Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time Buck started picking him up for a shift, Eddie told himself it was just practical. Gas prices, parking, same route, it made sense.
Now it’s routine. A quiet ritual stitched into their mornings.

By the time Eddie’s locking his front door, he can already hear the rumble of the Jeep and the rhythmic tap of Buck’s knuckles drumming on the steering wheel to whatever chaos he’s decided is today’s vibe.

Sometimes it’s classic rock, sometimes it’s bubblegum pop, sometimes it’s something so questionable that Eddie wonders if Buck even listens to the lyrics before committing.

Eddie climbs in, the seat already adjusted back just enough to remind him Buck’s got longer legs. Buck greets him with a grin, bright, easy, the kind of smile that hits Eddie like sunlight after a night shift. “Morning, partner.”

Eddie grumbles something that vaguely sounds like morning and slides his travel mug into the cup holder. He tells himself he’s not a passenger princess.

Even though Buck always insists on driving.
Even though Eddie never actually argues.

Then the ignition hums to life, and with it, Buck’s performance begins. Not singing, performing. Today it’s a Kendrick Lamar track, something bass-heavy and impossible not to move to, and Buck’s got his whole body in it: snapping, drumming the dashboard, tossing out hand gestures so wild Eddie’s afraid someone will think he’s signalling for backup.

“Someone’s gonna think you’re trying to summon spirits,” Eddie mutters, deadpan.

Buck only laughs, turning the volume down just long enough to shoot him a grin. “You love it.”

He doesn’t. Not technically. But the corners of his mouth twitch anyway.

Some days it’s Adele. Buck clutches dramatically at his chest, eyes on the road but soul apparently on a London stage, pouring heartbreak into every note. The first time it happened, Eddie almost asked if he was okay—then Buck hit the high note, cracked spectacularly, and Eddie nearly baptized himself with coffee laughing.

Then there are the after-shift drives. The nights when they’re both aching, not because the day was hard, but because the years have started to settle into their bones. Old close calls that never quite stopped echoing, the kind of quiet pain that hums in their joints long after the adrenaline fades. The shift had been light, almost too easy, and still Eddie felt every breath in his ribs.

That’s when Buck picks something like “We Are Young.” Blasting it through the speakers like a challenge. Singing with his whole chest, pounding the steering wheel like it’s a drum kit.

Eddie gives him a flat look, voice dry as dust. “We’re not young, Buck. We both groaned getting out of bed this morning.”

Buck just grins wider, eyes bright under the streetlights. “Young at heart, baby!”

Eddie pretends to gag but can’t stop the small laugh that escapes. Somehow, no matter how early, no matter how sore, he always feels a little lighter by the time they pull into the station lot.

The best and worst are the romantic ones. Buck in his element, windows down, breeze in his hair, some early-2000s R&B crooning through the speakers. “Bleeding Love.” Or anything with the word baby repeated fifteen times. Or like right now, “A Thousand Miles.”

That’s when Buck really goes for it, turns his head at a red light, grabs Eddie’s hand across the console like he’s pleading for divine intervention.
“And I need you!” he belts, off-key and too earnest, “and I miss you, and now I won-der. If I could fall into the sky—”

“—you’re gonna make me jump out this window,” Eddie warns, deadpan, clutching his coffee with his other hand like a weapon.

Buck just laughs, squeezes his hand once before letting go, and keeps singing anyway.

Every single time, Eddie rolls his eyes. Every single time, the corner of his mouth betrays him. Because underneath the embarrassment, underneath the absurdity, it’s… nice. The noise, the morning light on Buck’s hair, the way he fills the space between them with warmth and ridiculous energy.

He’ll never admit it out loud, but the days Buck’s Jeep doesn’t pull up outside his house? The world feels quieter.
Too quiet.

The songs don’t stop at English. Of course they don’t.

Buck’s playlists are like his brain—chaotic, overstuffed, impossible to predict. One morning, it’s Kendrick Lamar rattling the speakers; the next, it’s Shakira. Eddie swears Buck’s Spotify algorithm could diagnose him better than a therapist at this point.

When they switch over to Eddie’s Spanish playlist, Buck doesn’t miss a beat. He mouths along, determined, rolling his tongue carefully over each syllable like he’s trying to earn a certification in bilingual chaos. At first, it’s funny, Buck squinting at the dashboard, brow furrowed in concentration as he battles corazón like it’s a code word, but somewhere along the way, he’s gotten good. Too good.

Now he hits the soft lls, the drawn-out vowels, even the gentle rhythm changes. He can’t string together a conversation with Aunt Pepa to save his life, but he can sing like he was raised in Guadalajara.

Eddie pretends not to notice the twist in his stomach when Buck lowers his voice for a Luis Miguel ballad, that smoky drop that feels too close to a caress. Pretends he doesn’t feel something spark when Buck murmurs “no sé tú, pero yo…” and somehow makes it sound like a confession.

So Eddie looks out the window. Neutral face. Breathing steady. He’s gotten good at that too.

Then one morning, Buck gets bored, which is always when disaster strikes.

“Okay,” Buck says, scrolling through his phone at a red light, “May sent me this song. It’s Korean. It’s called Scott and Zelda.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Like the writers?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Buck says. “It’s about something... poetic, maybe tragic. I dunno.”

Eddie hums, halfway through his burnt coffee, expecting something calm. But when the song starts, the singer’s voice wraps around them like silk, slow, intimate, too intimate. Eddie doesn’t understand most of it, but the English words hit hard enough.

The way you write, oh my god, your handwriting.

Buck hums along, utterly unfazed.

Eddie stares out the window, pulse picking up. He doesn’t know why the back of his neck feels hot. He tells himself it’s just the heater.

But when Buck plays the song again later in the week, same smug grin, same knowing glance, Eddie finally caves.

“What’s this song even about?”

Buck’s lips twitch, guilt written all over his face. “It’s about a girl who imagines herself as a book,” he says carefully. “She wants her crush to, you know, read her. Metaphorically.”

Eddie blinks. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Buck’s voice is all innocence. His grin definitely isn’t.

Eddie narrows his eyes. “No. Why are you making that face?”

