn’t even anger , Eds. Not really. Just… disappointment. Like I was being unfair by telling the truth.”

“They don’t know you,” Eddie said. “Not really. They didn’t even try to.”

“No,” Buck agreed, “they just tried to make me small enough to fit in the space Daniel left behind.”

He said his brother’s name like it tasted like rust. Like it had been burning a hole in his mouth for years.

Buck leaned forward, pressing his hands to his face, breathing hard.

“They kept him from me for twenty-nine years . You know that? And when I finally found out, they acted like it was mercy. Like not knowing was somehow better than grieving.”

His voice cracked on the word mercy .

“I was always grieving anyway,” he whispered. “I just didn’t know who for.”

Eddie reached forward and rested a hand on Buck’s knee. “They failed you. That’s on them . Not you.”

Buck’s laugh turned mean, bitter. “Yeah? Well, I believed it was my fault. For a long time. That maybe I wasn’t lovable. That maybe if I’d just tried harder —if I’d been quieter, smarter, easier—maybe then they’d… stay.”

He looked up, and there was something unmoored in his expression.

“I spent my whole childhood trying to be someone they could love. And you know what I learned?”

Eddie shook his head.

“No matter what I did, I wasn’t him ,” Buck said. “I wasn’t Daniel. And that meant I would never be enough.”

Eddie’s hand tightened.

Buck shook his head. “And then Maddie—”

He stopped. Swallowed.

“She was the only one who ever really saw me. Who stayed. Who tried. But even she—” He sucked in a breath like it hurt. “Even she left.”

“You mean with Doug?”

Buck nodded, face crumpling.

“I know why she did. I know he was hurting her. I know she was surviving. I understand it. But I was just a kid, and suddenly she was gone, and there was no one left but our parents and all that silence. And I missed her so much, I used to sleep with her old hoodie under my pillow.”

He laughed wetly. “It still smelled like her shampoo. For a while.”

Eddie was quiet. Listening. Not looking away.

“And then when she came back—” Buck’s voice faltered. “She had a new life. She’s talking to Chim, which neither of them thinks I know about, but I’m not an idiot. She had more trauma than I could wrap my head around, and I didn’t know how to be what she needed. And she didn’t know how to be what I needed, either.”

He rubbed his eyes. “And now she’s here . And she’s trying. But every time I see her talking to Mom, every time she lets them in like they didn’t ruin me, I want to scream. Because where were you ? Where the fuck were you , Maddie?”

Eddie asked gently, “Have you told her?”

“No!” Buck snapped, then winced. “No. Because I don’t want to hurt her. Because I love her. Because she did protect me, even if she couldn’t always stay.”

“But you’re still angry.”

“I’m furious ,” Buck whispered. “And I don’t know what to do with it. I can’t be mad at Maddie, not when I know everything she’s been through. Not when she’s the only one who ever loved me, even a little bit, right? But I am mad. And that makes me feel like the worst kind of person.”

Eddie moved closer, sitting beside him on the edge of the bed.

“You’re grieving,” he said. “You’re grieving the family you should’ve had.”

Buck looked at him with wide, wet eyes.

“You were a kid, Buck. You deserved so much better. You deserved parents . You deserved a sister who didn’t have to run. And none of that anger makes you bad. It makes you human .”

Buck didn’t respond for a moment. Then he tipped forward and rested his forehead against Eddie’s shoulder, his body shaking with silent tears.

Eddie wrapped an arm around his back and held him steady.

“I keep trying to be okay,” Buck murmured. “I keep smiling for the cameras. Singing the songs. Laughing with the band. But it’s all underneath it, it’s all just this . I don’t know how to carry it anymore.”

“You don’t have to carry it alone.”

“I don’t want to be this angry forever.”

“You should’ve screamed,” he said, steady and warm. “You’re allowed to scream.”

Buck met his eyes, something breaking loose in his chest.

“I tried . For years, I tried to say it out loud. That I was hurting. That I was here , waiting. And nobody listened. Not Maddie. Not them. Not even me. And now it’s all stuck inside me like this giant knot I can’t undo.”

Eddie reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Then let’s start untying it.”

Buck stared at him. “How?”

“By talking. By feeling it. By not pretending it didn’t happen. I’m here, Buck. I’m listening.”

And Buck did.

He let it crash out of him in fits and gasps. Rage and sorrow and the kind of grief that doesn’t have a name. He told Eddie about birthdays spent alone, about learning to cook because no one else bothered. About sitting on the porch at seventeen and realizing no one was ever coming for him.

He told him about Christmas, where Maddie sent a card but didn’t call. About the time he won an award, his parents didn’t show up. About the silence that filled every space in his life, like a second skin.

And Eddie listened.

He listened and nodded and asked questions and let Buck feel it all without trying to fix it.

Buck exhaled a shaky breath.

“It’s just—some nights, I still feel like I’m that kid on the curb. Still waiting.”

“You’re not alone on the curb anymore,” Eddie said. “We found you. And we’re not going anywhere.”

And when Buck finally went quiet, throat raw and heart pounding, Eddie said, “I’m proud of you.”

Buck blinked. “For what?”

“For surviving. For still loving. For still showing up. For being Buck.”

And in the stillness of that cheap hotel room, surrounded by years of hurt and the weight of things unsaid, Buck breathed. Really breathed.

For the first time in a long, long time.

A knock broke the silence an hour later.

It was soft. Barely a sound. But it hit like a stone through stained glass.

Eddie didn’t look at Buck when he stood. Didn’t need to. The quiet between them was no longer silence—it was breath, it was grief, it was everything Buck hadn’t said until tonight, spilled across the floor like wine too red to clean up.

He opened the door slowly.

Hen stepped in first. Her eyes flicked from Eddie to Buck, and whatever she saw in Buck’s face made her shoulders square with quiet resolve. She crossed the room without hesitation and sat on the end of the bed like she belonged there. Like she had a right to that space. Like she had come to witness .

Ravi came in next, gentle as dusk. He didn’t say anything, just sank down cross-legged on the floor, his arms resting lightly on his knees, gaze steady. Unmoving. A lighthouse in a storm.

Chim was last. He lingered in the doorway for a second, like he needed to gather something invisible before stepping through. Then he leaned against the dresser, arms folded, mouth pressed in a line.

They didn’t come to distract. They came to see him.

And god, did that almost ruin Buck. Because it would have been easier— so much easier —if they had just come to pretend. To smile, to talk about tomorrow’s show, to fill the room with noise so he wouldn’t have to sit in the wreckage of himself.

But they didn’t.

They came to look him in the eye.

“Thought you’d want to be alone,” Chim said. “But we figured, maybe… you didn’t.”

Buck dragged in a shaky breath, eyes flicking to Eddie, who still stood at the door, shoulder against the frame. Not guarding. Just keeping the outside world at bay for a little longer.

Buck swallowed around the sharp lump in his throat. His eyes were raw. His hands were shaking, still. And he felt bare , like he’d peeled off every layer of armor and laid it at Eddie’s feet an hour ago and hadn’t remembered how to put it back on.

And then Chim said, “You wanna know something weird about love?”

Buck’s gaze snapped to him, startled. Chim wasn’t looking at him. Not exactly. He was looking somewhere just past him, like the words were pulled from somewhere older than both of them.

“It’s not soft,” Chim continued. “Not really. Everyone says it is, like it’s this gentle, tender thing. But it’s not. Love’s sharp . Messy. Loud when it counts. It barges in, uninvited. It fights. It hurts sometimes. But it stays. When it’s real, it stays.”

Hen nodded slowly, eyes still on Buck. “And sometimes, love isn’t about being right. It’s not about winning the argument or proving the point. It’s about showing up . Over and over. Even when the people who were supposed to don’t. Even when they left you behind.”

Buck blinked hard. The air felt like it was pressing down on him, like grief had become a second gravity.

Ravi spoke then. Quietly. Almost yielding.

“You think love’s a feeling,” he said. “Everyone says that, too. But it’s not. Not only. It’s a choice . Every day. It’s a decision to stay. To care. To hold on. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Eddie shifted closer to the bed. His knee brushed Buck’s. And when Buck turned toward him, Eddie didn’t look away.

“We’re here,” he said. No hesitation. Just truth. “We’re staying. Not because we have to. Because we want to.”

And that— that —was what undid Buck.

His eyes stung. His breath hitched. His hands balled into fists in the comforter, like he needed to hold on to something real, something solid, or else he’d drift out the window like smoke.

“You don’t understand,” he rasped. “You don’t— I’ve never —”

He broke off, trying to breathe.

Hen reached forward and took his hand, warm and grounding. “Say it, Buck.”

He shook his head.

“Say it,” she said again, gentle but firm.

His throat worked, and then the words came, jagged and hoarse.

“I’ve never felt like enough.”

Not once. Not with his parents, who measured his worth against the ghost of a brother he’d never even known existed. Not in the cracked, scattered pieces of Maddie’s absence, no matter how fiercely she loved him when she could. Not in any fostered flickers of connection that always seemed to burn out before they could catch light.

“I’ve always felt like an option ,” Buck choked out. “Something extra. Like I was just… there . And if I stopped being useful, if I stopped being the one who entertained or helped or made people laugh—I’d be forgotten.”

Chim’s eyes burned. Hen tightened her grip.

“You’re not an option,” Eddie said, voice low and sure. “You’re ours . Not conditionally. Not because of what you do. Just because you’re you .”

Buck let out a shaky breath, and it cracked in the middle.

Hen slid closer on the bed, both her hands on his now. “You are loved, Buck Buckley. Wholly. Messily. Loudly. Quietly. In every single way that matters.”

“I don’t know how to believe that.”

“You don’t have to believe it yet,” Ravi said. “You just have to let us .”

There was a silence so thick it felt like it could split the room in two. Then Hen leaned forward, her hand warm where it found Buck’s.

“You want proof?” she asked. “Here’s proof.”

She looked him in the eye and said, “I love that you can’t stop sharing facts when you’re nervous. I love that you get excited about things like cloud formations and tidal shifts. I love that you always carry extra chargers because you know we’ll forget ours.”

Chim stepped closer. “I love that you remember everyone’s coffee orders but still ask every single time. That you text at 3 AM with weird trivia because you think it’ll make us smile. It does.”

Ravi smiled gently. “I love that you always offer to help carry things even when you’re exhausted. That you notice when people are quiet. That you listen—really listen—even when you’re hurting.”

Eddie’s voice was quiet but unwavering. “I love that you care more than anyone I’ve ever known. That you try so hard, even when no one asks you to. I love that you laugh with your whole body and love like you’re on fire.”

He paused, swallowing, then added, “I love the way you see the world. Like it’s still worth something.”

Buck blinked hard, and tears slipped free before he could stop them.

“You want to know what you’ve taught us?” Hen said gently. “You taught us that it’s okay to need people. That leaning on each other isn’t a weakness. That showing up—again and again—is how we heal.”

“You taught me that blood doesn’t mean shit if it doesn’t show up,” Chim said. “That you can start over. That you can be more than where you came from.”

“You taught me,” Ravi said, “that kindness can be fierce. That softness isn’t the opposite of strength.”

Eddie shifted forward until he was kneeling in front of Buck, voice low and reverent. “You taught me what it means to stay. Not just to be present, but to stay , in the truest sense. Through fire and fallout and fear. You stayed. And I’ve never had that before.”

Buck looked around the room. At Chim, standing silent sentinel stands. At Ravi, grounded and unshaken. At Hen, fierce and unwavering. At Eddie, who had held his soul in his hands just hours ago and hadn’t flinched .

“I didn’t think anyone would come,” Buck whispered.

“But we did,” Eddie said. “And we always will.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full. It brimmed with presence. With choice. With love that was hard-won and fiercely kept.

Hen leaned forward, her voice soft but stronger than steel.

“This,” she said, squeezing his hands, “ This is what love looks like, Buck.”

Buck closed his eyes.

And for the first time in what felt like years , he didn’t feel hollow. He didn’t feel abandoned. He didn’t feel like some extra piece that never quite fit.

He felt chosen .

And it wasn’t just words. It was the room, warm and quiet and full of the people who chose him every day. The ones who saw the broken pieces and didn’t flinch. Who held them? Who stayed.

Ravi glanced toward him and said softly, “Family isn’t the people we’re born to. It’s the people we choose. The people who choose us.”

And in the gentle weight of that moment, in the warm hands on his, in the quiet certainty of his friends, he thought maybe, just maybe, he could learn to choose himself too.

Buck let out a long, shuddering breath. His eyes burned.

“I don’t… I don’t know how I got this lucky,” he whispered.

Hen leaned in and kissed the top of his head. “You didn’t get lucky. You deserve this.”

Eventually, the room quieted again—but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was full.

No one left.

The bed was too small, the floor too stiff, the air conditioner clunked every fifteen minutes like it might die trying—but none of them moved.

Chim ended up curled in the armchair with his legs dangling over the side. Hen dozed on top of the covers, one hand still laced with Buck’s. Ravi passed out with a hoodie rolled under his head and a hoodie that might’ve been Buck’s draped over his chest. Eddie slid down the wall, shoulder to shoulder with Buck at the edge of the mattress, close enough to feel his breathing.

And Buck—Buck finally slept.

Not perfectly. Not without dreams.

But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t fall asleep wondering who would be there when he woke up.

He knew.

Because they had stayed.

Because he was chosen.

Because this was love, not loud, not soft, but constant. Fierce. Real. His.

Not because the past had been erased.

But because this present—present-this messy, sharp, beautiful present—was his .

And the future?

It was waiting.

With open hands.

The hotel room smelled faintly of takeout, sweat, and something older—grief, maybe. It clung to the walls and hung in the corners like smoke. But it didn’t feel heavy anymore. Not exactly. Not when Buck opened his eyes to find Eddie asleep in the corner, head resting back against the wall, arms folded like he’d only meant to blink for a moment and hadn’t gotten back up.

Hen was curled at the foot of the bed, a hand still gently resting on his ankle like she’d anchored him to the world all night.

Chim was slumped in the armchair, one sock halfway off, a hoodie tangled around his waist like he’d tried to make himself comfortable and failed halfway through.

And Ravi—sweet, quiet Ravi—was on the floor, blanket half over his face, snoring softly.

They were all still there.

They had stayed.

Buck stared at the ceiling for a long time, blinking slowly against the sunrise cutting through the curtains. Something ached behind his ribs—not pain, not exactly. More like the first breath after being underwater for too long. That dizzy, shaking kind of relief that made you remember what it meant to feel alive.

He felt… better.

Not healed. Not fixed. That wasn’t how it worked. But something inside him had quieted. Cleared.

Because this —this messy, loud, too-small room— this was his family.

It wasn’t Margaret and Philip Buckley.

It wasn’t quiet dinners with wine glasses that never tipped. It wasn’t polite, smiles stretched over disappointment. It wasn’t long silences that said: Be less. Be smaller. Be different.

It wasn’t shame masquerading as structure.

No.

It was Chim, cracking terrible jokes and always bringing food. It was Hen, steady and fierce, who saw him when he couldn’t see himself. It was Ravi, gentle and thoughtful, who caught every word that went unsaid. It was Eddie—God, it was Eddie—who stayed . Who didn’t look away. Who held the jagged pieces and never once called them broken.