“What face?” Buck asks, hiding behind his coffee cup, pretending not to smirk.

“There’s a double meaning, right? Because she’s singing it weirdly, and you—you look like you’re scheming.”

“I’m not Korean, man. I just take the English parts literally,” Buck says with a shrug.

He’s lying. Eddie knows he’s lying. He just doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t look up the lyrics. Tells himself it’s because he doesn’t care.
(He does. He just doesn’t want to confirm why Buck’s eyebrows always wiggle every time that song starts.)

One evening, the sky over the freeway burns gold and violet, the kind of California sunset that feels deliberately theatrical. Heat still radiates off the asphalt, the horizon blurred in a shimmer. Buck rolls the window halfway down and queues up something new.

A Bollywood song—Ravi’s influence, obviously. The screen glows faintly with the title: Maula Mere Maula.

The first few notes spill out of the speakers like silk. Slow. Reverent. The kind of melody that feels older than language itself. It isn’t background music, it’s a presence, something sacred that fills the Jeep in slow waves. The air seems to change temperature; even the traffic noise feels like it’s bowing its head.

Eddie doesn’t understand the words, but somehow, he doesn’t need to. The singer’s voice lifts and folds, a sound that shivers through him like memory. The strings rise, aching and full, then fall away again, leaving only a heartbeat of silence before the rhythm picks back up.

Beside him, Buck doesn’t sing. He just drives, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. His face catches the last light of the sunset, gold over the curve of his cheekbone, shadow along his jaw. His eyes are soft, fixed somewhere far ahead, and for a moment, Eddie can’t tell if he’s seeing the road or something else entirely.

The hum of the tires becomes hypnotic, syncing with the slow pulse of the music. Eddie feels it in his chest more than he hears it. The world outside the Jeep fades until there’s only this, warm air, dusky light, the smell of coffee and leather, and Buck breathing quietly beside him.

For six minutes, the world stops. Time folds into something slow and weightless.

When the final note fades, Eddie opens his eyes like someone coming up for air. His voice comes out rough, hushed. “What even was that?” he asks. “It was like… like—”

“Like what falling in love feels like,” Buck finishes quietly, without looking away from the road.

The words land heavily. Not casual. Not teasing. Just truth.

Eddie blinks, throat tight. Something twists under Eddie’s ribs, too much, too sudden. He turns toward the window before Buck can see his face, watching the city rush past in streaks of gold and red taillights.

Buck doesn’t say another word. He just reaches out, taps the screen once, and the opening chords begin again.

Eddie’s fingers flex around his coffee cup. He exhales, slowly and deliberately, letting the sound wash through him a second time.

The world keeps moving, but in the Jeep, it feels like they’ve slipped out of time altogether.

By now, Eddie knows the signs.

It starts with the tapping foot. The sideways glance. The grin that sharpens like Buck’s is already plotting psychological warfare through Spotify. That’s how Eddie knows it’s going to be a Justin Bieber morning.

He shouldn’t be surprised anymore. Buck’s playlists are emotional Russian roulette; heroic anthems, heartbreak ballads, bubblegum pop from an era when voice cracks were permanent. Every once in a while, Buck mutters, I know I’m a grown-ass man, but these are classics, and Eddie has to bite his cheek to keep from saying anything cruel.

He’s long accepted that Buck has no shame.

They’re halfway to the station, sun barely up, when the opening synth hits. Eddie recognizes it instantly. He groans—audibly. “Oh, God. No. Not this.”

The first notes roll out, syrupy and dramatic.
“Oh—oh, whoa, no, no, no, no—”

Eddie closes his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

Buck glances over, eyes already gleaming. “C’mon. It’s a banger.”

“It’s Right Here, Buck. He was seventeen.”

“Nineteen,” Buck corrects solemnly.

Eddie exhales through his nose. “It’s eight a.m.”

Buck ignores him. He always does. He clutches his chest like he’s been shot through the heart. “Baby, I’m here, I’m here to stay, I ain’t going nowhere—”

"Alright Buck," Eddie mutters dryly.

Buck reaches across with the kind of reckless confidence only Buck could manage while operating heavy machinery, catches Eddie’s arm, and squeezes.
“I know you’re scared ’cause you’ve been hurt, baby, it’s all right—”

Eddie doesn’t even look at him. “I got it, Buck. Really. Thank you.”

Buck doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets more dramatic, eyebrows pulled tight in exaggerated heartbreak. “Lost in your eyes every time that you look in mine—”

Eddie mutters under his breath, “I’m losing my will to live, that’s what’s happening.”

Buck tugs on his hand again, undeterred. “Promise to be all that you need, I won’t leave you, baby—”

The car stops at a red light. Buck’s eyes light up like a stage cue’s been hit. Drake’s verse kicks in, and Eddie knows—knows—what’s about to happen.

Buck slides into character like he’s been rehearsing it for weeks. His voice drops low, silky with mock-seriousness, and he starts rubbing his hands together. 
“Say you’ll be mine, say we’ll be fine, say we’ll be together—”

Eddie groans and sinks into the seat, covering his face with one hand. “I swear to God…”

“Selfish of me to ask, since I be the reason we don’t last forever—”

“Stop saying forever while driving my ass to work, Buck.”

But Buck’s too far gone, lips pursed, eyes soft, utterly committed to the bit. He doesn’t just sing. He feels it. The absurd sincerity of it radiates off him.

By the time the final chorus hits, they’re pulling into the station lot. Buck’s still going, belting,
“Cause I’m right, right here, yeah, yeah, I’m right here—”

Eddie opens the door mid-chorus, half laughing, half dying inside. “Yeah, we’re right here, at work. Congratulations. You nailed the assignment.”

Buck’s laughter follows him out, bright and unbothered, spilling into the morning air.

Eddie shakes his head as the door shuts, but there’s a tug in his chest he can’t quite ignore. A warmth that lingers under the skin, steady as a pulse.

He doesn’t look back, not until he’s halfway to the station door, coffee cup in hand, hearing Buck’s laugh echo behind him.

His own lips twitch, just once.

Then one day, the singing stops.

No warning, no gradual fade. Just gone.