It was Maddie, too.

Flawed and scared and fighting every day to be better. To be here. To stay . She had been part of the silence for too long, but now she was learning how to speak. How to listen. How to love him the way he’d always deserved.

It was the 118.

It was home.

So tonight, Buck was going to do what he did best.

Not perform for approval. Not sing for applause.

But tell the truth.

For the first time, his truth.

Not for his parents. Not for the press. Not even for the band.

For the kids like him.

The ones who bent themselves into shapes to fit.

The ones who stayed quiet to survive.

The ones who were told their softness was weakness, that their brightness was too much, too loud, too inconvenient.

The ones who grew up in houses that called themselves homes and never felt like one.

Tonight, Buck was going to sing for them.

The arena buzzed with the kind of charged quiet that only came before something real. Like the crowd knew something was about to happen. Like the air itself had learned how to hold its breath.

Buck stepped into the spotlight alone.

No fanfare. No intro.

Just him. Just the mic.

He looked out into the crowd—rows and rows of faces, strangers with open hearts, kids holding up signs that said You’re my light , Buck saved me , Chosen family is still family —and he took a breath.

But it wasn’t just a few signs.

The whole arena was lit in soft pink and red and gold, paper hearts held high by almost every single person in the crowd. Some were glittered. Some scrawled in messy Sharpie. Some carefully lettered like a school project, laminated and hole-punched and looped with ribbon. And on each one—a message. A truth. A piece of someone’s soul.

(8)

You reminded me I matter.
I stayed alive for you.
Buck, you’re the reason I believe in softness.

Family isn’t who made me—it’s who stood by me.
You make the world kinder just by being in it.
Thank you for making space for people like me.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

It was overwhelming in its quiet grace.

It was love, passed hand to hand in cardboard and ink.

Buck’s breath caught.

His grip on the mic faltered for just a second.

It was the kind of thing he might’ve missed before—too busy trying to be everything for everyone, too afraid to look up and see what was being offered to him freely.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he let it in.

"You were riding your bike to the sound of 'It's No Big Deal'
And you're trying to lift off the ground on those old two wheels
Nothing 'bout the way that you were treated ever seemed especially alarming 'til now…"

His voice was softer than usual. Raw. Unpolished. Every note cracked like it meant something.

Because it did .

This wasn’t a performance.

This was release.

"You can let it go
You can throw a party full of everyone you know
And not invite your family, 'cause they never showed you love…"

The crowd was dead quiet. No screaming. No phones in the air.

Just stillness.

Just him.

"You don't have to be sorry for leaving and growing up."

His throat burned. Not from strain, but from truth.

He wasn’t sorry.

Not anymore.

Matilda, he realized, could be anyone.

Could be the kid with scraped knees who waited by the door every night, hoping for someone to say I’m proud of you.

Could be the teenager who built a personality out of what other people liked.

Could be the man who saved strangers by singing silly songs and bouncing around the stage with his family.

Could be Buck.

Could be Evan.

And he loved them all.

He loved every version of himself he had ever been. Not despite the mess. Because of it.

"You showed me a power that is strong enough to bring sun to the darkest days…It's none of my business, but it's just been on my mind."

This wasn’t a confession.

This was a declaration.

He was done hiding. Done apologizing.

He loved Buck Buckley—the performer, the chaos, the glitter, the spark.

But more than that?

He loved Evan Buckley.

The quiet kid with a big heart and too many feelings. The man who had built a life out of love. Who had found a family in the ashes of what he’d lost.

He sang the verse like a benediction. Like a prayer to every kid out there trying to find a way forward.

"You can see the world, following the seasons…Anywhere you go, you don't need a reason…"

He sang like he was telling a secret. Not to the thousands watching, but to the version of himself who had needed to hear it the most.

The boy with skinned knees and big eyes who once lined up his Hot Wheels across a carpet patterned like a city and waited all day for someone to notice.
The teenager who cracked jokes a little too loudly laughed just a second too long.
The man who chased storms inside himself just to prove he could survive them.

“You don't have to go…You don't have to go home…I know they won't hurt you anymore as long as you can let them go…”

A sea of fragile, earnest messages held high in trembling hands. Some hands shook. Some people had tears in their eyes.

And Buck just—

Swallowed hard.

Let the love settle like weightless armor around him. He sang the final verse like a prayer whispered into the quiet corners of the universe. 

He thought about every night he swallowed the ache, smiled through interviews, and bounced on stage like nothing hurt. All those times he gave parts of himself away to be loved, to be enough.

He thought of his family—the real one. The one waiting backstage. The one who held his grief with gentle hands and never asked him to smile through it.

He thought of Eddie. Maddie. Hen. Chim. Ravi. Bobby. The 118.

“You can throw a party full of everyone you know…You can start a family who will always show you love…You don't have to be sorry, no…”

And when the final chord faded, the crowd didn’t erupt right away.

They stood .

Silent.

Holding space.

And then, like a wave, applause broke over him. Not wild. Not riotous.

But warm.

Long.

Grateful.

Buck blinked hard and stepped back from the mic, heart thudding so loudly in his chest he could barely hear anything else. But he didn’t leave the stage. Not yet.

He looked out again—at the sea of paper hearts still raised, the way people stood shoulder to shoulder like a promise—and he leaned in, just enough to let the mic catch his voice.

“Um…” He laughed under his breath, shaky. “I didn’t really plan to say anything tonight. But I guess I just wanna… thank you.”

A pause. A breath.

“For seeing me. For letting me sing something that wasn’t for a chart or a headline or a label, but for the version of me that didn’t think he’d ever feel like he belonged anywhere.”

He glanced down, then back up.

“I used to think family was something you were born into, and if it didn’t fit, that was your fault. That you had to shrink or mold yourself into something easier to love. But I don’t believe that anymore.”

His voice didn’t crack, though it was close.

“Because you showed me something else. That family isn’t who we’re born to—it’s who we choose. And who chooses us back.”

The crowd was quiet. Not out of disinterest, but devotion.

He smiled, soft and stunned. “So, thank you for choosing me. I love you. I really, really do.”

He stepped back fully, hand dropping to his side. The lights softened behind him. And the sound that rose to meet him this time wasn’t wild or chaotic.

It was steady. Steady like love.

He turned to walk offstage—and there they were.

Chim waiting in the wings, wiping at his face like he hadn’t just cried.

Hen with her arms crossed, proud and still.

Ravi nodded once, like yes. This. Always.

Eddie, standing at the edge of the shadows, eyes locked on him like he was the only light in the world.

They didn’t say anything right away.

They didn’t need to.

Because this— this was what family looked like.

Not an obligation.

Not blood.

But choice.

And when Eddie stepped forward, pulled Buck into a hug that felt like forgiveness and promise all at once, Buck let himself be held.

Not just by Eddie. But by all of them. 

By all of it.

By love. By truth. By knowing that he was no longer alone.

And when they left the venue that night, together, loud and messy and full of laughter, Buck felt something inside him settle.

Not perfectly.

But enough.

Because the world was still sharp. Still unfair. Still capable of hurting.

But so was he.

And he wasn’t just surviving anymore.

He was living.

And maybe—just maybe—that was what love really meant.

Not fixing.

Not earning.

But being seen.

And still being chosen.

Every time.

Without question.

Chapter Text

@911ontour_updates
📍TOUR UPDATE: Next stop... THE BIG APPLE 🍎
That’s right, the 118 is headed for NEW YORK CITY for a full WEEK of shows, promo, and (hopefully) some chaos. We’re hearing rumors of surprise performances, exclusive interviews, and a few very public "dates" for the favorite duo of the decade 😏

#118ontour #buckandeddie #118nation #nycstop

Comments:
@firetruckstan88: A WEEK?! oh they’re feeding us good
@eddiesmugclub: this is my super bowl
@henstrut: project buddie supremacy 🙌
@maydayhq: ...you’re not ready. Trust me.

@popdailybuzz
🔥EXCLUSIVE🔥

Next week’s interviews are about to go NUCLEAR. We’re talking rising icons, stage-crushing live acts, and the Internet’s current favorite maybe-couple: @buckaroo and the Eddie Diaz. 👀

The 118 is hitting the mainstream like fire, and we’ve got a week of appearances, behind-the-scenes access, and the inside scoop on all things tour, music, and maybe... love?

#popdailyexclusive #buddiefever #118ontour

Comments:
@buddiebeliever: THEY SAID LOVE 😭😭😭
@caffeinatedreporter: bet they crash the internet again
@daddychim: If Chim doesn't get his own interview I'm rioting

From his seat near the window, Eddie watched the city rise like a miracle made of steel.

It started slow, just the suggestion of something on the horizon. A jagged skyline that didn’t so much peek through the haze as slice into it, all sharp edges and defiant spires. The morning light bounced off the glass towers like it had something to prove.

New York wasn’t like the other cities.

It didn’t creep up on you, quiet and unassuming. It didn’t roll in with grassy fields or lull you into calm with faded highway signs. It announced itself.

With noise. With movement. With light.

Even through the tinted bus windows, it was loud.

The buildings towered like gods. Billboards stacked on top of each other, screaming down in color and motion. The streets pulsed with a rhythm all their own—rivers of yellow cabs and streams of people moving in sync like blood through a single, beating heart. Horns honked with the musicality of fury. Sirens wailed. Somewhere, impossibly, a saxophone played, cutting clean through the chaos like it belonged there.

And Eddie—quiet, composed Eddie—sat forward in his seat like a child at a window seat on his first flight.

Eyes wide. Shoulders tense. Breath shallow but steady.

There was awe in him, even if he didn’t say it out loud.

From the other side of the aisle, Chim leaned over the top of his seat, chewing a granola bar with all the finesse of someone who'd had six hours of sleep and three cups of coffee. “How’s it feel, country boy?”

Eddie glanced at him, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Loud.”

Hen, seated beside Chim, laughed around her coffee cup. “You haven’t even stepped off the bus yet.”

“That’s not true,” Buck’s voice came from further back. “The honking started at least ten miles out. Welcome to the circus.”

Eddie looked over his shoulder just in time to catch Buck stretching like a cat, his shirt riding up slightly with the movement. Tattoos peeking out just above his waistband. Sunglasses perched on his head. Hair sleep-mussed in a way that should’ve been illegal. He looked like someone born for this city—untamed, shining, impossible to ignore.

Eddie quickly turned back to the window.

Ravi, curled into a hoodie two seats back, pointed across Eddie’s shoulder with a lazy hand. “That’s Times Square. You’re gonna hate it. Can’t wait.”

Eddie narrowed his eyes at the massive screens flashing everything from perfume ads to celebrity faces to Broadway show teasers. The sidewalks below were packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people, their steps barely distinguishable from each other, moving like one massive organism made of noise and caffeine and overpriced street pretzels.

He rolled his eyes, but his gaze didn’t leave the view. “Looks like hell.”

“It is hell,” Hen said cheerfully. “But with more LEDs.”

“You get used to it,” Chim added.

“Or you don’t,” Ravi shrugged. “I almost got run over by Spider-Man last time we were here.”

“I think I saw that video,” Buck called. “You screamed like a toddler.”

“Spider-Man shouldn’t be allowed to push a hot dog cart!” Ravi protested. “That’s just—morally confusing.”

Eddie laughed under his breath. The sound was soft—almost private. But it was real. And Buck, somehow, heard it.

He twisted in his seat, propping his chin on the headrest in front of him so he could watch Eddie through the narrow aisle.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now. Less teasing.

Eddie blinked. “Yeah. Just… haven’t been here before.”

Buck grinned. “Big city dreams?”

“Not exactly.”

“But still kind of hits you, huh?”

Eddie nodded. “It’s a lot.”

The bus rounded a corner, dipping into the sudden shade of a bridge. Light scattered through the metal beams in rhythmic flashes—gold, shadow, gold again—like they were passing through something sacred. And when they emerged back into the sunlight, the skyline was even closer. The Empire State Building loomed like a monument. Lady Liberty, distant and proud, peeked between the skyscrapers like a promise.

Eddie’s breath caught in his throat.

He’d seen it all in movies. Postcards. News footage.

But nothing prepared him for the scale. For the sense of presence.

It wasn’t just tall buildings or big crowds.

It was alive.

And for a moment, something in him unfurled—like a part of him that had been holding its breath for years was finally allowed to exhale.

“I like it,” he said quietly.

Buck tilted his head. “You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

The bus pulled to a stop at a red light. Outside the window, a kid in a Yankees cap was breakdancing on a piece of cardboard while tourists cheered. A vendor nearby flipped hot dogs with a cigarette dangling from his lips. A woman in heels cursed out a cabbie in what sounded like three different languages.

And Eddie, who’d spent years in uniform, who’d known war, who’d known loss, who spent most days trying to keep people alive, felt something new tug at his chest.

Wonder.

He turned toward Buck, met his gaze full-on.

“I think I needed this,” he said.

Buck blinked, just once. Then smiled. Soft. Genuine. Like something inside him had relaxed at those words.

“Yeah,” Buck murmured. “Me too.”

The light turned green. The bus surged forward. And outside, the city kept moving, unstoppable and wild.

They were here.

New York City.

And everything was about to change.

Back in the lounge area of the tour bus, the hum of the city faded behind thick walls and highway dust. The space was a little cluttered—empty coffee cups, a half-eaten bag of trail mix, someone’s hoodie tossed across the arm of the couch like it had lost a fight. But the center of attention wasn’t any of that.

It was the laptop, propped on the low table like a makeshift command center, screen casting a soft glow across the faces gathered around it.

May filled the frame in high-definition glory. Her sunglasses were pushed up into her curls, a venti iced coffee clutched like a weapon in one perfectly manicured hand. She looked poised, caffeinated, and mildly unhinged.

Clearly thriving.

“Alright, you beautiful people,” she said, without preamble. “Let’s talk Project Buddie .”

A groan rippled through the room.

“Seriously?” Buck muttered, leaning back against the cushions with a dramatic thump. He looked like a man personally betrayed. “ That’s what we’re calling it now?”

May sipped her drink with the kind of smug composure only a twenty-something PR powerhouse could wield. “It’s got a hashtag and everything. I don’t make the rules.”

“You literally do make the rules,” Buck said.

“Shut up, you’re ruining my opener.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow from his seat near the armrest, arms folded across his chest, a water bottle balanced on his thigh. His voice was dry but amused. “The whole… shabang?”

May narrowed her eyes. “Who even says that anymore?”

Eddie smirked. “Apparently me.”

She sighed, dramatic and long-suffering. “Look, point is—the next week is going to be our most public stretch yet. New York, Boston, D.C.… that’s press-heavy territory. Which means: interviews, surprise appearances, paparazzi bait, maybe a pretend shopping trip where you accidentally hold hands in a flower shop—”

Buck choked on his own spit. “I’m sorry, what now ?”

May didn’t blink. “I said what I said.”

From where she sat cross-legged on the floor, Hen leaned into frame, holding what looked like a protein shake in one hand and a look of deep judgment in the other. “You’re insufferable.”

“Love you too,” May said sweetly, then turned back to the boys. “Listen. Eyes are on you. That means everything you do—every glance, every hand touch, every lingering smile—is going to be analyzed by the internet gremlins. So be cute. Be genuine. Be so in love it gives them cavities, okay?”

Eddie looked at Buck. Buck looked at Eddie.

There was a moment—just a flicker—where time seemed to hesitate.

Eddie’s brow lifted like, can you believe this?
Buck’s mouth quirked up like, I know, but we’re doing it anyway, huh?

A silent exchange. A shared breath.

And then Eddie sighed. “How do people do this?”

Buck shrugged. “Just gotta lean in, I guess.”

“You better really lean in,” May said. “Because the shippers are out for blood. And by blood, I mean adorable matching outfits.”

Chim poked his head in from the kitchenette, waving a banana. “Do coordinated hoodies count?”

“Only if there’s emotional yearning involved,” May replied.

“Cool,” Ravi said. “We’re doomed.”

Buck pushed a hand through his hair, already mentally cataloging all the ways this could go sideways. “May, how do you always sound like this is your Super Bowl?”

“Because it is,” she said brightly. “Now, smile for the nice internet.”

“Don’t encourage them,” Hen grumbled.

May leaned a little closer to the screen. “Oh, and there’s a surprise waiting at the hotel.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Even Eddie straightened, curious. “What kind of surprise?”

May just smiled. The kind of smile that said I know something you don’t know and I live to torment you.

Buck narrowed his eyes. “May.”

She winked. “The good kind. You'll see.”

And then she was gone—the screen going black as the call ended with the decisive click of a woman with far too much power.

Silence settled over the group for half a beat.

Then Buck groaned, flopping dramatically onto the couch, face buried in a throw pillow. “We’re gonna die in a flower shop.”

Eddie reached over and nudged his foot. “At least we’ll smell good.”

“That is so not comforting.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

From the kitchenette, Chim called, “Hey, Buck, what's your size in fake wedding bands again?”

Buck flipped him off without lifting his head. “If we’re fake engaged by the end of the week., I’m suing.”

Hen grinned. “You’d have to fake-divorce first. It’s bad optics.”

“God,” Buck groaned again, voice muffled. “Why are you all like this?”

Ravi sipped his orange juice. “Because we love you.”

“Gross.”

Eddie leaned back against the couch with a soft huff of laughter, looking at the dark screen where May had just been. Her words echoed, light but sharp:

Be cute. Be genuine. Be so in love it gives them cavities.

And maybe that should’ve made him nervous.

But all it did was make his pulse quicken in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Because when he glanced back at Buck—Buck, still sulking with a pillow over his face, tattooed forearm slung across his eyes like a melodramatic rockstar—it didn’t feel fake at all.

Not even a little.

They were loud as they poured off the bus.

Not rockstar loud—not stadium loud—but family-on-their-fifth-cup-of-coffee loud. The kind of chatter that overlapped and tangled, bouncing from one person to the next, full of inside jokes and unfinished thoughts and laughter that spilled freely into the warm New York air.

Hen was mid-story, waving her hands like she needed the space of a runway to land the punchline. Chim was laughing so hard he almost dropped his overnight bag. Buck kept trying to tell some half-baked memory from their last trip to the East Coast, and Ravi—God bless him—was earnestly trying to follow all three conversations at once.

Eddie walked behind them, smiling faintly at the chaos, half-listening, half-mapping the space.

The hotel was grand. Old-money kind of elegant. All polished floors, high arched ceilings, and light that streamed in through impossibly tall windows. It should’ve felt cold, impersonal.

But it didn’t.

Not with the 118 filling it with noise and motion, voices echoing off the marble like they belonged there.

They were halfway through the lobby when it happened.

A sound—no, a voice —cut through the din.

Then another.

Laughter. Familiar. Bright.

Eddie stopped walking.

So did Hen.

Chim choked on his own laughter mid-word.

It was like the air shifted—like the hotel sucked in a collective breath and held it.

Because right there, near the check-in desk, was Karen . She was already in motion, heels clicking, arms open wide as she barreled toward Hen like a woman on a mission.

Hen let out a half-sob, half-laugh and met her halfway.

“Hey, baby,” Karen whispered, arms wrapping tight around Hen’s shoulders, anchoring her like she'd been waiting to exhale for days.

Denny followed right behind, gangly arms launching around Chimney’s waist with such force that it knocked a startled yelp out of him.

“Uncle Chim!”

Chim’s mouth dropped open just before he got winded by the force of a ten-year-old to the gut.

“ Denny! Dude, what— when ?”

“Surprise!” Denny grinned, proud of himself.

“Whoa—hey, kiddo!” Chim gasped, catching him mid-tackle and holding him tight. “You trying to break my ribs or remind me I’m alive?”

“Both!” Denny grinned, clutching his neck.

Bobby was next. Quiet, steady, solid as ever. He appeared like he had simply always been there, and without a word, pulled Ravi into a hug before the younger man even knew what hit him.

“You’ve been taking care of them.”

Ravi blinked. “Trying to.”

“You’ve done more than try,” Bobby said, pulling back. “I’ve seen the updates. The way they look at you. That’s leadership, kid.”

Ravi’s throat bobbed. His ears went pink. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

And then—then there was May.

Leaning casually against a luggage cart with a giant iced coffee in hand, she smirked as the chaos unfolded. “Surprise.”

Hen laughed, holding Karen’s hand like she’d never let go again. “ You coordinated this?”

May saluted. “With help from our new best friend at the front desk and a promise of concert tickets for life.”

“You’re scary good at this,” Buck called over his shoulder.

“I know.”

But Buck wasn’t really listening anymore.

Buck froze.

Eddie turned, eyes tracking his line of sight, and— there .

Maddie stood a few feet away, framed by the glow of hotel lights, her hair curled from humidity, and her smile already trembling. May was just behind her, leaning casually on the luggage cart like she hadn’t orchestrated all of this, like she wasn’t practically vibrating with pride.

But Buck only saw one person.

“Mads,” he whispered.

And then he moved.

Fast.

He crossed the lobby in seconds, wrapped her up in a hug so tight her feet left the ground. Maddie let out a soft, shaky laugh as she buried her face into his neck, arms locked around him like she could anchor him in place.

Eddie watched the way Buck’s shoulders shook.

Maddie buried her face in his neck and held him like she could stitch him back together with sheer force of will.

“You’re okay,” she whispered. “You’re okay. God, Buck, I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” he choked out, eyes already wet. “You have no idea.”

She pulled back just enough to cup his face in both hands. Her thumb brushed beneath his eye. “I have some idea.”

He laughed, broken and soft, pressing his forehead to hers for a second, just breathing her in.

It was everything.

And then—

“Dad!”

That voice—

Eddie turned, and time slowed.

Christopher was there, by the entrance, standing beside a hotel concierge who was clearly smitten with the boy. He was slightly winded from the walk, both hands clutching onto his crutches for dear life, but his grin was radiant. His curls were longer, cheeks flushed from excitement and travel, and his brown eyes were already shining.

“ Chris— ”

Eddie’s voice broke halfway through the word.

And then he was running.

He dropped his bag, didn’t care where it landed, and didn’t care about the people watching. He crossed the room with a speed that felt impossible for how heavy his heart had been these past few weeks.

Chris lifted his arms at the last second, and Eddie fell to his knees and folded his son into his chest.

“ Ay, mi corazón, ” he whispered, voice crumbling into Chris’s hair. “I missed you so much, buddy.”

Chris clung to him with both arms. “I missed you more.”

Eddie kissed the side of his head, again and again, like he couldn’t believe he was real. He felt the rise and fall of his son’s chest, the warmth of his weight, the small tremble in his limbs from the exertion of walking across the lobby with his crutches. Eddie didn’t let him go.

“Let me look at you.” He pulled back, hands cupping Chris’s face. “You got taller.”

Chris beamed. “You got… more stubble.”

Eddie laughed, loud and unashamed. “Fair enough.”

Behind them, Buck had stilled again.

He was watching with a look Eddie couldn’t quite name—something like awe. Like adoration. Like someone witnessing something holy.

And then Christopher turned to him.

“You’re Buck,” he said, eyes wide with the certainty of someone who’d heard every song, watched every video, and memorized the man from the inside out.

Buck’s mouth parted. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

Chris took a tentative step forward, leaning into his gait. “You’re even taller in person.”

Buck let out a stunned laugh, already crouching so they were at eye level. “And you’re even cooler than I imagined.”

Chris offered his fist.

Buck bumped it carefully, as if he were touching something precious.

“It’s so good to finally meet you, buddy,” he said, voice rough.

“You too,” Chris whispered, and looked over at Eddie. “He’s nervous.”

“I am not,” Buck said, scandalized.

“Totally is,” Chris added, elbowing his dad.

Eddie just smiled, wiping at his eyes.

This—this right here—was everything.

His whole world, together again.

Hen and Karen had their foreheads pressed together, whispering softly. Chim and Maddie were laughing about something near the front desk. Denny was showing Ravi some weird hotel lobby art installation and insisting it was actually a secret portal. Bobby stood off to the side, arms crossed, surveying the whole room with a quiet kind of pride.

It was messy.

Loud.

Real.

Family.

Eddie looked at Buck, who was still kneeling beside Christopher, who hadn’t stopped smiling since the moment he saw him, and felt something inside his chest settle.

Like the missing piece had finally come home.

The sun was bright, the city was loud, and the 118 was unhinged .

Hen had declared it “Mandatory Fun Day” before they even rolled out of bed, and no one had been brave enough to question it. Somewhere between Bobby bribing the front desk for directions and May sending them a Google doc titled Operation: Tourists or Bust , it became law.

So there they were.

Times Square.

A blinding cacophony of color, noise, and people moving like migrating birds with somewhere very important to be. Ravi had already been approached three times for directions, Chimney had acquired a questionable street pretzel and two phone numbers, and Buck—

Buck had bought them all matching black t-shirts that read I ❤️ The 118 in sparkly red glitter.

“Unironically,” he clarified while handing them out like gifts from Oprah. “These are amazing.”

“No one’s arguing,” Hen said, pulling hers on over her tank top. “I’m just trying to decide if I want to be buried in this or the band tour hoodie.”

“You do have to survive the tour first,” Eddie added, tugging the shirt down over his own. It was a little snug across the chest—something Buck had definitely done on purpose if that smug smirk meant anything.

“Oh god,” Hen said suddenly. “Ravi’s about to start dancing.”

“What?” Eddie turned around just in time to see Ravi—already juggling two phones, three shopping bags, and a suspiciously floppy hot dog—get a head nod from a breakdancer in the middle of the plaza.

“No—no, don’t encourage—”

But it was too late.

Ravi spun once, did something approximating a body roll, and threw his hands up like he’d just finished a Super Bowl halftime show.

“That’s my boy!” Chimney called, waving his pretzel like a victory flag. “This is exactly what today’s about!”

“It’s about public humiliation,” Eddie muttered, eyeing a woman attempting to upsell him knockoff Ray-Bans that looked like they might break under the weight of a stiff breeze.

Hen laughed as she looped her arm through Karen’s. “Eddie, you look like a single dad on his first field trip.”

“He is a single dad,” Ravi said over his shoulder, mid-twirl.

“Exactly,” Hen replied. “Just… with two kids now.”

Eddie rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Couldn’t, really—not when Buck was already halfway across the plaza, dragging Chris behind him to get a better look at a Marvel billboard. They were both running, Buck dodging through the crowd like a man on a mission, Chris gripping his hand and laughing so hard he hiccupped.

“Did you know,” Buck said when they paused beneath a massive LED screen displaying Captain America mid-punch, “that Times Square used to be called Longacre Square until 1904, when The New York Times moved their headquarters here?”

Chris blinked up at him. “What?”

“Yep. True story. They dropped a big ball from the top of the building to celebrate—kind of like me dropping random facts to impress people.”

Chris giggled. “You are random.”

Buck grinned. “It’s my superpower.”

They made it to the Empire State Building in one piece. Somehow.

Eddie wasn’t sure how they'd survived the walk—Chim narrowly avoided being recruited into an off-Broadway flash mob, and Hen had to physically stop Karen from getting into a heated philosophical debate with a man dressed as Elmo—but they did.

Now, standing at the top of the observation deck, wind whipping through their hair, the city stretched wide beneath them, glittering and pulsing like it was alive .

Chris pressed his face to the glass, awe in every inch of him. He braced himself with one hand against the lower ledge, shifting carefully to find balance with his brace. He didn’t complain, didn’t ask for help—just adjusted, focused, and took it in.

“That’s the river,” Buck said beside him, leaning on the railing like he belonged there. “The Hudson. And over there—see that patch of green? That’s Central Park. It looks small from here, but it’s actually 843 acres. ”

Chris’s eyes widened. “Whoa.”

“Mm-hm. That’s almost 35 million square feet . You could fit over twenty-eight thousand Buck-sized apartments in there.”

Chris laughed, loud and unfiltered. “You did not do that math.”

“Sure did. I was bored on the bus.”

Eddie hovered behind them, not quite intruding, just listening . Watching. Feeling it. How easy they were together. How Buck didn’t dumb things down or talk over him—just talked to him. Like it was normal. Natural.

“You’d like it here,” Buck added, voice quieter now, more careful. “Central Park, I mean. They’ve got a zoo, and rowboats, and in the spring, the cherry blossoms look like pink snow.”

Chris looked up at him. “Can we go sometime?”

Buck glanced toward Eddie, then back down. “Yeah. I think we should.”

Eddie’s chest twisted. Not in the bad way. In the full way. Like his heart was expanding just to hold it all.

Buck caught his eyes then, just for a second.

And there it was.

One of those quiet, unnameable moments. Not loaded, not loud. Just full. A look that didn’t say anything but felt like it meant… everything.

Then— click.

Eddie sighed. “Was that—?”

Buck’s phone buzzed half a second later. He pulled it out, read the message, and groaned.

Text from May:
ICONIC.
#projectbuddie is eating this UP.

Buck turned the screen toward him. The photo was crystal clear. He and Chris pressed against the glass, Buck mid-fact, Chris mid-laugh. Eddie just behind them, smiling like someone had taken the weight of the world off his shoulders.

“Great,” Buck muttered. “We’re doomed.”

Eddie leaned over, bumped their shoulders. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Buck looked back at him.

Smiled.

Chris tugged on Buck’s sleeve. “Wanna know a fun fact?”

Buck beamed. “Always.”

“I saw the real Captain America once. In Disneyland. He told me my wheelchair was cool.”

Eddie froze, heart catching in his throat.

Buck’s expression softened, completely sincere. “That is a cool wheelchair. And Cap’s got good taste.”

Chris nodded solemnly. “I think so, too.”

Later that night, after dinner and ice cream and more laughing than Eddie had done in months , Chris tugged on his sleeve as they passed the suite’s kitchen, where Hen was arguing with Chim about whether or not ginger ale counted as a nightcap.

“Dad,” Chris said quietly, tugging again. “Can we talk?”

Eddie didn’t ask what it was about. He just nodded, thumb brushing gently over the back of Chris’s hand as he turned and followed him. Chris led the way through the suite’s side hall, down the corridor past their rooms, and out onto the rooftop terrace May had discovered earlier.

It was late. The air was cooler now, gentler, threaded with the hush of the city below. Traffic was a distant lullaby. Somewhere far off, a horn blared, sharp and short. But up here, it felt like they were floating above it all—between skyline and stars, skyscrapers lit up like stories.