The first morning it happens, Eddie doesn’t think much of it. Buck yawns, waves when Eddie gets in, and starts the car. The usual. The radio plays something soft—maybe Hozier, maybe Adele—but Buck doesn’t join in. Doesn’t even hum.

Eddie tells himself it’s fine. No one can perform at six a.m. every single day. Maybe Buck’s throat hurts, maybe he’s tired, maybe the world’s allowed to be quiet for once.

But the next day, it’s quiet again.
And then the next.

A week passes. Then two. Then four.

By the time they hit one month, Eddie realizes he’s been listening for something that isn’t coming. The spaces between songs feel bigger. The car feels colder. Even the sun through the windshield feels dimmer.

He doesn’t know why it bothers him. Buck’s the same otherwise, same grin, same chatter about calls and lunch plans, same dumb jokes. He’s not withdrawn, not snappy, not off balance. Just… muted.

It’s the humming that gets Eddie. That quiet, unconscious little soundtrack Buck always carried with him, between calls, over paperwork, even while brushing ash off his turnout coat. Buck used to hum like breathing.

Now he doesn’t.

And Eddie hates how wrong that feels.

He starts noticing everything in the silence: the way Buck’s fingers tighten slightly on the wheel during love songs, how his thumb twitches before changing stations. The way he talks more about the weather and less about music. The way he seems careful, like he’s trying not to trip over invisible wires between them.

They’re halfway to the station one morning when the universe decides to mess with him.

The radio shuffles, and there it is.

That unmistakable synth.
“Oh—oh, whoa, no, no, no, no—”

Eddie looks up sharply, coffee halfway to his mouth.

Buck’s eyes stay on the road. Hands at ten and two. Nothing in his face changes.

Eddie waits for it, the inevitable dramatics, the hand reaching across, the awful crooning, the ridiculous sincerity that used to make him laugh.

Nothing.

The song runs its entire course. Every verse. Every chorus. Every stupidly earnest “I’m right here.”

And Buck doesn’t sing. Doesn’t hum. Doesn’t even drum a finger on the steering wheel.

Eddie fights the urge to drop his jaw. The silence feels thick, unnatural.

When the final notes fade, he blurts it before he can stop himself.
“You okay?”

Buck glances over, brows raised. “Of course. Why?”

Eddie’s throat works. “No reason,” he says after a beat.

Buck smiles, easy, casual, and looks back to the road.

But Eddie’s still staring, searching for the smallest crack in that smile. Because everything looks fine. And somehow... that makes it worse.

Something is very wrong with Buck.

Group Name: 🔥Operation Buck’s Broken Radio

ravi: okay so just to confirm, you started this group chat because you think something’s wrong with buck… because he didn’t sing along to one song??

eddie: not one song. a Justin Bieber song. Right Here. that’s like our car karaoke anthem.

hen: sweetie, I mean this with love-are you okay?

eddie: no, I’m not okay because something’s wrong with buck.

karen: you literally said he’s been acting normal otherwise.

chim: yeah, Hen and I haven’t noticed anything different at work. still smiling, still eating fries that don’t belong to him, still Buck.

eddie: yeah but he’s not singing. not in the car, not even humming. not once in a month.

hen: 😭😭😭 oh no. he’s stopped humming. call dispatch.

chim: someone lower the flag to half-mast for fallen car karaoke.

eddie: I’m serious! this is an actual crisis.

ravi: bro, you’re spiraling because he didn’t sing Bieber.

eddie: IT’S A PATTERN. week one I thought maybe sore throat, week two maybe tired, week three-

hen: oh my god, you made a timeline?

eddie: I’m methodical.

karen: maybe he’s just self-conscious now?

eddie: around me? I’m his best friend.

ravi: that’s exactly why he’d be self-conscious. 😇

eddie: what’s that supposed to mean.

ravi: nothing. totally nothing.

hen: I think something’s definitely happening, but I’m not convinced it’s with Buck.

chim: yeah, maybe the guy tracking Bieber behavior charts should take a nap.

eddie: you all don’t get it. it’s been a month. even Right Here couldn’t break him. that song turns him into a menace behind the wheel.

hen: wait-so he drove… safely?

eddie: …yes.

hen: 😧 oh my god.

ravi: 😨 confirmed emergency.

karen: okay that is alarming.

chim: that’s Defcon 1 for Buckley.

eddie: THANK YOU.

(Maddie has joined the chat.)

ravi: oh thank god. Maddie, can you confirm your brother’s fine?

maddie: I don’t have anything to say.

eddie: Maddie. What do you know that I don’t?

maddie: ask him yourself.

hen: wait-so there is something??

chim: Maddie, I’m your husband. are you keeping secrets from me??

maddie: I’m allowed to keep secrets with my brother. now leave me alone.

eddie: Maddie don’t you dare

(Maddie has gone offline.)

eddie: FUCK. WHAT AM I MISSING.

hen: calling it now: Buck finally realized Bieber peaked in 2012 and he’s grieving.

ravi: or maybe he’s in love and doesn’t wanna accidentally confess through song lyrics.

eddie: in love? with who?

hen: saving screenshots for the day you two finally figure it out.

eddie: figure what out?

hen: nothing, passenger princess. 😘

(Hen changed the group name to “🚨 Eddie’s Missing the Point 🚨”)

The group chat was no help.
He’s friends with useless people.

So Eddie decides to handle it himself.

It’s a Wednesday, one of those long, aching days that stretches on forever. The sky outside bleeds into a slow orange haze, traffic stacked like dominoes down the freeway. Perfect testing conditions: rush hour, minimal escape routes, plenty of time to pry answers out of Buck.

He’s curated a playlist. A very deliberate one. All of Buck’s favourites. Every single song Buck ever screamed at the top of his lungs at six a.m. He even included Scott and Zelda—the damn Korean song he still refuses to Google because at this point it feels personal.

Buck doesn’t suspect a thing. He climbs in with that soft, post-shift smile, the one that never fails to crawl under Eddie’s skin, and starts the engine.

“Home?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, thumb hovering over play. “Home.”

He starts strong. Right Here. His ace. The nuclear option.

Nothing.