Chris moved slowly, carefully. His right foot dragged slightly behind his left, not from pain but fatigue. He didn’t say anything until he’d made it to the railing. His hand braced against it, giving himself balance as he leaned forward. He looked small next to the vast stretch of the city, but his voice, when he spoke, was steady.

“I really like Buck.”

Eddie exhaled, a soft smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah? Me too.”

Chris didn’t smile back. Not quite. His brows pinched together like he was thinking hard, thinking in that way of his, where Eddie knew something important was coming.

“I know you guys are fake-dating or whatever.”

The words weren’t judgmental. Just… a statement. Like saying the sky was blue or Buck liked random trivia. Facts Chris had gathered and filed away.

Eddie blinked. “You do?”

Chris shrugged one shoulder. “Hen said it to Chim. And Ravi was laughing about it earlier. I don’t really get it. Why you’d have to pretend.” His voice softened. “But… if it wasn’t fake, I’d still be okay with it.”

Eddie’s chest stilled.

Chris kept looking out over the city, not at him. “I don’t know. He just… feels like he’s always been around. Like a best friend. Or family. And you’re always happier when he’s there.”

He turned then, slowly, eyes catching Eddie’s.

“And I like when you’re happy.”

Eddie looked away before he could say something stupid. He looked down at the glowing city grid, golden-lit and alive. Looked up at the sky, half-clouded, like it couldn’t decide what to reveal.

He thought about the way Buck leaned into him at the venue earlier, shoulder to shoulder, no hesitation. He thought about how Chris always found Buck in a crowd, like his compass pointed to him. He thought about the way Buck looked at Chris, not with pity or caution, but like he saw him. Like Chris was just Chris: bright, clever, full of questions, and trust.

“Buck’s your best friend, huh?” Eddie said quietly.

Chris didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. One of them. And I think he’s yours too.”

That hit like a truth Eddie had always known, just never put into words.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said, curling an arm around Chris’s shoulders, pulling him close. “That means a lot.”

Chris leaned into him with the trust only a child could offer so freely. “You’re welcome.”

They stayed like that for a long while, city lights blinking beneath them, the weight of the day settling gently across Eddie’s shoulders. His heart beat too loudly in his chest, not in a panicked way. Just… louder than usual. Like maybe something was shifting inside him.

By the time they slipped back into the suite, the others had all crashed. 

The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the TV.

Buck was curled sideways in one of the armchairs, legs draped over the armrest, a half-empty bottle of water tucked beside his thigh. He was flipping through channels with the remote balanced on his chest. His expression was soft, his whole body loose in a way that meant safe , and the moment his gaze found Eddie across the room, like he’d been waiting, his whole face lit up.

“Hey,” Buck said, voice quiet, just for him.

Eddie paused. Just for a second. Just long enough to see it.

The way Buck shifted, just slightly, so there was room for him on the chair.

The way Chris’s eyes automatically flicked toward Buck before smiling and heading off to their shared room.

The way Buck tracked both of them with that soft, steady look he always got when he was close to people he loved.

It hit Eddie like a wave, not harsh, not jarring. Just… total .

He crossed the room and dropped down next to him, shoulder bumping Buck’s, their knees brushing.

Buck handed him the remote without a word.

Eddie didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

Because Buck leaned into him, just like always.

Because their legs pressed together, just like always.

Because the space between them didn’t feel like space at all.

It didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel awkward.

It just felt like them.

Buck’s head tipped gently toward his shoulder, like gravity knew something Eddie hadn’t realized yet .

Like maybe this wasn’t the part they were supposed to be faking.

Like maybe this—quiet and steady and real—had been the truth all along.

And Eddie, for the first time in a long time, didn’t try to make sense of it.

He just let it be.

Let himself feel it.

Chapter Text

The hotel suite was quiet in a way that made Eddie’s ears ring.

Not silent—not truly—but peaceful in the kind of way that felt earned. The murmur of traffic ten floors down was a distant buzz, punctuated by the occasional honk or siren. The sun had dipped past the skyline a while ago, leaving the room bathed in low gold, the final traces of daylight crawling over the bedsheets in long shadows. The hum of the air conditioner filled in the gaps.

Chris was off on an adventure with Ravi and May, who, Eddie had noticed, were suddenly spending a suspicious amount of time together. Hen had given him a look earlier. A knowing one. Chim had already started a betting pool.

And for the first time all day, it was just him and Buck.

Eddie sat cross-legged on one of the beds, phone in hand, though he hadn’t looked at it in five full minutes. Buck was sprawled across the other bed like he’d been thrown there, arms behind his head, one leg bent lazily over the other. His curls were a little flattened on one side from where he’d been wearing his hoodie up on their walk back. His wristbands were off, tossed somewhere on the nightstand, and he looked—Eddie hated how much he noticed this— comfortable . Like he belonged.

“Project Buddie,” Buck muttered, glaring up at the ceiling like it had personally offended him. “God, I hate that name.”

Eddie glanced up from his blank screen, smirking. “It sounds like a kid’s cartoon about anthropomorphic fire hydrants.”

Buck let out a bark of laughter. “Now that’s a show I’d watch. We could get little helmets for them. And one has a tragic backstory about a cat he couldn’t save—”

Eddie launched a pillow across the gap between beds. It hit Buck square in the face.

Buck caught it on reflex and grinned, eyes squinting. “Uncalled for, Diaz.”

“You deserved it.”

“Yeah,” Buck admitted, pulling the pillow under his head with dramatic flair. “Probably.”

The quiet came again, but this time it didn’t feel empty. It felt full of something unsaid, of something waiting. The kind of quiet that lived between people who didn’t need to talk but maybe should.

After a long beat, Buck sat up.

Not rushed. Not tense. Just… shifting gears.

He rubbed the back of his neck, expression turned thoughtful. The kind of look that meant he’d been circling something for a while, turning it over in his mind.

“We need to figure out how we’re doing this,” he said.

Eddie tilted his head. “Doing what?”

Buck gestured vaguely between them. “The whole... public thing. This fake dating circus. We’ve got interviews starting tomorrow. First up is that Entertainment Weekly segment.”

Eddie’s groan was instant and full-body. “ Spill the E-Tea ,” he muttered. “God help us.”

Buck grimaced in sympathy. “Yeah. The one with the glitter cups and the aggressively pink set. Their pre-interview email literally asked about our ‘sparkling chemistry.’ Like. Those exact words.”

Eddie buried his face in his hands. “We’re not actors.”

“Speak for yourself,” Buck said, his grin sliding back into place like muscle memory. “I did drama club. Freshman year. I played a tree.”

Eddie looked up. “You’re joking.”

“Swear to God. Had one line and everything. ‘Beware, traveler.’” He held up his hands, solemn. “Haunting performance. Got a standing ovation from the janitor.”

Eddie snorted, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”

Buck’s smile softened then. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, twisting it slightly between his fingers.

“But seriously. We should talk about what’s okay. Like—what feels real. What doesn’t. What we’re comfortable doing on camera. Especially now that we’re… you know.”

“Kissing more,” Eddie finished, the words falling flat and awkward in his mouth like stones he wasn’t used to saying aloud.

Buck’s eyes flicked up to meet his. He nodded. “Yeah. That.”

They both looked away at the same time. Eddie fiddled with a loose thread on the comforter. Buck picked at the frayed edge of his bracelet.

“I mean,” Buck added quickly, “it’s not like it’s bad. It’s not bad. It’s just—”

“Different,” Eddie agreed. “Because people are watching. Because it’s… for show.”

And wasn’t that the heart of it? The thing they kept tiptoeing around? That the lines had gotten blurry. That what they were doing for the public eye had started to feel real in ways they didn’t talk about. That being close wasn’t something they had to act on.

Buck shifted again, tucking one leg under the other. His knee knocked lightly against Eddie’s, and neither of them moved away.

“So what do we do?” Buck asked, quieter now.

Eddie didn’t answer right away.

He thought about the way Buck always found Chris first in a crowd. The way he adjusted his pace to match his gait. The way he never flinched around his crutches or the way Chris had to ask for help sometimes. He just was there. No hesitation. No discomfort. Like he’d always been part of the picture.

He thought about how Buck always hovered near him—never in the way, never too close, but close enough that Eddie had started to expect it. To lean toward it without thinking.

He thought about how it didn’t feel like they were faking anything at all.

And maybe that was the part that scared him.

“We be us,” Eddie said finally. “But we don’t fake the parts that aren’t real. And we don’t hide the ones that are.”

Buck looked at him for a long moment. The kind of look that burned slow, behind the eyes. Like maybe Eddie had said something important without realizing it.

Then Buck smiled.

Soft.

Small.

And real .

“Sounds like a plan.”

Eddie nodded, heart thudding a little too fast in his chest.

He didn’t say anything else.

The waiting area outside the Spill the E-Tea set was some kind of chaotic pastel purgatory.

Everything glowed—like the inside of a Fabergé egg had exploded. Pink neon signs buzzed softly on the walls (“Spill it, babe!” and “Keep it cute or put it on mute!”), a bubblegum-scented diffuser misted faintly from the corner, and the glitter on the floor wasn’t just decorative—it was embedded into the tile.

Buck stared at the rhinestone-framed mirror across from their chairs, then at Eddie’s face reflected in it—flat expression, one leg crossed over the other, tapping his fingers on the armrest in a steady, soothing rhythm.

“So,” Buck said, voice too casual, “just to confirm, if I spontaneously combust from the glitter overdose, you will resuscitate me, right?”

Eddie didn’t look up. “Depends. Is your hair flammable?”

Buck scoffed. “Wow. Cold.”

“You like the glitter,” Eddie murmured. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

“I do not.”

“You’ve been staring at that disco-ball lamp for five minutes. Your pupils are dilated.”

“I’m just fascinated by interior design choices. Bold use of rhinestones. Groundbreaking.”

Eddie smirked. “Uh huh.”

Buck exhaled dramatically and leaned back in the plush loveseat, spreading his arms along the top like a bored prince waiting for entertainment. His foot bounced, though. Nervous energy leaking out through every joint. “It’s like Barbie’s dream studio and Willy Wonka’s marketing team had a baby.”

“...You love it.”

“Maybe,” Buck admitted after a beat. Then, quieter: “It’s nice. It’s fun.”

Eddie finally turned his head. “You don’t get to make fun of it and then call it nice.”

“Sure, I do. I’m complex. Layers.”

“You’re a glitter onion.”

Buck grinned. “God, I hope that’s what they say on my tombstone.”

There was a knock on the door. A crew member poked her head in, headset crackling. “Five minutes, guys. We’ll mic you up on set.”

Eddie stood with a small grunt and brushed nonexistent lint off his shirt. Buck remained seated a moment longer, fingers tapping against the armrest, watching him.

“You okay?” Eddie asked, half-turned toward him, brows furrowed.

Buck blinked. “Yeah. Just… pre-interview jitters. You’re not nervous?”

Eddie arched an eyebrow. “Buck, I’ve had to pull a windshield shard out of someone’s thigh while under enemy fire. I think I can handle a sparkly teacup and a few nosy questions.”

Buck stood slowly, rolling his shoulders out. “Okay, well, now I feel underqualified. ”

Eddie clapped him on the back once. “Don’t worry. You’re cute. You’ll do fine.”

Buck startled slightly, eyes flicking toward him.

But Eddie was already walking ahead, down the hallway that glowed pink at the seams.

And Buck… smiled to himself.

The moment they stepped into the studio, Buck did a very theatrical full-body recoil.

The set was exactly what Buck had described—maybe even more so.

It looked like someone had taken the concept of a candy shop, a unicorn birthday party, and a rhinestone factory explosion and blended them into a single, unapologetically pink fever dream. The backdrop shimmered with panels of sequined fabric that shifted with every movement, catching the overhead lights and throwing tiny stars across the studio floor. Throw pillows in varying shades of rose, lavender, and glitter-studded fuchsia lined the loveseat where Buck and Eddie were meant to sit. A ceramic teapot shaped like a flamingo sat on the coffee table, steaming slightly.

Eddie paused on the edge of the set, taking it all in with a dubious expression. “Is… is that teacup wearing a tiara?”

“Oh my god, it’s worse than I imagined.”

It wasn’t, though. He was grinning as he said it.

The set was a sensory assault of purples, blush pinks, heart-shaped everything, and sequins as far as the eye could see. The loveseat waiting for them was practically encrusted with gems. Lights danced over every surface like fairy dust.

Eddie gave him a sidelong look. “You’re glowing. Like you belong here.”

“I’m being held hostage by a unicorn rave.”

“You’re going to redecorate your entire tour bus to look like this, aren’t you?”

Buck made a dramatic gagging sound.

Then he immediately reached out to touch the rhinestone lamp on the end table.

Before Eddie could respond, their host made her entrance like a Vegas headliner taking the main stage—Skylar, resplendent in a lavender sequin jumpsuit with sleeves that billowed like wings, her smile brighter than the lights overhead.

“ Welcome to Spill the E-Tea! ” she beamed, striding over with her arms wide open like they were old friends who’d just run into each other in a Target aisle. “We are so thrilled to have the musical sensation of the summer,”—she gave Buck a pointed, sparkly wink—“and his EMT-turned-security-slash-bodyguard-slash-boyfriend?”

The word landed like a match flicked into dry kindling.

Buck raised an eyebrow, barely suppressing a grin. “Let’s go with... travel partner. ”

Eddie, ever the deadpan counterbalance, shook his head. “I prefer ‘crisis management coordinator.’ Has a nice ring to it.”

Skylar gasped theatrically, clutching her chest. “You two are already my favorite guests. I can tell this is going to be so good.”

They sat side-by-side on the velvet loveseat—Buck slouching slightly, legs spread in that casually confident way he always defaulted to, while Eddie sat straight-backed, one ankle resting neatly over his knee. His arms crossed at first, but Buck’s knee brushed his once, twice—and by the third time, Eddie’s arms dropped, shoulders relaxing just slightly.

Skylar perched on her matching pink chair like a bird ready to pounce.

“So, first things first: Eddie, how did you end up on this whirlwind tour? Most on-stage partners don’t come with an AED and a pulse oximeter.”

Eddie glanced at Buck, the barest tilt of his head betraying something fond beneath the practiced professionalism. “I was asked.”

Buck raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “That’s it? That’s the whole story?”

Eddie shrugged. “Athena, their liaison for all things safety, asked me. She had heard about my work with other clients and asked. Figured if anyone was gonna get themselves into a medical emergency mid-performance, it was going to be this guy.”

Skylar gasped. “Ooh, tell me more. Like what kind of emergency?”

Buck held up a finger. “Statistically, I’m overdue.”

“Also, he tried to stage dive into a barricade once,” Eddie added, completely serious.

“That was one time. And the fans caught me!”

“Your ankle didn’t agree.”

Skylar clapped her hands. “I love this dynamic. But okay, okay, let’s get to the moment . Asheville. Coffee. The kiss heard ’round the internet. Twitter was feral . How do you two balance that kind of public attention when one of you clearly isn’t used to the spotlight?”

Eddie scratched at his jaw, his tell when he was buying himself time. “Carefully.”

Buck chuckled. “He means I talk too much, and he stares silently until the interviewer gets uncomfortable.”

Skylar leaned in conspiratorially. “You’re not making me uncomfortable. But seriously—have there been any boundaries you had to set now that your relationship is… literally everywhere?”

Buck’s voice dipped, more thoughtful now. “We had to figure out what parts are just for us. And what parts we’re okay sharing. It helps that we trust each other.”

Eddie nodded. “And that we’re not pretending to be anything we’re not.”

Skylar wiggled her eyebrows. “Except for the kissing in public part.”

Buck shrugged, eyes flicking toward Eddie with a glint of mischief. “That was his idea.”

Eddie deadpanned without missing a beat. “He lies. Constantly.”

Buck let out a laugh, warm and startled, and nudged Eddie’s knee again. This time, Eddie nudged back.

Skylar’s grin could’ve powered the whole set.

“Okay, okay—lightning round time! Say the first name that comes to mind.” She pulled a stack of glittery index cards out from behind a pillow like a magician drawing swords from a hat. “Ready?”

“God, no,” Buck said.

“Perfect,” Eddie added.

“ Who gives better advice? ”

“Me,” Eddie said immediately.

Buck scoffed. “He once told me to ‘walk it off’ when I pulled a hamstring.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“No.”

Skylar was cackling.

“ Who’s more organized? ”

Buck raised his hand. “That’s me. I have a color-coded tour spreadsheet.”

Eddie looked unimpressed. “He lost his wallet in the fridge last week.”

“In my defense,” Buck pointed out, “the fridge light was out. That’s suspicious.”

“ Who has better taste in music? ” Skylar grinned, sensing this one would be good.

“Me, me, me,” Eddie said, smug.

“Objectively false,” Buck countered. “I made him a playlist. He cried.”

“It had Bon Jovi on it.”

“ Exactly. ”

They were both smiling now. Wide. Open. Easy in a way neither had probably noticed, but the cameras certainly had.

Skylar placed her cards down slowly, dramatically. “And that is what we call couple goals , folks.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it. Buck glanced sideways at him, gaze lingering for a second too long. And when Eddie turned his head and caught him, he didn’t look away.

Neither of them did.

Even when the director called cut and the cameras powered down, something stayed lit between them.

Skylar leaned in as the crew began packing up, voice quieter now. “You two might not think you’re putting on a show, but let me tell you— the whole world’s watching. ”

Eddie looked at Buck.

Buck looked at Eddie.

And for one heartbeat too long, the whole world fell away.

“Yeah,” Eddie said finally, soft but certain. “We noticed.”

@buddielives

not buck saying “we trust each other” and eddie IMMEDIATELY following up with “we’re not pretending to be anything we’re not,” like they didn’t just invent marriage in a pink glitter studio

@glittergraves

buck saying “i’m being held hostage by a unicorn rave” with the fondest smile i’ve ever seen and then lovingly touching the rhinestone lamp like it was sacred. he is not okay and neither am i

@fakebuddie_realfeelings

THEY SAT LIKE PEOPLE WHO SLEEP IN THE SAME BED AND FORGET THEY’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN LOVE YET. I’M SO NORMAL ABOUT THIS. REALLY

@chrissavedtheday

i just KNOW christopher is somewhere eating popcorn and telling ravi “they’re totally in love and they don’t even know it yet” like it’s a nature documentary

@emergencysnacks

hes so babygirl. no i will not elaborate. yes this is exactly who you think its about

The suite was buzzing—low music in the background, half-empty takeout containers on the coffee table, glitter still clinging to Buck’s sleeves like it had followed them home. Eddie had already tried to lint-roll it off of him twice. Buck had let him. Twice.

Now he was curled up sideways on the couch, hoodie unzipped over a tank top, one leg thrown over a cushion like it owed him something. Eddie sat in the armchair beside him, sipping a beer and pretending to scroll through his phone.

Christopher had taken the floor in front of them with a bowl of popcorn like it was movie night , and across the room, May and Ravi sat shoulder to shoulder on the edge of the other couch, a laptop balanced between them, the screen casting flickering light across both their faces.

May was grinning like a woman on a mission. Ravi had that look that said he was trying really hard to appear neutral and failing spectacularly.

“This,” May said, turning the laptop so everyone could see, “is art.”

“No,” Buck said, already bracing. “It’s war.”

“Too late,” May sing-songed. “Twitter already declared you two a soft launch for marriage. I’m just the messenger.”

Ravi cleared his throat. “Technically, someone said you invented marriage and then time-traveled to improve it.”

Christopher reached for more popcorn. “Sounds right.”

Buck groaned and dropped his head back dramatically. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Eddie arched a brow. “When have you ever done that?”

May held up a hand. “Wait, wait, I’ve got a favorite.” She clicked open a post and read aloud in a voice dripping with theatrical reverence. “‘Did anyone else catch the way Buck relaxes when Eddie’s next to him?? Like he leans in even when he doesn’t need to. Like gravity. Like habit. Like home.”

“Okay, wow ,” Buck muttered. “That’s... aggressive.”

Eddie didn’t say anything. He just took a long sip of his beer and tried not to think about how true it sounded.

“I’ve got one,” Ravi offered, a little too quickly.

May turned to look at him, eyes narrowing in delight. “Ravi. Are you secretly reading fan posts?”

Ravi looked at the floor. “I like data.”

Christopher elbowed May lightly. “He’s read like ten.”

“Four,” Ravi mumbled.

“Ten,” May and Chris said in unison.

Buck dragged a throw pillow over his face. “Can we not?”

“No, no, we have to,” May insisted. “You brought this on yourselves when you got cozy in the land of pink glitter and rhinestone mugs and decided to be in love on camera.”

“We’re not—” Buck started, sitting up. “We’re not in love . We’re just—"

“Being normal,” Eddie said flatly, without looking up. “Acting normal. Like normal people.”

May snorted. “Okay, explain to me which part of ‘we don’t fake the parts that aren’t real’ was supposed to sound platonic.”

Buck blinked. “...Context?”

May held up a hand. “Oh, I’ve got context. Next post .”

She turned the screen again.

“@cuddleinuniform writes: ‘Eddie said “that playlist had Bon Jovi on it” with the betrayal of a man who made it to track three, started weeping, and resented every tear. Buck’s mixtape has emotional consequences. ”

Buck raised both hands. “It was a good playlist! ”

“It had Bon Jovi,” Eddie said, voice a little too soft around the edges.

“And Queen!” Buck argued. “And Springsteen! And that Brandi Carlile song you liked.”

Christopher nodded solemnly. “That one made Dad cry in the car.”

Eddie froze.

Buck whipped around to stare at him, eyes wide. “You cried in the car ?”

“I did not,” Eddie muttered. “I had allergies.”

“Yeah,” Chris said. “Allergies in your heart.”

Ravi choked on his water. May howled with laughter.

Buck just stared, absolutely glowing. “You cried in the car. Over my playlist. ”

“I didn’t know it was from you at first,” Eddie said stiffly.

“That makes it so much better ,” Buck whispered.

“Okay, okay, enough,” Eddie said, pushing off the armrest to stand, though there was no real heat in it. “This conversation is getting out of hand.”

“Oh no,” May said, “this conversation is just getting good.”

“Yeah,” Chris agreed, “we haven’t even talked about the glitter lamp.”

Buck looked immediately betrayed. “ Christopher! ”

Eddie blinked. “What glitter lamp?”

May was cackling again. “The one Buck tried to say he hated and then lovingly caressed on camera.”

“I didn’t—” Buck made a helpless flailing motion. “It was soft!”

“You stroked it,” Ravi offered. “Affectionately.”

“It had texture! ” Buck defended. “And maybe I’m a visual learner! ”

Eddie folded his arms and tried so hard not to smile that it made his jaw twitch. “You liked it.”

Buck narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”

“You loved it.”

“Eddie—”

“I think I saw you whisper to it.”

May gave him a slow clap. “You’re so married.”

Ravi, who’d been quietly watching May the whole time with that soft, distant smile he never seemed to realize he was wearing, finally nudged her gently with his shoulder.

“You’re having too much fun with this,” he murmured.

“I really am,” she said, smiling down at the laptop. “I mean, you’re seeing this, right? They’re insane.”

“I’m seeing it,” he said, quieter, like he wasn’t just talking about Buck and Eddie anymore.

May glanced up.

Something flickered between them—brief, but real.

Eddie caught it.

So did Christopher.

The kid looked between them and grinned widely. “Are you two gonna kiss next?”

Ravi sputtered. May threw a popcorn kernel at him.

Buck looked around, totally baffled. “Wait, what’s happening now ?”

“Nothing!” May said way too quickly. “Mind your glitter business.”

“Don’t drag my glitter into your love triangle,” Buck said, pointing accusingly at her and Ravi. “I see you.”

Ravi held up his hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You never do,” Buck said. “And that’s suspicious. ”

Eddie laughed—really laughed—and it shut them all up for a second. It was that kind of laugh that lived in his chest, cracked through his ribs like sunlight through a boarded window.

Buck stared.

Noticed.

Grinned like a man who’d been handed the stars.

Chris nudged his dad, quieter now. “You should keep him.”

Eddie turned, brow furrowed. “What?”

Chris just shrugged, smiling gently. “I’m just saying. You’re happier when he’s here.”

Buck pretended not to hear.

Eddie didn’t answer.

But his hand found Buck’s on the couch cushion between them. Casual. Like gravity.

And Buck didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

If Eddie had told Buck this morning that their fake date for the day would involve aggressively curated florals and a shopkeeper named Lin who only accepted compliments as currency, he might have stayed in bed.

But now?

Now he was surrounded by peonies, buckets of eucalyptus, and one very smug-looking Eddie Diaz holding a bouquet like it was a weaponized seduction tool.

The shop was tucked into a crooked little corner of the West Village, its ivy-draped windows cracked open just enough to let in the warm breeze and the smell of bread from the bakery down the street. Inside, the air smelled like lavender, honey, and freshly-cut roses. Sunlight filtered through panes of stained glass that dappled the floor in jewel tones, and there were handwritten signs on every shelf. “Water Me, I’m Sensitive.” “Plant One On Me.” “Will Work for Sunlight.”

Buck blinked slowly at a tiny cactus in a macramé hanger with googly eyes glued to its pot. He was starting to feel watched .

“This place is…” he started, not really sure how to finish the sentence.

Eddie, without missing a beat: “Whimsical as hell.”

Buck squinted at him. “That was my line.”

“You paused too long,” Eddie said, grinning. “Gotta keep up, Buckaroo.”

Buck scowled. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“Sure,” Eddie said, and then, without warning, stepped way too close to a display of pale yellow ranunculus. He tilted his head in mock consideration. “Okay, which ones say, ‘My fake boyfriend is contractually obligated to hold hands with me in public but might actually be devastatingly in love with me behind the scenes?’ ”

Buck choked on air.

“Jesus, Diaz.”

Eddie turned to him, deadpan. “Too subtle?”

“You said subtle ?” Buck hissed, face flushing so fast he was going to need SPF 100. “That was a declaration. You practically proposed in flower code.”

Eddie just smiled and leaned in to smell a bunch of blush-colored dahlias, the collar of his denim jacket slipping down just enough to reveal the edge of his collarbone.

Buck stared. Stared hard.

He was in trouble.

“You know,” Eddie said, voice low and deliberately casual, “this is actually a good rehearsal. For future dates. Y’know. Just in case someone wants to impress me later.”

Buck accepted the rose Eddie offered him like it was a holy relic. Narrowed his eyes. “Is that a challenge?”

Eddie’s smirk deepened. “Do you want it to be?”

They stood toe-to-toe now, tension simmering somewhere between performative PR romance and absolutely filthy innuendo. Behind them, a shelf titled “Sensual Succulents” did nothing to help the atmosphere.

Buck’s voice dropped an octave. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Eddie murmured.

And honestly?

Yeah.

He would.

He wanted to know what it meant when Eddie leaned too close in crowded rooms. When he used his inside voice to say things that weren’t innocent at all. When his eyes lingered, unapologetically, on Buck’s mouth like it wasn’t part of the job.

Buck needed to break the tension or combust on the spot.

So instead, he blurted, “This whole place is giving me major Little Shop of Horrors vibes.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

Buck reeled back like he’d been slapped. “You don’t know Little Shop of Horrors ?”

“Is that a rom-com or a sci-fi?”

Buck made an indignant noise . “It’s a musical! With a carnivorous plant named Audrey II, who eats people and also sings. It’s iconic.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “You made that up.”

“You heathen, ” Buck gasped.

And then, because some part of his soul had clearly been taken hostage by the shop’s atmosphere of lavender and chaos, he grabbed a nearby broom like a mic stand, cleared his throat, and belted at full voice:

“Suddenly Seymour… is standing beside youuuu!”

A woman across the shop dropped her pot of orchids with a crash.

Lin—an older queer woman in rainbow overalls and six-inch platform Crocs— clapped . “YES. GIVE ME VOCALS, BABY.”

Eddie looked horrified.

“You don’t need no make-up,” Buck sang, swaying dramatically, “don’t have to pretend!”

“I take it back,” Eddie muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried not to smile. “You are a performer.”

“Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

“I am,” Eddie said, and his voice was low again, warm. “But I’m even more impressed you managed to serenade me in front of six strangers, three succulents, and a woman named Lin without combusting.”

Lin raised a hand. “Technically, it’s short for Lindependence. Long story.”

Buck grinned. “Respect.”

“Now kiss,” Lin said.

Buck blinked. “Wait, what?”

Eddie held up his phone. “Tommy texted. Apparently, someone snapped a pic of the serenade. He wants a follow-up shot of the grand romantic gesture. ”

Buck groaned. “That man is the devil in a skinny tie.”

“And yet,” Eddie said, stepping closer until there was maybe four inches between them, “you keep doing what he says.”

Buck’s breath caught.

Eddie’s hand landed on his hip. Light. Not demanding. But present.

The sunlight caught the curve of his jaw, the little laugh line near his mouth, the freckles Buck hadn’t noticed before along his collarbone.

“You good with this?” Eddie asked, voice low.

Buck nodded. “Yeah. I mean, yeah. For PR.”

“For PR,” Eddie repeated, like a joke. Like a lie they’d both agreed to tell.

And then he kissed him.

It wasn’t wild or showy—it wasn’t performative, not really. It was slow and sure, and Buck felt it down to the soles of his feet. The kind of kiss that fits too well. Like a habit already half-formed. Like something they’d done before and would do again.

He leaned in.

Eddie didn’t move away.

Outside, a couple of fans squealed. Someone said, “Oh my God ,” like they’d just witnessed a historical event.

Lin let out a wolf whistle.

Buck pulled back an inch, heart pounding, and met Eddie’s eyes. They were soft around the edges. Warm. Watching him like he was the only thing blooming in the room.

“Okay,” Buck said, dazed. “You definitely win. Flirting level: floral seduction complete.”

Eddie grinned. “You haven’t even seen my plant puns yet.”

“God help me.”

They walked out of the shop holding hands.

Buck was still holding the rose.

📸 @petalsandperil
floral chaos, musical theatre, & one devastating kiss

Caption:
When your quiet Wednesday shift turns into a front-row seat to a real-life romcom.