No hand theatrics. No fake Drake impressions. Not even a head bob. Just Buck, relaxed and silent, eyes on the road, tapping the wheel like the music barely registers.

Eddie stares at him for a full verse. Fuck.

Next up: Birds of a Feather. Eddie’s last-ditch attempt at emotional warfare disguised as good taste.

Buck smiles softly, eyes still forward. That’s it. No mumbling the lyrics, no playful falsetto, no air-drumming. Just a smile that’s too small and too polite.

Eddie feels his stomach drop. He wants to roll down the window and scream into traffic.

Then Call Out My Name. The Weeknd—pure melodrama, peak Buck performance material. Usually, Buck would already be halfway to a full emotional reenactment, clutching his chest and yelling, “Selena, how could you!” at the windshield.

Now? Nothing. Not even a hum. Just silence and headlights and the faint sound of Eddie’s disappointment filling the car.

Buck looks… fine. Perfectly fine. Which somehow makes it worse.

Eddie’s starting to think this is how alien abductions begin, quiet replacements, subtle behavioural shifts, well-adjusted clones.

Then comes Scott and Zelda. The cursed song. The one Eddie still refuses to translate out of sheer spite.

Buck smirks when it starts. Just a twitch of his mouth. Doesn’t even look at him. That’s it.

Eddie exhales through his nose, long and frustrated.

Okay. Cool. Love this energy for us.

Last song. His Hail Mary.

Maula Mere Maula.

He doesn’t have much hope left, but the first notes spill out of the speakers like incense, soft, golden, sacred. The Jeep seems to breathe with it. The air goes still.

Eddie closes his eyes, letting it take him. He doesn’t understand the words, but it doesn’t matter. The melody feels like weightlessness, like something vast and infinite pressing against the inside of his ribs. Like something that knows him.

When the final verse rolls in, he says quietly, “Not that I understand any of it, but—what are they saying in that last part?”

His voice is low, barely above the music, like he’s afraid to disturb whatever spell the song’s cast. He’s slumped against the seat, eyes closed.

Buck’s quiet for a long time. The car hums under them, a steady heartbeat.

Then he says, softly, “My heart has spoken, my heart has spoken. O’ friend, this secret, it has been revealed to me. Whoever has passion and love in their hearts,
that person is beloved to the Lord.”

Eddie’s eyes open. He turns his head, and freezes.

Because Buck looks… sad. Not the dramatic kind of sad, not the empathic ache Eddie’s used to seeing when a call gets under his skin. This is different. Smaller. Like the song carved something open in him, he didn’t mean to show anyone.

The sunset paints the side of Buck’s face gold, but his eyes, those are hollowed out, shadowed, lost somewhere far away, deep in the ocean.

Eddie doesn’t know what to do with that. His chest tightens. He’s seen Buck heartbroken before, messy and loud, after Tommy, after Natalia, after every girl who wanted some edited version of him. But this? This isn’t heartbreak over someone. This looks like heartbreak itself.

They pull up to Eddie’s house in silence. The song ends, but the ache lingers, thick in the air.

“Eddie,” Buck says softly.

Eddie jolts, blinking. He hadn’t even realized they’d stopped.

“Oh—uh. Yeah. Thanks, Buck.”

“Anytime.” Buck smiles, small and fragile, not reaching his eyes.

Eddie grabs his bag and climbs out. The night air feels heavy, dense with everything they’re not saying. He unlocks his door and half-turns.

Buck’s still there, engine idling, headlights washing the driveway in white. He always waits until Eddie’s inside. Always.

When Eddie finally opens the door, Buck gives a tiny wave and drives off, taillights glowing like embers until they vanish down the street.

Eddie stands there for a long time, keys in hand, staring after him.

The porch light hums softly overhead.

And all he can think, for reasons he doesn’t understand, is that the world feels too quiet without Buck’s voice filling it.

Eddie sits on the couch long after Buck’s taillights fade from view, the quiet hum of the refrigerator the only sound left in the house.
He hasn’t even taken off his boots.

There’s a strange weight in his chest, not heavy, exactly, just... present. Like something pressing softly against his ribs, asking to be named.

He can’t stop replaying the look on Buck’s face. That quiet sadness. That flicker of something raw when he translated the lyrics in the car.
Something had shifted in that moment, something Eddie can’t stop trying to untangle.

So he does what any rational man does when faced with the possibility that his best friend is harbouring a mysterious emotional crisis, he opens Google.

His fingers hover for a moment, then type Maula Mere Maula lyrics English translation. The page loads slowly, like the universe wants him to feel every second of suspense.

The first line appears:

Your eyes, how beautiful they are. That I’ve become their lover. Let me live in them.

Eddie blinks, caught off guard by the simplicity. By how earnest it is.

He keeps reading.

It’s not about loss, it’s about reverence. Devotion wrapped in melody. Every verse feels like a prayer disguised as love—or maybe love disguised as prayer.

Every moment, my heart says to me—you are its only desire.
I want to hide you somewhere, not even give away your shadow.

He feels something twist in his stomach. There’s a tenderness there that’s almost unbearable. He can hear Buck’s voice in his head now, translating in that low, steady tone. The words rolled out softly but heavily, like he was carrying them for too long.

Eddie scrolls further, eyes tracing the next verse.

Your words are so beautiful, when I remember them, their fragrance comes like flowers.

His chest aches. He can see Buck’s smile as he reads it aloud, how his eyes might’ve flickered—like he wanted to believe the words but couldn’t let himself.

He scrolls again.

I want to build a home and keep you in it. And always live by your side.

Eddie freezes. His thumb stills on the screen. The meaning settles deep in his bones.
This isn’t just a love song—it’s a promise.

He can’t stop now.
He scrolls to the last verse, the one Buck spoke aloud in the car, the one that changed his face entirely.

My heart has spoken, my heart has spoken. O’ friend, this secret, it has been revealed to me. Whoever has passion and love in their hearts, that person is beloved to the Lord.

Eddie breathes out slowly, reading it again, mouthing the words like they might taste different if he says them himself. The translation sits heavy in his chest.

Whoever has passion and love in their heart, that person is beloved to the Lord.

Eddie leans back against the couch and rubs a hand over his face.

The song isn’t sad—it’s luminous, full of longing and faith. Buck said once that it felt like what falling in love feels like.

And it does. Even through the clumsy edges of translation, it feels like standing in sunlight and finally understanding warmth.

So why had Buck looked like it hurt?

Why had he looked like loving someone could burn?

Eddie stares at the ceiling, his throat tight. Buck’s been quieter, sure—but only about the music. Everything else is still there: the laugh, the chatter, the hands that talk as much as he does. Except when it comes to the songs. The singing. The joy.

It’s like something closed inside him.

And Eddie hates how much that thought stings. Because it was their thing. The drives, the duets, the off-key harmonies that made the mornings bearable. All the little in-between moments that made the world make sense.

Now there’s silence where laughter used to be. And Buck—Buck’s fine.

Perfectly fine. Except he isn’t.

Eddie scrolls back down and reads that last verse again.

Whoever has passion and love in their heart, that person is beloved to the Lord.

He tries to picture Buck saying it, whispering it like a secret.
He tries not to think about who Buck might’ve had in mind.

He fails.

It happens on a Thursday.
One horrifying, soundless Thursday.

The music doesn’t fade this time; it dies.

They’re halfway down the block from the station, the kind of end-of-shift drive that’s routine now: sunset spilling across the windshield, traffic humming soft and steady, Eddie half-lost in thought. Buck’s already turned the volume low, which should have been his first clue. Buck doesn’t do quiet music.

And then it happens.

Haley Reinhart’s voice floats out through the speakers, that slow, smoky, honey-thick “Wise men say…”, and before the second line even finishes, Buck reaches out and slaps the radio off.

Not a tap. Not a casual “I’m not in the mood.”
A full-on, panicked shut-down.

The sudden silence is violent.

Eddie jerks in his seat, startled hard enough that his knee bumps the glove box. He blinks, turning toward Buck. “What the—”

Buck’s face is blank. Too blank. His hand still hovers near the dashboard like it’s caught mid-crime.

They’re just pulling into Eddie’s driveway when Buck clears his throat. “Alright, Eddie, see you—”

“I need to talk to you,” Eddie says, sharp.

Buck blinks. “Uh—”

“Now.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Doesn’t even look at him. Unbuckles his seatbelt, grabs his bag, and heads inside like a man on a mission.

The house is quiet. Too quiet.

Eddie tosses his shoes by the door, drops his bag, and stops in the middle of the living room. Arms crossed. Heart pounding. He leaves the door open behind him because he knows Buck will follow, he always does.

A minute later, footsteps. Hesitant.

Buck pokes his head in, brows drawn, confusion written all over his face. “Uh… what’s going on?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away.

For a long, loaded moment, neither of them says anything. The only sound is the soft click of the door closing behind Buck as he steps inside.

The silence stretches, thick and fragile.

Eddie studies him, the nervous half-smile, the way Buck’s hand rubs the back of his neck, like he’s trying to smooth over something invisible.

The quiet feels wrong.

Eddie’s pulse thrums in his ears, a steady drumbeat under his skin. He doesn’t even know where to start, but he knows one thing for sure: he’s not letting Buck brush this off. Not this time.

“What's your problem?” he says, low but sharp, voice slicing through the still air of the living room.

Buck blinks. For a second, it looks like he didn’t hear him. His eyes dart around the room, searching for something—an escape, maybe, or a witness to prove this isn’t happening. “My problem?” he echoes, a humorless laugh spilling out. “Why would I have a problem?”

“Something’s been bothering you,” Eddie presses, folding his arms tighter across his chest. “For weeks. So let’s skip the part where we both pretend it’s not happening—because last time we did that, we ended up in a kitchen fight Hen still calls our ‘divorce era, part whatever-the-fuck.’”

He doesn’t mean to sound angry. But silence has been eating him alive for weeks, and it’s coming out sideways.

“So, out with it.” His voice cracks slightly. “What is it?”

Buck just stares at him. The air between them hums, thick and uneasy. Eddie swears he can see it, the shutters sliding down behind Buck’s eyes, that carefully neutral look he gets when he’s scrambling for ground.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Buck says finally, soft but defensive. “You wanna enlighten me on why you even think something’s wrong?”

Eddie’s jaw tightens. “We played Right Here in the car a few weeks ago.”

Buck frowns. “Okay?”

“And you did nothing.”

Buck raises both hands, palms open. “So what?”

“So what?” Eddie scoffs, stepping forward. “A Justin Bieber song came on the radio—your favorite—and you did nothing! No off-key serenade, no dramatic hand gestures, no reaching across the console like I personally broke your heart. You didn’t even hum.”

Buck’s mouth twitches, but it isn’t a smile. He drags a hand down his face, groaning quietly. “So I didn’t sing in the car for you, and that means something’s wrong with me now?”

“It was Justin Bieber,” Eddie fires back, frustration bubbling over. “You turned down Bieber! And it’s not just him, Buck—it’s everything. You don’t sing anymore. Not Bieber, not Adele, not SZA, not—whatever those K-pop songs you love. You used to hum when there wasn’t even music on. Now? Nothing.”

Buck exhales, tired. “Eddie—”

Eddie barrels on. “That one Bollywood song?”

“Yeah,” Buck says quietly, eyes downcast.

“You said it felt like falling in love.” Eddie’s voice softens for half a beat. “And the last time I played it, you just… stared ahead. No reaction. I get transported to another realm every time that song plays, and you—” his voice trembles, “you looked sad. Why?”

Buck flinches. Barely. But Eddie catches it. The air shifts.

Buck shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut. “I think you’re reading too much into—”

“No, I’m not,” Eddie cuts in, voice sharp, panic bleeding into anger. “Five minutes ago, Can’t Help Falling in Love came on, and you slapped the radio like it was trying to rob you. What the hell is going on, Buck?”

“I can’t, okay?” Buck blurts suddenly, voice raw.

Eddie’s heart stutters. “Can’t what?”

Buck’s voice cracks. “I can’t listen to them anymore.”