He sang Suddenly Seymour. Eddie grinned like he was being proposed to.
They kissed like nobody else was watching. (We all were.)

Anyway, I’m leaving my entire estate to them.
#Buddie #FlowerShopDate #SuddenlyBuck #PlantOneOnMe

[📷: Buck mid-serenade, Eddie flushed and laughing, flowers everywhere.]

  Top Comments
  @lesbiangremlin: i am not emotionally equipped for this much gay joy
  @buckthediazz: WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE SANG AT HIM
  @thebuckstopshere: eddie holding a rose like a proposal weapon??? this is dangerous gay behavior.

🧵 @buddieconspiracy (thread)

1. So let’s talk about THE KISS.
   
   
2. First off, Buck literally blushed after. Eddie grinned. The sunlight sparkled. A florist wept.
   
   
3. Then Eddie posted nothing for hours. When he finally did post, it was a photo of a cactus with googly eyes and a caption that just said: “he made me buy it.”
   
   
4. THAT’S DOMESTIC. THAT’S HUSBAND BEHAVIOR.
   
   
5. Also. Hand placement. You know what I’m talking about. Go rewatch it.
   
   
6. We’re in trouble. Deep, flower-scented, musical-loving, sunshine-and-denim-clad trouble.
   #Buddie #HandPlacementAnalysis #SuddenlyYes #KissgateFlowerEdition

The American Museum of Natural History was, as Buck proclaimed the second they stepped inside, “the single most underrated date spot in the entire city.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. He hadn’t been to many museums—not as a kid, not with Shannon, not even on all the mandatory school trips. He always assumed they were just… quiet halls of glass cases and dusty plaques. Something to endure.

But now?

Now he was standing beneath a suspended blue whale, watching Evan Buckley practically bounce on the balls of his feet, hands flailing mid-air as he pointed toward the Hall of Biodiversity like it was Disneyland.

And Eddie had to admit—this? It was not something to endure.

“This is the best part,” Buck said, grabbing Eddie’s wrist and dragging him into the dimly lit hall. “Okay—look. Look at that diorama. You see that frog? That little green one?”

Eddie squinted through the glass. “The one with the—what is that, red eyes?”

“Yeah, that’s the one! That’s a red-eyed tree frog. But next to it—that’s a golden poison dart frog. That little dude is one of the most toxic animals on the planet. Like, one frog’s skin has enough toxin to kill ten grown men. Nature’s flex.”

Eddie blinked. “You memorize frog facts in your spare time?”

Buck grinned, eyes alight. “I contain multitudes.”

He said it so proudly, like that explained everything: why he could be both glitter-soaked frontman and biology nerd, stage god and science dork.

Eddie shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” Buck said, nudging Eddie’s shoulder, “you’re still here.”

“I have to be,” Eddie said, deadpan. “PR responsibilities. Remember?”

Buck fake-gasped, hand over his heart. “So I’m just a corporate obligation to you?”

Eddie shrugged, utterly unbothered. “I dunno. You are hot when you talk about amphibians.”

Buck laughed, a little too loudly. “That’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear in my life.”

They wandered deeper, through coral reef exhibits and echoing halls of polished glass and looping documentary screens. Buck never stopped talking. Not in a rambling way, but in a you’ve-gotta-hear-this kind of way, like he was handing Eddie the secrets of the universe in digestible, delightful bites.

Eddie let himself listen.

“This jellyfish,” Buck was saying, pointing toward a softly glowing display, “is biologically immortal. Like, it can revert its cells and start life over again. It’s basically the Benjamin Button of sea creatures.”

“Why do you know this?”

“I fall down Wikipedia rabbit holes. It’s a problem.”

Eddie chuckled. “A hot nerd. What a surprise.”

They moved into the fossil wing—Buck almost ran—and suddenly they were beneath towering bones and plaques and mounted skeletons that looked too big to ever be real. Buck stood in front of a massive Tyrannosaurus like it was a sacred monument, and launched right into a history lesson.

“Okay, okay, this is so cool—did you know this guy had the bite force of over 12,000 pounds? That’s more than a modern alligator. And they’ve found evidence that they may have had feathers! Like angry, prehistoric birds.”

Eddie watched Buck gesture wildly with his hands again, eyes bright and unfocused as he spun another fact.

But Eddie wasn’t looking at the dinosaur.

He was looking at him .

At the way Buck’s whole face lit up when he talked about things he loved. At the way he moved, like his body couldn’t contain the enthusiasm, like joy was a physical force pushing him forward.

“You’re staring,” Buck said suddenly, catching the look.

Eddie didn’t even flinch. “Yeah. I am.”

Buck’s breath hitched. He took a step back, blinking fast like he needed a second to reset his internal systems.

“You trying to kill me, Diaz?” he asked, voice rough around the edges.

And Eddie—smug bastard—just stepped closer, slow and deliberate.

He leaned in, heat radiating off his skin, voice a warm scrape against Buck’s ear. “What are you gonna do about it, Buckley?”

Buck short-circuited.

There was no other word for it.

His brain flatlined. His lungs forgot how to inhale. His entire body became nothing but static, and the heat of Eddie’s breath curled against his jaw.

And Eddie knew it, too. He pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes dark and amused, mouth pulled into a smirk that made Buck dizzy.

“You okay?” Eddie asked, clearly not concerned with the answer.

Buck nodded, but it came out more like a head-tilt-shrug hybrid.

“Cool,” Eddie said, already turning to walk toward the next hall like he hadn’t just flirted with the lethal precision of a Bond villain. “I think there’s a meteor exhibit around the corner.”

Buck followed, legs moving on instinct alone.

His voice came back eventually—somewhere between a moon rock and a meteorite shard older than the sun—and when it did, he did what he always did when his emotions got too loud:

He started talking.

“Did you know the largest meteorite ever found on Earth is called the Hoba meteorite? It’s over sixty tons. Scientists think it landed around 80,000 years ago and hasn’t moved since.”

Eddie looked over his shoulder, smiling like Buck had just told him the secret to the universe.

Buck barreled on. “Also, Earth gets hit by about a hundred tons of space dust every day. We’re literally walking on alien material all the time, and no one talks about it.”

Eddie stopped walking. Turned to face him fully. “You really know all this off the top of your head?”

“Yeah,” Buck said, nervous now. “Sorry, I just—when I get excited, I kinda—”

But Eddie was already reaching out. Not to shush him. Just to take his hand.

“You’re amazing,” he said simply.

Buck was so terribly, irreversibly screwed.

He was halfway through an iced coffee that tasted like melted ambition and spiraling faster than any of the PR team could track. It was bitter, the kind of acidic bite that clung to the back of his throat, but he kept sipping it anyway, like it could anchor him. Like it could slow the restless thrum of his nerves.

It didn’t help.

Nothing helped, not when Eddie had leaned over five minutes ago—nonchalantly, casually, criminally—and adjusted the collar of Buck’s shirt. Just a simple tug, a sweep of fingers along his neck, like he cared . Like it wasn’t part of the act. Like Buck was his, or could be.

And Buck had barely survived the contact.

They weren’t even in the booth yet.

This was supposed to be a fake relationship. A carefully crafted illusion. A press stunt, technically, though no one dared call it that anymore. It had evolved into a mutually beneficial arrangement, complete with photo ops, whispers in greenrooms, hand-holding during high-visibility events, and more recently, a kiss captured in a North Carolina flower shop that had exploded across the internet like a sugar bomb.

Buck was supposed to be good at this. He was good at this. Charisma on demand, chemistry with anyone, charm like a mask he wore in his sleep.

But he hadn’t been pretending in weeks.

And now, they were moments from another interview—this one a radio segment with a livestream, because apparently hell had cameras—and Buck could feel the threads of the illusion pulling taut, fraying at the edges with every breath he took near Eddie.

Eddie, who sat beside him like a portrait of stillness: earbuds in, phone in hand, thumb scrolling slowly and steadily. He looked calm, even under the brutal fluorescents, like nothing could touch him.

Buck, meanwhile, couldn’t stop bouncing his leg. His knee jiggled so hard that the producer across the room gave him a look , but he couldn’t care enough to stop. His whole body was keyed up, every nerve singing with the unbearable nearness of Eddie Diaz.

A countdown started in the corner.

“Alright!” the host chirped, over-bright and crackling with radio energy. “We’re live in three... two...”

Buck inhaled sharply, braced himself.

“Hey, everyone, welcome back to City Pulse LIVE ! Today, we’ve got chart-topper Buck and his not-so-behind-the-scenes tour team member Eddie Diaz, aka half of what the internet has officially named Project Buddie .”

Buck flashed a grin he hoped passed for relaxed. Eddie nodded, expression polite. Neutral. Controlled in a way that made Buck want to throw something, or maybe kiss him breathless. Or both.

“So,” the host continued, leaning toward the mic with a grin, “tell me—is it weird doing this kind of press when you're technically not both performers?”

Eddie chuckled, that low, warm sound Buck felt in his ribs. “I try to stay out of the spotlight,” he said, tilting his head just slightly toward Buck, “but I guess I signed that away when I agreed to the tour bus.”

Buck leaned in, crowding Eddie’s space without thinking, because that’s what they did now—gravitated. “You’ve got stage presence, Diaz,” he said. “Brooding EMT is very marketable.”

The host laughed. “It is ! You two have this... tension. Chemistry. I mean, the kiss in Asheville—the flower shop, the museum. The fandom is eating it up.”

Buck turned more fully to Eddie then, and couldn’t help himself. The heat was rising under his skin, and it wasn’t from the lights.

“They say we look good together,” he said softly, eyes on Eddie’s mouth.

And without even planning it, without even thinking , he reached out and laced their fingers together.

Just like that.

No cue card. No rehearsal. Just instinct.

Eddie blinked. His eyes flicked down to their hands, and then up again, meeting Buck’s gaze with something unreadable.

He didn’t pull away.
But he didn’t squeeze back, either.

And that —that subtle hesitation, that half-second pause—was a fault line cracking open inside Buck’s chest.

The rest of the interview passed in a blur. Jokes. Banter. A trivia game about who knew more embarrassing facts about each other (Buck won, obviously; Eddie knew exactly how many years Buck had wet the bed as a kid and wasn’t afraid to weaponize it).

When it ended, the host signed off with a wink and a parting shot of, “Don’t break the internet too hard, boys!”

Buck smiled through it. Eddie laughed like nothing was wrong.

They stepped out of the booth and into the narrow hallway behind the studio, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Technicians passed by in quiet conversation, voices muffled under headphones, the smell of someone’s old takeout clinging to the walls.

Buck turned immediately.

“Okay, what was that?” he asked, voice sharp, low.

Eddie blinked at him. “What was what ?”

“Back there. You froze . I held your hand, and you froze like I’d done something wrong.”

“I didn’t freeze.”

Buck scoffed. “You didn’t react at all. You just... sat there. Like it meant nothing.”

Eddie exhaled slowly. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, great . Cool. Good to know it meant something while you looked like you were trying not to puke.”

“It caught me off guard, Buck.”

“We’ve done worse in public. Remember Rolling Stone? You fed me strawberries like we were starring in some indie romance about farm-to-table boyfriends.”

“That was planned,” Eddie said, voice still too damn calm.

“So was this !” Buck snapped, hands flying up. “We’re supposed to look like we care, remember? That’s the whole gig.”

Eddie went still. Too still. Like a storm front on pause.

“You don’t have to sell it so hard,” he said, quiet but firm.

And that— that —was the thing that did it.

Buck stepped back like he’d been hit. Something in his chest squeezed so tight it hurt to breathe.

“Oh, so it’s okay when you flirt with me whenever you fucking feel like it,” Buck said, voice rising, “but when I try anything, it’s the end of the goddamn world and I’m ‘doing too much’? Okay, Diaz. Cool.”

Eddie’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No? Because that’s exactly what it felt like. It’s easy for you,” he said, voice tight. “You still have a line. I lost mine somewhere back in Asheville.”

“Evan,” Eddie said sharply.

Buck froze.
The hallway froze.

Eddie never called him that. Not once. Not in the months they’d known each other. Not even behind closed doors.

“You’re not the only one who’s confused here,” Eddie said, voice softer now. “You think you lost the line? I don’t even know what mine looks like anymore.”

Buck didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

It wasn’t anger he was feeling. Not really. It was worse than that. It was heartbreak in slow motion.

Because if Eddie didn’t know where the line was, maybe it meant he didn’t want to find it.

And maybe—maybe he didn’t want to cross it.

Buck stepped back again. Didn’t look at him.

And when he turned and walked away, this time… Eddie didn’t stop him.

Eddie had been to every show since the tour started.

That was the job. The assignment. Keep Buck healthy, keep him safe, make sure his chaos doesn’t spiral past the point of no return.

That was all it was supposed to be.

But then Buck smiled at him on the first night like he already knew him. Like they weren’t strangers. Like, Eddie meant something.

And suddenly, every city, every venue, every late night on the bus, every shared meal, every look that lasted too long, started carving something out of him. Slowly. Painfully. Like erosion. Like hunger.

Still, he told himself it was just the job.

He told himself that during rehearsals, when Buck would glance toward him before a particularly high note like he needed his presence to land it. He told himself that when he checked Buck’s pulse post-set, and let his hand linger just a second too long. He told himself that when they held hands for the cameras and Eddie had to pretend the press was the only reason his grip tightened.

He was good at pretending.

He had years of practice.

And tonight, like always, he stood just offstage—half in shadow, half in denial—as the crowd pulsed with anticipation and Buck stepped into the light.

Eddie expected the usual swagger. The wide grin. That cocky little half-wave Buck gave just before grabbing the mic.

But tonight…

Buck looked different.

Not nervous.

Not tired.

Stripped down.

His shoulders were stiff beneath his denim jacket, his mouth pressed into a line, and there was something hard and flammable behind his eyes. Not the usual glitter. Not the showmanship.

Something personal.

Something private.

It hit Eddie in the gut before Buck even said a word.

Then—quietly, steadily—Buck leaned into the mic and said:

“Change of plans.”

The band exchanged quick, puzzled looks. Chim’s sticks hovered over the snare. Hen paused mid-keystroke. May, out by the mixing board, frowned.

No explanation came.

Just Buck’s voice again, low and measured.

“This one’s for someone who keeps pretending this isn’t real.”

Eddie stopped breathing.

He didn’t have to wonder.

He knew exactly who Buck meant.

And then—

The opening beat dropped.

(9)

What the fuck ?

The crowd exploded—shrieks of surprise, phones shooting up, the front row already belting lyrics before Buck even started singing.

But Eddie? Eddie felt frozen.

Paralyzed.

Like the floor beneath him had tilted and left him hanging in space.

This was wrong. Off-script. Not on the setlist. Not cleared with May. Not what they rehearsed during soundcheck.

And Buck never deviated like this.

Except now he was.

And Eddie had a sinking, gut-deep feeling that this wasn’t just a stunt.

This wasn’t about PR.

This was about him.

“But close ain't close enough…' Til we cross the line, hey, yeah…”

Buck’s voice poured into the mic like heat. Like a secret. Like every word was something he shouldn’t say, but couldn’t stop himself from saying.