Eddie blinks, the heat under his ribs cooling into confusion. “What do you mean, you can’t—”

“I can’t listen to those songs anymore!” Buck explodes, stepping back like the confession physically hurts him. “I can’t— I can’t stand them, okay? I can’t listen to ninety percent of that crap because they’re all romantic songs, and I can’t—” His breath falters, chest heaving. “I can’t do it anymore.”

The words hit like thunder, loud, final, and impossible to take back.

Eddie’s heart is hammering so hard it feels like it’s bruising his ribs. “Why?” he asks again, softer this time. The word comes out raw. “Why can’t you?”

Buck drags both hands through his hair and laughs, sharp and joyless, like it physically hurts. “Because it’s too fucking painful, alright? It’s—” his voice catches, “it’s too much.” He paces once, twice, like he can outrun it. “Because I’m in love, Eddie.”

The words hit like a live wire. Everything goes still. The world tilts and keeps spinning anyway.

Eddie blinks at him. “You’re—” his throat closes, “you’re in love?”

Buck nods, the movement small, defeated. “Yeah.” His voice is hoarse, trembling at the edges. “And every time I hear those songs—every single one—I think about yo—this person. And I—” He stops, breath shuddering out. “I’m reminded I can never have them. And it fucking hurts.”

He turns away, head bowed, hands on his hips like he’s fighting gravity just to stay upright. The air between them thickens with the sound of Buck’s breathing, the quiet scrape of his shoes against the floor. Eddie can’t tell if he wants to close the distance or flee the room entirely.

For a moment, there’s only silence, heavy, alive, pulsing with everything that’s just changed. The walls feel too close, the air too thin.

Eddie’s body doesn’t move. He’s standing, but he might as well be carved out of stone. Every nerve in him is trying to understand what just happened, what he just heard, what it means. His pulse feels like thunder beneath his skin.

His thoughts scatter—Buck laughing in the driver’s seat, Buck singing off-key, Buck’s hand catching his at stoplights, Buck’s voice soft when he translated those love songs, voice reverent, like prayer. The way Buck’s eyes had dimmed when he stopped singing them. The way his smile had started to fade, bit by bit.

It hits Eddie in jagged pieces, too slow to process and too fast to stop.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Not a word. Not a sound. There’s just the silence between them, thick and warm and full. Full of every drive, every laugh, every verse Buck ever sang like he meant it.

“You’re in love?” Eddie asks quietly, voice catching on the words. It comes out rough, almost hoarse, as if saying it aloud scrapes something raw inside him. His mouth feels dry, but he forces the question out anyway. “I—I didn’t realize you were seeing someone.”

He’s trying to make sense of it, to organize the chaos in his chest. His mind flickers through faces, women from calls, dates, maybe someone new from the gym, but nothing sticks. Nothing fits. No one feels like the answer that could make Buck sound like this.

Buck, still turned away, shakes his head. His shoulders move with the motion, tired, small. “I’m not, Eddie. Not even close.”

Eddie blinks. His heart stutters painfully. “Then why—why can’t you be with them?” he asks, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. There’s something bitter lodged in his throat, something he doesn’t want to name.

Buck lets out a quiet, broken laugh. It’s not joyful. It’s the kind of sound that feels like glass cracking underfoot. “Because they don’t see me like that,” he says softly, voice unravelling at the edges.

Eddie’s stomach twists. “Did they tell you that?”

“No,” Buck admits, after a beat too long. “They didn’t. But they didn’t have to.”

“Then you can’t know for sure,” Eddie insists, stepping forward, hands half-raised like he could will his words to stick. “You should tell them how you feel. I know it’s scary—being vulnerable like that—but Buck, you can’t just—”

“Eddie.”

The way Buck says his name, gentle, steady, stops him cold.

Buck finally turns, just enough that the light catches his face. His eyes are wet in the lamplight, a blue so open it hurts to look at. “This person isn’t even—gay,” he says, voice trembling but quiet. “It’s just… not meant to be.”

Eddie’s breath catches. “No, that’s not—Buck, you’re—” He takes another step forward before his brain can catch up. “Anyone would be lucky to have you as their partner. You hear me?”

Buck’s head tips down. His lips twitch like he wants to believe him, but something in him won’t allow it.

“I know you think it’s stupid,” Eddie says softly, “but when you stopped your little karaoke sessions in the car? You have no idea how empty my mornings got. Like someone muted the colour out of the world.”

That makes Buck’s head lift. His eyes flicker with surprise, a tiny sound of disbelief escaping him.

Eddie exhales shakily. “You’re not the same, Buck. And you must really love this person if it’s hurting you this bad.”

The silence that follows is thick, almost humming. Eddie can hear his own heartbeat in it.

He swallows hard, his voice steadying even as his chest tightens. “So tell them. Be honest. And if they don’t love you back, then they’re the fool. Because no one deserves your love and walks away unchanged.”

His fingers reach out almost on instinct, brushing Buck’s arm. The contact sends a tiny jolt through both of them, something that feels like recognition, or maybe a warning.

Buck’s gaze lifts, meeting his. His eyes are full of things Eddie can’t name: pain, affection, something dangerously close to hope.

“Anyone would be lucky,” Buck murmurs, voice low and uneven, “to have me as a boyfriend?”

“Yes,” Eddie says instantly, no hesitation, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

Buck’s eyes search his, looking for something, permission, understanding, a sign that he’s not dreaming. “Even if this person’s… straight?”

Eddie’s lips twitch. The moment is fragile, suspended between heartbreak and humour. “Maybe you’ll be their gay awakening,” he says, voice lighter than he feels.

Buck lets out a tiny breath, half a laugh. “So you think I should risk it all?”

Eddie smiles faintly, trying to keep his voice steady. “In the name of love,” he says.

The words hang between them, quiet but electric, the air buzzing with something neither of them dares to touch yet.

Buck looks at him then, really looks. There’s something raw and luminous in his eyes, like a secret finally surfacing. For a second, Eddie forgets how to breathe.

Then Buck moves. Slowly. Purposefully. He reaches out and takes both of Eddie’s hands in his.

Eddie freezes. His eyes drop to where their fingers intertwine. Buck’s palms are warm, steady, grounding in a way that makes Eddie’s brain short-circuit.

Okay, why is he holding my hands? Is this part of the pep talk? Are we doing like… motivational hand contact? Should I squeeze back? No, don’t squeeze back, that might be weird, oh god—

He looks up, ready to deflect with a joke, but Buck beats him to it.

“Wished that you knew all that I do to make this thing go right,” Buck says softly, voice low and trembling like he’s walking out onto a wire.

Eddie blinks. Once. Twice. His brows knit together. Wait. Wait a second—that’s Justin Bieber. That’s from “Right Here.” Why is he quoting Bieber right now?

Buck doesn’t stop. “It’s like supernatural, this love’s possessin’ me, but I don’t mind at all.”

Eddie’s mouth parts, the realization clicking a half-second late. Ariana Grande. Maybe? That’s Ariana Grande. “Supernatural.” But why—

The grip on his hands tightens, Buck’s thumbs brushing over his knuckles like punctuation. His eyes never leave Eddie’s.
“Every moment, my heart says to me, you are its only desire. Every moment, my lips say that every conversation should be about you.”

Eddie’s breath catches. His heart skips and then stumbles, the words punching through his chest. He’s quoting “Maula Mere Maula.” The one he said feels like falling in love.

Buck steps closer, so close Eddie can smell the faint trace of soap and cologne and something that’s just Buck. His voice drops to a whisper. “Take my hand…”

Eddie’s pulse spikes, the words ricocheting inside him.

Buck’s eyes flick down to where their hands are joined, then back up, so close Eddie can count the freckles scattered across his cheek, can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows.

“Take my whole life, too,” Buck murmurs, voice shaking just slightly, “for I can’t help… falling in love with you.” And that—

That’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”
That’s the song Buck couldn’t even listen to five minutes ago.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Eddie’s heart either stops or starts trying to break out of his chest. His brain is throwing alarms, fireworks, maybe an entire marching band.
He—he just confessed. Right? Right?! That has to be a confession. Evan Buckley just—he just confessed his love. To me. Me?? Oh my god. He stopped singing in the car because of me. Because I’m the idiot he fell in love with. Because he thought I was straight and he’s been hurting for weeks. He’s been walking around dimmed down, colorless, because of me. Oh my god.

The thought loops on repeat.
He confessed. He’s in love with me. He confessed. He’s in love with me.

Eddie stands there like a broken NPC, staring at the man who just turned every love song they’ve ever shared into a confession.

Buck’s still holding his hands. Still looking at him with eyes that look like something breaking open, something being rebuilt in the same breath.

Eddie opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Just air.

Say something, Diaz, anything. You can’t just stand here like an idiot. He literally just serenaded you in multiple languages. Oh god, I think I’m having an aneurysm. Or a religious experience. Or both.

The world feels small. Quiet. And impossibly alive.

Buck blinks slowly, still waiting for something, anything, from him.

Eddie just keeps staring. Because holy shit.

Eddie blinked like he’d been hit with a flash-bang. “I’m the straight person you fell in love with?” he asked dumbly, because apparently his mouth no longer had a filter.

Buck huffed a tiny laugh, smiling faintly. “Sólo hay una, sólo hay una, o tú, o ninguna,” he said softly, his mouth shaping the Spanish words with careful reverence, his accent clumsy but his meaning painfully clear.

Eddie’s throat went dry. Great. Now he’s quoting Spanish love songs back at me. There’s only one. You, or none. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. And the way Buck says it—like it’s meant for him—knocks the air right out of Eddie’s chest.

“I—” he swallows hard, voice catching, “I dimmed your colours?”

Buck frowns, stepping closer, his hands still wrapped around Eddie’s like they were something fragile. “Don’t say it like that,” he murmurs. “You didn’t lead me on, Eds.”

Eddie shuts his eyes for a moment, his thoughts crashing and colliding until they blur into white noise. When he opens them again, Buck is still there, open, waiting, steady, and it undoes him. He steps closer until their shoes brush.

“There’s so much going on in my head,” he says quietly, the words shaky, raw. “And I don’t even know where to start.” His fingers tighten around Buck’s. “But Buck—this breath trembles, “I… I don't know how I feel yet, but I do know this—I don’t want you to be in love with anyone else.”

Buck’s mouth falls open, a breath leaving him in a stuttered rush.

“I don’t ever want you doing karaoke with anyone but me,” Eddie continues, his words tumbling out faster now, like they’d been waiting for years. “I don’t ever want you to hear a love song and think about anyone but me. I don’t ever want you serenading anyone else, even as a joke. Not now, not ever.”

For a long heartbeat, Buck stares at him, eyes wide, lips parted in disbelief, but his mouth softens into the smallest, gentlest smile. “Okay,” he whispers.

Eddie ducks his head, heat crawling up his neck, and leans forward until his forehead rests against Buck’s shoulder. Buck’s arms come up without hesitation, circling his waist, solid and grounding and so heartbreakingly safe. Eddie breathes him in—the clean scent of soap, a hint of smoke, the faint sweetness of coffee—and something inside him starts to settle.

Eddie’s voice comes out muffled against his shirt. “I’m finding ways to articulate the feeling I’m goin’ through, I just can’t say I don’t love you.”

Buck lets out a shaky laugh that melts into something soft and unguarded against Eddie’s hair. “Are you quoting Die for You at me right now?”

“I can’t think of any other song,” Eddie mutters, voice thick, equal parts embarrassment and truth.

Buck’s laughter rumbles between them, quiet and warm. “It’s perfect.”

Eddie lifts his head just enough to meet Buck’s eyes. They’re standing so close that he can feel Buck’s heartbeat against his own, two uneven rhythms slowly syncing, like the world outside is holding its breath for them.

The room feels smaller. The air feels heavier. The world narrows to this one, unshakable thing—Buck, and the way his eyes hold him still.

Baby, you’re like lightning in a bottle.

Eddie’s gaze flicks down, instinctively, to Buck’s mouth. Buck notices.

Neither of them moves for a heartbeat... then two.