His hips moved with the music, fluid and sinful, but his eyes —God, his eyes kept drifting toward the left edge of the stage. Toward where Eddie stood, half in darkness, heart slamming against his ribs like a warning bell.

He should walk away. He should leave. Find May. Call it in. Do something .

But his feet wouldn’t move.

His legs felt like concrete, rooted to the floor by a thousand unspoken things.

The lyrics wrapped around him like a noose.

“Been waiting and waiting for you to make a move (ooh, ooh)...Before I make a move (ooh, ooh)...”

Eddie’s jaw tightened. His palms were slick. His skin felt too tight, like his body wasn’t his anymore.

Because this—this was not what they agreed to. This was too bold, too real, too close.

He thought of the interview.

He thought of the fight.

The way Buck looked at him afterward, like Eddie had reached in and torn something out of him by mistake.

“You don’t have to sell it so hard,” he’d said.

And Buck had looked at him —really looked at him—and said:

“You still have a line. I lost mine somewhere back in Asheville.”

Eddie had hated him a little in that moment. Hated him for being honest. For making it real.

Because if Buck had lost the line…

Then what the hell had Eddie been clinging to?

“A little bit scandalous…But, baby, don't let them see it…”

The lyrics slammed into him like a wave he hadn’t braced for.

Buck stalked the stage now, the spotlight painting him in gold and rose, sweat glinting at his temple. His voice cracked slightly on the last “into you,” and it wasn’t because he missed the note.

It was because he meant it.

Eddie’s stomach flipped.

His throat ached with something unspoken. Something heavy and hot and clawing.

And still, he couldn’t look away.

Because Buck wasn’t hiding tonight.

He was laying himself bare, note by note, lyric by lyric, daring Eddie to see him.

Not the rockstar.

Not the act.

Him.

And fuck, Eddie did.

He saw him.

The guy who knew every fan’s name on the crew.

The guy who cried at that stupid dog rescue video in Dallas.

The guy who touched Eddie like he didn’t expect to be allowed to do it again.

And in that moment, somewhere between the second chorus and the aching, desperate bridge, Eddie felt something collapse inside him.

“Oh, baby, look what you started…The temperature's rising in here…”

Something old.

Something buried.

Something that had been waiting—patiently, painfully—for him to stop lying.

I’m in love with Buck Buckley.

The thought hit like a bullet.

Clean. Precise. Devastating.

No preamble. No escape.

And suddenly he was furious.

Furious at himself for not seeing it sooner. Furious that it was happening now, under stage lights and pounding bass and the roar of a thousand strangers who didn’t know what it cost Buck to sing like this.

He wanted to scream. Wanted to run. Wanted to grab Buck by the shoulders and ask him if he meant it, if this was real, if any of it could be theirs.

And it made sense. All of it.

“Got everyone watchin' us…So, baby, let's keep it secret.”

The way his heart always stuttered when Buck laughed.

The way he memorized Buck’s pre-show rituals—not out of professionalism, but affection.

The way every fake kiss had felt real.

Too real.

He wasn’t protecting himself anymore.

He was running.

Because loving Buck meant breaking open in a way Eddie hadn’t dared to since the war. Since Shannon. Since the version of himself he used to believe was still salvageable.

But God, Buck was making it so hard to hide.

“Tell me what you came here for…'Cause I can't, I can't wait no more…”

Every “it’s just the job.”
Every “he doesn’t mean it.”
Every time he touched Buck like it didn’t matter.

It mattered.
God, it all mattered.

And Eddie—God, Eddie couldn’t look away.

This wasn’t a performance.

This was a plea.

A dare.

A confession wrapped in synth and sweat and sound.

But he didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Not until the final note rang out, Buck’s head bowed, his chest heaving, his hands trembling slightly around the mic.

The lights dropped.

The crowd screamed.

And Buck stood there alone, breathless, exposed, his voice raw and wide open, waiting.

Waiting.

Eddie didn’t go to him.

Not yet.

Because his heart was still shattered in his chest, trying to piece itself back together around a truth too terrifying to hold:

He was in love with Buck.

And he’d been hiding from it for so long, he wasn’t sure how to stop.

But tonight?

Tonight, Buck had stopped hiding first.

And now the question was simple.

Would he be brave enough to follow?

Chapter Text

Buck came off the stage fuming .

Not in the way he usually was after a high-energy set—heart still thrumming from the adrenaline, drenched in sweat and glory, skin buzzing with the pulse of the crowd.

No.

This was different. This was sharp . This was acidic . This was betrayal wrapped in heartbreak wrapped in pure, unfiltered rage .

His jaw was locked so tight he thought he might break a molar. His fists were clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. Every step off the stage felt like a punch to the gut. Every cheer from the crowd sounded like static.

Angry.

At himself. At the stupid PR stunt. At the lights and the lyrics and the way the crowd had screamed like they knew something he didn’t.

But mostly?

Mostly, he was angry at Eddie.

At stupid, stupid Eddie and his stupid, handsome face, and his stupid opinions, and his cowardice, and his stupid hands—his stupid strong hands that Buck wished would just grip his waist and pull him in already and—

Yeah, okay. He was angry.

Because Eddie hadn’t moved.

Because Eddie hadn’t looked at him like it meant something.

Because Buck had stood there in front of twenty thousand people and bled himself dry—word by word, note by note—and Eddie had done nothing .

He shoved past a roadie, ignoring the startled "woah, man" that followed, and barreled into the greenroom.

The door banged open. A folding chair nearly tipped. Water bottles trembled on the table.

Hen looked up first, mid-sip of her drink, and arched a brow. Chim stopped mid-sentence and slowly turned. Ravi had his phone out and immediately dropped it with a quiet "shit."

Even Bobby was there.

Which, thank god. Because if he hadn’t been, Buck might’ve put a hole in the wall.

"Hey…" Hen said carefully, eyes narrowing. "You okay?"

Buck didn’t answer. Buck threw the towel from around his neck against the wall. It slid down with a pathetic whump , but the motion helped none of the heat rising in his chest, then paced like a caged animal.

"Fine," he muttered, chest heaving. " Great . Fucking phenomenal ."

Chim raised both brows. "So… you're definitely not mad."

Buck shot him a glare so cold that Chim actually flinched.

Ravi leaned toward Bobby. Whispered, "Should I run?"

Chim glanced at Ravi. Ravi winced.

"What happened?" Bobby asked, calm as always.

Buck turned on him, incredulous. "What happened?! What happened is I sang a song to him— about him in front of an arena full of people, and he looked at me like I was invisible ."

The room went silent.

"Seriously," Buck hissed, pacing. "What kind of sociopath just stands there after that? What kind of person hears that and doesn’t flinch ?"

No one answered.

"I was begging , Bobby. I was standing up there begging him to see me. And you know what I got back? Fucking nothing ."

Then the door opened.

Buck didn’t even have to look.

He felt him before he saw him.

The tension in the room snapped like a wire. Every pair of eyes swung to the doorway.

Eddie.

Casual, composed, like he didn’t just gut Buck out there under stage lights.

"Can I talk to Buck?" he asked. "Alone?"

"No," Buck snapped before anyone else could speak. "Whatever you have to say, say it in front of everyone. God knows I already made a public idiot out of myself—why stop now?"

Eddie flinched. Just slightly.

"Look, I get it," Buck said, voice rising. "You don’t feel the same. You’re straight, or closed off, or maybe you just don’t want me. That’s fine. But you didn’t have to stand there like a statue . You could’ve smiled, or nodded, or—fuck— blinked . Give me something ."

"Buck—"

"Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?"

"I do, and—"

"Do you know how hard it was to write that song ? To put it in the setlist? To tell May to run that goddamn light cue because I thought maybe—just maybe —you might see me ?"

"Buck, stop—"

"No! Because I can’t keep doing this , Eddie. I can’t keep pouring myself into you and getting nothing back. I can’t keep walking this tightrope between friend and fantasy. I can’t keep pretending I’m okay when you won’t even look me in the eye after I lay my fucking heart at your feet!"

"I do look at you—"

"Not the way I look at you! "

Eddie opened his mouth.

Buck cut him off again, voice cracking now, unraveling fast.

"You don’t get to show up here and pretend this is normal. You don’t get to act like you didn’t just wreck me out there! I’m sick of being the only one bleeding in this friendship. I’m sick of feeling like I’m too much, and not enough, and like none of it matters to you!"

"Buck—"

"Do you even care ? Or am I just your job—your obligation—some pit stop on the road to whatever safe, quiet life you’re trying to get back to?"

And that—

That was when Eddie snapped.

He took two steps forward, fists clenched at his sides, eyes burning with something that finally, finally broke through that cold, careful exterior.

"Would you just—shut the fuck up for five seconds so I can talk ?!"

The room went dead silent.

Buck blinked, caught off guard.

Eddie’s chest rose and fell fast. His voice was hoarse. Raw. Like the words hurt on the way out.

"I love you."

Buck’s heart stopped.

So did his mouth.

Eddie glared at him, breathing hard, like he couldn’t believe he had to use those three words as a fire extinguisher .

"You done now?" he asked, quiet but firm. "Can I finally say what I came here to say?"

Buck didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink .

So Eddie filled the silence.

"I didn’t clap. I didn’t move. I didn’t look at you because I was terrified that if I did, I wouldn’t be able to stop."

Buck swallowed hard.

"I stood still because if I let myself feel anything during that song, I would’ve fallen apart. And I couldn’t—not in front of everyone. Not while I was still trying to figure out how to survive loving you and not ruin everything."

The rage in Buck flickered.

Softened.

Eddie stepped closer.

"You don’t scare me because you’re too much. You scare me because you’re exactly what I want. And I’m not used to wanting things that badly. I’ve spent my whole life picking the safe option. Being the steady one. The responsible one. The one who doesn’t ask for more than he thinks he deserves."

His voice shook.

"But you made me want more. You made me want you . And I didn’t know how to handle that. I still don’t. But I do know I’m done hiding it. I love you, Buck. Loud. Messy. Right here in front of everyone. "

Hen exhaled quietly.

Ravi’s jaw was hanging open.

Chim looked like he might cry.

Bobby had a hand on his chest like he needed to ground himself.

Buck?

Buck stood there, trembling, blinking fast, like his body couldn’t catch up to what his heart already knew.

Say something, his brain screamed.

Do something .

"I love you."

This time, he said it on purpose.

This time, he let it settle. Let it be real.

Buck didn’t move.

No one did.

So Eddie stepped forward, like wading into fire, and kept going.

"I didn’t know it. Not really. Not until tonight. Not until you sang that song like it was a confession and a dare all at once, and I just stood there like a goddamn coward ."

His voice cracked. He cleared it, trying again.

"But I’ve been in love with you longer than I can admit. Longer than I even wanted to know."

Buck’s mouth parted, but still—no sound.

So Eddie filled the silence.

"I love the way you get quiet when you think no one’s watching. I love that you learn the names of every stagehand on tour because you care . I love the way you hum stupid little melodies when you’re tuning your guitar. The way you fidget when you’re nervous and bite your thumb when you’re anxious."

He laughed, soft and wrecked.

"I love the way Chris looks at you like you hung the damn stars. I love the way I look at you when I think I’ve gotten good at hiding it—because I never actually have."

Buck blinked, eyes glassy.

"I love the way you hold space for everyone. Like you're not already carrying more than you can handle. Like you want to. Like you need to. And I hate that I let you think you were in this alone. I hate that I made you feel like you were loving someone who didn’t love you back."

Hen whispered something under her breath, but Eddie didn’t hear it.

Didn’t hear anything except the roaring in his ears and the way his own voice seemed to echo off the walls like a lifeline.

"You make everything brighter, Buck. Louder. Fuller . I didn’t think I’d get a second chance at this. Not after the war. Not after Shannon. Not after I let myself become someone who stopped taking risks. But you—"

He stepped closer.

Buck still hadn’t moved.

"You make me want to risk everything. You make me believe I could survive it. That we could survive it. Even this. Even now."

He was shaking.

Hands, breath, heart. Everything.

But he looked right at Buck—right into that messy, furious, heartbreakingly open face—and said:

"I love you. Loud. On purpose. In front of everyone. Because you deserve to be loved like that."

Silence.

A beat. Two.

Then Buck—

Buck took a step back.

Buck stood frozen, blinking at Eddie like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard—like he might’ve misheard, hallucinated it, dreamed it.

The room was silent, save for the faint buzz of fluorescent lighting and the distant thud of drums being packed up on stage. Hen’s mouth was half open like she wanted to say something but knew better. Chim was still holding a half-empty bottle of Gatorade in mid-air, like the moment would shatter if he moved. Ravi looked somewhere between horrified and fascinated.

And Bobby—Bobby just watched quietly, eyes steady. Like he knew this wasn’t his moment to fix.

But it was Eddie’s. Eddie, standing there with his hands clenched at his sides and his heart cracked wide open for everyone to see.

Buck’s throat was dry. His hands itched.

He wanted to move. To scream. To kiss him. To throw something. To rewind time to thirty goddamn minutes ago and unsing the most vulnerable moment of his life.

Instead, he said—too loudly, too bitterly, too Buck —

“Oh, now you say it?”

Eddie flinched like Buck had slapped him.

“You wait until now to say that? After that ? After the whole fucking city saw me rip myself in half on that stage for you and you didn’t even flinch?”

“I didn’t know—”

“ Bullshit! ” Buck’s voice cracked. “You knew. You knew what that song meant. You knew it the second the lights came up, and you didn’t move. You stood there like a fucking statue while I—”

He broke off, jaw tight, shoulders trembling. He couldn’t look at anyone. Especially not Eddie. Especially not now.

“I was scared,” Eddie said quietly, voice hoarse. “I didn’t know if it was real, Buck. I didn’t know if it was for the song or the crowd or the PR or—”

“You think I lie on stage? ” Buck's voice came out lower now, but sharper, meaner. “You think I perform love? Is that what you think of me?”

Eddie stepped forward again, faster this time. “ No. That’s not—Jesus, Buck, that’s not what I meant.”

Hen finally tried to cut in. “Okay, maybe we all just take a second—”

Buck raised a hand, not to her, but in general. A quiet, restrained don’t. She sat back, eyes flicking to Bobby, who hadn’t moved. Not even once.

Eddie exhaled like the wind had been knocked out of him.

“I’ve never done this before,” he said, softer now. “I’ve never been in love with someone like this. I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t know how to name it. But you—” he gestured helplessly toward Buck, “—you’re the most alive person I’ve ever met. And that scares the hell out of me.”

Buck still didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

“I kept telling myself I was protecting something—my job, Chris, you. But all I was doing was protecting me. From getting hurt. From hurting. ”

He stepped closer again, slow and cautious this time.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie whispered. “I’m sorry I let you stand up there alone. I’m sorry I made you feel like none of it mattered. Because it did. It does. You matter, Buck. You’ve mattered since the moment I met you.”

Buck’s chest ached. Like someone had wrapped piano wire around his ribs and kept tightening it.

“You think I don’t want you?” he asked, eyes still fixed on the carpet. “You think I haven’t spent every night since this tour started wondering what it would be like if you were mine? I’ve written songs about you, Eddie. I’ve bled for you.”

Buck’s voice cracked on the last word, like it physically cost him something to let it out. Like he hadn’t meant to say it, not like that, not with everyone watching. Not with his heart already laid bare and bleeding at their feet.