Buck’s thumb brushes along the edge of Eddie’s jaw, feather-light. Eddie’s breath hitches, eyes fluttering. His hand comes up, palm flat against Buck’s chest, feeling the warmth there; the tremor of every breath, the impossible softness beneath the strength.

I can’t let you go now that I got it.

The air between them buzzes, a static charge building like the world itself is waiting for them to move.

Buck leans in, slow, deliberate, waiting—always waiting—for Eddie to pull away.

Eddie doesn’t. He leans in, too.

And all I need is to be struck
By your electric love…

Their lips meet, soft at first, tentative, then sure. It isn’t clumsy, but it isn’t polished either. It feels like learning for the first time. The world tilts, drops away, leaves them suspended in this new, impossible gravity.

The taste of Buck’s breath, the warmth of his skin, the soft exhale that catches between them, it all burns its way into Eddie’s bloodstream. Every nerve lights up. Every ache makes sense.

It isn’t fireworks. It’s lightning.

When Eddie finally pulls back, his forehead stays pressed against Buck’s. Their breaths mingle—shaky, uneven, real. Neither of them speaks. They just breathe, existing in the stillness they’ve finally allowed to happen.

Two weeks later, Eddie was barely conscious in the passenger seat.
Coffee in hand. Hoodie half-zipped. Eyes at half-mast.

His entire body ached.

Not because of a long shift. No, the shift had been light—barely enough work to justify the bone-deep soreness radiating through his body. No, this was the kind of ache that came from being thoroughly ruined by his boyfriend the night before. And Eddie was not, under any circumstances, going to think about—or worse, talk about—what Buck had done to him. That was a story for another time. Preferably never.

The morning traffic hummed outside the windows, sunlight cutting through the windshield in warm, golden streaks. They were halfway to the station when a familiar early-2000s beat filled the cab; smooth, nostalgic and dangerous.

Eddie sighed without looking over. “Don’t,” he muttered, knowing exactly what was coming.

Buck grinned, that devilish glint already sparking in his eyes. “I love you,” he started softly, off-key but committed. Then louder—“And I need you…”

Eddie sipped his coffee, deliberately ignoring him.

Buck leaned closer, elbow on the console, watching Eddie like a cat about to pounce. “Eddie I love you,” he repeated, dragging out the words, “I do—neeeed youuuuu!”

Eddie side-eyed him, unimpressed.

Buck carried on. “No matter what I do,” he sang, now in full performance mode, pointing dramatically at Eddie, “all I think about is you. Even when I’m with my boo—boy, you know I’m crazy over you!”

Eddie blinked slowly. “What boo are you referring to? Because I don’t condone cheating.”

“I met this chick and she just moved right up the block from me,” Buck continued, shamelessly.

Eddie sighed. “A woman, huh? Interesting choice, considering your boyfriend is sitting right here.”

Buck was undeterred, voice sliding into an exaggerated, silky falsetto. “She got the hots for me—the finest thing my hood done seen—but oh noOoo, she got a man and a son tho—”

Eddie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Stop singing about getting with another girl,” he said, punching Buck lightly on the arm.

“Sing it for me, Eddie!” Buck crooned, reaching across to poke his cheek.

Eddie didn’t. Buck didn’t care.

“I love you,” Buck sang louder, hand over his chest now. “And I need you—Eddie, I love you, I do!” He grabbed Eddie’s hand mid-chorus, squeezing it tight. “And it’s more than you’ll ever know—boy, it’s for sure—you can always count on my love—forevermore!”

Eddie exhaled like a man defeated, shaking his head as he looked out the window, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Buck saw the twitch. He always did.

As the truck rolled into the parking lot, Buck only turned the volume up. “East Coast, I know you shakin’ right!” he shouted out the window. “Down South, I know you bouncin’ right!”

Eddie groaned. “Buck—please—people can see us.”

Buck ignored him, grabbing Eddie’s other hand so he was practically holding both hostage as the chorus hit again. “No matter what I do, all I think about is you, even when I’m with my boo—boy, you know I’m crazy over you!”

Eddie threw his head back, laughing despite himself. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

Half the station could probably hear them, but Buck didn’t care. He was still grinning, hands still wrapped tight around Eddie’s.

“Are you done now?” Eddie asked, fighting a smile.

“Yes,” Buck said, perfectly calm, still smiling, still not letting go.

Eddie sighed and shoved him gently, opening the door. “You’re a menace,” he said.

Eddie was halfway around to grab his bag when Buck got out too, rounding the hood in a few long strides. The morning sun hit his hair just right, catching gold at the edges. Eddie turned and found himself suddenly backed against the side of the truck.

One eyebrow lifted, but his pulse betrayed him. “You planning to get us written up?” he muttered, even as his heart thudded against his ribs.

Buck leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed Eddie’s ear. “You don’t know what you mean to me,” he whispered the last lyric, softer now, raw in a way that had nothing to do with the song. It wasn’t performance anymore; it was confession.

Eddie’s hand came up automatically, fingers curling in the front of Buck’s jacket like he needed something to hold on to. “There are easier ways to make me say I love you,” he said, smirking just enough to hide the tremor in his voice.

“I like embarrassing you better,” Buck whispered back, grin crooked, eyes bright with mischief and something warmer beneath it.

Then he closed the distance and kissed him—right there, against the truck, for God and everyone at the 118 to see.

Eddie laughed into it, the sound swallowed between them. The kiss was soft at first, then deeper, slower, all lazy warmth and morning light. Buck’s hands slid to Eddie’s waist, holding him steady like he could anchor him in place; Eddie melted into it, into him.

Eddie didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care that Bobby was probably about to walk out with his clipboard, ready to scold them for being late (again) or that Chim would inevitably tell everyone in the group chat. Or that Ravi would make retching noises the rest of the day.

Not when kissing Buck felt like this, like every love song ever written.

Not when it still felt like lightning in a bottle.

They broke apart to the sound of a car horn, Bobby’s voice faintly yelling from across the lot about setting HR on them.

Eddie just laughed, forehead pressed to Buck’s, tracing the birthmark beneath his left eye. “Worth it?” he asked.

Buck smiled, one hand still tangled with his. “Always.”