Eddie stopped.

Not because he didn’t want to keep going, but because that—that sentence—landed like a meteor in the middle of the room.

Something deep in Buck’s posture cracked. You could see it—the slow, devastating slump of his shoulders, the way his chin tilted slightly toward his chest, like he’d finally caved in under the weight of every held-back feeling, every long look he thought went unnoticed, every almost and never mind and not yet.

He swiped a hand roughly over his face, knuckles scraping his cheekbone.

“I didn’t do that song for the fans,” he muttered, quieter now. “I didn’t do it for the PR, or the headlines, or May, or to stir up attention. I did it because I couldn’t keep holding it in. I did it because it was the only way I knew how to tell you without falling apart.”

Eddie’s throat worked visibly.

Buck finally lifted his gaze—just a fraction. Just enough to meet Eddie’s eyes for the first time since he stormed in. And God, Eddie looked wrecked.

“What do you want from me?” Buck asked, raw. “Because I can’t go back to pretending. I won’t. Not after this. Not after tonight. You don’t get to say ‘I love you’ like it’s an apology. Not after all this.”

“I’m not apologizing for loving you,” Eddie said, voice cracking. “I’m apologizing for waiting so long to say it.”

And maybe it was that line. Or maybe it was the way Eddie’s voice broke, like he’d been holding it in for years and it finally split him open. Maybe it was the fact that everyone in the room had gone so still, like they were suspended in amber, waiting for Buck to breathe again.

But something shifted. A click behind his ribs. A loosening.

Buck sat down hard on the couch like the air had been knocked out of him.

“I was so mad at you,” he muttered. “I still am.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to punch you.”

Eddie nodded. “I figured.”

“I still might.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across Eddie’s face. “Okay.”

“And I wanted you to say it back. On stage. In front of all those people.”

“I know.”

“But maybe…” Buck looked up, eyes tired, voice barely a whisper. “Maybe I wanted you to say it here more.”

Eddie’s breath hitched.

And then Buck asked, “Say it again.”

Eddie didn’t hesitate.

“I love you.”

Buck leaned back on the couch, closed his eyes, and whispered, “Fuck.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Chim muttered, “So… should we leave now or…?”

Ravi nodded, eyes still wide. “Yeah, yeah, let’s, um, let’s maybe not be here.”

Hen, bless her, gave Buck’s shoulder a squeeze on her way out. “We’ll be outside. If you need us.”

Bobby didn’t move right away. He just looked at Buck for a long second—eyes warm, knowing, proud. Then he turned to Eddie.

“Don’t fuck this up.”

And with that, the door clicked shut behind them.

Leaving Buck and Eddie alone. Finally.

The quiet felt different now.

Less like tension. More like a possibility.

Eddie stepped forward again, slow this time, careful not to shatter the fragile thread between them.

Buck looked up at him, exhausted and unguarded.

“You said it,” Buck whispered.

“I did.”

“And you meant it?”

Eddie nodded. “Every word.”

Eddie opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Tried again.

“I want—” He stopped, dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “Fuck, Buck. I want everything. I want the stupid early mornings and the post-show high and the ridiculous way you sing off-key when you’re brushing your teeth. I want the fights and the makeups and the part where we screw everything up and try again anyway. I want every version of you. Even the ones I’m still scared I don’t deserve.”

He stepped forward, slow but certain this time. Like he was crossing a minefield he’d built himself.

“I want the chance to love you out loud. Like you loved me tonight.”

Buck didn’t respond.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

His hands were trembling. Open now. Empty.

There was a long pause.

Just the two of them now.

Eddie took another step.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “I know I was too late. I know I should’ve said it before you had to. But I see you now. I see everything now. And if there’s still even the smallest part of you that wants this—wants me—”

He stopped.

Shook his head.

“No. I’m not going to ask for permission. Not tonight.”

He crossed the final distance between them, slow but sure, until they were chest to chest. Until Buck could smell the faint hint of Eddie’s cologne, could see the raw truth in his eyes, the softness in the line of his mouth.

Eddie reached out, fingers brushing Buck’s trembling hand.

“You said you were tired of being the only one bleeding,” he murmured. “So let me bleed too. Let me show you I’m not scared anymore.”

Buck’s breath caught.

And then—slowly, like the tide inching up the sand—he surged forward.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a collapse.

Into arms that caught him without hesitation. Into a chest that felt like home. Into the only place he’d ever really wanted to be.

Buck’s forehead pressed into Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie wrapped his arms around him like he’d never let go again.

For a long moment, there were no words.

Just breath. Just heartbeats. Just the quiet, undeniable thrum of something real taking root in the middle of all the chaos.

Eventually, Buck spoke—low and unsteady, muffled against Eddie’s shirt.

“I hate you a little bit.”

Eddie huffed a wet laugh. “Yeah. I deserve that.”

“I hate you,” Buck said again, fiercer now, voice shaking, “for making me feel like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.”

Eddie held him tighter. “I know.”

“I hate you,” Buck whispered, “but I think I still love you more.”

Eddie pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

And then he kissed him.

Soft, devoted , nothing like the fury that had brought them here. It was the kind of kiss that said thank you , and I’m sorry , and please don’t stop all at once.

When they finally broke apart, Buck was breathing hard, eyes glassy, lips red.

Eddie rested their foreheads together.

“I’m yours,” he whispered. “If you’ll still have me.”

Buck nodded, barely, like anything more would shatter him.

“I’ve always had you,” he whispered back.

And for the first time all night—

Eddie smiled.

Then Buck reached out—just a little. Just enough.

And Eddie, like he’d been waiting for permission, took his hand.

Buck’s fingers curled around his like a secret. Like a promise.

No one said I love you again.

They didn’t have to.

Chapter Text

The tour bus rumbled softly beneath them, wheels slicing over the wet pavement like a lullaby in motion. Outside the wide windows, city lights passed in fractured blurs—reflections smeared like watercolors on the dark glass. Neon blinked and vanished. Stoplights glowed red, then green, then gold again. But inside the bus, it was quiet. Not the awkward kind. Not tense. Just… gentle.

Peaceful.

Chim was out cold across from them, slumped sideways with his cheek smashed against a folded-up hoodie. His mouth hung open a little, snoring faintly through his nose. One of his hands twitched every now and then like he was dreaming—maybe about Maddie, maybe about tour logistics. Hard to tell with Chim.

Ravi was leaning against the window, one earbud in, his phone screen lighting up his face. The glow danced faintly in the lenses of his glasses, casting ghostly shadows over his cheekbones. He wasn’t really watching whatever was on. His gaze flicked up every few minutes. Like he was trying not to look at them but couldn't help himself.

Hen had her head tipped back on the seat, earbuds in, arms crossed, expression unreadable. She wasn’t asleep. Buck knew the difference—he knew the subtle tension she held when she was awake, when she was giving space on purpose.

And space is what they’d been given. A quiet kind of privacy that didn’t need curtains or locked doors. Just understanding. Just love, in its softest, most knowing form.

Buck sat beside Eddie on the narrow bench along the back wall of the bus. It wasn’t made for comfort—god, none of this was. But somehow, he didn’t feel uncomfortable. He felt close . Anchored. Settled. Like every jagged edge inside him had finally stopped buzzing.

Their thighs were pressed together, knees barely brushing. They weren’t touching hands. They weren’t saying anything. But the silence between them didn’t stretch like something fragile.

It folded in.

Held them.

Buck kept his eyes on the window, not really seeing the city anymore. His fingers trembled faintly where they rested in his lap, nerves firing in little bursts he couldn’t quite control. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was something else.

Eddie noticed. Of course he did.

Without a word, he shifted beside him. No dramatic inhale. No throat-clearing. Just a quiet, steady hand reaching out and settling gently on Buck’s knee. A touch that said I see you . A touch that said You’re here. I’m here. We’re okay.

Tap tap tap tap.

It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t performative.

It was intimate in the way only earned trust could be.

Buck shivered once, all the way through—like a wave of cold passed over him from the inside out. But then it was gone. The tension drained. His body stilled.

The hum of the bus. The distant sound of soft music filtering from the overhead speakers—some acoustic cover of a song he half-knew. The barely-there noise of tires on pavement.

All of it became background.

And in that quiet, Buck whispered, voice so low it might’ve been a thought made audible:

“It’s real now, isn’t it?”

He wasn’t asking.

He wasn’t searching for reassurance.

He just needed to hear it said. Out loud. To believe it.

Eddie’s thumb shifted slightly on his knee. Then he nodded, voice steady. “Yeah. It is.”

Buck let out a breath that felt like it had been caught in his ribs since the second chorus. Since the moment he’d looked down from the stage and saw Eddie standing there, still and shining and heartbreakingly real .

The exhale hitched near the end.

He blinked quickly, hoping it would pass—but it didn’t. The sting behind his eyes came sharp, sudden, and then slow. Not panic. Not pain.

Just release .

His gaze dropped to Eddie’s hand on his knee. Then, without really thinking, he turned his palm upward in his lap. Eddie didn’t hesitate. Their fingers found each other like magnets—like they’d been trying to do that all night and just hadn’t gotten the timing right until now.

Buck swallowed hard. He hated crying. Hated how fragile it made him feel. But he couldn’t stop it this time. Didn’t want to stop it, if he was honest.

And so the tears came.

Quiet. Clean.

No shaking shoulders. No gasping breaths. Just slow, glistening trails down his cheeks that caught in the corner of his mouth.

Eddie didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask him to explain.

He just shifted, pulling Buck gently sideways into his chest. It was easy, natural. Like his shoulder had been waiting to hold him. Like they’d done this a thousand times before, in some other life.

Buck leaned into it with something that felt like reverence.

The weight of Eddie’s arm across his back.

The warmth of their fingers still threaded together.

The rhythm of the road underneath them.

It was all too much and somehow just enough.

Buck pressed his face lightly into the fabric of Eddie’s shirt. It smelled faintly like aftershave and something warmer—salt and sun, maybe. Familiar. He blinked more tears into the fabric and let them go.

“I was scared it would never be real,” he whispered.

His voice was rough now. Frayed and unraveling at the edges.

Eddie turned his face, pressing his forehead gently against Buck’s temple. His breath was steady when he answered.

“Me too,” he said, soft and unflinching. “But it is now.”

And Buck believed him.

For once, he let himself believe it.

No defenses. No shields.

Just the truth of it, humming quietly between them like a heartbeat.

They didn’t kiss. Didn’t need to.

No grand declarations. No fireworks.

Just the simple miracle of sitting there. Together. As them .

The song on the speaker shifted to something older—Fleetwood Mac, maybe. A few acoustic chords floated softly through the dim interior, barely louder than the road. Someone behind them sniffled. Maybe Hen. Maybe Ravi. But no one said a word.

They were letting them have it.

This moment.

This stillness.

This breath of something new.

Eventually, the bus slowed, turning into the hotel’s underground garage. Fluorescent lights overhead flashed across the windows in quick bursts—white, gray, white again.

Eddie pulled back just enough to look at him.

His hand never left Buck’s.

“You did good tonight,” he said, voice low but firm. No hesitation. No waver. “Really good.”

Buck’s chest ached.

Because he meant it.

Because there was no catch. No “but.” No hidden judgment. Just truth .

His breath caught as it left him, and this time, he didn’t try to hide it.

And for the first time in what felt like years, Buck actually— honestly —believed it too.

The morning light filtered through the wide hotel windows in soft, golden streams—honey-colored and warm, like the world had finally slowed down long enough to take a breath. Outside, the city was already humming with the low throb of traffic and the murmur of weekend errands. But up here, in the stillness of the suite, everything felt quiet.

Gentle.

Eddie stood in the kitchenette for a moment longer than necessary, one hand braced on the counter, the other curled loosely around his mug. The coffee had long since gone cold. He hadn't taken a sip.

Across the room, Christopher sat cross-legged on the couch near the window, bathed in morning sun. He was flipping through an old Fantastic Four comic, the edges of the pages soft from use. Every now and then, he'd pause to frown at something Reed Richards said, clearly skeptical about the logic of elastic time travel. His brows scrunched in that way that looked exactly like his mother when she’d been mid-crossword.

Buck lingered at Eddie’s side, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His hand brushed against Eddie’s once. Brief, tentative. A question.

Are we doing this now?

Eddie nodded almost imperceptibly. His heart beat harder than it had on any battlefield.

They crossed the room together, steps matching without needing to try, and stopped just behind the couch where Chris sat, still completely absorbed. The boy tilted his head as he turned a page, murmuring something about how Sue Storm deserved better writing.

Buck smiled—something small and soft—and Eddie felt it all the way in his bones.

They reached for the couch at the same time, mirroring each other, hands finding the back of it like it was muscle memory.

Eddie’s voice came first. “Hey, mijo.”

Chris glanced up, blinking the way he always did when he’d been focused for a while. “Yeah?”

His face brightened as soon as he saw them. There was no guardedness in him, no worry. Just warmth, curiosity, and the unshakable belief that if his dad and Buck were standing together, it was probably something important.

Eddie reached out, brushing a loose curl off Chris’s forehead. The sun lit it up, turning it a pale gold for a second, like it had caught fire. He let his fingers linger a moment longer than necessary.

“We wanted to talk to you about something,” Eddie said, watching his son’s face. “It’s good. I promise.”

Chris tilted his head, a quiet okay written all over his features. He didn’t put the comic down, but his attention had fully shifted to them.

Buck’s shoulder rose with a breath. He looked nervous, hands tucked into his hoodie sleeves, eyes flickering to Eddie like he wasn’t sure how much to say.

Eddie kept it steady. He’d promised himself he would. He owed that to both of them.

“You know how Buck and I have been spending a lot of time together lately, right?”

Chris nodded slowly. “Yeah. You guys are like best friends.” Then, casually, “And also fake dating.”

Buck coughed, caught between a laugh and a groan. “Yeah, uh… about that.”

Eddie bit back a smile. “That part wasn’t exactly supposed to last this long.”

Chris shrugged, clearly unbothered. “It’s been kinda obvious for a while.”

Buck blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I’m not clueless, ” Chris said, sounding exactly like a ten-year-old who knew his worth. “You look at each other like the people in movies do when they’re in love. And you let him have the last slice of pizza. That’s serious .”

Eddie stared at him. “Have you been watching romantic comedies without me?”

Chris gave him a knowing look. “Abuela’s been educating me. There's this one with Sandra Bullock and—wait, not the point.”

Eddie snorted. Buck looked like he was about to pass out from affection.

“I guess what we’re saying,” Eddie said, dialing himself back to the heart of it, “is… It’s not fake anymore.”

Chris’s eyes widened just a little. Just enough to catch the shift in the air.

Eddie reached out and rested his hand on Chris’s knee. “I wanted you to hear it from me first. Buck and I—we’re together. Like… really together. He’s my boyfriend now.”

The word hung there.

Boyfriend.

Buck shifted, and Eddie felt the gravity of it between them. Felt how Buck held the word in his chest like something sacred. Like something he never thought he’d get to keep.

Chris blinked again. Then looked between them like he was trying to measure something invisible. Then—

A grin broke across his face, quick and bright and sure.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, smiling back. “Really.”